Right There With You Read online

  ALSO BY JON-PATRIC NELSON

  Running For Planet Earth

  Enlightened By A Darker Tone

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  Right There With You

  Right There With You | Dr. Jon-Patric Nelson

  Right There With You

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  Right There With You

  Right There With You

  * * *

  Dr. Jon-Patric Nelson

  Disclaimer: Scenarios in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2022 by Jon-Patric Nelson

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the copyright owner, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

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  Right There With You

  1

  I don’t want to die, so I’m running for my life. Getting stabbed in the neck is scary. Seeing a ghost is really scary, but nothing is scarier than being chased down by Earth—in space. That’s right, space space. No matter how hard I run, it is pitch-black and I am not going anywhere. It’s like I’m on a stationary bike except I’m running, so a stationary run. It actually feels more like I’m flying, so a stationary fly. Either way, Earth is still closing the gap on me. There’s no finish line in sight, just a sea and sky of blackness.

  I look over my shoulder and I see bits of green and blue on a big ass ball; it’s Earth, latching onto my back. My body twists up like a Twizzler as I try to break free, but I can’t escape its tight grip. My breath is leaving my body, and it’s waving goodbye. I panic as my heart begins to break through my chest. “Hey, Earth, I can’t breathe!” But my words are muffled and the grips around my nose and mouth are getting tighter and tighter and tighter.

  I’ve never died before but I guess this is where it happens. I jump up from my bed, gasping for air. Sweat is trickling down my neck and seeping into my t-shirt. Nightmares suck. They feel so real but the whole time you’re pissing in the bed. Trust me: been there, done that. I hear our TV exposing the monotony of an infomercial to the living room, “The Spinning Shed can be yours for the price of ninety-nine-ninety-nine,” it drones.

  I bet it’s my dad, Tony, wrapped up in “the box filled with moving pictures.” Only he turns up the volume on the box way too high. If there were glasses for ears, he’d definitely need a pair. He’s not deaf or anything, but he’s damn close to it. He blames it on the loud music he used to listen to as a kid.

  “A spinning shed?” asks Tony, confusion in his voice.

  I’m not sure if he’s talking to himself or to someone else. Regardless, I’m as muddled as he is—a spinning shed?

  The TV volume dies down, which usually means my mom, Evette, has got a hold of the remote.

  “It’s too loud. You need to get your ears checked out, Tony. Maybe that good ol’ Dr. Gilbert can refer you to an audiologist he knows.”

  “I’m not going to see Dr. Gilbert. Just stop it, Evette!” snaps Tony.

  Evette’s laughter fills the room until it’s replaced by the sound of rumbling pots.

  She’s laughing because Dad has been dodging Dr. Gilbert all year, ever since he blew off his colonoscopy appointment. It gives me a belly laugh, too. I get why he doesn’t want to go. After all, there’s nothing macho about bending over while someone sticks their finger in your butt. All that tough guy stuff gets thrown out the window.

  My attention shifts back to my bedroom. Well, our bedroom. Me and my big-head sister, Amarie.

  “Ewww! Did you just fart?” says Amarie. Her face is in a big twist, while a huge grin is on mine because I know she’s smelling the beans I devoured last night.

  “Nope. That’s just yo’ top lip.”

  “I can’t breathe,” says Amarie as she forces the window open.

  Meanwhile, I stop myself from busting out in laughter.

  “Freakin’ disgusting,” says Amarie, gagging like she had the beans stuck in her throat.

  The thing is, we share a room, and it’s a matchbox, but when you live in a brownstone, space is not something you really expect. Nobody is like, “I need more space, let me move into a brownstone.” And if they said that, they must live in their cars. It’s the price we pay for living in the city. I mean, if you live by yourself, it’s okay, but if you must share a room with your sister, just fart so she runs out and you’ll have the room all to yourself.

  It’s my parents’ fault for throwing us into the same room. At seven years old, you’re too little to realize that at eleven boys start locking themselves in the bathroom, and by the time you’re a teenager like me, nobody wants to share a room with their sister. I mean, come on, I already have difficulty breathing in big, open spaces, so this jail cell with a roommate isn’t helping.

  “It’s either share a room with my sister or sleep on the living room couch,” says Evette. And I know she’s being sarcastic because there’s no way she wants me ruining our leather couch. So, me and Amarie have made the most of it. Two completely different worlds living within four off-white walls. A silver line of duct tape runs down the middle of the room, with my half on the left. I’m not allowed on Amarie’s side, and she doesn't want to be on mine because I’m a pig.

  Amarie’s side looks like one of those fake rooms you’d see in a furniture store: a twin-sized canopy bed on top of a cream frilly rug; clean silky sheets and fuzzy topped pens; a little pink here and there, a little green there and here. Decorative pillows. Make-up products. Earrings. Bangles. Posters of her favorite track star, Allyson Felix. Oh, and she has a window on her side and I don’t. Depending on what she is doing, it’ll either smell like perfume, hairspray, or nail polish. Every other week she’ll crack the window open to let out the nail polish scent when I complain. Her choice of music is R&B. She jams out to Sade, Whitney Houston, and Mariah Carey.

  If you tiptoe onto my side, you’ll feel the floor go from smooth to gritty. Crumbs, dirt, and who knows what else will stick to the bottom of your feet. With no windows, I call my part the dark side. Good luck trying not to gag from the smell of ten-day-old sweat coming from the armpits of my T-shirts that are all stiff like potato chips. On the tile floor next to my bed lie muddy cleats, textbooks, and clothes. It’s like a tornado has ripped through our room, but only my side felt the effect; scattering unfinished rhymes written on pages of my notebooks all lodged underneath my bed. Music keeps me up at night, especially rap. That’s all anyone ever plays on our block, anyway. Unless an old head drives by, then you’d hear Marvin Gaye, Gladys Knight, or Al Greene blasting from their speakers. I had a speaker as well, but Evette took it away because of my bad grades. So now I use Amarie’s when she’s not home, ignoring the duct tape and playing what I like; Jay-Z, Biggie, or Pac.

  I lie down on my bed tossing gummy worms in the air, trying to catch them in my mouth. I’m tossing them one after another because my mom will kill me if she finds out I’m eating gummy worms before breakfast. Most of the worms fall on the floor before they end up crawling down my throat. Luckily, the five second rule exists, if it didn’t, I’ll still ea
t the gummy worms off the floor. A lil bit of sweet, a lil bit of sour. mhmm. I’m sure my taste buds have a party every time—music, strobe lights, champagne. I clean up once the party is over, brushing the sugary-soury dust from my chest and adding it to the gritty floor.

  Other than my bed, the only other furniture my side of the room accommodates is a nightstand. The nightstand is all bunched up in the corner, right next to my We can’t breathe sign. I made the sign for my public speaking class presentation last year.

  “Speak on a topic that matters to you,” said my teacher, Ms. Roberts to the class.

  When it was my turn I walked right up to the front of the class, palms sweaty, heavy breathing.

  “So, what matters the most to me, is that we can’t breathe,” I lectured, my hands shaking uncontrollably behind the podium with a slight waver in my voice.

  “Many of us are fighting for more than oxygen. Fighting to be ourselves. Fighting to be acknowledged. Fighting to overcome past traumas. Fighting for change. We’re alive but we aren’t living,” I paused, looking at all my classmates—one by one.

  I’m still sweaty and shaky but feeling better than before. I continued.

  “Until we overcome each of our battles, we aren’t truly breathing. I’m tired of the news channels, they stifle me. The firework of fear explodes in my stomach whenever I see a headline,” I added as I rubbed my belly. “Reporters telling us that another man is shot dead or another teenage boy committed suicide or we might end up in a hospital because of a stupid virus. Well, I’m suffocating. I’m tired of not breathing and you should, too.”

  The entire class including Ms. Roberts gave me a standing ovation while I waved the sign in the air.

  ***

  I try to ignore our reality, but the voices in my head are loud and rambunctious. A marble sized lump forms in my throat each time I think about it. I can’t cry because crying is for punks and I’m not a punk. But I do wonder if Earth ever looks at us, to see what’s going on. Maybe just a glimpse, to notice that all this oxygen really isn't enough.

  I pick up the sign looking over it, examining the words, reminiscing the pain that brought my handwriting to the poster board. Hoping that one day I no longer have to clench my fist or take a pill.

  I place the sign back in the corner next to the nightstand.

  On top of the nightstand, I have all sorts of things I collected over the years: jewelry, magazines, ticket stubs. But what means the most to me is my sketchbook. It’s like an oxygen tank that assists me with breathing when I'm having a hard time. I hate the feeling of my heart being in my belly and my belly being in my throat. But every time my charcoal pencil kisses the paper, the feeling fades away, grabbing each organ and putting it in its proper place. Sometimes I get so locked into a drawing that it feels more real to me than the sky or the birds or the trees, and when I return to my body, everything that steals my oxygen returns. I survive just long enough until I can escape into another drawing.

  I gaze at the book for a few more seconds before Evette’s voice snaps me back to reality.

  I quickly make my side of the room half decent, spreading my bed, spraying air freshener to mask the musk, sweeping the sugary-soury dust off the floor. Because at any moment Evette will be busting through the door, telling me I’m a pig and that I ought to be respectful of the space I share with my sister.

  It’s a Saturday in April, and I smell fried plantains seeping through the AC vent. A moment later, the door swings open, and my mom comes rushing in like I expect. Her face is stiff and crumply like she’s having a hard time processing what's going on.

  “You need to get a wash out, it smells rotten in here,” she says hysterically, in her island accent.

  It’s her way of saying I needed a detox.

  “It’s the beans, ma,” I plead.

  Evette did not say another word, she just gives me a cold stare then disappears. She’s a resilient lady, so if she didn’t stick around then you know the place stinks. Amarie's entire face belongs to her, sharing all the same features. Almond eyes-Wide nose-Dark thick hair-Full lips-High cheekbones. My sister is a literal copy and paste. Twin. Carbon copy. Mom gets a kick out of it whenever people tell her that Amarie looks like her younger sister. Or when they flatter her with the you don’t look your age. So even with the stiff, crumply face that she makes she’s still youthful looking.

  We live on the fourth floor of our brownstone. From the kitchen window we can look over the entire neighborhood. Philly is a beautiful place but that doesn't stop the good, bad and ugly from happening. Just like anywhere else, I suppose. It’s the City of Brotherly Love part that always gets me because there’s nothing brotherly about killing each other. Gang violence gets worse every year. Shootouts in broad daylight. Gun smoke lingers in the air while another body is stuffed in the dirt.

  I don’t want to die.

  I want to have kids one day.

  I want to know what it feels like to be old.

  Hell, I want to get my prostate checked.

  Weird, huh?

  What guy looks forward to getting his prostate checked? Certainly not my dad, but I do. Especially if it means I’ll live long enough to need one. I’m pretty sure it’s better than dying. Well, maybe.

  “Roosevelt, come eat before the food gets cold,” says my father.

  “I’m coming, I'm coming.”

  Roosevelt is my great-grandfather’s name, and for some odd reason, my dad felt like it was okay to give me that old ass name. Not Ricky or Rodger or Raheem, but Roosevelt. Roosevelt? If he likes the name so damn much, why didn’t he just change his name to Roosevelt?

  “Like, Pops, for real? Roosevelt?”

  He passes me a mug from the kitchen cabinet so I can pour my tea.

  “Yeah. Wah wrong with di name, son?”

  “Everything. Whatchu mean?”

  My dad calls me Roosevelt, but my mom only calls me that when she’s upset with me or wants to get underneath my skin. To everyone else, it’s Ro. It has a nice ring to it. My homies call me Ro the Roller. That’s my rap name. I roll the fattest blunts, and I’m pretty good on the microphone. My sister thinks I suck at rapping, but she’s just a hater.

  “I think I’m getting better, dad.”

  “Go ahead let me hear you,” he says before taking a huge bite from his fried dumpling.

  “Check it, check it, check me out! Haters gonna hate. My flow is deadly. They can’t relate. But I ain’t stressin’. I ain’t resting. I’ma roll this blunt and get back to my blessings.”

  “It sounds good, son. Keep going.” says Dad.

  “Wait, what blunts you rolling?” says Mom.

  “It’s just a rap, Ma,” I lie.

  “You suck, Ro. Give it up,” says Amarie, as she pops into the kitchen.

  Amarie is family, so she gets away with calling me sucky, even though our mom has always told us if we can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all—which apparently went in one ear and out the other. We say the most hurtful things to each other, especially when we’re upset.

  “Shut up, you look like Flava Flav’s twin sister.”

  Amarie side-eye me before storming out of the kitchen.

  “Be nice to your sister,” says mom, as she takes a sip of her tea.

  I mean, if anybody told me I look like Flava Flav, I’d be upset too, but seeing her mad makes me feel better. I’m the first to admit I can be a troublemaker at times, but family is family. We fight all the time, but it doesn’t stop us from loving each other.

  Our kitchen is coated with black and white pictures, they seem dull and lifeless until Evette tells the story behind each one. Her words add color, stroke by stroke. A lil gold for every time she tells the story about the picture with Barack Obama standing at the podium after winning the presidency. A lil red for her recollection of having butterflies in her stomach when Tony proposed to her (in the picture dad has his back turned facing mom on one knee while mom’s hands hide her mouth). Each story hits a
different emotion in me, so even when I’m in the kitchen alone I don't feel alone.

  We spend most of our time in the kitchen. It’s where we bond and create memories. The same place we found out mom had cancer. We held each other on the kitchen floor that night—-everyone was crying but me. I was too young at the time to process it, maybe eight. All I knew is that cancer was the bad guy and mom was superwoman so she would beat cancer, I wasn’t afraid. There was no way cancer had a chance. But the cancer never went away. And I got older. And the cancer got bolder. And mom refuses to get chemotherapy. She says the good Lord will take care of everything and we all pretend as if she doesn’t have cancer, but I think about it all the time. Plus, the cancer got her all mean and stuff. She’s not really herself anymore. Only if I could find a way to help her breathe again.

  We have an easy life, according to my parents. Evette calls us her spoiled kids, receiving the things her parents couldn’t afford at our age: cell phones, laptops, brand name kicks. It’s her way of saying we should be grateful.

  She’s a teacher, which really means she doesn’t get paid enough to take care of other people’s kids. She makes sure they grow up to be decent adults—teaching them history, science, math, respect, responsibility, teamwork—while their parents focus on making ends meet. I can only imagine how stressful her job is. She says the only reason she sticks around is because of the kids.

  We live in Philly, where some of the neighborhoods aren't the best in raising kids. That’s why my dad is moving us from the block. Evette and Tony don’t want us getting mixed up with the wrong crowd. This new neighborhood they talk about is different. There are no crackheads begging, drug dealers on the corner, police sirens, carjacking, gunshots; all the things that make my heart race nonstop. My face shines like the sun every time they talk about this new place, it sounds like heaven.

  Just because I can’t wait to leave doesn't mean I can’t survive on the block. I mean, if we stay, I'll be alright. I’m not a softie or anything. I know how to fight. But I’m not as tough as my homie, Pookie, who’ll still be here.