Hey, guys my name is Freddy Brooks and I like to read and write books. I may not
be known for my good looks, but I sure know how to cook. Cheesy, much?
Well, I’m not much of a poet, but my heart is bigger than the state
of Texas. I’m an albino best-selling author who owns a mansion in
Baldwin Hills. My silver Lamborghini compliments my house along with
my manicured lawn and tropical palm trees. I’ve written ten Street-Lit
novels that have made The New York Time’s Best Seller’s list.
Each of them sat on the list for many consecutive weeks. I am blessed to
have a staunch fan base along with a stellar writing career. But I can’t
take all the credit for my success. I owe my career to my late grandfather.
He was my biggest cheer leader and he gave me an out pour of his love
and support. He always pushed me to reach for the sky, because
he knew I would become a star someday. I believe he foresaw
my future before I was a twinkle in my mother’s eyes. He treated
me like precious cargo. Not because of my albinism, but because
of my raw natural talent. He raised me and my twin brother, Roderick
all by his lonesome. My brother was born with pigmentation except
for me. When we were youngsters, he used to swear we were not
related because he had a fudge brownie complexion compared to
my snow man complexion. He didn’t treat me like his blood brother.
He treated me more like a foster brother. If it wasn’t for my grandfather’s
unconditional love and support, I don’t know where I’d end up, because
that man’s love filled many hearts. His love was plentiful enough
to stretch from my our little mule town all the way to Kingdom come.
Sir Cleofus Redding Sr
Cleofus Redding Sr was my grandfather’s name. My father was Cleofus Redding
Jr, but he dishonored my grandfather’s name by pimping women including my
mother, Chardonnay. My father was a low-life pimp who treated his fire bird
better than he treated his staple of whores. That Cad slipped up and
impregnated one of his doxies who later gave birth to me and my twin brother.
I learned that my mother’s name was Chardonnay Henson. She was a seventeen
year old run-away from The Town of Water Frog Creek. She was a habitual
drug user and drug abuser, but she was mostly an alcoholic. When
my father recruited my mother as one of his whores, she had more alcohol
inside of her than a distillery. Since she was so loyal to him, she graduated
from being his bottom feeders to becoming one of his bottom bitches.
I never understood why people conflated the two, because anyone at the
bottom was no higher than a midget’s knee caps. To me, if a woman
blankets herself as a bottom bitch, she unknowingly reduced her worth.
She’s a new resident of what I like to call—“The Lowest Common
Denominator” Community. It’s a place where sewer rats, swamp roaches,
and junk yard snakes roam freely. Anyone who flaunts this fucked up
mentality has defecated and urinated on their own dignity, honor,
self worth, and flushed it down the toilet. My mother was no different.
The difference was, she let my father do most of the honors. When she
discovered she was pregnant with us, she continued turning tricks like it
wasn’t god’s business. My brother and I weren’t born in the hospital.
We were born in the back of one of her Trick’s car. When my
grandfather caught wind of his son’s whores giving birth to me
and Roderick, he became our acting parent and guardian angel.
He singled handedly sequestered my parent’s custodial rights
and dared them to blink the wrong way. My parents couldn’t
prove they were fit parents; therefore, they couldn’t waver. Except,
forfeit their title as our parents and give it to someone who was fit
to fill their slot. My father slammed more doors and pimped more
whores longer than Lucille’s Bar had tiled floors. Lucille’s Bar was
a hole in the wall where all the head knockers, whores, and
whore mongers mingled to collect tricks and prospect recruits.
Lucille was the owner of the bar and she was built like an ox.
She had rubbery skin and her mouth was bald as the day
she was born. She cussed like an intoxicated truck driver
and she kept her doubled barreled shot gun by her side in
case the crowd got rowdy. It was rumored that she had a
few bedrooms located in the posterior of the bar. They were
reserved for whores, tricks, and pimps to do their business. My
father and mother were her regular patrons. Especially, my mother
because it was where she drowned herself in booze while scavenging
for tricks. Lucille’s bar was an animal house. She ran that shoddy shack
for forty years until a cyclone swallowed it up and regurgitated what was left
of it. After Lucille lost her business, she lost her sanity too. She deep throated
her shot gun and blew her brains out. The shocking news about her tragic
death permeated faster than the swine flu. The only people who were
devastated were her loyal customers. Otherwise, the overly sensitive
church goers were the ones who ripped her name to shreds. Since her
death was so gruesome and horrific, she had to have a closed casket funeral.
My parents went to pay their respects to her, but my grandfather made me and
Roderick stay in the house. I remembered he said, “Ya’ll won’t be
dragging my grand kids to that battle ax’s funeral. She’s a disgrace to
the human race and she’ll be shoving coal in hell with Satan!” He shook his fist.
“Pops, ease up on ole Lucille. She wasn’t perfect, but she was like
a mother to me. I know you didn’t like her when she was alive,
but the least thing you can do is respect in her death. She’s been
through a lot and could no longer bare the pain. She gave the shoes
off her feet to the people she cared about. And I’m not going to sit
here and listen to you trash her existence, because I hear enough
of that shit from those two bit hypocritical church niggas you hang
with,” my father remarked. My grandfather sardonically chuckled
at my father’s idiocy. My father painted a rosy portrait of Lucille like she
was an angelic saint. She mind as well have sprouted a tail
and wield a pitch fork. “Let me tell you something. You better not
ever disrespect your mother’s honor for the likes of that
low-life sow cow, Lucille. That den of shame she ran had more sin
crawling around it than you could shake a stick at it. I hope Satan
sticks his pitch fork up her porky ass until she explodes into ashes.
You and Chardonnay mind as well lay in the casket beside her and
join her in hell!” My grandfather snarled and shook his fist.
My father threw his hands up in mid air. “I’m going to the funeral.”
“You and Chardonnay better not bring your sorry asses back to my
house again. I don’t want your sinful ways rubbing off on my grandkids!”
My father angrily slammed the door causing the picture to fall off the wall
and it’s glass to break. It was a picture of our beloved grandmother.
I never had the opportunity to meet my grandmother, but my grandfather
said she was a loving soul who spread her love like the infamous Forest fire in
Snake Lake County. From that point on, my parents didn’t visit my grandfather’s
house anymore. I heard through the grape vine, that my father was scooped
up by the police and my mother disappeared without a trace. Her remains
were later discovered near an embankment and he was genetically tied
to her murder. My father was flung in jail and wasted away by the
second. My heart wouldn’t let me shed a tear for him or my mother,
because my brother and I were unplanned accidents. My dad was
no different from the slave master. He owned her body, robbed her
of the little dignity she had, and murdered her. Even though
my mother was young when she met my father, she stood firmly
by my father’s side for years. She was spineless and cowardly.
If I had a choice between blaming my father and mother, I would
blame my mother, because she was more culpable for her own
down falls than he was. Plus, my parents loved Roderick more
than they loved me. My father told me I was cursed by the
white man and that I should be quarantined in my bedroom.
Man, those words sunk my heart like the Titanic. My mother said,
my whiteness scared the hair on top of her head. That was why they
mostly asked to see Roderick. When my grandfather gave them a
good tongue whipping, they hardly ever showed up. That was when
my love for my grandfather soared through the roof while my
love for my parents crashed and burned.
As a kid, I was a target for public humiliation. Throughout elementary and
middle school, kids heckled me from head to toe. I’ve been called every
name beyond the book. People acted as if my albinism was a contagious disease.
My brother renounced and denounced me in front of his cohorts. He treated
me worse than those bullies. He was the cool popular guy and I was the
albino outcast. If people knew that he and I were brothers, his popularity
would have dropped faster than a whore’s panties on Sunday. Every day
before we went to school, he reminded me to stay out of his way. “Fred,
I have a reputation to maintain. So, I’m going to need you to stay far
the hell away from me as much as possible.” He saw the hurt in my eyes.
And I could tell his cruelty chipped away at his heart a little. “Um,
listen. You and I can play video games after school.” Then he would
justify his churlish behavior by saying, “If people see me in public
with you, they would eye ball us like circus animals. Especially,
you because they’re not used to seeing someone like you. They’ll
laugh at you and jab you with insults. And you know I would never
let that happen.” But when we were in school, he and clown his ass
friends would taunt me relentlessly. “Yo, White out,” one of his friends
shouted. I ignored him and kept my pace. “My Social Studies
teacher gave me an F on my history paper. And I’m going to need
to use some of your color to whiten it out so I can change it to an A.
He and the crowd exploded with laughter. My brother made it
worse by inserting his measly two cents, “Speaking of white
out, the school can use his colors to whiten out the graffiti on
these walls. His opprobrious comments seared a hole in my heart.
He killed my spirit and left me feeling like an empty hollow shell.
During those awful times, I poured my heart and soul into
the stories I wrote. I identified with the characters I talked about
and the stories carried my mind to a totally different world.
My English teacher, Mrs. Firehouse was the first one who
encouraged me to submit my work to a few short story contests. When I did that,
I earned certificates and trophies across the board. My grandfather’s
walls were covered with all of my awards. He was the one who
instilled me with the go-getter attitude I have today. I stroked
my pen until my hands went numb. My love
for writing was so strong, it segued into a lucrative career.
During my high school days, I published short stories
in the school’s newspaper and I earned a reputation for
myself. I formed friendships with kids who were less
judgmental and more receptive. Girls wouldn’t give me any
play until I met a girl named Bridgette Polite. She was a
creole cutie with a bodacious booty. Her pants kissed
and hugged her fat ass so hard, if she sneezed,
they would split in half. Every corner she turned, heads
craned, chatters paused, and tongues wagged. She had
rhythm in her walk and talk. And she was never off beat.
My friend Cory, who shared the same homeroom with me
nudged me on the shoulders. “Dude, check out the body
on that shorty.” I returned his response with a shrug. “She’s
alright.” I acted like she wasn’t all that, because I didn’t
want to appear like the rest of those ravenous guys who
wanted a taste of her. She was pretty but she was out of
my limits. “Dude, she’s more than alright. She’s a goddess.
Every dude wants to tap that ass. Word on the street is, she’s got
a wicked pussy. Wicked enough to make a man change his
religion.” “Damn, it’s no wonder she’s got guys drooling over her.”
Bridgette was an eye candy, but I didn’t know what to do with
a girl like her. She was a seasoned temptress and her vagina
was like a urinal, it was opened to the public. Besides, I didn’t know
anything about women; furthermore, it would have been difficult
warding off those horny howling wolves. “Man, if I had a chick like
her, I would give her the world.” Cory’s eyes were so moony, he
looked like an Anime. I couldn’t resist laughing at his cheesy
ass. “Cory, what more can you give her besides, your
telescope, Derek Jeter baseball cards, and trust fund. The
only thing she’ll use is your trust fund to finance her
wardrobe. And we both know that’s barely enough to buy acres
of land, let alone the whole world.” He and I both laughed.
“Well, can a man like me fantasize?” Corey quizzed. “Sure, because
that’s the closest you’ll ever get to being with her.” I guffawed.
“Yeah, whatever. You can front like you’re not interested, but
you know you want to hit it as much as I do.” “Humph, she’s
cute, but she’s got some miles on her. I want a girl who’s
never been ridden or test driven, catch my drift?” “Yeah, but can you
think of a beautiful girl who’s speedometer is zero these days?
Let’s be real about it. The only virgins that are left, are the
ugly girls. Even a corny dweeb like me wouldn’t stick my pencil
in their sharpener.” “Wow, that’s cold. Everyone deserves love,
Cory.” “You should tell that to the ones who won’t sleep with them.”
I shook my head at his cold remarks. But I had to put up a fight.
“What about Sadie Funston. She’s pretty, smart, and she’s quiet,” I said.
“Sadie Funston?” Cory mocked. “Sadie Funston is a sweet nerdy girl by
day, but she’s a street walker by night!” “What! Not Sadie “Good girl”
Funston. This can’t be the same Sadie we’re talking about. Because
the Sadie I know has a good head on her shoulders.” Cory chuckled at me.
“She’s got a good head alright, because she’s giving it to every man on her
block. The quiet ones always have a hidden skeleton.” Cory’s shocking
revelation about Sadie Funston did a number on my heart. I never expected
someone like Sadie to minimize her worth. I used to have a secret crush
on her when we were in third grade. She was a shy and quiet girl then.
But she became a Jezebel who milled in the same “Lowest Common
Denominator” circle with my mother, father, Lucille, the pimps, the
prostitutes, pushers, hustlers and Bridgette. Her life was tumbling
down a hill and not even a big rock could stop it. The only thing that could
stop it was the death pit called, “Hell” because that’s where she was headed.
I sucked in some air, exhaled, and continued our discourse.
“What does it say about Bridgette then,” “What about her?”
Cory asked with a confounded look on his face. “It means Bridgette is
a whore knob. Everyone gets a turn too.” “Yes, but Bridgette is
popular, she’s sexy, and she carries herself with class.” Cory was
intelligent, but that moment, he sounded like every man who’s brain
cells plunged all the way to his dick. I wanted to bitch smack the
stupidity out of him. Instead, I approached the subject with
tact. “Bridgette is a whore. And there’s no such thing is a classy
whore. She uses her body to seduce men and once they’re hooked,
she reels them in. Her throat and vagina have a few things in
common-They’re wide and slippery enough to make an easy
entrance.” Damn, that’s cold, Fred.” “It’s not cold. It’s the truth,”
I remarked.” “So, don’t go putting her diseased ridden vagina
on a pedestal when she’s got a sea of random tadpoles swimming
in her gut like Sadie. They’re both accountable for their whorish
behavior; therefore they should assume the position. I had no
sympathy for the likes of Sadie and Bridgette. Girls like them
clamored for love and attention all day. They dropped
their panties along with their dignity to get that so-called
reciprocated love. If they believed those men who used
them, loved them, they were more dumber than I gave
them credit for. I surmise the apathy I had, stemmed from
watching my mother make a fool out of herself over the years.
She didn’t give a damn and if she would have been a
better mother, she’d still have my respect and most of all-
her life. I refocused my eyes on Bridgette and I watched her
accost my brother (who was on the foot ball team). I watched
him smell himself like he was the shit. And he was the shit, literally!
Grandfathers Know Best
Bridgette managed to suck my brother into her web of deceit.
Whatever she had under her tight ass blouse sleeves, it was destined
to rear its’ ugly head. Being a star writer earned me friends, but
no girlfriends. Roderick used my small fame to his advantage by
getting me to write love letters for his slew of girlfriends.
He didn’t tell people we were related, but he hung out with me
in public. We were doing homework in our bedroom, when he
he broached the subject about his new piece of ass-Bridgette.
“Yo, did you see Bridgette Polite. Shorty is bad?” I knew he
was using her name as bait to coax me into being his love
letter ghost writer again. I knew he was going to ask me
so I beat him to it instead. “You want me to write the love
letter, right?” He was slightly caught off guard, but he
smiled. “Right!” he said with overt excitement in his voice.
I have never seen him so happy about any girl. He was
only dating the girl for a week and she had his nose opened
wider than I-35’s belt way. I don’t know why I didn’t tell
him what I heard about her, because I thought he knew, but
still didn’t give a damn. “I like Bridgette a lot. She’s beautiful,
sexy, smart, and funny.” It was foreign of him to tell me about
Bridgette, because he never told me about any of his other
girlfriends. He continued, “I can’t wait to pop the big question
to her.” “Big question? You’re going to marry the girl!” Roderick
sucked his teeth and said, “Naw, man I’m going to ask her to be
my girlfriend.” Man, that was a relief. Roderick had a way with
the ladies, but he and Bridgette were in the same realm. They
were equally attractive and promiscuous. I wondered if they
were aware of each other’s reputation. I knew he was out of his
mind for assuming exclusivity with the likes of Bridgette,
vice versa. The arrangement they had should have been
more like a, “Wham Bam Thank You Ma’am.” He was
growing serious when he hardly knew the girl. Roderick
was a far cry from perfect, but Bridgette was a recipe for
calamity. Something about her presence disturbed my bowels.
I was bound to find the hell out though. “When do you
need the love letter completed?” I asked. “I need it finished
before the homecoming dance for next week.” “Ok.”
“Thanks, man. You don’t know how much this means to
me. Matter of fact, here’s ten bucks.” He placed the crisp
ten dollar bill in the palm of my hands. I normally
didn’t charge for my writing but the newly printed
ten dollar bill gave me an epiphany. Since this desperate
fool was willing to compensate me for writing mushy
love letters for him, I figured I could turn my writing
hobby into a business. Anyone who needed their paper written,
had to pay me generously for my services. I couldn’t wait to
tell my grandfather about my latest venture. He was a terrific
listener and he gave the best advices. “Hey gramps” “Hey son,
how was school today?” “School was great as usual.
We didn’t get much homework and my History teacher gave
us a pop quiz. It was really easy,” I said while going to the
refrigerator to grab an apple. “How’s your writing coming
along?” My grandfather inquired. “It was great.
Matter of fact, I think I’m going to charge people who needs
their paper written. I know a lot of students who don’t like
writing their papers. So, I figure if they pay me to write it for them,
I’ll cash in and I’ll make a decent little income on the side,” I cheesed.
My father gave me a pointed look. He slid his reading glasses to
the tip of his nose and cleared his throat . I knew what that look
meant. It meant he was going to reprimand me until his tongue got
tired. I gave him a defeated look and found the nearest chair I
could find. I flopped on the couch like a drunken fat man on pay day.
“Frederick, you’re a smart young man.” My grandfather never
called me by my first name unless I disappointed him. This was one
of those times. He continued, “Reaping the benefits from someone
else’s slack isn’t going to help them. It’ll only make them lazier.
You know how much I stress education. I always tell you and
your brother that cheating for yourself or someone else serves
no purpose. If it does, it’ll only serve a purpose for failure.” I
didn’t say anything except mentally record everything he said.
“I know how much you love to write and I support you
to the eightieth moon. But I be damn, if I’m going to let you throw
it all away over some research papers that aren’t yours. You want
to earn legitimate money? Write a book!” “Yes, sir” I replied.
“I don’t want you to end up like your hussy ass mammy or your
whore mongering ass pappy. I want you to fly until you can
touch the sky. I believe in you and I know you’re going
to be a successful writer someday. I can feel it in my
bones and guts. Watch and see,” his frown morphed
into a wide smile. I knew he was no longer mad at me.
I returned his smile and munched on my apple.
“What about writing love letters?” That idea was jogging
around in my head after Roderick paid me to ghost write his
love letter. I had to make sure I covered all bases before
pursuing a career as a new freelance writer. My grandfather
stared at me pensively. “As long as it doesn’t interfere with
their education, why not?” He winked at me and resumed
reading the Wall street Journal. Roderick entered the
room. “Hey, grand pop,” he shouted. “Boy why the hell
are you shouting? You’re trying to burst my ear drums
before it’s time for me to go deaf?!” My grandfather
scolded. “Sorry, grand pop,” Roderick went to the kitchen
to fix himself a pork chop sandwich. He was in a happy
mood because he looked like he won the jackpot of love.
He really thought Bridgette was his prize piece of ass, how
pathetic! I didn’t give that relationship a week. I was sure he
was going to have another arm piece faster than he realized
he dumped her. I laughed inwardly and bit into my apple.