BY JACQUELINE SESSION AUSBY

It wasn’t just that David Dennis was slick, but he was righteous in his slickness.  He wasn’t no punk.  He didn’t play games—not even basketball.  He could easily waddle in the world of good and bad, he chose to live life in the dirt and grim.  He was a caramel mixture of mean and kind. He didn’t like beating a man, or shooting a man, but he would if he had too—and he’d done so, severl times over the years of his young life. 

He got his disposition righteously from parents.  Before he had a chance to reach the ripe age of accountability, he saw both of their dead bodies.  They died six months apart, heroin was the culprit.  His father was the user, he’d gone to Vietnam and came back an addict.  His mother was the product of the follower—she followed the man she loved into the same pit of addiction.  Instead of becoming a user, David turned his nose at addicts and made no qualms about being a supplier.

When he was a boy of thirteen he went to live with the matriarch of the Dennis family, Carzella Dennis.  Mama Dennis was the way most people referred to the stout woman.  She carried the holy bible, was filled with the holy ghost and absolutely refused to take a strong drink before sundown.  Her husband and three of her sons had preceded her in death, and before she have up the ghost, she told Tyrone that God was going to save her entire family, including him. 

She had only one survivor after she left, her son Marty.  He took occupancy in the family house, lived in Mama Dennis’s basement.  He spent most days picking trash at the recycling plant, and his nights jugging down cans of cheap malt liquor.  A harmless drunk, Marty drifted in and out of his own mine.  His only conversations with David were sparked by the need to discipline the young boy for doing what young boys do as they grow up—testing the water.  Even then, Marty scolded David with love and kindness-- a few choice words, “You acting up?” Marty would say with base in his slur.  David never antagonized Uncle Marty.  Never made him shame for the loss of his senses; instead he would immediately correct his behavior.

When Carzella died only Marty and David remained in the family house.  It was Marty that held on--he kept things going until right after David graduated college.  Then he went deep inside his own mind and never came out.  David had to have him admitted, and Marty passed on an extremely hot day.  Right after David had paid him a visit.  They shared a last supper, jelly and peanut butter sandwiches, they were Marty’s favorite and David made them each time he paid a visit.  On that visit, Marty had told David that he’d imagined himself standing on a cloud watching Mama Dennis waving at him and he wanted to go to her.  David told him not to go, but before he could step out of the confines of the hospital, a nurse stalked him down and told him, Mr. Dennis had left.

When Marty passed on David found himself all alone.  He managed to take care of himself and the family home, by working at the same hospital where Marty had passed away and hustling in the streets where his parents had dwelled.  He distributed the same poison that overtook his mother and his father.  He was nearly 28 at the time, still a young whipper-snapper.  Never once de he imagined the streets would call his number at such an early age—until they did.

It was one of those eerie nights in October.  In the air was the smell of harvest and feasting, and the full-moon was partly hidden by drifts of black clouds.  David walked out of the hospital and headed to Lincoln Memorial Homes—a project apartment complex, not too far from the hospital.  He was going to reup his stash.  He always re-upped at Latosha Smalls apartment. 

That night David entered the complex the same way he’d done a million times before.  He made his way past the basketball court, and the down the concrete walkway.  With caution he headed toward Building 23, where Latosha had lived.  As he passed he heard kids laughing in the hallways of some of the buildings.  He had every intention on meeting Saul, Latosha’s brother, getting his stuff and going back home.  He’d done it a million times before, never had a moment of trouble.  But on this particular evening, there was a man dressed in all black standing at the fence, near the building 23.  David sensed the man was his enemy, but David ignored his instinct. 

The man didn’t say anything to David when he passed, but just as soon as David was about to enter the building, he called out.

“She’s not there,” he said.

David stopped in his tracks and glanced at the figure that started towards him, but he didn’t respond.  He’d learned long ago it was better to approach fear with caution, so he hesitated.  He carried a loaded Glock wherever he went, and he check his waist to make sure it was in place, ready to be fired at the first sign of trouble.

“Who’s not there?” Tyron responded.

“Your girl Latosha,” the man said, “she’s dead.  Shot through the head,” the man said and he placed his head over his temple.

David wanted to take flight, but he wasn’t the type to run, without first putting up a fight of his own.  So he opened the door of the building and proceeded to take a step inside the door, when he heard the first gunshot.  It hit the door but missed David.  When David turned around he noticed the figure was moving, his gun was drawn and aimed straight at him. 

“Why!” David screamed.

“You can’t step out of your family house and come down here to deal.  Don’t you understand the disrespect.  You want to live on top of the hill and come down her to do your dirt.  Take that shit back on the hill,” the man shouted, and he took another shot.  This time it nearly scrapped the side of David’s head

He had no choice, David removed his own gun from his waistband and returned the fire.  He didn’t want to kill the man, and he prayed, as he usually did when he was confronted with violence, that the man would cease his attack.  But the man did not.   Instead of retreating, the man continued walking towards David.  With his arms out, smoke rising from the barrel of his gun and drifting into the air like the smoke from a blunt.  David took two shots and then he tried to retreat.   He made haste for the next apartment building, but just as he was about to round the corner to take cover, he felt the coldness drift through his body. 

He never felt pain, he never felt the bullet that entered his shoulder, pierced right through his body and lodged inside his heart.

He went to that place.  God took him there.  To the valley of the shadow of death.  Funny he always thought of sunshine and blue skies and the serenity of a blue stream.  But there was a black sky filled with gleaming stars and a full bright moon.  And a cool breeze that drifted over dark water.  In the distance he saw them there, his mother and his father, his grandmother and his uncles—even Marty. They were standing across the great body of water, looking nothing like the night he last saw them at their cross over.   They waved to him.  Like strangers passing in a car, first they appeared with brilliant smiles and then they disappeared, drifted away leaving him alone, seated at table with a great feast spread before him. 

He was being served by a woman draped in a black robe, with golden hopped earrings and a golden necklace with purple stones.  She watched David for some time and then she said in a voice sounding like a sweet summer breeze—Eat.