Tidsby by Mista Midas

PROLOGUE

        It's the summer of 2013. A hot, sticky Valdosta, Georgia day, but I didn't feel the sweltering temperature. Not from within the luxurious comfort zone in which I traveled.
       I'm on my way to meet my ten-year-old grandson. This is my first time seeing the little devil. From what I've been told by my son Javaris, Jermain is just like me: mischievous and rebellious, with a dab of reductive shyness. I smiled proudly. Based on the life I've lived, it's truly a blessing to have lived to see my children to the second generation. Shit, I'm only fifty-eight years old, I should be able to live—based on my health and family geans—another forty years. So I might, and should be able to see Jermain's grandchildren. Only time will tell. 
       As I turned into Javaris's driveway, I nodded approvingly. I am truly proud to see that my only child is doing good; making ends meet for his family: Beautiful two-story house in a nice lower-middle-class subdivision, a newer-model Ford F-250 pick up with a lawn trailer attached; obviously his means of earning a legitimate income, and a Dodge Magnum station wagon that looked a few years old. Not bad for a hard-working man
       Before I could cut the motor off, the garage door suddenly began to slowly and quietly roll-up. As the door was fully open, I noticed my son standing inside the garage. He smiled. I returned a smile. I see the inner door—which looks like it either led to a kitchen, or the living room—opened. I smiled—an ear-to-ear—as I laid eyes on my grandson. He sees me and broke into a mad charge, obviously happy to see and get to meet the old boy.
       "Grandpa!" he squealed as he ran towards me.
       I quickly hopped out of my ten-year-old Audi A6; it's old, but it's clean. The way I left it nine years ago when I was shipped off to prison. 
       Anyway, I know you may think this story is about me, but it's not, so no need for wanting to hear my life's story. The only thing I will say about me is this: My name is Jerome, and I did my crime, and, I paid my due to society by manning-up and doing my time. 
       Jermain leaps into my arms and gave me, what had to be the biggest hug ever given since the dawn of time. I chuckled happily. 
       "Hey there, li'l king!" I greeted my grandson. 
       "I'm so glad you're here, grandpa," Jermain greeted. "Now we can go fishing, ride bicycles, we can plant a garden, you can read me stories . . ."
       This child I held was my blood, my flesh, and my bone. I loved him instantly. As I held him in my grandfather. 
       The year was nineteen sixty-four, and I was seven years old. I'll never forget that day. It was a warm spring day in Louisville, Kentucky. I was at the park with my catch playing catch, when I spotted a bright-red Cadilac Coupe Deville coming down the dirt road that led to the park. Everybody stopped what they were doing and gawked in reverence as what had to be the biggest and shiniest car in the whole universe approached. 
       The top was down, music loud. I still remembered the song that was playing as if it was yesterday: Sam Cooke—Change Gone Come . . . .
       My granddaddy was the man! He became my hero. Now my aim is to one day become my grandson's hero. I'll tell him the story my grandfather told me of the day he had first met his grandfather.  And I'll tell him the story I had promised my grandfather I would tell my grandson . . . .
       He had taken me fishing. Just the two of us. Me and my hero. We were sitting on a broken log by the river, catching catfish. We, or should I say, I, had caught the only fish. Granddaddy was so proud of me. He had promised to fry the small catfish for my dinner when we get home. 
       As we fished, he smoked back-to-back cigarettes and drank beer, even offering me one. I refused. I was only eleven.
       "Look here, Champ," he had said out the blue. "I want to tell you a story."
       I nodded but didn't say a word. Granddaddy went on.
       "You remember the day we first met?"
       I nod.
       "Never forget that day. Make sure you tell your grandson and have him promise to tell his grandson. 
       "I promise, granddaddy," I replied with a nod.
       "And make sure you tell him the story I'm 'bout to tell you, 'kay?" 
       "Okay, granddaddy."
       There was a long silence. I patiently waited for him to continue. After about five minutes, he finally began.
       ". . . I." He flicked his cigarette butt in the murky river, then finished his beer in one long drink, belched and cast the container into the nearby bushes. He continued.
       "I remembered the day I first met my grandfather. He was a tall beast of a man. A towering sight to behold to a small seven-year-old boy. He had moved south from somewhere up north; Chicago, I think. I was home with my mama, helping her wash dishes . . . Back then it was only me and her. I never knew my dad. I once asked about him later in life, but my mama only replied, "I'm your mama and your daddy." I took that as the gospel and never again worried about a daddy. When I needed the words of wisdom of a man, I would wait for my granddad to come—which was every other week—and spend the day with me.
       The day I met him, there was a loud knocking on the front door. It demanded attention and was authoritatively urgent. My mama, God bless her soul, must have thought it was the Law, because she spun on her heels, and stared suspiciously at the door. Then again came the knock; five successive sharp raps. My mama quickly turned off the tap and dried her hands.
       "Go on to your room, baby," she instructed in a tiny whisper. I could hear the nervousness in the tremor of her voice. I hurried to my room.
       As I peeked through the crack of the partially opened bedroom door, I watched as my mama, cautiously-slow, walked to the front door. She slowly raised her hand to the doorknob, but before she could touch it, the knocking once again sounded, frightening me half to death.
       "Who is it?" she demanded angrily. I could tell she was afraid. 
       "Girl, you bes' open this here door, an' let me in out this here hot weather."
       My mama screamed as if she had foreseen her own death and was unable to do anything to prevent it. I wanted to crawl under my bed and hide, but I had no bed, I slept on a make-shift mattress my mama had made out of two old sheets, sewn together like a gigantic pillowcase, and stuffed with whatever she could find that was sold. God help the poor. 
       I was praying that she would run and hide, but to my surprise, she—after frantically fumbling with the lock—snatched the door open. 
       "DADDY!" she cried out vehemently as if filled with the Holy Ghost. 
       Daddy? I never even knew my mama had a daddy.
       "Look at my li'l baby girl." the tall statuesque stranger, who my mama called daddy, bellowed. "How you been, princess?"
       "I've been good, daddy . . ."
       The gigantic stranger glanced up and we locked eyes. His mouth popped open. I could tell he was surprised, if not stunned, to see me. My mama realized that her daddy's eyes had found something behind her to feast on. She slowly turned around and smiled as she noticed me peeking from my room.
       "Come out and say hi, Norman," she instructed with a warm smile. 
       I slowly opened the door wide. The big man shot me a hard, penetrative stare. My mama smiled. I cautiously stepped towards them. Daddy or no daddy, I didn't know him, and I damn sure didn't trust him.
       "And who is this li'l tally-whacker?" he asked. The question could have been directed to either me or my mother. 
       Tally-whacker? I wanted to laugh, but I was only seven and scared half to death. As much as I didn't want to, I smiled. It was my mother who replied. 
       "This my son, daddy," she said proudly with a confident smile. "Your grandson."
       So, the big stranger is my grandfather. He stared at me with penetrative eyes like a hawk's. Suddenly, he dropped what he had in his hands—gifts for my mother—and knelt on one knee. 
       "Come 'ere, boy!" he bellowed. "Come to ya grandpapa!"
       I hesitantly stared at my mother. She flashed me a coy smile that borderlines a grin; one that said go ahead, it's alright. Without delay, I reluctantly stepped into the embrace of my grandfather, the man who thought me to, and who I emulated to become a man.
       I was sixteen when he told me the story of the day he first met his grandfather. We were out by the Lakeshore fishing and drinking moonshine. Grandpa had been pressing me for weeks that he had something to tell me, but I was working long, hard days at the lumber mill, and would come home tired to the point where only a cold bath and a hot dinner were all I could handle. I had promised Grandpa that I would listen to the story Sunday after church.
       True to my word, Sunday, after church, we gathered our fishing gear and moonshine and walked the little-over-a-mile track to our favorite fishing hole. I was eagerly ready to listen.
       We were about halfway through the small jar of moonshine, and about ten mullets and catfishes and perches into our fishing trip, when my grandfather began the story about his grandfather . . . .