Emerge

Heaven is surely shining on me, Mr. Solomon thought as he slid effortlessly into a seat on the East Bound 3. Usually around the holiday season he would have to squeeze and prod his way through a thick throng of commuters just to have a solid place to hang on a rail for a few minutes. Weekday or not. This evening the car was empty save for two other passengers who stayed a polite distance away.

He took a seat and placed his two large shopping bags, which, amongst other things, contained ruffled dresses and two beautiful pairs of patent leather shoes for his daughters back in Trinidad, into the corner seat, in between himself and the window.

“Stand clear of the closing doors please,” an automated voice asked politely before the doors began to close.

Mr. Solomon looked to the left of him and to the right and then down at the Timex watch that his new American girlfriend Gail had bought him from the JC Penny just a couple of weeks ago. He wiped the face of it with the sleeve of his coat- gloating at the light that beamed off the gold rim when it was freshly polished.

Finding himself in more relaxed conditions than anticipated, Mr. Solomon crossed his bony legs, reached into his leather messenger bag and pulled out his crossword book and a pen to finish what he hadn’t been able to at breakfast that morning. This page’s theme: Classic Westerns. His favorite.

____________________________________________________

“A yo! Wake yo old ass up!”

“How the fuck his ass sleeping through all this shit, I should beat his ass right now for playing with you son.”

The voices were jarring, seemingly distant and near at the exact same time as if he were hearing them underwater or maybe through a long tunnel, unable to decipher the echo from the sound. Am I… Am I dreaming, Mr. Solomon thought as he struggled to open his heavy eyelids.

“You hear us mothafucker, wake up!”

Surrounding him stood a group of young men, maybe 5 or 6 in total, including the one who rounded him from the back. A couple of them were maskless, the rest donned ski masks or bandanas. They were various shades of brown; slender, athletic builds. The two who were maskless still showed signs of adolescence: peach fuzz where maybe a full mustache would grow, splotches of acne across the cheeks. They were fresh out of high school; surely not old enough to purchase a bottle of alcohol.

Standing at 6’4, Mr. Solomon was taller than each of them except for maybe one, but he wasn’t stupid enough to try his luck. He was far outnumbered and after years of soft drinks, fast food, and the sedentary American lifestyle, he was sure that he didn’t possess the sharpness and virility that he once had traversing the untamed bush of his native land. So fighting back was not going to be an option if these boys wanted trouble- which from the gruff voices and intimidating poise of their stance, they did.

Before he could even formulate a response or a plan of action, one of them was grabbing the bags from the seat next to him: his daughter’s Christmas presents.

“Hey! Hey!,” Mr. Solomon repeated in his most authoritarian voice, “What are you doing?”

A ski-masked face with bulky arms beneath his black, bubble coat, stooped down to meet Mr. Solomon’s face. Mr. Solomon trembled with fear. This wasn’t his first run in with these types of guys, they were everywhere: young, dumb, overly-aggressive sociopaths that preyed on the weak, the handicapped, the cowardly, those who looked successful, the unaware- even those amongst their own ranks weren’t off limits. It had only been a couple of weeks ago that, while on his morning bus ride to work, he had witnessed Clarence Thomas, a young Bajan that he knew was selling drugs in front of the Five Star Laundromat, get robbed at gunpoint by two other masked terrorists.

“Shut the fuck up,” the face in front of him, or “Ski-Mask 1” as the police would later identify him, grimaced, “And run me everything that’s in your pockets. I don’t give a fuck if it’s a handkerchief, I want it.”

Mr. Solomon sat frozen, he didn’t know what to do. A part of him was still struggling to accept what was really happening. He had just gotten on the train and pulled out a crossword puzzle. Somehow he had fallen asleep. For how long he had no idea. Where they had come from, he had no idea. Surely they hadn’t been on the train when he had gotten on. Where was he headed now? Had he already passed his stop? Where was the crossword book? Thoughts rambled their way through his brain like the little ball in a pinball machine, as his chest heaved in and out.

____________________________________________________

If he had stayed awake, Mr. Solomon may have noticed the rowdy bunch of youth bogarting their way from car to car, violating everyone they came in contact with as they made their way to their destination. Maybe then he would have had the foresight to peek through the windows that separated his car from the previous one; where he would have surely noticed a large commotion as one of the masked men banged a commuter's head so hard against the dirty window pane that he left a rivulet of blood running down it. Maybe then he would have shut his mouth and politely handed over his wallet.

But as it was, Mr. Solomon had seen none of those things and knew nothing of them. As far as he was concerned this was probably nothing more than a group of wayward youths who had started the partying a little too early in the day and were now looking to stir up some trouble. If he would have asked the other passengers in the car, he would know that he was wrong.

“Hey now young brother you don’t want to do this? We can work this out,” he stated, using his most formal English.

A thick forearm snaked around his neck and tightened to squeeze. Mr. Solomon could hardly breathe and he thrashed his legs and flail about as much as he could, all the while watching his vision grow darker.

“Just give them what you got! Fuck! So they can leave us alone,” a woman’s voice, shrill-like, said from somewhere in the car.

The arm loosened and Mr. Solomon’s hands immediately went up to his neck, protecting it as he swallowed in air like a newborn baby.

“Please… please,” he heaved in between breaths, “I don’t want trouble. Please… I don’t want trouble.”

“Check his pockets,” Ski Mask 1 motioned to another one with a gun.

This time there was another set of hands roughly rummaging over his sides, searching for his wallet. Desperation hung in his eyes. Not finding what he had been searching for, the man grabbed Mr. Solomon and tossed his frail body on the ground like a rag doll. Mr. Solomon’s head hit the corner of the seat opposite him as his glasses slid across the muddy floor.

“Ok! Ok! You’ve got it, now leave him alone,” the same woman called out again. Mr. Solomon glanced at her. His vision wasn’t much without his glasses, but from what he could see she was a young sister with olive colored skin and short hair- possibly Puerto Rican or Dominican or any of the other flavors of Black that had been mellowed out with Indigenous features.

“Yo Born, shut her up!” Ski Mask called.

A young man, with a long, bushy ponytail worn low to the nape of his neck stepped away from the pack. He stepped over a disheveled Mr. Solomon and strutted cooly to the woman, relishing the sheer terror in her eyes. She opened her mouth to respond, he gun-butted her before she could even get out a word; the small pool of blood in her lap the evidence of what he had done. The motion knocked the wind out of her and she sat crying for the remainder of the train ride, cupping two of her molars in her right hand.

Simultaneously a hand made its way to Mr. Solomon’s pockets; Mr. Solomon rolled onto his stomach, tucking the pockets of the coat beneath him. He was met with a bone-cracking kick to the side that sent him gasping for breath once more. Then kicks started coming from everywhere. Instinctively he brought his hands up behind his head and clasped them, while he curled into a fetal position.

Father why is this happening to me! Mr. Solomon questioned God between kicks. Why have you abandoned us like this?

The kicks rained down relentlessly. Each one accompanied by a ball of fire that sent waves of pain rippling throughout his body. His back, his ribs, his legs, his rear, the back of his head- they all hurt simultaneously. At one point, a boot connected violently with his ear. A lightning bolt of searing hot pain racked through his head followed by a whoosh, and then silence in that ear.

“Please… Please,” Mr. Solomon cried weakly, spewing out dark blood with each word. No one seemed to hear him. So he turned back to God instead.

“Heavenly Father,” he silently pleaded, “I implore you to come down and set things straight for your humble servant. I know that your thoughts are not my thoughts and your ways not my ways. But I ask you God, are you not a man of your word... did you forget the promises that you made to me o God? To never leave me nor forsake me? So why? Is my offering not pleasing enough to you Lord like Cain’s? Or do I rob you of the tithe? Have I not lived a life free of temptation and immorality as best as I know how? Am I not just a man and you the supreme being? O God! Have mercy!”

Mr. Solomon was overcome with weariness and his resolve waned; his hands drooped to the floor, leaving his head wholly unprotected, as his body went limp. God had given up on him, he thought and surely he would die. The attack only lasted a few more seconds but to Mr. Solomon it felt like hours. Ski Mask #2 offered a final stomp on his right hand, snapping his middle and index fingers like dry twigs, before Ski Mask #1, the leader, placed a firm hand on his chest, reigning him back in and effectively ending the beating.

Mr. Solomon flitted in and out of consciousness as one of them flipped him on his back and ransacked his pockets.

“The next stop is… Van Siclen Avenue. The last and final stop is New Lots Ave,” the automated voice chimed.

Van Siclen? Van Siclen. Was he really all the way in East New York?

It all made sense now. He had made a mistake. He had called this island his home for nine years now but not once had he traversed into the no-man’s land that was East New York. Right up there with Harlem and Bed-Stuy, East New York held a special reputation for being particularly unkind to tourists and outsiders alike. He had never experienced it first hand, of course, because his daily routine never extended beyond a ten block radius of where he lived. Besides work, all of his eating, drinking, sleeping, and playing (when he allowed himself to do such things) took place in the ever growing Caribbean enclave that was Crown Heights.

“Yo who is this bitch?” Ski Mask 1 asked impatiently.

Black Bandana opened Mr. Solomon’s wallet and pulled out a state ID.

“Rup-tha So-lo-mon,” he stuttered, sounding out each syllable as he went along, “Mr. Ruptha Solomon.”

Ski Mask #1 snatched the ID. He glared at it then back down at his victim, then back at the photograph ensuring that the picture matched. The blood and swelling had transformed Mr. Solomon’s face into a monstrous caricature of what it had once been, but he was still identifiable.

“Yeah, that’s him,” Ski Mask said before placing the card in his own coat pocket. He sifted through the remaining contents of the wallet, pocketing the three crisp twenty dollar bills of pocket change that Mr. Solomon had just withdrawn from the bank that morning tossing aside items he deemed unuseful. He paused when he happened upon a picture of two young, almond skinned girls. Their faces were clean and almost shiny from grease. Both girls bore a strong resemblance to the picture on the ID, the image of Mr. Ruptha Solomon, before they had disfigured his face.

Ski Mask 1 crouched down real low, his Timberland clad feet merely centimeters away from Mr. Solomon’s face while the rest of his flunkies scrambled for something to hold on to as the subway rounded a deep curve.

“These your daughters?” Ski Mask 1 asked plainly, seemingly unaffected by the rocking and swaying of the car.

Mr. Solomon couldn’t move. He could barely make out the words that the man was saying. So he remained still. Irritated, Ski Mask yoked him up by the collar of his shirt.

“Look,” he commanded, “Are these your daughters?”

Mr. Solomon strained to see. One eye swollen, the other eye clouded in red, it took much effort, but he was able to focus on the picture. Seeing his girls brought tears to his good eye. He coughed as he tried to make out words, sending a stream of bloody saliva dripping down his chin. Ski Mask quickly let go of him and stood up.

“Thought so…If you ever want to see them again, you ain’t see shit. You won’t say shit,” he said pointing a bony finger down at Mr. Solomon with each word.

As if on cue, the subway rocked to a hard stop and the pack slipped out the door uneventfully, blending inconspicuously with the few commuters that remained. There was no police presence waiting to arrest them, no medics, hardly a bystander waiting to attest that they had even been there. Only the three battered victims in the car (two shaken beyond measure, one holding on to life by a thread, and the boy they had called Born).

For some reason that neither of them could fully understand, not withholding the youth himself in future recollections, the bushy haired menace that had built a solid reputation for being wise beyond his years and twice as calculated, decided to linger on the train for just a while longer before getting off. He could see his friends piled up in front of the sliding doors before they were even fully opened and, for a split second, he wondered if it would all attract too much attention. Feared it even. That five Black men in Timberlands and heavy coats exiting the train at the same time would inevitably turn the heads of even the most amiable cop- whether they were up to trouble or not. And so he lingered. For only a second. If cops were waiting for them, he would gladly allow the cops to slide in the car and pretend that he had been robbed too. Pull out his empty coat pockets, make a show of it, all the while keeping his eye on shorty with the bleeding gums. His boys wouldn’t rat and neither would she. He was confident of it. They may have chosen different paths but she was from the same streets as he was. Had probably seen the police terrorize brothers, cousins and uncles so much that, like him, she was unable to distinguish the bad guys from the so called good ones. So he paused. Not knowing that the one second he stayed silent, would alter the course of his life forever.

____________________________________________________

Mr. Solomon heard the cautious footsteps of the one they called Born approaching and, without thinking, grabbed onto the hem of blue jeans with his good hand and did not let go. He needed to tell the boy something. If these were going to be his final moments he needed to let the boy know that he forgave him.

Just looking at him, Mr. Solomon could see that the boy was still young, probably fresh out of high school. He remembered how he was at that age. He wasn’t robbing people on trains or calling women bitches like these boys were but he too was looked at as a rebel. Most people knew about the Black Power Movement that was taking place across big cities like Los Angeles and Chicago and smaller ones too. But in the 60’s and the early 70’s, Trinidad had its own Black Power Revolution too. And his participation in the movement had caused him a few skirmishes with the law… and even a few regrets.

So he wouldn’t be able to rest in peace if he allowed this to hang over the boy for the rest of his life. Because, call it a spirit, call it intuition, a hunch, or whatever you want to call it but something in Mr. Solomon just knew that one day this boy was going to regret it. So he needed to offer him his forgiveness now. The rest was up to God.

____________________________________________________

Born was downright petrified at the zombie-like creature that had the leg of his jeans in a vice grip. The man whom they had just brutalized no longer looked like a man at all but like a thing, a freak, a hideous monster that you would see in a horror movie and Born was desperate to get away. What the fuck, Born thought repeatedly, as he kicked his leg to get him off. But the man was stronger than he let on. And Born’s time was running out. Was that a cop that he was hearing coming closer and closer? Someone yelling: Stop punk! And Shocka telling them bastards to Go to hell! Had to be. He had to get out of here.

Born kicked his leg again. His heart thumped wildly in his chest, which seemed to be on fire from the adrenaline and heavy breathing. In those fateful moments, he even gave a quick glance at shorty who was still spitting blood into a napkin and holding her teeth hoping maybe she would say something. She sat back, startled, when he caught her eye.

“Argghh fuggeee you,” the man on the ground groaned incomprehensibly, his swollen eyes pointed in Born’s direction like accusing daggers. Born knew that if those eyes weren’t bloodied and swollen over they would be staring right at him. From the opposite directions the sounds of a scuffle and even more shouting.

“What the fuck,” Born managed to let out as he gave a final shake of the leg. The man wasn’t letting go; his hand had totally encapsulated Born’s bony ankle and now the doors were trying to close. Born stood arms straddled trying to keep them pried open.

“Arggh fuggee you,” the man moaned again.

Panicked and running out of options, Born made a split of the moment decision to do something that he had not been prepared to do when Shocka had introduced him to this hairbrain scheme of his this morning. Born had never suspected that the plan would come with a hefty cost itself. But so it was. With a calmness that welled out of the deepest places in him, Born went into his belt buckle, retrieved the nine millimeter that hung on his hip like a second skin and pumped two bullets into Mr. Solomon’s back. The hand dropped immediately. Screams rang out like sirens from inside the car but Born was able to slip through and book it off the platform.

____________________________________________________

Mr. Solomon did not die immediately as everyone suspected, but one by one his faculties began to give way until they were no longer useful. First the muscles in his arms gave way and then his legs. His clenched jaw and buttocks relaxed. His upper body strength waned so his neck could no longer support the weight of his head. His right lung collapsed. His heartbeat slowed, slowed, slowed until his breath became a whisper. He knew it was all over.

And he had just about slipped back into the comfort of unconsciousness and given in to the persuasion of death when he felt someone slapping him lightly on the cheek.

“Hey, hey now. Hey buddy, wake up!”

He didn’t know how long he had been out, just that the train was still rolling. Oh just let me die for God’s sake, Mr. Solomon thought bitterly, Just let me die.

“Hey! Wake up now! Wake up! Don’t quit on me, help is on the way. Just hang on.”

Don’t you see that it’s over, Mr. Solomon wanted to say.

“They shot him two times,” a baritone voice said nervously, “Right in front of us.”

“Take this and press it over the wounds… Press hard, we have to stop the blood flow.”

“Hey buddy,” the voice repeated, “I need you to stay with me okay. My name is Miguel. You’re in the care of the New York City Angels. You’re in good hands okay, you just gotta stay with me… You hear me buddy, stay with me.”

Angels, Mr. Solomon thought. Well surely he must be dead. But what qualified an angel to be a New York City Angel? He pictured what they must look like: unsmiling, stone faced beings with standoffish attitudes. For some reason, the picture he conjured up made him laugh.

“Hey there. Hey there buddy, take it easy,” Miguel said, dabbing at Mr. Solomon’s mouth with a crinkled Wendy’s napkin, “Don’t try to talk too much, just take it easy. Hang in there with me.”

Determined to see one of the Lord’s New York Angels, Mr. Solomon willed his swollen eyes open. He was only able to open the one just a slit- but with that space he could see enough. Kneeling beside him were two men: one a fellow passenger, the other (the angel he assumed) a deeply tanned man with dark hair and a full mustache covering his upper lip. He was wearing a bright red jacket with a variety of medallions on it. Most disappointing for Mr Solomon, no wings in sight.

If this was the best that New York Angels had to offer him, Mr. Solomon knew he was dead meat. He laughed again at the absurdity and closed his eyes, prepared to face his fate.

____________________________________________________

Luckily for Mr. Solomon, the man who stooped beside him practically sweating concern was nowhere near as critical as he was. Neither were the crew of three who paroled the area with him that night. Were they vigilantes or concerned citizens? That was the subject of contentious debate. And I guess the answer depended on who you asked and at what time.

They had apprehended the one called Born as he tried to exit the train station, been able to wrestle the firearm that was shooting blanks right from his hand, and delivered him to the police relatively unharmed. And they had also performed CPR on Mr. Solomon for 13 full minutes until the paramedics could arrive at Van Siclen station- alternating pumps so that when one tired another picked up. They had protected him, saved him even, that fateful evening in November of 1991, when Mr. Ruptha Solomon emerged from New York’s underworld battered, bruised, more cynical than ever before…but alive.