His name was Tyrone.

He was graceful, lithe and his skin was so black it was almost blue. Although he was two years younger than me, he stood a full foot taller and his arms were nearly as long as my legs. Most people would assume a boy like Tyrone, with his limbs all out of proportion like they were, would be a little clumsy or gawky. But Tyrone was just the opposite. He never walked across a room. He glided. He strolled. He floated. He carried himself as if he were ½ athlete and ½ ballet dancer…with a dash of pure, undiluted cockiness thrown in just for good measure.

Tyrone was a friend by proximity. Meaning, we were friends simply because our Mothers did drugs together. Tyrone’s Mother’s drug of choice was crack and to say it has stolen a piece of her soul would be a vast understatement. She lived and breathed for the stuff and oftentimes would rip off department stores in order to fund her habit. Tyrone, my brother and I would come in handy on such occasions. When we’d tag along, it would be our job to stand guard at the end of the aisles, watching for rent-a-cops while Tyrone’s Mother jammed shit under her trench coat. She’d walk in a store a skinny, almost malnourished, black woman and walk out a 300lb sweat beast and no one ever said a word. Afterwards, she’d sell her goods (along with her food stamps) to friends and neighbors for drug money.

I guess it wasn’t a bad gig.

Despite her flaws, Tyrone loved the hell out of his Mother. I guess I don’t blame him. I mean, no matter how fucked up she got, no matter how intense the party downstairs was, and no matter who was over and what they were offering, this woman would make a point to drop whatever she was doing if Tyrone was having problems sleeping. She’d drag her drugged up, weak ass, chemically fucked body up her stairs every goddamn night and rub her son’s back until he fell asleep. And if my brother and I happened to be spending the night, she’d rub our backs too. Of course, we weren’t accustomed to being touched in a loving way like Tyrone was, so it was rare that the action itself would lull us to sleep. But we’d pretend to sleep anyway, because the back rubs were nice and the intent behind them was even nicer.

Whenever our Mothers were occupied, the three of us would walk to The Center together. The Center was a little neighborhood youth group for underprivileged kids that offered a free lunch program. If your Mother was too busy sucking on a pipe to make you a peanut butter and jelly, The Center came in mighty handy. For me and my brother, walking into The Center was always strange at first because we were the only specs of pale white among a sea of dark faces. But somehow, with Tyrone by our side, we always ended up blending right in. Hell, I never even had to follow my brother around all paranoid he would say something ignorant and get himself beat up without my protection. I knew Tyrone would make sure he got along alright if I instead opted to spend the day making yarn bracelets with the other girls.

See, that’s just the kind of friend Tyrone was. He’d keep your secrets, help you stand guard against the po-po, and make sure no one beat up your little brother. They don’t make them like that anymore, folks.

One day, Tyrone and my brother decided they wanted to leave The Center early and go hang out at home. I was in the process of starting a singing group with a couple of girls my age and was in no mood to leave. We argued back and forth for a few before finally deciding that Tyrone and my brother would make the trek home alone. Even though I planned to catch up with them later, I was still nervous.

“It’ll be cool, V,” Tyrone promised. I believed him because Tyrone never lied.

However, unbeknown to me, Tyrone and my brother ran into a little bit of trouble. Namely, they came face to face with Zephir and Astar, indubitably two of the meanest, nastiest, most violent girls in the neighborhood.

Now, before I paint Zephir and Astar as total villains, I probably should give you all a bit of history. Zephir and Astar were twin sisters, my age, and lived directly across the street from us. Their Mother was strung out on H and had degenerated so completely that it was widely known she was selling her body for the shit. In our neighborhood, it was one thing to have a Mother who was a drug addict, thief, liar, alcoholic, or just an all purpose loser. It was quite another thing to have a Mother who was a whore. So, Zephir and Astar caught a lot of flack there.

On top of that, their Mother was particularly vicious when she was high. Sometimes, she would attack Zephir and Astar randomly while they were outside playing. She would beat them with curtain rods, hangers, frying pans or anything else her drug addled mind compelled her to grab on the way out the door. She would beat Zephir and Astar right out in the open, in broad daylight, in front of God and everyone. In a neighborhood riddled with child abusers, this was considered the only sin. I mean, who wouldn’t be suspicious of children apparently so unruly that they forced their Mother into a position where she couldn’t beat them behind closed doors?

I guess what I’m trying to say is Zephir and Astar were victims just like the rest of this. Only these particular victims would pound on your face until it resembled a bowl of chili and then go watch a bit of TV.

Zephir and Astar hated my brother’s guts, so when they saw him walking down the street sans older sister, I’m sure it must have made their day.

I’m not exactly sure how things started because I wasn’t there. But I do know that Zephir and Astar vastly underestimated Tyrone. After giving my brother a preliminary shove, Zephir ended up earning herself a right hook to the eye, courtesy of Tyrone. Weighing it and deciding that her tender face had already been beaten on enough that particular day, Zephir threw up her hands in defeat. She took off down the street as fast as she could, leaving her sister behind to defend the family honor alone.

Fortunately, no one had pummeled Astar that day, so she was raring to go. Furiously, she balled up her fist and took at swing at Tyrone.

And missed.

Enraged, she attempted to spin around and deliver a roundhouse kick to Tyrone’s smiling face.

But she missed again.

It was at this point that I showed up for the show. And ‘show’ was the only possible way you could describe the situation. Standing there watching Tyrone bob and weave, bouncing around like some sort of crazed jack-in-the-box while Astar flailed about uselessly was the epitome of good comedy. Everyone gathered around the pair of them, giggling and nudging each other as Astar screamed and spit and cursed. We gaped in awe at Tyrone who continually managed to stay just out of Astar’s grasp no matter how hard she tried to get her hands on him. We laughed gleefully when Tyrone, obviously sick of dodging her and ready for some action of his own, smacked Astar right upside her hateful fucking head.

Astar, publically scorned and humiliated, did not take that slap in good humor. Instead, she shrieked at the sky, picked up a brick, and chucked it at Tyrone’s head.

Unfortunately, that missed too.

Grunting and determined, she lunged at Tyrone yet again. Quick as a snake, Tyrone struck her with the meaty part of his palm directly in the center of her sneering face.

THWAK!

Astar’s head snapped back from the force of the slap. Blood started gushing from her nose. Tyrone chortled, obviously amused by his handiwork. Everyone else held their breath.

For a second, it looked like Astar might cry. But that was only a second.

“FUCK YOU!” she screamed at us all. Then, she turned tail and ran.

We had not even finished congratulating Tyrone’s victory when Astar showed back up minutes later, ready for more.

“MY MOMMA SAID AIN’T NO ONE IN OUR FAMILY EVER LOST A FIGHT!” she howled, “AND I AIN’T ABOUT TO LOSE ONE NOW!”

Tyrone responded by smacking her in the face. She swung at him. Missed.

“MY MOMMA SAYS I CAN EITHER FIGHT YOU OR FIGHT HER AND SINCE SHE CAN WHOOP YOUR ASS….”

Astar earned herself another smack in the face.

“YOU AIN’T NOBODY! YOU AIN’T NOBODY TO ME! I’LL FUCKING KILL YOU, YOU WORTHLESS NIGGER!”

“You’ve got to catch me first, bitch,” Tyrone answered. Then, he firmly planted his foot in the soft part of Astar’s belly. With a grunt of pain, Astar finally hit the ground. Dejected and exhausted, she didn’t bother getting up.

Everyone laughed and clapped Tyrone on the back. I thanked him for defending my brother. But as we started to walk away, Tyrone paused to say something else to the defeated Astar.

“You can tell your Mom you whooped me, if you want to. I don’t want that dumb slut to fuck with you because of me.”

Astar didn’t bother replying to him. But in that moment, Tyrone earned my eternal respect. Although young and arguably less experienced, Tyrone possessed wisdom and strength of character that very few people can ever hope to have.

Tyrone is in jail now, serving a life sentence. Shortly after his 19th birthday, he awoke one night to the sound of his Mother’s screams. Apparently, she had ripped off the wrong drug dealer and had earned herself a little street justice…delivered in the form of a good, sound beating. Calmly, Tyrone walked up to his Mother’s bedroom and retrieved her gun from her nightstand drawer. Then he walked back downstairs and painted the walls with the guy’s brains.

What a fucking waste.

Looking back, I have to wonder if my Mother didn’t have the right idea by failing to give us back rubs to lull us to sleep at night. Many times we also walked in on her getting beaten by some thug and responded only by shrugging our shoulders before tiptoeing back to our rooms, completely untroubled.

Tyrone’s Mother loved him. But look where that got him.