Jocelyn's River

Preface

Preface

The work at the factory was a laborious task and the pay was not enough to support his young wife and little boy. It was a white man's world. Bryson heard this numerous times from older black men including his father. As he grew to become a man, he understood why. Each day of work, he had to suffer with being called "boy" and hearing "nigger" spoken boldly in his face.

All the other black men suffered the same treatment at work, but they weren't as hotheaded as he was. With his temper, he wanted to start a fight and that was just what occurred an hour ago. He had lost his job because an old coot chuckled and asked him to dust off his shoe after Bryson stepped on it. His refusal earned him a strike across the face and the old man should have braced himself for Bryson's wrath.

Disgracefully, he walked through the streets on the far side of Waterloo, Alabama with a sack slung over his shoulder to get home to his family. He hated to have to tell them the ill news, especially his beautiful wife, Michelle. At times Bryson felt that he was holding her back with his nonsense. For some reason, it was hard for him to refrain even though he wanted to.

His kid sister, Jocelyn tried to steer him away with her wise and inspiring sentiments. He had always been motivated by her benevolence and obedience, although he teased her for being such a "goody-goody". Being the son of a preacher was often stressful. People expected Bryson's life to reflect his father's ministry, although Jocelyn succeeded very well. She was entirely different from her brother. Bryson turned from a wholly honorable lifestyle and became part of the world.

Before he went to work earlier that day, he faced an argument with his father on how gambling every other weekend did not stand as a factor to being a man, husband, and father. Being the stubborn young man that he was, Bryson closed his ears and rushed to work despite the fact that he meant to drag his feet to the hell-hole.

It was late at night now and he was strolling along in what people called "the wrong side of the tracks". Before he passed the convenience store, he went inside to buy a bottle of liquor. He was just in time, for it was near closing. Bryson walked out of the store and saw that a beat up, red truck was now parked beside the sidewalk.

Surrounding the tail of the truck were six young white men. They were loud, obnoxious and country, or what one might call "red neck". Bryson put the bottle in his sack, pulled it back over his shoulder, and walked behind the tail of the truck to get to the other side of the street. He was dwelling so deeply on his condition that he mistakenly bumped into one of the men who had just stepped out of the driver's side of the truck. A can of beer flew out of the man's grasp and hit the ground with a thud.

"Hey, nigger!" he called after Bryson. There was an extreme amount of poison in his voice. "Who the hell do ya think ya are--bumpin' into me like that?"

"Sorry," Bryson spoke, trying to sound sincere. He was anything but sincere towards these men. "I'm just tryin' to get home."

"Well, home can wait! Now, you come on back here and fetch that beer for me!"

With his nostrils flaring, Bryson looked at the man who seemed to be thirty or younger. Now that he was standing in front of him, Bryson could see that the man wore a white wife beater and on his shoulder was a colorful tattoo of the confederate flag. Slavery was long gone. They did not own him, so what gave them the right to show authority? Not wanting to cause trouble, he went and retrieved the beer for him.

"That's right," the man said as he took the beer from Bryson's palm. His cigarette stuck out of the side of his mouth and it moved when he spoke. "Good boy." He snickered and his followers did the same.

Before he had a chance to walk away, the same man asked, "Say, u-h-h-h, whatcha got in that bag?"

Tensing up, he thought about the contents it held and remembered that he had a couple of dollars in the bag. "Just my work clothes," Bryson answered.

"Why don't you check him, Wayne?" another bonehead asked.

Bryson heard the jingle of the door to the store behind him. He looked back and as soon as a dark haired white boy walked out of the door with a pack of cigarettes, the lights turned off. He stopped for a minute, and met Bryson's eyes as he placed a cigarette behind his ear. Caught off guard, Bryson felt the sack getting lighter on his back and he cussed under his breath for letting it happen. Swiftly, Bryson swung around and punched whoever had sliced his bag open before slamming his fist against Wayne's lip.

"You dirty son of a bitch!" Wayne yelled after licking his bloody lip. He grasped Bryson by the collar of his shirt. "We'll teach ya a lesson, nigger."

Wayne harshly pulled Bryson's face down to collide with his knee, breaking his nose. When Bryson fell to the ground, Wayne kicked him in his side.

"Go on!" Wayne said. "Get him boys! I'll finish him off."

"Wayne, what the hell are you doin'?" the dark haired one came closer to the savagery. "Y'all leave 'em alone!" He approached one of the members who were beating on Bryson and pulled him away, knocking him into the brick wall.

"River!" Wayne called after River as he watched him fight his gang of brothers off of their victim. Wayne grasped River by the shirt and pulled him to the side. He held River in front of him by the front of his white t-shirt. "You stop tryna' mess this up and do somethin' useful. Be the strong one that ya are and I'll let ya beat him to a bloody pulp all by yourself. What do ya say to that?"

"I say you're crazy and I don't want no part of it," River snapped and pushed his leader's hands away from clutching his jacket. Next, River suffered a haste and firm fist against his jaw. He stumbled back.

"Scat! You ain't needed here no more," Wayne ordered while looking at the young man who rubbed his swelling jaw. "You're the strongest one out of all 'em, Riv. But ya chose to be weak and respect these ignorant black dogs. I reckon I should've gotten rid of ya a while back."

"Alright!" a gang member hollered. "He's ready for it, Wayne."

River stood back and observed as Wayne reached inside his jacket for a switchblade. He did not want to see what happened next and so he fled from the scene.