Imagine This - Softcover

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Vickie M. Stringer is the author of Essence bestsellers, including Imagine This, Let that Be the Reason, Dirty Red, Still Dirty, and Dirtier Than Ever. She is the publisher of Triple Crown publications, one of the most successful African American book publishers in the U.S. and abroad. She has been featured in such prominent news media as The New York Times, Newsweek, MTV News, Publishers Weekly, Vibe, Millionaire Blueprints, Writer's Newsweek, Black Expressions, and many more. She lives in Columbus, Ohio, with her two children.

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Month Three

I had a beautiful two-year-old son named Antonio. And I was in the Franklin County Jail being held without bond for federal drug trafficking offenses.

I had been left for dead, abandoned by my so-called peeps. Sad and embarrassed to admit it, even my baby's daddy, Chino, was still getting his hustle on -- slangin' them "thangs." Chino continued to get his grind on for that cheddar even after the feds laid me down like fresh tar on pavement. I was looking at football numbers -- you know, four score and seven years, trying to be true to the code. The street code of don't tell, Chino instilled that in me: Ball 'til you fall, and button-your-lip-type shit. Well, I did ball. I did fall. And my mouth was shut. But something was going on inside my head. A fight was raging between me, Pammy, and my alter ego, Carmen.

Pammy wanted to be with her son and out of this game. Pammy wanted to be free.

Carmen wanted to be in prison. Carmen wanted to be locked. She didn't mind an all-expenses-paid vacation to rest a spell and recoup. She really had no issue that the feds laid a bitch down for a minute.

Carmen was a baller -- a hustler -- a dealer -- a playa. A goin'-for-mine-by-any-means-necessary- type bitch.

To talk, or not to talk, Shakespeare ain't had shit on me. This was my dilemma, for real. I could talk and walk, or shut up and fry 'til I die. On the other hand, talking could mean, well, death. Shit. I was fucked either way and there was no turning back.

There was a city in the Midwest that from outside appearances was a slow, conservative family town. But lurking underneath was an underworld where drugs flowed throughout the city like blood coursing through veins.

This blood kept alive the disposable income that supported the hustlers' lifestyle in the city. Like a shark drawn to the smell of blood in the water, so did it draw the out-of-town ballers from the east coast. Like a pilgrimage to Mecca, they were coming for the expected promise -- wealth by any means necessary. And it was uncommon to encounter anyone who was actually born and raised in Columbus. The majority of the residents were transplanted from other places, seeking opportunity.

In the center of downtown Columbus was a tall, granite building. Gothic looking with mesh-covered windows, it was a city block wide. This was the Franklin County Jail.

From above, inmates pressed their faces close to the paint-tinted windows for a glimpse of freedom. On a sunny day, cars driving by and the hustle and bustle of the downtown working class could be seen.

The business suits and skirts scurried past the building, knowing all too well that the dregs of society lived within the granite walls. Paralegals used the side entrance to clerks' quarters. Attorneys entered through the center tunnel, passing security guards of the underground parking for the legal elite. Commoners circled the block, time after time, in search of a parking meter that allowed limited minutes to go to court in support of a loved one.

The rat race was obvious and apparent and continued day after day, week after week, and eventually month after month for the detained criminal who was assumed guilty until proven innocent.

Sometimes I didn't think that I was going to make it. Shit, death had become a welcome remedy. I saw those like me take deals from the advisement of their lawyers, generally referred to as "lips" by inmates. Some did it because their innocence gave way to ignorance. Others did it because they abandoned the street code: Death before dishonor.

It had been a wonderful surprise to see Delano. He was to me what sunlight is to a withering flower. He had proven himself to be a good man.

Delano had cut his hair close to his head, removing the small ringlets of curls. He was tall, thick and tempting. His skin was sun kissed, and he had full, deep-set eyes hiding behind lashes a girl would truly die for. His dark brows matched a perfectly trimmed mustache and five o'clock shadow beard. Although he had gotten rid of the curls, a defined pattern where they once mingled was left behind on his head. He was also packin' a thick, long and satisfying dick of any girl's dream. Just to smell his dick at this point would be a fulfilling fantasy. When I first laid eyes on him, he was in my living room playing with my son. At the sight of him, there was a flutter in my heart. That was when I knew my heart wasn't frozen and that I could believe again...that I could love again. He came along and put my heart on simmers, bringing back to life a part of me that I seriously thought was dead. The baritone rhythm of his voice sent chills up my spine as his eyes roamed my body from head to toe. I needed more time with Delano. I sure as hell wasn't in no hurry to get back to those bitches who had been my cellmates for the past three months. More importantly, I needed to know if this nigga was really down for me or just on some penitentiary shit -- you know, saying what I want to hear. That "I miss you, Boo" and "You the one for me." That is, until a nigga gets free.

"Come on, CO I just got here," I protested. "CO" is short for correctional officer. It's actually an insult that is often overlooked, considering the long list of other names inmates called them. I was ready to spew all the ones I knew -- security guard, paid robo cop, unarmed Shaft -- and was poised to add a few to the list if she denied me my request for more time.

She flipped through her logbook and began writing as if she never heard a word I'd said. Delano's eyes were telling me to calm down as mine narrowed to match my sharp tongue. Before I could say another word, she said, "Five minutes," without looking up from her logbook. The temperature was chillier than a December morning, so I stretched my long-johns sleeves over my hands for warmth. The temperature was kept low, similar to a hospital, to minimize the germs, I was told.

I turned my attention back to Delano, my composure completely restored, donning a million-dollar smile. "Delano, it was really nice seeing you. Thanks for the visit," I said. As if on cue, he said what I was hoping he would say.

"Carmen, do you need anything?"

Chino began talking about the killings he had committed and how I was his weak link because I had that gun information on him. I knew how he ran with the nine millimeter, unable to wipe his prints off 'cause he was butt naked. Getting into the Good Samaritan white man's car with the gun, he used the change of clothes given to him to remove his fingerprints. When Chino confessed his crime to me, he and I buried the gun together, sealing our secret. Then Chino began to talk about the location of the gun. "Yeah, I went back and got that gun just in case you flipped on me. I can't even trust you no more. I have no more use for you. Pooh, your ass has got to go. Have you said your prayers, love?"

I looked over my shoulder at the overpaid security guard, knowing that the attention she was giving her logbook was a ploy to listen in on our conversation. Thinking fast, I prayed that Delano would understand the Pig Latin that I was about to drop on him. In the seventies, this dialect gave the street hustler the ability to converse in the presence of the police and others of opposition. But as informants infiltrated the crime world, they learned the lingo and exposed it. I was gambling on the youthfulness of my captor, who looked to be only about twenty-one -- tops. The fact that the language had been considered dead, old-school dialogue was an added plus. I brought my index finger to my lips to hush him. I looked into his deep-set eyes, then I rolled the dice.

"No, I don't need anything. Ogay ota rena ina etay burbay ofay nublay. Unday otey boatay ockday eriday isa hedsay tathay usay orfay." This meant: Go to the park out near the...