Shell Shocked
One Day of Being Normal Too
Story by Anonymous // art Thuy Ngo

Today I awake like every other day, usually before the sun is reborn. The book I'm reading, The Portable Nietzche, is still under my pillow and I scan the chapters for some insightful philosophy. I realize my seven page research paper is due, so I finish the report and scurry to the bathroom to brush my teeth. I'm one of those types of people who get a strange urge over brushing my teeth. My stereo is playing “Moonlight Sonata” on repeat, so I just sit on the sofa in my room and gaze into the sky outside my window. I shower and leave my San Jose home.

It's 11 am as I get into my raggedy bucket. My phone vibrates, and my first call is from the “Top.” Top is like an Uncle, real family, though we're not related, he just fed me when I was starving. But he says swampy water is always thicker than blood. Top is one of those humble men you see at church but also one of the top drug lords of the bay area. He raises his family like any other man. The house, the kids, the dog, the whole nine. He is the American dream at its highest climax, except Top never had a job in his life and his bank account is far from being overdrawn. Top asks me to three way “B” (which is my connection). Now B, he's a resurrected good man because his past is very dark so he has higher connections. I call B and him and Top start conversating about “CD's.” Now in the drug business especially when you're using Metro phones you cannot trust that nobody is listening into your conversation. Top heard that the “CDs” went out for a lower price from B's connection so he wants to drop his label and sign a new contract. After the conversation Top promises me eight racks just for connecting the “game”.

Eight racks is eight thousand. I'm not sure if the eight racks will be CD's or cash but Im neutral by this point. My mind enters the abstract hypocrisy and my acceptance of the dirty money will either expose my false happiness or dissolve some of my financial misery. I've always promised myself that I would become the product from poverty that nobody expected -- a successful college graduate trying to help the poor. But my desperations persuade me and I start calculating in my head. If the eight racks are given to me in CD's and each CD is going for ten dollars on the streets I'll have $80,000 within three months, if I touch the town fast enough. But if its given to me in cash, than I could but four thousand CD's on my own, and touch the town making only $40,000. I wait for the deal to go down and hope that my pay is in CD's.

Still driving on the 101 N.   I exit Mathilda and head to my sisters apartment for a quick visit. She lives in the same complex as my mother, right on top of my mother's apartment, but I usually go where all the kids stay. My youngest brother, nephew and niece are addicted to cable and my mother is extremely frugal to waste her money on bullshit. My sister is practically a single mother because she has (I like to call him) a “half a man” for a husband. He pays the bills and feeds the family, sometimes. They're still a young couple so I don't expect the Huxtables to be compared. I take my sister and the kids out to eat and give her some pocket money. I kiss the babies goodbye and leave her house for San Francisco.

Driving alone is probably the closest to peace I've ever had. I keep my eyes focused straight and let my mind escape from me. My phone vibrates and it's my cousin “Nat.” He tells me the “Enegue” was murdered last night. He was shot with the chance of survival, except the ambulance decided to take their time. Enegue was only 18 and just had his newborn son last week. I just talked to him last weekend. He was a good young man trying to get his life straight for his new seed. I can't feel any sadness but only anger because I know people still alive running ruthlessly. I can only feel sympathy for the family and happiness for Enegue, for he is free from that now.

I approach Third St. and make my exit towards my second home. I park my car and step outside absorbing the street music. My friends see me and say “hi” (we never use “what's up” or any other bullshit slang's they have out there) as we embrace each other knowing what happened to Enegue. “Tam” is crying. Tam is from the Trey Foe Set, one of the high leaders. This brings me back to Scarface, “I never seen a man cry till' I seen a man die.” Tam is considered as an older brother to me. Enegue was like his little brother, they were always hustling together. By the pain in their faces I know how the atmosphere is. So I stay quiet, there's nothing to say.

We sit on the stoop and the alcoholics start off the night. Lil Wayne's annoying voice accentuates through the two 12 inch speakers and now Enegues death has become an excuse to drink on a weekday.

The sun begins to die beautifully and now the unsober folks send me to the store for their cigarettes but I'm not trippin' because I'm handed the keys to a 2005 Dodge Magnum. So I head to the store alone, windows rolled down, Mike Jones on high blast, and I become a magnet for eyes at every streetlight. I rush in the store, grab the cigarettes and get back to driving. Taking the longest possible way back, I add 27 minutes to the 10 min drive.

I see more people have arrived and everyone reeks of alcohol. The drinking continues and the laughter overpowers Lil Wayne. Everyone seems happy but the alcohol is deceitful and creates a façade. My cousin Nat is extremely drunk and begins one of his inspiring stories, but knowing a third of them are bullshit, I think of something else and continue pretending to listen.

It approaches 9pm and I tell everyone I have to go because school. I embrace everybody before I leave and tell Tam in a whisper, “don't worry, he's in a better place.” He shouts his reply, “Yeah, my nigga is in a better place, fuck the world!” I smile and break out.

I enjoy my peaceful drive and reach my San Jose home again. I can't wait to brush my teeth, so I'm rushing. I turn my stereo back on to Beethoven and fall asleep.

The next day I awake, shower and head off to school in my raggedy bucket. The free parking is placed (seems like a half a mile walk) far from the school. Walking past the Mercedes Benz's in the permit parking and looking at the million dollar homes that surrounds my school reminds me who I attend college with. But I'm not phased. I take a seat in my English 1A class while looking at and think, “I must be normal too.”

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