THE PROTECTOR

Just another Day in My Life “Dad, I don’t care how long I live,” Alan said. “I just want to breathe like everyone else, even if it’s for one day, one month, one year, or five years.” Life and now were entwined. My youngest son would, without doubt, risk dying on an operating table in exchange for one day of feeling like a normal, healthy person. If he lived, the recovery would be excruciatingly painful and iffy. “Alan, I support whatever decision you make,” I said. The truth of the matter was that he didn’t have a choice if he chose life. Time was his friend and his enemy. I didn’t have any tears to hold back after over two decades of crying. In a fleeting moment, however, Alan’s life passed before my eyes. Sensing a black shadow (was it Death?), I shuddered. Miraculously, Alan had already beaten the odds, surviving more than twenty years longer than the doctors predicted at birth. How he found the stamina to endure the toughest days of illness was a mystery to me. With his strength, maybe he would get through the surgery and live to experience a normal sigh of relief. I forced myself to shake off the feeling of doom. “When the hospital calls, I’ll be with you every step of the way, Alan,” I said. “You can count on me.” That was all I could promise. My middle son later phoned me from jail. The operator came on first to see if I would accept the collect charges. Of course, I would. Kevin needed something. “Hi, Dad.” His voice sounded good but it annoyed me, and I didn’t process the rest of what he said. I bit my tongue to keep from shouting, Cut to the chase! He didn’t have to tell me, but I knew Kevin would do anything to survive life behind bars. He and his prison mates lived within social system of gang units. Personal protection came with a price. An item as trivial as a cigarette or a fresh bar of soap might buy safety for another day or week. When he was finished with his pleasantries, I said, “I’ll transfer twenty-five dollars to your account.” The amount would allow him to “purchase” the necessities—whether he used them or bartered them—from the prison store. One-hundred dollars per month was a small price to keep my son from being in debt to a criminal. I shrugged my shoulders as we said our goodbyes. It was no use to brood over what he might actually do with my money. After completing the transfer, I mistakenly thought I could attack the work piling up on my desk. I was wrong. It was mid-afternoon, and I was about to exit the safety of my car in the worst part of Atlanta. Judy insisted on accompanying me, but I made her wait in the vehicle. “Call 911 if you hear gunshots or if a fight breaks out or if I disappear for more than two minutes,” I said. Judy, though hysterical, nodded her head. With the day’s stress, I was crazy—out of my mind, in my own twilight zone, in another dimension. I guess that’s why I was about to do something outrageous to balance the scales of justice—at least the most efficient way I knew how. Todd had given me the address. Todd and his drug addiction! Bartering for drugs, he had stolen from my home one time too many times. As I set foot in the yard of the drug shack, I got some stares. The neighborhood addicts probably thought I was a detective or federal agent. I might have been another junkie—you can’t judge an addict by his appearance—but I looked as out of place as Santa Claus at a bar mitzvah. My arrival seemed to set off an alarm because the front door opened as I reached the threshold. The woman who greeted me (if her penetrating gaze could be called a greeting) caught me off guard. She looked like a mother or grandma—albeit a no-nonsense one. Primarily, she was a businesswoman, the owner of a pawn shop for stolen goods, traded in exchanged for illegal substances. Keenly aware that she did not have any time to waste, I got down to business. I wanted the 42-inch television that Todd, a good boy, had borrowed to satisfy his habit. Almost compassionately, she agreed. Yes, Todd was a good boy, and the father of such a fine fellow could have his television returned for $300. I didn’t argue. Todd had said the price would be $250, but what was $50 in the scheme of the hundreds of thousands I had spent to clean up his messes. With the debt paid and the television safely stowed in my trunk, I sped away. It was just another day in my life.