The Tragic Tale of Howard Part 3
A West African 9-Part Series short story about loss, second chance, betrayal and personal demons.
I could not tell you exactly how I failed my semester. Everything was foggy. One thing for sure, I recalled spending more time with Al than with my studies. With her, I discovered the ins and outs of Boston: its neighborhoods and surrounding towns. She would take me to different areas to countless parties, hosted by her friends. We would sing reggae together, dance , drink, smoke marijuana, a lot of marijuana, and, afterwards, would go to her place, where we would sleep together a lot like rabbits. The only time I ever set foot in my dorm room was near the end of the semester, where I came across a stack of urgent notes from my academic advisor. These notes pertained to my parents and, particularly, their demands that I should “call them at once!”
It was through my parents that I learned about my academic failure for the semester and how I failed: not attending a single class. Prior to calling, my plan was to keep quiet like I normally had done before and let them do all the talking. That was supposed to be the plan.
Upon dialing, my mother picked up the phone after the first tone and, without exchanging any pleasantries, proceeded to blast me with her sweet voice and biting sarcasms. I was the son “scamming them out of their hard earned money” and one who was doing something that I was “finally more than average at,” making them “shameful parents.” I expected all of this from her, but what caught me off guard was the raw anger in her voice. Still, I stayed silent and listened as usual.
My father, on the other hand, was far angrier and did not mince his words with sarcasms. After my mother had said her piece, he took the phone and cussed me all the names he knew under the sun, even cussing me in his mother’s tongue. His anger made his nasal voice even more pronounced, making it difficult for me to remain silent compared to my mother's words. It felt like each word was a punch to the ear through the phone. I fought to keep my composure, but frustration surged within me.
"Mary, I bet this whole thing is all over some stupid asshole girl." That blew me up. I took it as a direct insult to Al. He hadn't even met her, hadn't seen her warm smile or her inviting eyes. He hadn't experienced her nonjudgmental nature or known how easy she was to talk to. Yet, he felt he had the right to insult her.
“So what the fuck it is!” I remembered yelling over the phone. I remembered there was a brief, deafening silence after I spoke, so quiet that you could hear a pin drop. Mind you, at this point, I was no longer the same Howard that my parents were used to talking down to. They were exposed to a rude awakening. A different Howard who had long thick dreadlocks that stopped at his knees and who could look you directly in the eye and cussed you out like a seaman.
“Mister man. I want you to pack your things and take the next plane back home.” It was the clearest I ever heard his voice, without even a hint of nasalness. I could also hear his heavy breaths, like a silverback just before it was about to beat his chest and charge at you.
“Bite me.” I had answered him and hung up. That was the last time I talked to my parents. I had many regrets in life and this was among the top ones. Looking back now, I probably should not have done what I did. First off, I probably should have called them when I was off sound mind or sober. I also underestimated how cold and unforgiving my parents could be, and how far they would go to maintain their family's image. I had two younger brothers and a toddler age sister. When I did not take that next plane back home, my parents, as far as they were concerned, still had a legacy that they could build up and make their name proud, even after they left this world. I was the first child: the mistake and experiment that they could learn from when rearing up my siblings.
Not surprisingly, I was kicked out of MIT as my parents did not pay for my next semester’s schooling. I did not care at the time. At least, I had my Al and she was nice enough to offer rooming to my bicycle, suitcase and I. We were officially together under one roof. Only this was not to be permanent.
About a month after moving in with Al, we found ourselves in a situation where we couldn't afford the rent and had to move out. Al had lost her job a few weeks earlier because she showed up to it high, a decision I blamed myself for since I had encouraged us to attend a party the previous night.
Living with Al's friends was initially a relief, a temporary solution to our housing predicament. But as the days turned into weeks, we began to overstay our welcome. Our presence became a burden, straining the patience and resources of those free spirits who had graciously taken us in. Eventually, we found ourselves with no place to call home, facing the harsh reality of homelessness.
During this period, finding work proved to be a near impossible challenge. Despite my best efforts, no employer wanted to even touch me. It was then that I truly understood my immigration status on a student visa and the obstacles it presented to securing employment. Until then, I had never considered or entertained such thoughts, leaving them up to my parents.
The idea of marrying Al for a green card never even crossed my mind. I refused to burden her with my problems or pressure her into such a life-altering decision. One way or the other way, I was going to find a solution on my own.
Though it looked like a grim reality check, strangely enough, Al and I were the happiest when we were homelessness. Freed from the burdens of parental or societal expectations, we embraced our status as free birds in the city, viewing it as our own personal playground.
If there was no luck at the soup kitchens, we would scavenge food from trash bins by restaurants. Surprisingly, we often stumbled upon untouched treasures like whole pizzas, pieces of chicken wings, discarded birthday cakes (often anniversary cakes), pies, and many other items. People's wastefulness became a lifeline for us, and we were deeply thankful for it.
Beyond mere survival, we reveled in the adventure of exploring the city's hidden corners. From navigating the labyrinthine subway tracks to stumbling upon alleys adorned with vibrant street art to sneaking into buildings with magnificent views of the city’s skyline, every discovery fueled our sense of wonder and curiosity. And we certainly were not shy to fool around in all these places as no place in the city was safe from our escapades: not the museums and not even the stadium.
But even with all the craziness and unpredictability, the most important thing about being homeless was the bond we shared. I fondly recall the nights spent huddled together under the stars in quiet parks, wrapped in blankets and sharing our dreams. Al wanted to go back to school to pursue nursing, while I had ambitions of completing my engineering degree at a community college. With that qualification, I hoped to secure a well-paying job that could sponsor both of us, paving the way for us to settle in a cozy home in the suburbs. There, we could begin our journey of building a family together. Each time I shared my dreams with Al, her left blue moon eye seemed to radiate with an illuminating glow, serving as a source of hope and strengthening my determination to believe that anything was possible.
Eventually, I managed to secure employment the other way: under the table at a slaughterhouse. But even with a steady income, my wages were barely enough to cover our basic needs, let alone secure permanent housing. However, luck seemed to smile upon us in an unexpected way.
At the slaughterhouse, I crossed paths with a fellow countryman named Archie, who had faced similar challenges with work status. Our shared nationality sparked instant camaraderie, and Archie eagerly offered his assistance upon learning about our homelessness. He revealed that he had a friend at the Port of Boston who could help us find shelter in one of the abandoned shipping containers there.
Archie assured me that living in a shipping container wasn't as bad as it sounded, sharing his own experience of finding temporary refuge in one upon arriving in America. He explained that as the weather cooled with the onset of fall, we wouldn't have to endure the sweltering heat of summer. However, he advised us to prepare for the winter chill with plenty of blankets and, even better, a portable heater. Despite its unconventional nature, it was a far better option than braving the elements out on the streets.
As Archie led Al and I through the lively Port of Boston, I couldn't shake the feeling of gratitude for his unexpected generosity. Here was a man who did not know me from Adam and was offering to help me and my woman, with no payment or strings attached.
We soon arrived at a secluded corner, where Archie introduced us to his friend, JJ. JJ was a short, stocky man with large muscular arms, a stark contrast to Archie's tall and malnourished skinny frame. Despite their physical differences, JJ exuded friendliness and kindness, much like Archie. He welcomed Al and I very warmly. Hence the reason, I could never forgive myself for what I did to him. That was also one of my biggest life regrets.
With a nod from JJ, we followed him to an abandoned shipping container nestled away from prying eyes. It was a hidden gem, shielded from the outside world by stacks of cargo containers. JJ assured us that it was a safe haven, far from the scrutiny of port workers.
As we settled into our new home, JJ's kindness continued to shine through. He provided us with port safety jackets, ensuring we could blend in seamlessly with the workers. He even offered his assistance if we encountered any issues, emphasizing that he was always available at the main loading dock during his night shifts.
The shipping container began to feel more like home with each passing day. Thanks to Archie and JJ's assistance, we were able to transport an old mattress, dresser, and milk crates— repurposed as shelves— from various junk sites and donation bins using JJ's cargo van. Despite the simplicity of our accommodations, the mere presence of these familiar items filled us with tremendous joy as we finally had a place to call our home.
Al's creative touch transformed the interior, adorning it with artificial bouquets she had found at a dump site. The vibrant colors breathed life into our makeshift home, infusing it with warmth and charm.
As we settled into our newfound sanctuary, a wave of relief washed over us. For the first time in months, we felt a sense of stability and security. With our basic needs finally met, we could now turn our attention to our goals for the future.
Eager to continue my education, I made plans to dedicate myself to finishing my engineering degree once the upcoming winter months had passed. Little did I know at the time that my student visa had already been canceled, making this goal completely impossible. Being a youth and all its naivety.
However, I never got the chance to find out about my visa status or even make the attempt to finish my education. At the start of winter, Al went missing.
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