Booker T: From Prison to Promise: Life Before the Squared Circle (16 page)

We finally pulled in to the bus station in downtown Houston, and my will was tested much earlier than I had anticipated.

Apparently, all the gamers knew exactly what the prison bus looked like and perched around like wretched vultures seeking fresh kill. As I walked down the bus steps, those dudes addressed me. “Hey, man, you need some coke? A girl? You wanna smoke a joint?”

I waved them off, focused straight ahead, and kept walking. With my bag in hand, I walked to the bus terminal waiting area. There was Billie looking around for me.

“Hey, girl! What you doing around here?”

She gave me a big, tight hug and held on for a while. “Junior! You look great, boy.”

We had an awesome little reunion and were so happy to see each other.

“Come on,” she said. “Let’s get you the hell out of here.”

That sounded good to me.

Man, I was back. It was so strange to be riding in a car again in Houston as if the whole ordeal of the last year and a half had never happened. Billie drove me to the house she was now renting in South Park, literally only five minutes away from my old neighborhood.

Now that I was out in the real world, one thought persistently struck me:
Okay, now what am I going to do?
I had been sent to prison for robbing my last place of employment. How could I run right out and look for a job? I was a well-known ex-con with only a GED and some prison laundry experience.

I knew finding gainful employment was crucial to being on parole and eventually taking custody of Brandon, but it was easier said than done. Fortunately, the parole office was satisfied with my many lies about hitting the pavement every morning and knocking on doors seeking work. Sooner or later, though, I had to do something.

Life continued while I sat around and simply watched the daily dirt of my sister’s and Toffa’s dealings. The temptation was strong, and I felt myself being pulled right back into the spinning maelstrom of the game. For a hot minute there, I was selling weed again to some of the same old tired faces, which both depressed and terrified me. These people were not going anywhere in life, but if I didn’t watch out,
I
would be going somewhere all right—back to prison.

Then something divine intervened and woke me right up. One day I got a letter from Child Protective Services telling me Brandon was in foster care and asking whether I was interested in seeing him.

Wow,
I thought.
This is fuckin’ crazy. I gotta do something about this.

I did not even know how the letter had found its way to me, because Billie had moved from the address over a year earlier. It was simply meant to be. Angela was nowhere to be found, and I could imagine her ripping and running somewhere without thinking about her son. The letter went on to mention how there was only so much time to respond before Brandon would be lost in the system forever. According to the deadline noted, I still had time.

Before responding, I took a good, hard look in the mirror. I traced the lines of my face and looked down in a moment of self-realization.
What are you going to do, Booker? What kind of man are you? Stop thinking of yourself, and step the fuck up.

As if she were standing right behind me looking over my shoulder, my mother immediately came to mind. Thinking of how she had raised eight kids all by herself, I had my moment of truth. I knew what she would do. The right thing. And that was the only conclusion that made sense.

There was no more time to hesitate. I made the call.

The lady on the other end of the line invited me to the offices for an interview.

At the meeting, I told the caseworker of my recent past and how my life had completely turned around and that I was interested in supporting Brandon. Although I did not have a job yet, I assured her one was right around the corner and I had quite a few thousand dollars in savings set aside in case of an emergency. The last part was an absolute lie. The caseworker said having proof of a substantial bank account along with the promise of employment was enough to get the ball rolling.

I was already working out a plan to back up my financial claim. Billie and Toffa still maintained an outside apartment for their weed, and no one knew I had this information. The little voice in my head was telling me this could be my one shot. There was no turning back.

So in my best Robin Hood tribute, I slipped into the empty apartment and stole the entire five-pound stash of weed from the rich Jamaicans to give to the poor—me. It was the last time I ever stole anything. Although Toffa would be pissed, he would recover and go right back to business. No real harm done.

After selling off all that dope to the public through my cousin, I pocketed just over three thousand dollars. Now that I had the savings I had lied about, all that remained was to find a job to sustain it. I decided to call on Lash once again to see what was up.

My big brother was excited to hear from me. “I’ll definitely help you get back on your feet,” he said. “All I ask is that whatever job we get you—sweeping floors, washing dishes, or digging ditches—you give it your all. You gotta pay your dues and walk a straight line.”

How could I say no to that? It was as fair and realistic a deal as anyone could ask for.

He recommended I apply for a job doing security for a company that had an opening at Pier Club Apartments. Lash himself had held the same position just a few months before but had since moved on.

The idea of it was pretty funny. I would be protecting people’s property from guys like I once was. On the application, I came to this question: “Have you ever been convicted of a crime?”

I wondered,
Should I tell the truth?
I thought about it for all of two seconds and checked “No.” I rationalized it away and convinced myself it was the only way. I figured once they got to know me and really like me, they wouldn’t look into my past anyway. I mean, it wasn’t as if I was applying for a job at the White House where there would be investigative background checks.

I turned the paper in to the manager and was hired on the spot. So began my role as Pier Club Apartment neighborhood watchman. I was even given a free apartment, which was an unexpected bonus that helped stretch my paycheck.

Six months later, my assumption backfired. My employer certainly did check my background, and just like that I was kicked out the door.

I did manage to jam my foot back in and keep the door open just enough to discover another opportunity. Being the smiling and helpful dude I was, I had gotten to know the guy who ran the apartment complex, Bruce Gasarch. With Lash’s personal recommendation, which carried a lot of weight, Bruce hired me as a maintenance man.

That job was great, and I was really happy to learn all kinds of skills, such as carpentry, tile laying, plumbing, and carpet installation. For the first time since my initial days at Wendy’s, people truly depended on me. Being so productive put me in a strong frame of mind and helped me keep my nose clean.

My obsession with shortcuts and a life of crime had finally lifted completely off me. It was as if I’d been in the dark for the longest time, and now there was nothing but bright light all around me. My spirits were absolutely soaring.

Getting and maintaining that job was a turning point in my life. Not only were Lash and Bruce proud of me, but more importantly I was proud of myself and it showed. Although my take-home pay of two hundred fifty dollars a week might not sound like much, I still had the huge benefit of the complimentary apartment. Having a free roof over my head made my money go far, and I lived very comfortably.

Aside from getting me out of Billie’s, having my own place meant I had a potential home for Brandon.

When the social worker saw my bank statement with a figure in the thousands and read the letter of employment also detailing my free housing, she too was proud of me. “Mr. Huffman, I have to say I’m impressed by your consistent efforts to bring Brandon back into your life and put him in a proper home. Not many follow through with this process.”

She went on to explain that although the plan was in motion, there were many steps involved on the road to custody. I would have a time of monthly visits with Brandon while the legalities were tended to in court. This period would also help reintroduce us and allow us to bond, preparing us for life together the way it should have been from the start.

At times, I was frustrated while waiting to get Brandon back, but I knew being put through the wringer was a standard part of the procedure. It was my proving ground. There was no reason to question or doubt anything in the process.

However, waiting wore my patience thin. I just wanted my own flesh and blood where he belonged. I had to be content with our regular visits at the Houston Department of Health and Human Services.

The first time we reunited was in early 1989. He had turned five just a few months before in December, and now my twenty-fourth birthday was coming up. When Brandon came walking into the room, he lit up. My son instantly recognized me as his father.

I walked over, knelt down, reached for his hand, and gave him a little hug. I don’t think I let his hand go till the end of that first visit. The two of us hung out and had a great time being father and son, carrying on conversations. He told me his adventures of meeting nice people, and I told him stories of my own childhood. I made a point to constantly reassure Brandon that he would soon come home with me. After the uncertainty and confusion the poor boy had gone through, I made it my undying mission to put his fears to bed.

Finally, about a year after I first talked with CPS, it happened. The court found me well suited to take custody of my son. Just like that, we were walking out into our new life together. I knew it was not going to be easy stepping into this new role and I had a lot of missed time to make up for, but it was a welcome challenge.

We got in the car I had borrowed from Lash and headed home. As we hopped on US 59 SW and headed out of downtown Houston, I felt overwhelmingly relieved to look down to my right to see Brandon holding his little suitcase on his lap and watching the skyline go by. It almost reminded me of my bus trip home from Pack 2. My son was free, as he deserved, and going home after such a long, unnecessary journey.

Now Brandon, my new dog Rocky 2, and I were under the same roof as a tight little Huffman family.

Now the nerves started setting in as I wondered what kind of dad I would be.
Great. I’ve got him,
I thought,
but now what do I do?
I was flying by the seat of my pants, basically figuring out the whole thing as I went.

I was also very sensitive to the trials Brandon had gone through with his mother. I had no doubt he had some issues over Angela’s abandonment that had yet to reveal themselves. I’d learned she’d made some poor life choices, and she must have been in a really bad way to have handed him over to social services. I couldn’t determine the extent of what he had seen, and I didn’t bring it up. He was too young for the conversation, and I knew when the time was right, he would invite the discussion.

One thing I did right away was to enroll Brandon at the local elementary school. It was then that some of his struggles began to surface. According to the teacher, he was distracted a lot, didn’t pay much attention, and seemed to be a little uncomfortable around other kids. Had it been today, maybe Brandon would have been diagnosed with attention deficit disorder or something. I don’t know. But I made sure to get him a lot of tutoring to help him along so he would not fall behind as I once had.

I saw so much of myself in my son that I couldn’t help but be a little overprotective. I had to make sure he received the guidance taken from me too early. As long as I was around, I would do everything it took to keep him on the right track.

Another year passed, and life had settled into a nice pace. Brandon was a little more self-sufficient. We were in a nice little groove. My boss, Bruce, saw how hard I was working at the apartment complex and took a real shine to me. He decided to transfer me to a better job.

I started working at a warehouse facility Bruce owned called American Mini Storage on West 34
^th
Street in Houston. Customers came there to buy packing supplies and rent self-storage units, U-Haul trucks, and trailers. The facility was not far from the apartment complex, but I had longer hours and wasn’t able to simply walk home and check on my son anymore. I worked from seven in the morning till seven at night, so Brandon spent considerably more time at home without me. Brandon rose to the occasion like a responsible little man and had Rocky 2, the great protector, at his side the moment he walked in the door from school.

When I arrived home, we always had some dinner together and asked each other about our days. Being the bachelor, I didn’t put much thought into cooking. Still having a little Pack 2 rattling around in my head, I quickly exposed Brandon to the art of making spreads. He would watch in wonder as I took microwaved Ramen noodles, added chicken and cheese, and then crumbled crackers into the mix. The first time he took a bite of his dad’s spread, his eyes lit up and he wolfed it down. He was definitely his father’s son, and I got such a kick out of his enjoyment of these meals.

Other regular menu items at the Huffman residence were Hamburger Helper, cans of Hormel Chili and Dinty Moore beef stew, and plenty of Kraft Macaroni & Cheese, all perfect spread ingredients.

We had so much fun eating together and just hanging out laughing. There were moments I felt much more like Brandon’s best friend or older brother than his dad. But as tight as our bond was, I still had to step outside of our casual relationship and discipline him when it was necessary.

Going on three years since Brandon came back into my life, my parole was finally at an end. The officer in charge offered sincere congratulations to me for having paid my debt to society in full, landing solidly back on my feet with a job and a home, and gaining custody of Brandon as well. The whole ordeal was totally over, and I was now just a regular law-abiding citizen with nothing to fear and no reason to look over my shoulder. Big Brother was history.