Retrograde

By Jonathan Shaffer

I am a murderer. Not in the typical sense.

As I sit here at the funeral of my victim, an old friend long since spoken too, I am filled with guilt. Corey and I used to be the thickest of thieves from adolescence to our late teens, till that fateful day where I committed my crime. Corey was the stereotypical image of a skater, long flowing hair, low-top shoes, baggy jeans, a hoodie, or t-shirt with a rebellious design, and White. I on the other hand was the perfect likeness to what some might call a gangbanger, fresh pair of kicks, jeans sagging, t-shirt or hoodie of a certain color, hair cornrowed, and Black. Passing, but black to the core. 

Not that any of that mattered to me, he was my homeboy regardless of our outward appearances or perceived backgrounds. We enjoyed the same games, movies, and outdoor activities. I liked to skate, and he liked to play ball. Our friendship lasted until high school when we attended rival schools and drifted apart. Our parents stayed friends though and it was through my mother that I learned in our seventeenth year that Corey got himself locked up in juvie for possession of narcotics. He did ninety days for this transgression, and before his release I was asked if I wanted to come over for when he gets out. I agreed, figuring that it had been a while since we last talked. It would be nice to catch up and see how he was doing. Honestly the circumstances of his arrest did not bother me, I knew people make mistakes and those mistakes do not necessarily define them.

His mom said he would be back soon so I could wait in his room. As I sat there everything was as I remembered it and familiar. The game console we spent hours playing together, his scratched-up skateboard, and old playing cards discarded like the fad they were. It was reassuring to see that despite his arrest at his core, he was still the Corey I knew. After a few minutes I heard his father’s truck pull up. The first thing I noticed when he walked into his room was his hair or lack thereof. Although it had been at least a year since I had physically seen him, I could tell the baldness was new, like at most three months new. Instantly I felt my hackles rise, something was off, and I had a sinking suspicion about what it was. Growing up around gangs of all races and colors, there was one that fit the bill of what my eyes were witnessing. 

The room instantly filled with a level of awkwardness that could never be accurately described. We exchanged the barest of pleasantries and he went to sit in his bed. At this point he started explaining the how and why of his brief incarceration, I sat there feigning attentiveness. My mind was racing; I was cool with most people in our town, except one group. It was this group that I feared my erstwhile friend had joined, the only true pariahs of a town of differences and blood spilled over them. I did not want to believe it, there had to be another reason for his appearance. Maybe he caught lice, jails are notoriously dirty disease-ridden places, or he got tired of the upkeep of having long hair. Anything, anything but where my mind first went.

He got to the point of his story where he was recalling his time locked up, when the one word I was dreading hearing came casually out of his mouth like it was an everyday word, a common mundane element of the human lexicon. Skinhead. I froze, my veins ran cold, then red hot. He was still talking even after he uttered that hateful, painful word. I thought I knew him, we were friends for a decade. There were never any signs of the hate that would lead him to go in that direction. It was at this point that he must have noticed my stillness. We just sat there in a pregnant pause that was expecting at least quadruplets. It felt like there was no end to the silence. I could not think of anything but one thought, so I just came out and said it. “You know I’m black, right?” Another pause. I could not stand it, rage consumed me. I had to leave immediately; I did not want to hear his response, so I stormed out and never said a word to him again.

I am reminded of all this watching his family and friends grieve, while the guilt rankles me. Our lives went in different directions after that day. I was spared the worst of what the town had to offer, went to a prestigious university, started a family, and became a successful business owner. He on the other hand, as you might expect, went deeper into the deeper side of life and got caught up in the gang lifestyle, which led to this point. Dead, throat slit by a junkie trying to get his fix but not able to pay for it. 

So, the question is: was I that junkie? No. Then how am I the murderer? Like I said, not in the traditional sense. There come multiple points in everyone’s lives where they are at a crossroad and need help deciding which path to take. Sometimes the paths are balanced in their positives and negatives, so it is hard to distinguish which one to take. At other times, the paths can be vastly different, one full of light and one steeped in the darkness. Alone, this darkness has a pull that is hard for some to resist and that is where Corey found himself that day when he came home to find me in his room. 

When I look back and actually see things from outside my rage, I took what I saw at face value and nothing else. I spent enough time with him to know his character and it really did not match the change I saw. Also, I now know something about the jail and prison system having seen my little brother go through and I expect Corey had no choice in joining the Skinheads while inside. It is either you are one of us or you will get stomped out. He must have felt scared out of his mind and joined them out of a survival instinct. But I was not thinking of him at that moment, just myself. My survival instinct was to distance myself, because if I were seen with him, I would be in danger. If I had thought of him in that instant, I might have seen that I was his one black friend and by me turning my back on him pushed him down that dark path. 

That is why I am a murderer, not the one who did the actual deed, but I could have helped guide Corey to the path where the light was shining brightly. Where I would have been able to help along the way. I know others will say I am not to blame and on some deep level I know this, but I cannot let go of how a simple kind gesture in his time of need could have completely changed his life. And I think about others who have felt this same guilt and even some at this funeral might have also had similar chances they passed to guide Corey onto a different path. I look around to see other sorrowful faces wondering about this and wondering if anyone feels the same guilt I feel. We are all accomplices in this death show, I just refuse to deny my part. 

I am a murderer. In the traditional sense.

Author Bio

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