The Time I Got My Second Birthmark

        (my story)

I’m not sure where to begin, maybe when I set myself on fire. And it’s funny, because I can remember that summer of 93’ like it happened yesterday, but if you ask me what I did last Sunday, I’d struggle to remember. I guess coming this close (my index finger and thumb are so close you could barely slide a piece of paper between them) to screwing my life up, you remember all the little details.

           I’m cruising down Danieldale road with a pocket full of money and a joint dangling from my lip. It’s a beautiful Saturday afternoon. Clear skies and about seventy-five degrees. I’m rocking some Girbaud jean shorts, a white t-shirt with a pair of Fila tennis shoes to match. My best friend, my ace boon coon, Otis is riding shotgun. I don’t think he’ll mind me mentioning him. He died a couple of years later. But that’s a story for another time. Me and Otis had been tight since the seventh grade. We were on the same basketball and football team. We were both on the honor roll. A couple of kids with unlimited potential, until…... I have to say this though, the one thing I envied about Otis, he had smooth dark skin with no acne. And me, I had face full of pimples all through my teenage years. I remember this ugly ass girl name, Demetra, that was built like a pumpkin, use to call me Star Crunch when I was in the sixth grade. Cause she thought my face looked bumpy like the Little Debbie snack cake. Talk about a confidence killer.

 Anyway, we were celebrating our recent windfall of cash. Earlier that day, we broke into a house. Otis rang the doorbell and knocked on the front door. We waited a few minutes for someone to answer. And when they didn’t, we pulled around back and checked out the house to make sure nobody was home. Using a window-tapper, we broke the glass square on the patio door and went in. We grabbed everything of value, radios, computer, television, etc. Fencing the stolen goods was easy. We unloaded them at local pawnshops in the hood. Since I was eighteen, and the oldest, I was the only one who could legally pawn anything. So Omar Scott was the only name on those pawn slips. Mistake number one.  

           After we finished with that, we were on our way to Otis’s house. He lived about a mile from me. And the plan was to drop him off to get ready for that night. This new club called the Hip-Hop factory in Deep Ellum was fire at the time. We got haircuts that same weekend. And with a pocket full money and new gear on, we were bound to win with the ladies. Saying life was good at that moment was an understatement. You couldn’t tell us shit. With a smile on my face and my eyes almost shut, we stopped at a convenience store around the corner from Otis’ crib to get some snacks. Weed gives you munchies, what can I say.

 I had an 83’ Monte Carlo at the time, champagne colored. In mint condition. It was my first car. I bought it with my own money. I loved that damn car, but it did have its problems. It leaked oil so I was constantly checking it. So when we pulled into a Stop-n-go gas station, I naturally checked the oil. Now like I said, we were smoking weed. Something that we did every day at the time. But the weed I was smoking that day had me trippin’. I thought the car was smoking and leaking antifreeze for some reason. I had the bright idea to take the cap off the radiator. Now I just drove from the Oak Cliff section of Dallas to Duncanville, which is about a twenty-minute ride. So my car is extremely hot. But being that I was buzzin’ like a bumble-bee, that didn’t occur to me as I’m taking off the top. And when I did, the antifreeze shot out like water coming out of a pressurized hose. It sprayed all over my chest and right arm. How it didn’t hit me in the face is a miracle. I felt like I was on fire. The pain was excruciating. I’ve never felt anything like it before or since. I could see my skin melting through my t-shirt that had disintegrated from the boiling hot antifreeze.

           I sprinted into the store like Usain Bolt, and jumped into the freezer that had bags of ice for sale. Didn’t help. I looked and saw Otis laughing his ass off at me. I don’t think he knew how serious it was at first, until I yelled at him, “call my dad!”

           At this point I was in so much agony that I think I was going into shock. I had no sense of time. I don’t know how long I was in that freezer, how long it took my father to get to the store, or why nobody called an ambulance. I was disoriented, I just don’t know. All I remember is my dad putting me in the car and driving me to hospital. Next thing I remember is looking up at these blinding lights as a nurse is cutting what’s left of my shirt off. Then they poured some kind of liquid on me. And whatever it was felt so damn good. It was like jumping into a cold pool on a triple digit day. I could see the smoke rising up off my skin like if you poured water on charcoal to extinguish a fire after barbecuing. I closed my eyes and pass the fuck out. Mistake number two.

           Do you know what the worst part of a third degree burn is? Washing off the burnt skin. That almost hurts as bad as the burn. The doctor said all the old skin must be cleaned off in order to properly heal. So every time I take a bath, I had to scrub off little pieces of burnt skin stuck to my open flesh. Damn…. It felt like duct tape being ripped off. And my skin looked like somebody ripped it off. And no amount of medication helped the pain.

This went on for a couple of weeks. I even took off from my job. That’s right. I’m out here hustling, breaking into houses when I had a job at KFC as a cook. Now I wasn’t making a lot of money. $3.75 was the minimum wage at the time. But remember I bought that Monte Carlo and I was paying $150 every two weeks for it. Plus, insurance. And I was buying my own school clothes, lunch, etc. So I was barely making ends meet. Besides, Otis and my others boys we were crew. And hustling was what we did.

Normally, I’d be recuperating at my dad’s house. My parents were divorced, and that’s where I was living at the time since I lost my little roach infested apartment that I shared with this guy named, Tony. But my mother insisted I stay with her as she nurse me back to health.

I was in the living room on a Friday afternoon watching Yo! MTV Raps when the phone rang. I picked it up and a detective was on the other line. He asked me to come in an answer a couple of questions about the stuff I pawned. I was like sure, no problem. I figured I could bullshit my way out of it.

The next day I walked into the police station on Illinois Ave. After getting buzzed in, a stocky black detective greeted me with a firm handshake that almost cut off my circulation. His smile was phony, like a politician looking for a vote.

“Omar, I’m glad you could make it. You mind following me back here? I just want to ask you a couple of questions to clear a few things up,” he said very casually.

The interrogation room is just like you might expect. Cold, dark, and dreary looking. The floor looked like they just moped up some piss. The air in there was stale. Either I was too naïve or too dumb to be intimidated by this situation, because I wasn’t nervous at all. I was chill as we took a seat. His eyes were staring into a cracked folder. He smacked his lips and said, “Omar, I have a little problem. Maybe you can help me figure it out. There was a house broken into not far from here. Some of the stolen items ended up in a pawnshop.” He looked up and made eye contact with me for the first time. “your name is on those pawn slips. How did you come to possess these items?”

Without hesitation, I answered, “I found them.”

He leaned back, tapping a pen against the table and asked, “Where at?”

“I don’t remember.”

“You don’t remember. Do you remember where you were the morning of June the 3^rd?”

“I was at home,” I lied.

He went on and on asking me the same questions a hundred different ways. But my answers never changed. I knew nothing, I remembered nothing. The detective thanked me for coming in and escorted me out the building. Said he be in touch. And that was it. I breathed a sigh of relief as I left. Thinking I’d never see him again. Mistake number three.  

One of the hardest things I had to do was tell my parents what happened. My mother was disappointed but supportive. My father kicked my ass out his house.

 July 2^nd 1993. Some dates you just don’t forget. It was a Friday afternoon. My skin was starting to heal. I stopped wearing bandages three days ago. I’m in the living room again watching TV when I heard a knock at the door. When I opened it, that same detective was there.  

“Omar, I’m a need you to come with me buddy. I have a warrant for your arrest,” he said handing me the warrant.

I tilted my head to look around him. Four squad cars lined the street, and several police surrounded my momma’s house to prevent my escape. But I had no plans on running. The whole thing caught me off guard. Stun, couldn’t begin to describe what I was feeling at that moment. Only words I managed to push out my mouth was, “okay.”

“You might wanna put on some pants and a long sleeve shirt. The county jail gets chilly,” he advised. 

I took baby steps into my old bedroom that I shared with my little brother Chris and sister Naiema. Their little eyes looked confused as they watched this strange man come into our room. I opened my dresser and grabbed a shirt. Right under it was cash in an envelope that I had from the robbery. If he only knew. He led me out the house and into the back of a squad car. And the funny thing is, he never touched me, and he never put handcuffs on me.  

The whole drive downtown I’m remembering all the chatter I ever heard on the streets about the county jail. You don’t wanna go to the government center or the north tower. Nigga’s be fighting up there. Anything goes. So I’m hoping I’ll make bail and all that chatter won’t mean shit.

A large gate opened, and we pulled into an underground parking lot. I was taken to this desk where they patted me down, took my fingerprints, and took my mugshot. Then I was placed into a holding cell where I had a choice of a stale ass bologna or peanut butter and jelly sandwich. I chose the bologna that had a shot of mustard on it. Which is the only condiment I’ll eat. The time went by so incredibly slow. It may have been around eight that night before I was arraigned. I was herded into court with about a dozen other poor souls as we took turns having a bail levied against us. I didn’t know anything about this process. I just anxiously looked on as they went through their procedures.

“Docket number 456379. The people of Texas vs Omar Scott. The charge is burglary of a habitation,” the bailiff announced.

“How do you plead?” the judge asked dryly.

I looked at the man to my right, who looked like his suit was two sizes too big. He leaned over and said to me, “just say not guilty”.

“Not guilt,” I shouted still feeling confused.

“Bail is set at ten-thousand dollars. Cash or bond. Next!” The judge said pounding his gavel like it was a routine transaction.  

After that we went into a large room. The guard had us lined up against the wall. Then he said, “strip! And when you’re finished, put your clothes in these bags.”

Another guard was handing us a fishnet bag. So I stripped down, got stripped searched, took a shower, and put on a white jumpsuit with a large inmate written down the leg. Next, we go to a desk where they take our bag of clothes and they give us an envelope to put our personal things in, such as a wallet, keys, and jewelry. Then we go to another window where they give out housing assignments. I’m still thinking, no government center or north tower, please. I walk to the window, the lady looked at my paperwork then she handed me a blue wristband and said, “north tower, seventh floor, east wing. Next!”

Damn, I can’t catch a break, I’m thinking to myself. I stood against the wall with my head down and waited for my name to be called again. After another long hour, Me and this tall thin white boy, who was in for forgery, were the last two to be called. The guard led us through a long winding corridor to the infamous north tower. We stopped at a closet first, where we received a rolled up mattress filled with a blanket and a towel. And a bag they called an emergency pack, which had toothpaste, toothbrush, shaving kit, a bar of soap, and a roll of toilet paper.

Now the white boy got his stuff and went into the tank first. Then I got mines a few minutes later. I walked into this huge control center to hear nothing but yelling and crazy looking motherfuckers with their faces pressed against the glass. The north tower was new, so no bars like the old days. Just concrete and Plexiglas. The guard led me to my tank and the doors slowly opened. My heart was thumping, but I was ready to do what I had to do. If I could survive being burned, I damn sure could handle anything these guys could throw my way.

The tank was one huge day room with tables, chairs, and a TV. Then five cells with six bunks a piece in each one. I walked over to the cell where the white guy was setting up his top bunk. It was five brothers in that cell. I gave a slight nod and said, “what’s up man? Where do I go?”

This muscular brother with a high-top fade snatched the white boy’s mattress off the bunk and said, “you can have this one right here homie”.

That’s when I learned a very important lesson, being locked up is all about race. Blacks stay blacks, whites with whites, Mexicans with Mexicans. Turned out that one of the guys, Kareem, was from my hood and we knew some of the same people. The guy who threw the mattress down, Will, was from the west side too. We also knew a lot of the same people. So with them having my back, I didn’t have in trouble at all. Besides, I don’t think anybody wanted to get to close to me with this huge nasty scar on my chest and arm.

My mom and grandma came to visit the next day. She grabbed the phone and looked at me with concern through the thick glass window and said, “you doing okay in here?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Good. I know how things went with your father, but he’s still going to help you. He got you a lawyer. And the lawyer said he could get the bail reduce. But it might take another week. So you’ll have to hang in there.”

I looked around, then I leaned in closer and said, “I got money in my dresser. In the top drawer. Use that to get me out.”

After an uplifting conversation with my mom and grandma, I went back to my cell. I spent the next few days watching television, playing cards, and doing pushups. Getting comfortable. I don’t think things got real to me until this one guy came from court crying one day. He went into his bunk and pulled the sheets over his face. The whole tank was quiet. I asked what happened, the guys told me he got twenty-five with an L. The L stands for life. The guy looked like he was the same age as me. That’s when it all hit me. I’m sitting in jail. I’ve burnt up my body. I disappointed my parents. I’ve fucked up my future. And the prosecutor is talking about sending me to prison for ten years. Fuck!

I took a plea. I kept my mouth closed about Otis, I took all the weight for the burglary. I got deferred adjudication probation. I was able to turn my life around. So when I look at my bare chest and arm, and I see the scars left behind, I think of them as my new birthmark. Because the day I was burned, was the day I was born again with some damn sense.

                                                The End