Draft of 1st Chapter of the Novel: Nuthin' But A Hero!

"Number 13." The static-filled speaker bellowed "Number 13" again. Not certain and not caring what the previous number was that she had called, this young and already jaded bureaucrat said it once again,"Number 13."
Sandwich thought where do they get these motherf_ckers from. Give me a job doing this shit. In fact before he realized it, he had begun speaking his thoughts aloud.
"I wanna be able to sit my fat ass down behind a gova'ment desk and call out the wrong fucking numbers, na' mean" he let slip as if talking to an imaginary partner.
"Woooooord," the stranger in front of him said as if he and Sanwich had been engaging in a conversation for hours. But the stranger was not even listening to Sandwich, he was talking to his man, his partner...his ace. The conversation of the two young men in front of Sanwich was so tight, that they spoke in this undecipherable code obviously developed from some early bonding experiences. Sanwich once knew this type of bonding.
Sanwich thought oh shit...dam...I am fucked up. He wanted to say 'what a mind fuck:this guy (referring to the stranger) looks and sounds just like Jazz. And that is exactly what Jazz would have said in response to my statement and then just grinned for like a minute showing every tooth in his mouth and some that were not and those dimples....'
Then he quickly thought, oh no, here I go again. Just like that doctor said-every little thing reminds me of Jazz, certain sneakers, different type of girls, records and everything. Dramatic stress Disorder, is what Sanwich heard when the doctor describe his diagnosis to his mother. Then - just as had happened during most of the previous 800 or so days since jazz's death, sanwich went straight back to the night...


It was really no surprise that thoughts of that silent pitch black rainy night were so prominent in Sanwich's thoughts at this particular moment. No matter how hard he tried, Sanwich would never again regain that feeling of invulnerability that he shared with his closest friend on that joyful yet melancholy evening. Imagine that, Lisa was having his baby and her brother, Jazz, was probably more hopeful than either of them.
Sanwich was never really sure if he could take Jazz in a hand to hand contest. Jazz had his doubts about Sanwich's skills as well. They were both "nice" with their hands - so the doubt was the cement that bonded these would be brothers. Jazz's boxing abilities had only been of concern to Sanwich on three occassions. The first occassion came during their first encounter on the playground. At age seven an envious Jazz unsuccessfully attempted to relieve Sanwich of his toy cowboy holster as the "move-in fee" to live in Jazz's building. The other two instances that gave Sanwich occassion to question Jazz's niceness with his hands both involved Jazz's twin sister Lisa. Friends don't normally like that kind of thing. But Jazz was different - he loved Lisa and he had come to love Sanwich. Sanwich loved both of them - nevertheless Lisa's revelation was extremely difficult to share with Jazz.

"We been boys forever", Jazz said in a way that caused Sanwich to wonder if it was Jazz who had to tell Sanwich some deep hidden secret, rather than the other way around.

"Always will be". Not revealing his doubts that maybe because he had impregnated Lisa while they all were still in high school it would cause a rift in their relationship. He had to tell Jazz Now. After all, it wasn't like he planned to run out on her - or even that he wanted her to have an abortion. He counted his steps silently as a way to get up the nerve to say it. Seven, eight, nine - "I really dig Lisa" was all that would come out.

"I know - sh_t you better maf_cker or I'll bust yo a_s."

Normally such a challenge would have been enough to divert their attention to a couple of friendly rounds of slap boxing. "Naah, I really like her" oozed out of Sanwich's nervous mouth while the momentum was still present. "I mean like really... really.... really".

Although no one had ever decided it, or discussed it for that matter, Jazz knew that to say a word thrice with that certain rhythm was tantamount to a sworn affidavit in court verifying the validity of the prior statement. Which is why such a statement seemed so odd to Jazz in this context. The validity of the prior statement was not being challenged. Jazz knew that Sanwich loved his sister, he even knew that Sanwich "knew" Lisa - in the biblical sense. Jazz was comfortable with the relationship, in fact, only because he sincerely believed that Sanwich and Lisa loved each other long before they became romantically involved. "I know - so, what you saying?" Jazz did not want to assume.

"F_ck it, be a man", Sandwich thought in that very order. With his eyes fixed on some imaginary position in space directly in front of him beyond the flashing yellow street light at the corner of Market and State Streets, he blurted out , "I love her and I want to marry her and I want her to keep the baby", as if it were one long word in a foreign language. Silence. The blinking noise from the flashing yellow light became louder not only because they were approaching it on their way to the southside of Trenton to pick up the girls, but it also became louder because of the absolute silence of the two boys.

Even now and here, on the floor of the unemployment office, it made Sandwich chuckle to imagine how they must have looked
with him staring into space with his mouth open waiting for a response and Jazz staring at him with his mouth open wanting to say everything with nothing coming out. The chuckle quickly turned to sadness, as it had on many occasions in the preceeding two years. On that evening the symphony of urban street silence was interrupted by a blur of screeching tires and gunshots. These very same sounds always interrupted his recollections. Sanwich's only indication of Jazz's approval to the last words they shared was his dying actions.

Sanwich had been on the outside of the sidewalk when the dull black nineteen seventy-five Monte Carlo began its sudden approach from his and jazz's rear. Sanwich's eyes were fixed straight ahead - thoughts planted on the future. Jazz's eyes were fixed on Sanwich mouth open, attempting to reply to Sanwich's foreign word when he noticed the assailants approaching. Jazz grabbed Sanwich and threw him to the ground and dove on top to become a human bullet-proof shield protecting sanwich but not himself from the bullets. With each piercing bullet Jazz's body jerked violently in a new direction. A chorus of "yeah motherf_ckers" "mark a_s n_ggers", trailed away as the thick black tires scarred the freshly steam-rolled tar. The silence, that was never really silent, returned, accompanied with the smell of blood, gun powder, burned rubber and death.

Hill Harper Holla @ Summer Hill Seven

Dear Hill Harper:

You might not remember me but I am your biggest fan. No, probably not really. But we have met on several occasions. I just figured that would be a good way to open the letter. Although - I am definitely a fan. I enjoy your work and since you “blew up” (whatever that means right?) I kept saying that I would write you a letter. I never did. I enjoyed immensely your performances in the Visit, Get On the Bus, He Got Game and many many more. In fact, I don’t recall ever seeing you give a performance that I was not excited about.

My only complaint is that you have been taking all my work. I have not seen you since we both worked on that Amiri Baraka play – The Toilet and The Dutchmen in Los Angeles. I often wonder - would I remember something like that once I “blew up”? When I “blow up” will I remember every single actor that has crossed my path in the course of my career? Why would I want to remember them? Why not? I’m just asking - because I don’t know what it’s like to “blow-up” since you keep taking a brother’s jobs.

Now of course, I know I am not the first brother to accuse you of stealing his work but I think my claim is pretty strong. We are what they call in economics – “substitute goods”. You may recall, that coffee and tea or chicken and turkey are considered to be “substitute goods” for the purpose of certain economic models. As you may also recall, if you recall me at all, that we both studied public policy at the Woodrow Wilson School of Public and International Affairs at Princeton University. Neither of us graduated - but I did attend for a year. I think you only attended for a summer. We both graduated from a “top ten” law school. If I recall correctly NYU Law School was not technically ranked higher than Harvard when we were in school, but everyone quietly agreed that it was a better school. I don’t think you were as active in the National Black Law Student’s Association as I was – I was the National Director of Community Service. When I was in school we established the first annual Nelson Mandela Scholarship Dinner and provided six undergraduate students with scholarships for law school. So we have similar resumes – if you will.

In some ways we are different of course. I’m taller – but people like you easier and faster. I remember you telling me once that you had never taken the bar exam but I am admitted to practice in California. Have you ever taken the bar exam? Will you ever take the bar exam? I’m also surprised you have not written a book or a play…I know you must have some great stories to tell and I also know that you would tell them well. I just published my first book – notes of a neurotic – under my pen name, which coincidentally is “Summer Hill Seven”. Isn’t that interesting? Since, I have also continued to act since we last met it is not uncommon that I have had occasion to have conversations about you.

In fact, one of your law professors is the best friend of one of my law professors. He suggested that I was making him look bad since I had not “blown-up”. Well, perhaps that’s what I heard…he actually said – “Did you know that Hill Harper was one of Tree’s students?” Of course, I looked at him like he was crazy because he and I saw the Visit together (you made him cry with your portrayal). I enjoyed the performance but I couldn’t get past that “you-took-my-job” factor. I know you know about that better than I do – by the way, I really really dug your performance in “Andre Royo’s Big Scene” or something like that…a short film that was in this past year’s Urban Film Festival. You were very scary. Usually, when I see you in “tough guy” roles – there is a credibility gap for me because our paths have crossed. I still remember you as the double ivy league dude.

Yet I always have nothing but positive things to say about you and your work (maybe I should say my work that I lent you). There is something to be said for being a decent person and a talented actor. I have not met a single person that knows you that doesn’t think you’re “the most”. We have plenty friends in common – or a couple of degrees away…like Victor Williams and Michael Jayce (I know you gotta know them); and in the educated Negro circles which I’m sure I frequent less than you…it wouldn’t take long for us to connect to a common and close friend. Yet you have “blown-up” and I can’t get arrested in real-life or on TV. I can’t even get casts in the most stereotypical roles available to black men – drug dealers, pimps, hustlers – you know the fun characters. I’m kinda joking and I’m kinda for-real. I know how hard you work to get your work and then to deliver a strong performance – so know that I only jest when I say that you stole my work. I’m very proud of your work as a fellow artist and more importantly, I am inspired by your work.

Actually, I have nothing to complain about with respect to my art – I have been primarily trying to make you laugh – I’m cast as Leonato in a production of Much Ado About Nothing at the University of Delaware’s Professional Theatre Training Program. I’ve never done a production of a Shakespearean play, so I’m really looking forward to tackling “the bard” as the white folks say. I’m very excited about it – in fact I should be working on it now instead of writing this letter to you that you may never read.

The challenge in modern society is that communication is funny. I could send this letter to you at some address – I think your publicist’s address is where you receive your mail. You may or may not get it that way. I figure with the advent of the blog –why not work on two things at once – one of which I have absolute control over, viz. the writing of my memoirs and the other which I have no control over viz., whether you read my “I knew you when letter”. I love I “knew you when stories” – (hey, great idea for a reality show). I know people are fascinated by some of the crazy things that we actors do…especially guys like us (whatever that means) to pursue our art. I hope I get to hear or read some of your stories.

I don’t know what type of juice you have in Hollywood…if you don’t – don’t worry, I have no doubt you will. I do know your name in a film means something to an audience. I imagine Hollywood is still taking you through hoops but as long as you are happy then keep doing it! That’s why I ultimately stopped practicing law and became a full-time artist because I got to the point where nothing else made me happy.

I want you to know that people love the characters that you make available to them. Of course there are a lot of people that
I want to work with, but it would be a real treat for me to work with you cats whose paths have crossed mine and whose work I really dig like, Victor Williams, Michael Jayce, Shabaka, Elise Neals, Alan Payne (his cousin was in my class at NYU) and then like you know some super-duper star – short list: Mr. Washington, Mr. Smith, Mr. Jackson, Mr. Freeman, Mr. Deniro, Mr. Pacino. Naturally, as a writer I have at least three stories in three different genres that would know how to utilize a cast like that. So when I’m in a position to afford you – you’ll get a more direct communication – if you know what I’m saying.

Because, I like nostalgia as much as the next guy, but um, I’m about my paper too. My book sets out several different types of film scenarios in addition to the overarching theme of the book – which quite frankly is a story about a character that only you or I could really bring to life and find his depth and dimension. So if you have occasion to check it out and have some interest, holla at a brother. My favorite thing to do these days is to quote myself – I can’t resist the opportunity to plug my book by concluding with a quote that I think summarizes what I’ve been trying to say in this letter:

In the meantime
And the between-time
And down time
I’ll be here in the back.
I ain’t worried. I can act.
I ain’t hurried. I can fight.
I can read. I can write.

Notes of a Neurotic!
Summer Hill Seven
Page 75.
AuthorHouse 2004


Do you remember in law school how we had to learn all that junk about how to cite a book properly in a brief and other types of legal documents?: The “Blue Book” and the University of Chicago citation method. I made this cool short film that you would appreciate entitled “A Poet’s Pilgrimage” about a guy who drops out of law school to become a poet.

Well, if you are reading this letter you probably have figured out who I am and you certainly know how to get in touch with me. I have every intention of working with you. Just as soon as I can get you to stop stealing all the work.

Peace, love and continued success,


Summer Hill Seven

To Purchase Now Click Here -> Notes!


COMMERCIAL

Notes of a Neurotic - Poet Tree:
Essalogues, Plays & Poemedies

Word to my dearly departed Mother,
U can tell my book by it's cover.

There is writing that is pure gimmickry
Relying on false trickery and mimicry.

Covers leaving out everything needed to make a decision
The most truthful aspect often is the omission.

Instead of deception and untruthful lines
We say "hey look buy my book I use nigga a thousand times
I even put that shit in a bunch of my rhymes."

Certain parts are kind of erotic
Especially my definition of neurotic
I even get exotic when I talk about hypnotic.

I swear it'll make you smarter.
Smoke a lot of weed? This book 'll make you a self-starter.

It'll give you goals, ideals & rays of hope
Piercing through the dark clouds allowing you to cope:

With The Man
With Wo Man
With White men
With Black men
With Gay/Bi & Straight
With Love/Indifference/Hate:

It's exactly like crack
One hit - your back
Digging through the pages of essays for the residue of a monologue
It’ll take you three reads to comprehend the concept of the essalogue.

As you check my poet tree and select thoughts that will ripen in your mind
As you get through the poemedies you'll realize: "hey I can use these to get some behind
Nobody has heard of this Seven dude. I'm gonna say this shit & sound real smoove
I'm gonna be a cunning linguist, taking his words & adding my own twist."

As your addiction for Summer's words bloom and grow
You'll begin to speak them to your own flow.
Eventually your pen might hit your paper
Maybe we'll get your reflections on the 911 terrorist caper.

You'll realize then that you never forgot it
Whether you is or you ain't patriotic
Take note of how you deal with this ordeal or you'll end up neurotic.

So think of our lost loved ones languidly lounging in heaven
When you reflect on being patriotic on Nine Eleven
With Notes of a Neurotic by Summer Hill Seven.

In the Crazy House with Christ(c) 2005

The Holy Spirit has been cited as the cause for much shouting and praise in churches throughout the United States and perhaps the world. Rarely is He given the blame for this same behavior outside the confines of the church walls. I hope that changes after I tell you what happened to me.

Having grown up in the church - saved, baptized and sanctified - I am very familiar with the experience referred to as “catching the holy ghost”. Yet it is not until this very moment that I realized that the series of circumstances I will relate were identical in nature to “getting happy” in church, except it endured beyond the allotted time in the church format for praise and worship. In fact, it endured for the better part of a year – concluding with September 11, 2001.

While, I can’t accurately date when the spirit took over and then released me, I can tell you the reward of meeting Abraham, Jesus and Moses in the flesh was well worth all that my mind, body and reputation endured. We met in Bellevue Hospital in the mental ward. I prefer the term crazy house. It says everything to me. “The crazy house is where they keep the crazy people” is what my Mother would tell me when I was kid. We grew up near Poughkeepsie, NY where there was a large mental institution. So my peers and I would often be threatened with being sent to Poughkeepsie for any behavior that was not considered socially acceptable by an adult.

So the first time, I was taken to a crazy house as an adult, all the fear and guilt of my childhood was ever-present, albeit in the background of the true calling which led me there. The calling was to “free the dumb – make the blind see – the deaf hear”. Every subsequent visit, I’ve lost count, has been in response to the same call.

On this particular call, I was completing my second year of service as an attorney for legal aid in Newark, NJ. Psychiatry described these experiences as bi-polar disorder or schizophrenia. On each occasion I was overcome by an overwhelming desire to preach a sermon in a public place. Then when the sermon was complete, I desired to be in the company of sinners to demonstrate and be the demonstration of God’s love to sinners.

I felt completely filled not with blood, tissues or bones – rather the power of the words of the Creator – the same power that set the planet in motion and that causes an earthquake. Whatever unseen force one believes is capable of providing the most physical power to the planet filled my every pore. A power so great to cause time to go in any direction– to eliminate the need for food, sleep, or any other bodily function.

Yet it was not religiously inspired. I was not attending a church, synagogue, temple or mosque when the power arrived. I did not invite it or notice any perceptible change. It did however happen during the year that Christmas, Ramadan, Hannukah and the Night of Power all coincided. This experience began during the most revered and sacred times of year for the vast majority of god-fearing Americans.
My calling led me places that I did not know existed before I went to do things that I did not know I would do upon arrival. On this December day I went to have a drink with a dear friend in the Herald Square neighborhood of NYC. We exchanged gifts. We were both really into our five series palm pilots that were state of the art at the time. She gave me a new leather case for my palm pilot. I was in love with her – she was involved with someone else. Our platonic love affair was a powerful force and positive energy in the stress of my daily legal battles with landlords, and other agencies that appeared to conspire to keep poor people homeless.

I didn’t know it, but I wanted to preach to the world that perhaps this year instead of giving material things that we can give the gift of our selves. Or we can give the gift of a home and a hot meal to someone who would not get it. Now, I had not preached a sermon in over a decade; in fact, I did not give too many speeches at that time. But after leaving Tina-Gaye and seeing her lovely face filled with the stress of commerciality and fear of economic oppression – I was infused with a new disgust for godlessness anywhere.

I became the self appointed Judge and Jury to reign down damnation via the spoken word on to the world with a promise of success to all those who had nothing of material worth. So as I sped walked west on west 34th street to Penn Station to get on a train going to Albany - to give a new law. I did not know the exact wording of the law yet, but I was a lawyer and Albany was where laws were made the rest would happen when I arrived.

I was not worthy to go to Albany. I was guilty of using this power to verbally assault the conductor for some slight I perceived he heaped upon me. I was asked to get off the train in some town outside of New York City. I gladly complied because every warrior must have opposition and now mine had begun to make moves to defeat the plan to unseat money from the throne of God. Now that I was aware of the opposition, I was free to unleash my power – the power of God’s words coming out of my mouth.

The first large church structure I came to I began to point to all the signs that we were victims of breaking the first of all religious commandments – associating partners with God or having other gods before God. This particular church was named for some revered person and sat on a street likewise named. I began to preach outside the church that the name was unacceptable according to any religious book ever read. In addition, I challenged members that went inside to bring their minister outside so we can settle this right here and now. I was prepared to do everything from debate to break dance to defend my position.

I was unworthy of challenging the minister. I made a promise that I would hold church outside the building at a certain hour – but when that hour came I did not return. I continued north on my sojourn to change the world to my own interpretation of God’s pure word as he was giving it to me. I continued in this fashion through the night – not sleeping; stopping only occasionally to rest.

I began to suspect that by now some state officials must be taking notice of my campaign that was designed to unseat them from their positions of power. My clarion call to the meek to begin this day to inherit the earth and the contents thereof was most assuredly causing them great fear and trepidation. Who was I? I was not myself? I did not know where I was?

On Christmas day, I was blessed to end up in a men’s homeless shelter. Finally, I had landed among God’s people. The people he sent me to alert that God’s kingdom was here – up you mighty people. Yet my mission required that I speak to Jews, gentiles, Christians, Muslims, Budhists - saint and agnostic, even and especially the Satan worshippers. After, a warm meal and fellowship with members of the AME church in New Rochelle, I went back to the men’s shelter to learn some new skill that I needed to get me through the rest of this mission. I was quickly and thoroughly tutored in the art of telepathic communication.

The education that I gained that night, made it clear that I was at the beginning of a new journey. So instead of going to the shelter to sleep, I went back out to preach and counsel the new followers of the true God. I was now more effective, armed with my new communication tool. I was better able to reach potential converts without opening my mouth. More importantly, I began to see who was already on the job. Who had been laying the foundation for my ministry while I was working for legal aid, law firms and studying in college? I had been healed – I could now see them and I could also hear them. I could even speak to them without opening my mouth.

That night, I encountered beings that were hundreds of years old and they smiled at me. They smiled on my soul and encouraged me forward. I heard them whisper into my heart – “don’t stop” – “just ahead”. I had no idea that a personal encounter with Satan, Jesus, Abraham and Moses was just ahead.

The cover of the book is a topic I will return to but suffice it to say for now that it is written on the bill of rights...which is about everything that such an act would imply. The nigga on the cover that is crossed out is not intended to describe the author as much as the audience the design is intended to convey that this description has and will continue to be applied to the author since he is also a part of the intended audience. If this confuses you after you read the book then read Kennedy's book entitled Nigger. The most revolutionary thing about this book is contained in the subtitle. It is the author's intent to change the way books are written and thus by whom they are read. 

when I cut her out of the picture it suddenly got better...just like most of my relationships. I never stop loving the people in my life. I just stop seeing them with me. Yet just like this photo, the woman is still there...all these people are still in my life and I am in there life. Hence, love must always be unconditional (not conditioned on whether one is with another physically or not). My love is always unconditional. Sex and love live in completely different centers of our bodies. Sex is very conditional for me. The first condition for me is that I am the only man that I will have sex with...other than me, the person I have sex with must be a woman and then there are many other conditions that follow from there...and they are all old skool! 

Where is Katie?

I mean I could find a new girl. Maybe like this one...who I don't really know to well, but I thought she was cute at the time...but I didn't notice that forehead (or should I say eighthead) in person...she dazzled me with that body. I'm glad I have no history with her to report...just this picture. At first, I thought she was making me look good but...

This poemedy is on page 67 of the book...my heart breaks anew everytime I think about the women referenced in the piece. As it turns out, my threat to leave was idol...she left me because I guess I'm crazy. 

Cruisin' through the journey popularly known as life... 

I know I'm crazy but does everyone really need to know too!

I know - i'm crazy.