EXCERPT FROM CHAPTER TWO, TITLED, "WHEN EVERGREEN WAS NEVER GREEN."

As soon as I walked in and turned on the hallway lights, roaches would scatter everywhere. The first room I passed was the kitchen, which was to my left. Because its shape was long and narrow, Mommy could only fit a rectangular table. The table had black plastic legs and a white top, with two black chairs to match. There weren’t any pictures on the walls, just dirt and grease stains. I dared not go in there because if I did, I'd itch all night long. I’d keep the feeling of roaches dropping off the ceiling, all over my skin and hair. Going in the kitchen at night was a big NO! NO! Besides, there was never anything in there to eat.


After walking past the kitchen, using the distant dimmed light from the hallway to see, I would tiptoe on the squeaky hardwood floors until I reached the cluttered boxes filled with second-hand clothing and all sorts of junk mail. When I reached those boxes, I knew I was at the living room. I would stand at the door of the living room, which had been transformed into Mommy’s bedroom, and strain in the dark to see if she was home. My eyes always landed on her dresser first. She had enough medicine bottles on her dresser to supply a pediatric clinic. She had albuterol, nebulizers, pain reliever and fever reducer, amoxicillin, penicillin, calamine lotion, ringworm solution, chicken pox medicine, corn starch, diaper-rash ointment, A&D ointment, and empty methadone bottles that she had obtained from her drug rehab at the Lee Building in Harlem, with a little bit of orange juice mixed with methadone at the bottom. I have to admit I was often tempted to drink it, after being outside all day and having only water.

Her vanity display consisted of an eye-pencil, and a lipstick tube that was always half empty because it served as her lipstick, blush, and eye shadow. She used her pinky finger to dig it out. Next I would look at her many pocketbooks, filled with old food-stamp book backs and empty pill bottles. These hung down from the edge of the mirror that was located in the middle of the dresser. Then I would notice that, as usual, she wasn’t home.

Many nights I longed to take a bath after being outside all day, but most of the time the tub was overflowing with dirty clothes. Mommy would begin to wash the clothes by hand but would never finish. The laundry would sit there for days, creating a stench that filled the whole house, smelling like mildew and rotten fish mixed together. The clothes appeared to be floating on top of a dirty swamp with worms forming from the dampness.

The only lights that we had in our apartment were placed in the hallway, kitchen, and bathroom. We usually kept the bathroom door closed, because of the regular funk we were seeking to avoid. The apartment was always dark and depressing. My eyes were accustomed to seeing in the dark. So I would just go straight to me and my sisters' bedroom, climb in bed, and sleep – on sheets that were changed maybe six times a year.

The four walls in our room contained dirty footprints and magazine posters. The windows were decorated with sheets instead of curtains. I could look out our window and see the whole block. The dawning of a new day on the streets provided an escape from a dark and hopeless situation.