Outcast

by Lewis Ericson

Genres: African American; African American Urban

Synopsis

Tirrell Ellis has always felt like an outcast. His loving grandmother takes him in after the death of his parents and his very existence becomes the source of much conflict between him and his half-brother. Feelings of being unwanted fester inside Tirrell and he eventually explodes in fits of anger. His unbridled temper gets him booted out of the military, and he violently unleashes his frustration on his girlfriend when he discovers a secret that she's been harboring. Tirrell believes things are finally turning around in his favor when he meets Alexandra Solomon. Blinded by the trappings of the lifestyle she offers him, he ignores the warnings of his grandmother to stay away from her. By the time Tirrell finds out that Alex Solomon is not who she appears to be, it's almost too late, as he puts his life and the lives of his family in danger. With his world falling to ruin, will Tirrell be able to right the wrongs he's done and prove that he's not he pariah his family believes him to be?

Release date: January 1, 2013

Publisher: Urban Renaissance

Print pages: 288

Sample

The crunch of teeth grinding against one another and the copper taste of his own blood made Tirrell Ellis as angry as an attacking lion. He drunkenly stumbled into a wall of antagonistic hands that pushed him back into the center of the melee. It didn’t matter that his opponent was taller and outweighed him by almost fifty pounds; Tirrell had learned to fight with everything—anything at his disposal.

A jarring left uppercut to his chin sent Tirrell flailing to the floor. The roar of the crowd around him was deafening. Through the delirium of beer and tequila shots, he struggled to get up, pulling on the brass rails of the bar. Before he could collect himself he felt the sting of a steel blade slice into his forearm. Tirrell grabbed a bottle lying inches away from his fingertips, turned sharply, and lunged at his assailant. Swinging violently, he knocked the knife out of the man’s hands and smashed the bottle against his skull. Tirrell repeatedly hit the man as he fell backward. Blood sprayed from his open gash like water. He pleaded for Tirrell to stop.

“Drop it and put your hands in the air! I said drop it, Ellis!” The commanding voice that exploded above the jeers brought a halt to the attack.

Tirrell dropped the shard that was left of the bottle and he sank slowly to his knees. As he raised his arms to surrender he was snatched by the scruff of his neck and his face was shoved into the floor. “Get off me, man,” Tirrell yelled as a knee was jammed into the small of his back, pinning him down. He winced as his hands were twisted and locked into a pair of handcuffs; then he was yanked to his feet and dragged out of the bar into the humid night air.

It was just after five-thirty in the morning. The scorching orange-yellow-white glow of the languid summer sun boiled over the horizon early, unwilling to relinquish its grip over North Carolina, or the rest of the eastern half of the country.

Tirrell lay wide awake atop an unyielding metal bunk, restless and disgusted that he couldn’t get comfortable enough to get a good night’s sleep. He flexed his bandaged left bicep and grunted. Lifting his head slightly from the flat pancake of a pillow, he stared at another man sleeping in a bunk across from him. His bearish snoring indicated that he was not at odds with the conditions in any way.

Tirrell glanced at the cracked face of his wristwatch, threw his legs over the side of the bunk, and slowly stood up. He yawned and arched backward to stretch out the kinks in his taut six-foot-one-inch frame. The muffled sound of marching and cadence nearby piqued his interest. He glanced up toward the long rectangular window encased in the impenetrable cinder-block walls and hoisted himself up onto a small rusted metal sink to get a look. There was a certain curiosity as to whether or not the ceremony would have a different perspective with him locked away in this fortress.

“Man, you gon’ get yourself into worse trouble if you don’t get down from there.”

Tirrell looked over his shoulder to see that his cellmate had awakened. The surly man scratched the whiskers of his unshaven chin and propped himself up on his elbows.

“Mind yo’ damn business,” Tirrell shot back. His eyes darted toward the small window in the steel door that stood between him and freedom, defying the guards to catch him in the act.

“A’ight, tough guy. Suit yourself.” The man rolled off his bunk and shuffled across the concrete floor to relieve himself at the shared metal toilet next to the sink.

Tirrell focused his attention back outside, where the Honor Guard, accompanied by six privates, marched toward the flagpole in the center of the courtyard to commence their morning ritual.

“Detail. Attention!” barked the husky sergeant as the Stars and Stripes were raised upward into place.

The company of soldiers snapped and saluted as the familiar sound of reveille resonated throughout the campus. Military and non-military personnel alike stopped in homage of this time-honored tradition.

Tirrell ran his hand over his close-cropped fade and down his face, pondering for the umpteenth time why he’d ever signed on. It wasn’t as if he took any of this seriously. He didn’t want a career. He bought into the commercial hype and was just looking for a little adventure—maybe even garner some respect along the way. He’d grown weary of aimlessly running the streets of his hometown neighborhood, but what exactly was he hoping to prove by joining the Army? His chance to be all he could be, or at the very least more than he was, had taken a toll.

With a sense of misdirected pride, Tirrell ran his tongue over the cut on his bottom lip and glanced at the bruised knuckles on his hands, recalling the incident that landed him in this predicament. He heard the rattling of keys and jumped down from his perch just as the steel door swung open. He sucked in his cheeks and glowered at the MP, following his eyes as he surveyed the ten-by-ten space. Tirrell leaned against the wall and folded his arms across his chest with equal amounts of arrogance and insolence, taking a stance that was sure to provoke them.

The MP moved his hand slowly toward his holstered weapon as if to intimidate him. It didn’t work.

The guard didn’t say a word—he didn’t have to. Tirrell knew what was coming. He retrieved his fatigue shirt from the foot of his bunk and slipped into it.

“Can I at least have a last cigarette?” He smirked.

The guard was not amused and grabbed him by his wounded arm, shoving him toward the door.

Tirrell scowled. “Man, damn. Watch it!”

Outside the cell they were joined by another MP and the two escorted Tirrell to his fate. Preparing himself for what lay ahead, he silently counted the steps from the cell to his sergeant’s office.

First Sergeant Ken Horton did little to dispel the stereotype of the hard-edged career soldier. The barrel-chested man who stood a foot shorter than Tirrell was just as gruff inside as he was outside. Not one to mince words, and never very tactful when it came to dealing with the men in his charge, he sneered at Tirrell’s salute and laid into him as soon as he entered his office.

“Ellis, what the hell is wrong with you? I got a phone call at two in the morning about your stupid ass gettin’ into some more dumb shit.”

The man was two shades darker than Tirrell’s paper-sack brown complexion, but if he could have turned red from his acerbic attack he would have.

“Are you fuckin’ retarded? I told you what would happen if you didn’t keep a lid on that temper of yours, didn’t I?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Shut the fuck up! I can’t save you this time, boy. I don’t know what the captain is gonna do to your sorry ass! I can’t believe you did all this over a piece of pussy!”

A knock at the door brought an abrupt end to the sergeant’s tirade. A bespectacled, bookish-looking clerk stuck his head inside.

“Excuse me, Sergeant Horton.”

“What is it?”

“Captain Walters is ready to see you, sir.”

The man nodded and waved the clerk away. He looked at Tirrell and shook his head. “Ellis, I don’t know what the hell you’re thinkin’. Do you know that you can be kicked out on your ass for this or worse? Is that what you want? A dishonorable? Answer me, boy!”

“No, sir.”

“Then what the hell did you enlist for if all you’re gonna do is keep fuckin’ up?”

Tirrell’s hazel eyes shifted from the sergeant to the floor. “I don’t know, sir.”

The sergeant squared his shoulders. “I really hoped you were gonna be able to pull your head out of your ass. You could have been a halfway decent soldier, Ellis. Instead, you’re a goddamn disgrace!”

Tirrell closed his eyes, demeaned by the dressing-down and disappointment he heard in his superior’s voice.

“Let’s go. We may as well get this over with.”

Sergeant Horton stepped quickly into the company commander’s office ahead of Tirrell, who was flanked by the two stoic MPs. They saluted the white-haired grandfatherly man seated behind a large oak desk as he raised his eyes above the rims of his glasses. He closed the thick official manila folder in his hands and laid it down in front of him. “Private Ellis.” The man stood, rounded the massive desk, and removed his glasses.

Tirrell unflinchingly met his cool blue-eyed gaze. Working in the motor pool, he’d seen the captain a few times, but had no direct contact with him until now.

“You’ve been seeing Dr. Miles for anger management for the past few weeks. That arrangement apparently isn’t working out very well for you.”

“Yes, sir.” Tirrell read the captain’s puzzled look. “I mean no, sir. It doesn’t seem to be.”

“Some very serious charges have been leveled against you, obviously not the first time, but definitely the worst. How do you answer to them?”

Tirrell swallowed back the acid rising in his throat. “You got my file right there, sir.”

“I can read, Private. But, I want to hear what you have to say. A man is lying in the infirmary with his head split open as the result of a common barroom brawl. Was it worth it? Was it worth almost killing a man and putting your career on the line?”

Tirrell shot his Sergeant a side-glance and then his gaze returned to the captain. “No, sir.”

“You’ve been in trouble before. You’ve been warned.”

“Is he going to die, sir?”

“No. And you can be thankful that he’s not, otherwise, you’d be facing a murder charge.”

Tirrell’s jaws tightened and he sighed. “May I speak freely, sir?”

“By all means.”

“I’ve been thinking. If it’s all the same to you, I’d like to forgo any formalities and just plead guilty.”

The man scratched his bushy brow; he appeared bewildered. “So, you’re taking complete responsibility here?”

“Yes, sir. Just do whatever it is you feel you have to do.”

“I’ve spoken to the judicial advocate in regard to your many offenses, and I have his recommendation as to how to best handle this situation, Private. I don’t necessarily agree with it, but I have taken it under advisement.”

Silence fell in the room. The captain moved to the window and stared out over the parade grounds. “Before I make my decision I’d like to know what happened in your own words.”

Tirrell cleared his throat. “I was out at the Enlisted Men’s Club with a couple of the guys from B Company.”

“Privates Hutch and Caldwell.”

“Yes, sir. We were just hangin’ out, you know, havin’ a good time.”

“Drinking?”

“Yes, sir. We had a few beers.” Tirrell neglected to add that they’d been smoking marijuana as well.

The captain turned and glared at him as if expecting him to admit to more, but no such confession was forthcoming. “Go on.”

“Private Sims came out of nowhere, shoved me into the wall, and accused me of messin’ around with his girl.”

“Messing around with her?”

“He accused me of havin’ sex with her, sir.”

The captain nodded.

“He got all up in my face sayin’ how he was gonna kick my ass. I laughed it off and tried to walk away, sir. That’s when he grabbed me, spun me around, and punched me in the mouth. He had a knife. He cut me. I thought he was gonna kill me. I had to defend myself.”

“With a beer bottle?”

“Yes, sir. I hit him with it.”

“And you kept hitting him, didn’t you, Private? Over and over and over until he was damn near unconscious?”

“Yes, sir. The next thing I knew the MPs were draggin’ me out of there and tossed me in the stockade.”

The captain pointed to Tirrell’s arm. “You paid a little visit to the infirmary yourself, didn’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Was Private Sims right? Were you having sex with his girl?”

“Yes, sir. But I wasn’t the only one. I told him that, too. His girl . . . His girl is a whore, sir.” Tirrell stifled a smirk.

The captain returned to his desk. He slid the glasses in his hand up on his face until they rested on the bridge of his nose, and leaned over and picked up the folder.

“Private Ellis, you’ve been charged with being drunk and disorderly on base, and aggravated assault. Looking at your history and the outcome of your actions in this matter, you could be facing a minimum of eighteen months to three years’ confinement. You’d lose your rank and your pay. I’ve spoken with Dr. Miles; he believes that, given another chance and more therapy, you could learn more self-control. But, taking into account what I’ve seen in your file, I’m not inclined to believe it. I could perhaps swing this situation in your favor. You claim that this time it was an act of self-defense—perhaps that’s true. Maybe you should get a chance to redeem yourself. Tell me, Private; what do you want to do? Should you be given another chance?”

Tirrell inhaled, filling his cheeks with air and blowing it out slowly. Here he stood desperately wanting to walk away from the regimented order he never really wanted to be part of. He’d always been rebellious, but acting out and doing time were two different things. The stockade was definitely not going to be the answer.

“Private Ellis?”

Tirrell glanced shamefully toward his sergeant and then turned back to the captain.

“Captain, I never thought of this whole Army thing as a career move.”

“What did you think it was going to be? Club Med?”

“No, sir. I just wanted to do something different with my life. Give my life some meaning, but this isn’t for me. This is somebody else’s dream. Not mine. I think I’m done here, sir.”

“Done?”

“You can lock me up. Take away my pay. But, in all honesty, I just want out, sir.”

“Are you sure about that, Ellis?”

“I’m more sure about this than I was about signing up in the first place.”

“I don’t know why I’m surprised. Though, for what it’s worth, I think you’re making a mistake, son.”

“With all due respect, sir, it’s my mistake to make.”

The captain leaned against his desk and shook his head. “All right.” He nodded to the guards. “Take him back. Perhaps some time in the stockade will clear your head and give you the opportunity to reconsider what all of this could mean for your future. That’s all.”

The soldiers saluted and turned to leave.

“Sergeant Horton, I need you to stay. We need to talk,” the captain said.

Back in his cell Tirrell found that his cellmate was no longer there. He sat down on the edge of his bunk and gingerly rubbed his hands together, contemplating his punishment. Would the price he’d pay be worth his unbridled aggression?

Twenty-nine days slithered by at a snail’s pace. The stench of incarceration had almost been enough to derail Tirrell’s resolve. Sit-ups and pushups occupied his time as he grappled with the likelihood of a prolonged sentence. On the thirtieth day his answer came, along with the documents that would earmark his disgrace.

“Let’s go, Ellis,” Sergeant Horton barked.

Tirrell closed the magazine he was skimming, rolled off the bunk, and laced up his boots. He didn’t look up, but he could sense his superior’s scorn and hear the disgust in his voice.

Tirrell was led back to the barracks to collect his belongings. The handful of soldiers present who were preoccupied polishing boots, playing a raucous game of dominoes, or writing letters to loved ones snapped to attention when the sergeant walked in.

“As you were,” the sergeant allowed.

They relaxed and quietly watched Tirrell as he moved to his bunk and began stuffing his things into a duffel bag. One of his comrades who was with him the night of the fight hurried over to him.

“Are you okay, man?”

“Yeah, Hutch. It’s all good,” Tirrell responded without looking at the man.

“You sure you wanna do this?”

“Nothin’ I can do about it now.”

The last thing he did was remove a photo of his mother and father he had taped to the inside of his footlocker. He smiled sadly before putting it into his shirt pocket and turning to face his friend.

“You take care, Hutch. Keep your head down.”

The man nodded. “You too, bruh.”

Tirrell threw the duffel bag over his shoulder and walked toward the sergeant and the MP who were waiting near the door. As he stepped toward them he sneered at one of the other guys and flipped him the bird: his last “fuck you” to someone, other than the man he’d beaten up, who had given him the most grief.

Another MP, sitting behind the wheel of a Jeep, waited as he walked through the gate at the mouth of the base. No more words were exchanged between him and his sergeant. He was being banished. There was nothing more to say. Tirrell would never know that it was this same crotchety authoritarian who interceded and spoke to the injured private and appealed to the captain to change his mind in regard to the judgment he was within his right to impose.

Tirrell tossed his duffel bag into the back seat and hopped in. Before pulling off, he took one last look over the expanse of Fort Bragg, and relief washed over him for the first time since this all began. Whether it was the wrong decision or not, at least he wasn’t going to spend any more time locked away, at least not here. That was enough—for now.

Peering out the window, Tirrell sat anxiously at the back of the Greyhound bus as it motored up the highway toward the Georgia state line. The dusty haze of heat that suffocated the countryside was almost visible; he was thankful for air conditioning. There were hardly any other passengers on the bus; for that he was grateful. He was equally relieved that they all stayed to themselves. For several minutes he considered getting off the bus when it stopped. He thought that perhaps it would be best to head for Charlotte, or Greensboro, or Raleigh-Durham and start over in a place where nobody knew him; somewhere no one had expectations. But, he’d been enough of a coward running away from the Army.

He could already hear the disenchantment in his grandmother’s voice telling him how he demeaned his grandfather’s memory and all that he stood for. He hadn’t called her in over a month, and he still didn’t feel ready to talk to her. At least the ride back home would give him enough time to devise an adequate cover story for his unexpected return to civilian life. Regret was slathered on his tongue like harsh-tasting medicine as he sat plotting the details and trying to make the words fit the crime. He was a man now and men had to take responsibility for their actions—cowardice or not.

He’d hoped that Noonie would understand. Maybe even in time she would forgive him. “Noonie” was the endearment his half-brother, Kevin, bestowed on their grandmother, which grew out of her inexplicable love of Moon Pies. As a boy, Tirrell jokingly called her “Moonie,” but “Noonie” was the moniker that stuck. Despite his misgivings, he would be glad to be back in her house again, if she would have him. She was the only one in the family who ever cared enough to love him regardless of his shortcomings.

The twenty-two-year-old Ellis was a product of an affair between his Puerto Rican mother and an African American father. Tirrell’s grandmother often reminded him of how much of his father, Curtis, was in him. There was a lot of his mother in him, too, especially his volatile temper. Tirrell missed them both more than he ever confided to anyone. They died when he was ten years old, after the car his father was driving skidded on a patch of black ice and careened off an embankment on their way back to Atlanta from Tennessee. Curtis Sr. and Betty Ellis took Tirrell in without hesitation; regardless, he never really felt that he was wanted or belonged.

Changes began to manifest in his behavior soon after. Initially, he was withdrawn and despondent, but once he settled into a new school and had to make new friends, he began to lash out. Tirrell was expelled from school three times for fighting and ended up repeating the fifth grade. That set the tone for what was to come.

“I’m just gonna love that devil right out of you,” Betty would say. After many deserved whippings, she would pull the penitent child to her generous bosom as he cried tears of repentance. She loved him, knowing all too well that it would take more than a belt to his naked backside to cleanse him of the anger that festered within him.

Kevin didn’t help matters. When he was sure no one was within earshot, he viciously reminded Tirrell that he was their father’s bastard son. It didn’t matter what Betty did to show him that he was as much an Ellis as either Kevin or his sister, Jacqui; he knew he was still an outsider.

Still unsure of what he would say to his grandmother, Tirrell reached into his duffel bag and pulled out an envelope that contained tangible proof of his dishonor: his DD-214 discharge and separation papers.

“Dishonorable discharge,” he spat. “I’ll be damned!”

For a half second he thought about ripping the papers up; instead he stuffed them back inside the envelope and shoved it in his bag. Extracting an iPod from one of its pockets, he plugged in the ear buds. The driving groove of Kanye West’s “Stronger” began to soothe his anxiety. He laid his head back against the seat and closed his eyes and mouthed the words: “That that don’t kill me can only make me stronger. I know I got to be right now ’cause I can’t get no wronger.”

By seven o’clock that evening, the bus pulled up outside the downtown terminal. The passengers nosily gathered their bags and filed off. Tirrell stepped onto the sidewalk and inhaled Atlanta. He turned and observed the varied faces inside the bus station: some greeting loved ones—others sending them off. But there was no one there to welcome him. He needed to keep the fact that he was back under wraps for a little while longer. He thought about calling one of his. . .