“I never told you life would be fair,” was a maxim my father hammered into me like steel spikes in concrete. It was impossible to make an eternally optimistic kid accept the reality of injustice. But after the murder of my 19 year old neighbor, Showtime, I concluded that the concept of fairness was a farce. The entire world became a septic cesspool of gut belching injustice. The dark cloak of depression smothered me, suffocating my hope and optimism.
My dad died when I was 16, within months of his funeral they took Showtime’s life. Showtime was the best of us. Losing him was like losing The Sun. How could our brightest star be dead? To my young mind, his murder reaffirmed the worthlessness of life. If they could kill him then certainly my life meant nothing. I felt powerless and purposeless in a jerry rigged world full of perfidy and pitfalls.
Showtime wasn’t the first person I lost to violence, but his death had a more profound impact. I don’t know if it was a culmination of tragic events, beginning with my own father’s death, that made his murder the straw that broke the camel’s back. Or if it was his upstanding character that made the unfairness of his murder weigh so heavily on me. What I do know is, if you’da seen him as I saw him the day he was taken, you’d be fucked up too.
Unlike most Pittsburgh high school kids, June 18th, 2004 was a school day for me. I attended City Charter High School, which, instead of the traditional summer break, offered April, August and December as term breaks. It was Friday and my bags were already packed for a weekend road trip back home to Missouri to attend my sister’s high school graduation.
Me and my girlfriend skipped school to enjoy each other’s company before my trip. She sashayed off the bus, looking as refreshing as a summer breeze, in a flowy summer dress that accentuated her curves and held me hopelessly captive. We hugged and kissed, as lovestruck teenagers do, then walked hand and hand down Winebiddle Street.
Walking up Winebiddle was Anthony “Showtime” Smith. Greetings and daps were exchanged as our paths converged. He was always in high spirits but today he was beaming, geeked up about a new tattoo he had gotten that morning. He was bursting with excitement when he held out his arm to show me the still fresh tat of his young son’s face. The perfect portrait of the baby’s likeness was inked beautifully into his forearm, still glistening from fresh ink and A&D ointment.
Showtime said he got inked at a tattoo parlor in the nearby neighborhood of Lawrenceville, and that the tat was a gift to himself for Father’s Day, which was the coming Sunday, June 20th. He was overjoyed and proud to be a first time dad, ecstatic about raising his son, and I was happy for him. I didn’t even realize that Father’s Day was on the horizon until Showtime brought it up, so I wished him a Happy Father’s Day and we parted ways.
Me and my girlfriend had a system for skipping school. We’d leave our houses at 7:30am, wait til my mom left for work, then chill at my crib until 3:30pm so that we could be back downtown when school let out. When we left my spot at 3:30 that day we encountered Showtime at the bus stop with his dad. His dad was a light skinned man in his 40’s who shared Showtime’s eyes, bright smile and kinetic energy.
Showtime and his dad wore warm smiles, their eyes reflected each other’s sincere happiness. Two men in the ‘hood celebrating fatherhood and each other. The bus arrived and they tightly embraced before locking in their future plans and reluctantly saying their farewells. They clearly had a beautiful bond that was openly expressed through their affection for one another. Watching them made me miss my dad, whose passing was still an open gash on my heart.
Showtime’s dad sat with me and my girl at the back of the bus. He was glowing from fatherly pride and the joy of having a grandson. He offered to teach me how to box, inviting me to come to the boxing gym with him and Showtime. Even after I politely declined he went on and on about the benefits of boxing and the comradery in the boxing community.
We said good bye once downtown and I went to my girl’s house in Beltzhoover. Her mom had left town for Baltimore, but allowed her to braid my hair with the promise that I’d buy her dinner before dropping her off at her aunt’s crib. By the time she finished braiding my hair night had fell on the city.
Her aunt’s house was another 30 minute bus ride and a 5 minute hike up and down hills in an unfamiliar suburban landscape. The tree lined streets and perfectly manicured lawns were right out of a movie, or a real estate commercial. The neighborhood streets weaved up and down high hills and the backyards of the homes opened to a majestic view of a tree covered gulch.
We couldn’t ignore the spectacular vistas, so walked through the driveway and into the backyard of a home, where we stood transfixed, dazed by the star lit sky and tree covered valley and peaks that unfolded before us. Witnessing that sight gave me a sense of serenity that’s not often, if ever, experienced. A profound peace washed over us like the clear warm waters of a tropical waterfall secreted in paradise. The experience was transcendent. I felt like my father’s spirit was there with us in that moment, and in hindsight perhaps Showtime’s was as well. In truth I often wonder if my moment of peace was the exact moment of his demise.
The starry night twinkled above us in a neighborhood worlds apart from ours. The summer night was quiet, too quiet. No kids playing in the streets, no one shooting craps at bandos, or drinking and smoking on their front porches. No cars driven by 20 year olds bobbing their heads to Juvenile, bass thumping loud enough to tremble concrete beneath your feet.
Although night encircled us, the undiluted cosmos illuminated the night skies, coaxing us closer until we were firm in its embrace. We stood there, in a stranger’s backyard, for a moment, admiring the romantically soothing ambiance together.
After dropping my girl off, I set sail for home. When I finally arrived back home in Garfield, the familiar flashing of strobing police lights lit up the block. Police presence represented violence, so all ghetto inhabitants avoided them like lepers. So instead of getting off the bus at my usual stop, I hopped off a block early and walked toward my house.
Garfield was vibrant, alive with the souls of black folk. Old folks sat on porches watching small kids play, hoodlums posted on sidewalks watching the police activity from afar and a group of teenaged girls, walking away from the crime scene, was headed directly toward me. We frequently walked in the middle of our street, and that night was no exception.
As the girls neared me I noticed they were crying, trying to console each other. Their tears foretold that something terrible transpired. It was only June and already a body was discovered in the alleyway near my house, then soon after, Alicia’s mom and aunt were shot on their front porch, caught in the crossfire of a gang shootout.
We were young black kids conditioned to tragedy, so their tears signaled something worse than normal ‘hood violence. I met the group of girls and asked, “What happened?” A pretty brown girl, her face flushed with tears, choked back sobs to say, “They killed Showtime.” The revelation struck me like a Mack truck, sending my soul spiraling.
Showtime and one of his childhood friends had left a neighborhood bar, continuing his Father’s Day celebrations, when his friend said, “Yo, I gotta piss.”
Showtime had to piss too, so the two inebriated friends began pissing while walking sideways down Winebiddle Street. They were laughing at their innocently defiant act when suddenly a man, hidden by the cover of darkness, began shooting at them.
Showtime’s friend was walking on the sidewalk, while Showtime was walking in the adjacent parking lot. Both ran when the shots rang out, however his friend was able to run straight down the street while Showtime’s path cross sectioned with an alley and was impeded by houses with fenced in yards. He had to turn either right or left. The shots came from his left rear so he cut to his right, and collapsed to the ground as a single bullet struck him behind his ear.
Showtime was found 50 feet from where he proudly showed me the fresh tattoo of his young son’s face. His promising life was cut short by a bullet allegedly intended for his friend. A friend who had earlier offended a known killer from our ‘hood. The friend survives, broken, struggling with addiction, while the killer, now aging, has been in and out of prison for every crime except murder.
Showtime’s name had been memorialized by Garfield youths, who speak his name with reverence to swear oaths. In ghettoes across America phrases like, “On the dead homies,” or “On gang” are used to express the veracity of a claim. Garfield residents say, “On Show” which has made Showtime, an exemplary young man taken from us too soon, live forever.
Today is Father’s Day, 22 years later. It’s a special day for celebrations and gratitude for outstanding dads. A day of joy and jubilation. But for me, it’s a day forever marred by the heart crushing memory of a good dad, a beautiful soul, whose flame was unjustly extinguished at his brightest.
No Comments