The preacher said “troubled soul” so much, you would think that was Such’s given name. In fact, I don’t think they’ve said Solomon Ulysses Grant one time. No one ever called him that. Everyone called him Such. I don’t know the origin story behind the name, but that’s the only name I’ve ever heard him answer to.
My father says he always remembers Such being Such; drunk or high or drunk and high, asking for money, doing odd jobs, just walking the street. My mother seems to think she went to school with him. So, I figure he’s somewhere between 37 and 60 years old. I have no idea how old he was. I looked at the program again. No sunrise, just a sunset. It seems about right. Such doesn’t come from anywhere; he just is. Or was.
The picture they used might have been a mugshot. It could be his welfare ID. Such was what the old folks called a ne’er-do-well. He wasn’t the kind of guy you had to fear, but he lived close enough to desperate that you kept your eyes on him.
Most people would say he was homeless, but I knew he lived with his grandmother over on Sherman Ave. A fancy address for someone like Such. Someone like Such. I sound like this preacher. He’s been talking for 20 minutes about getting right with God, honoring our father and our mother, and the dangers of that nar-cotic. That’s how he says it, that nar-cotic. Over and over again.
To most people here, Such was only an addict. I feel like they didn’t know him as well as I did. Yeah, he got high and seemed a little bit crazy, but Such was also my friend. As much as a 13-year-old and however old Such was, could be.
It was Such that ran out of nowhere when Sarge, the Bailey’s Doberman, snapped his thin leash and chased me down 6th Street. I spent two months walking the long way home from school to avoid Benji (God bless the dead) before Such punched him in the face for picking on an 8-year-old. It was Such that everyone in the neighborhood called when they needed something fixed. Lawnmower broke? Call Such. The car won’t start. Call Such. Your kids got something stuck on the roof? Give Such $5 and he’ll magically appear with a ladder.
That’s why I’m surprised not many people from the neighborhood are here. There’s only my family, Mrs. Gee signed the book and left, Mrs. Davis is here, and Charlie Stukes. But Mrs. Kelly should be here too. Such saved her son from being hit by a car when he wandered off while she was taking groceries into the house. Mr. Sutton should be, too. Such stopped those guys from breaking into his home last summer when he ran out to get Ma Sutton’s pressure pills. I mean, yes, he was about to break into the house himself, but he still stopped those other guys.
Yeah, Such was also a thief. He stole my new bike from our backyard last summer, but he brought it back. He said he needed it for a few days for a job he eventually lost due to being fired for stealing. That was Such. I thought my father was going to kill him, but he just told Such to stay out of our yard.
I keep waiting for his grandmother to cry, but she stares at the preacher, nodding occasionally. I’m sure she’s known this day was coming for a long time. I can imagine that every time the phone rang or when someone knocked at her door, she thought that would be the day someone told her that her only grandchild was gone.
I watch her closely, clutching her bible. A Bible she undoubtedly held while praying for God to move in young Solomon’s heart, or to protect her fool of a grandson. Babies and fools. That bible held the tears of a woman who lost her husband, daughter (Such’s mother), and now, Such. No family is sharing the pew with her. Just an usher holding a box of tissues on the opposite end. All she loved was gone. Yet, she’s sitting upright, no tears, nods to acknowledge the Word.
“I don’t remember the last words I said to my moms.”
Such was changing a flat tire on my bike when he got serious. He wiped the sweat from his forehead and stared down the street. I wanted him to hurry and finish changing the tire so that I could ride with my friends, but he was doing me a favor, so I waited.
“I had to be about your age at the time. She took me to my nana’s house and was in a hurry to get wherever she needed to be. It was weird. It felt like the middle of the night because she woke up and took me in my pajamas. I remember Grandaddy was cussin’ when he opened the door and Nana coming downstairs in her robe.”
He squeezed his eyes shut, and tears now joined the sweat. He pawed at his face but never came close. So, he stopped.
“My mother kissed me and told me she would see me tomorrow. My nana was taking me up to my room while Grandaddy told my mother that she had to stop this shit and take care of her son. She kept saying she was only going to see a friend and would be there to take me to school in the morning.”
Such lost his grip on the wrench. The sound startled me when it hit the ground, but it never broke his trance.
“I ran down the stairs and said, ‘Mommy, where’s my bookbag? I have to turn in my report on George Washington Carver tomorrow.’ She told me she would bring it to me in the morning. I got an F on that paper. That was probably the last time I really went to school seriously.”
He wiped his face, picked up the wrench, and finished changing the tire. He bounced the bike to make sure everything was tightened and was ready to send me on my way, but held up his hand, “Always tell your mother that you love her.”
I was confused; this was a lot to take in a few weeks before my twelfth birthday, so I nodded, hopped on my bike, and took off. My mother draped her arm around my shoulders, and I thought about what it had to feel like for Such to lose his mother at my age. I leaned into my mother. I needed to feel her love a little more.
“After the next selection from the choir, we will move forward with reflections from family, friends... or anyone who has something they would like to say about the dearly departed. Please limit your reflection to one minute. If you go over, I will instruct the choir to sing ‘We’re Marching to Zion’. Amen.”
The crowd responded to his amen, and he laughed a little to himself, pleased with the possibility of playing music to speed someone’s reflection of a loved one. I made up my mind that I did not like this preacher.
He stood there with that same look on his face as the choir rose and a small woman with an impossibly round face stepped forward. What happened next changed my life.
I’ve had so many problems in my life, that I just couldn’t deal with, so I started drinking
Thought it would help ease my pain, but things got worse, so I said
‘Lord I give up I’m in your hands’
And that’s when my life began to change, but these people think...”
I’m just a nobody trying to tell everybody, about somebody, who can save anybody
I ’m just a nobody trying to tell everybody, about somebody, who can save anybody
I don’t remember hearing the rest of the song. My face was in my mother’s lap, staining her dress with tears. That woman sang that song for Such. When I finally looked up, the preacher was asking if there was one. One person who would like to say a word about their friend. Such was my friend. I had to say a word. I looked up to my mother, and her finger was already pointed at the microphone.
I stood up, made sure my shirt was tucked in, then stepped slowly in the aisle. Everyone was looking at me. I wanted to turn and run back to my seat. Back home. I wanted to be anywhere but there, but no one talked about Such. Only the round-faced woman singing the song. It felt like I had bricks on my feet. Everything was in slow motion. The preacher was looking at me impatiently. I guess his mama never talked to him about making faces at people.
I got to the first pew, and Such’s grandmother looked at me and smiled.
“Precious baby.”
She reached her hand to me. I held it until she led me toward the podium. I was now moving at regular speed, and I could feel the smile on my face, until I got behind the podium, and the microphone was too high. I’m small for my age. That’s what my daddy tells everybody. I looked up at the microphone and then to the preacher. He moved his arm a little, and a man appeared next to me. He removed the microphone and handed it to me.
“Come around here so the people can see you.”
I followed the motion in his hand and stood before the podium. In front of the church. In front of Such’s grandmother. When I looked up, it felt like a million eyes were on me. I swallowed hard. I was searching for my mother, but I couldn’t remember where we were sitting at the moment. I started to panic until I found her eyes bending around the bald guy sitting in front of her. She smiled. I talked.
“Such was my friend.”
Everyone laughed when they heard the name. I took a breath.
“That may sound weird because I’m 12 and Such was...Such was a grown-up, but I felt like he understood me. He was a big kid. He rode his bike everywhere like me and my friends. Sometimes he rode with us. I think Such wanted a second chance to grow up. A do-over. He didn’t do it right the first time because so many things happened.”
His grandmother started crying. I started to walk toward her, but she held up her hand.
“Keep going, baby.”
“Such talked about life to me. He never told me about the things he did. He always told me what not to do. ‘I have experience,’ that’s what he would say to me. ‘I have experience.’ I knew then he was serious. I would ask him about a lot of things. He would hold whatever tool he had in his hand up and look at it real close...”
I held the microphone up to my eyes, and everyone laughed. The preacher cleared his throat, and I saw the man on the organ getting his hands ready to play. My minute was up. The same hand that stopped me now waved a finger. Such’s grandmother was telling the preacher to let me talk.
“He always had tools. A wrench to help change the flat tires on bikes. A hammer to build dog houses. Wire cutters for... his experiences”
Everyone laughed. I smiled.
“He helped so many people and never really asked to be paid. He would paint your garage and ask for a glass of water. He used to cut Mrs. Walker’s grass so that he could walk her dog. He was there whenever anyone needed him.”
I saw a lot of heads shaking, and I heard a couple of people say umm-hmm.
“Such was kind and helpful, and he protected the small kids like me. Such was talented, but no one ever told him. He could’ve done a lot of things if he had a chance. Like that song said, everybody thought he was a nobody, but he was somebody. He was Such. And he was my friend. I’m going to miss him.”
I caught a tear as I turned to the old man who helped me with the microphone. I think he was sleeping in the corner, because the preacher said, “Deacon Willie,” and he jumped up. I laughed a little. Everyone was clapping when I began walking back to my seat. His grandmother stopped me and hugged me.
“Thank you for standing up for my baby. All he ever needed was someone to stand up for him—a friend. And you were his real friend. Thank you, baby.”
Her tears wet my neck, and she wouldn’t let me go. She thanked me two more times, then held me a little longer. When she finally let me go, I found my way back to my family, and my father shook my hand for the first time. He usually gave me a high-five or fist bump, but he shook my hand. I felt like a man. I sat back and thought about how I would like to tell Such about that moment, then I remembered that I couldn’t.
Contributor Note
Al-Lateef Farmer writes about the quiet weight we carry, the love that lingers, the memories that will not let go, and the messy beauty of trying to be whole. His work centers Black folks navigating the everyday sacred: relationships, grief, faith, and the unspoken truths that shape us.
He is the co-founder of Fellowship of the Griots, a community rooted in deep, honest Black storytelling, and a fellow of, Kimbilio Fiction, Roots. Wounds. Words., VONA and the Kenyon Review Writers Workshop. He has also sharpened his craft through Kweli’s Art of the Short Story intensive.
Al-Lateef is currently building Avery Heights, a fictional New Jersey city stitched together by history, loss, and hope. Jersey born and raised, he writes for those who grew up in their grandmother’s lap, licking icing off mixing beaters, watching soap operas, and learning that every house, every street, and every silence holds a story.
