BOOGIE AND BROWN
(A True story)
Jerome Pearson
It was on a Friday when I saw the little pistol that would later be used in a murder! The gun had a pearly white handle and a silver snub-nose barrel. I thought it was cute as I admired it from a distance.
Here is how the tragedy unfolded. I was only five years old then, but I remember it distinctively!
One Friday afternoon, shortly after 6 p.m., two men came to our home. We sold moonshine, and customers would come from far and near. We were only one of many homes that had similar endeavors. Customers were primarily men, but sometimes, they would bring their wives or girlfriends. A designated area in the home where they would linger was similar to a bar. They would stand around and socialize and sometimes get into fights.
On one particular Friday afternoon, I saw two men arrive together. I knew most of these men because I likely had seen them before. I knew that the older man driving was called “Brown!” I am not sure if that was his first name or last. The younger man riding with him was called “Boogie!” I was not sure that I had seen them together before.
They were inside drinking, but within a short time, they decided to smoke a cigarette in our backyard. I saw them because I was playing in a woodpile out back.
Apparently, Boogie had just bought the gun and showed it to Brown. Boogie seemed proud that he had a gun. I saw Brown looking at the gun, feeling it, turning it over in his hand, and admiring it. He returned the weapon to Boogie, who placed it back in his pants pocket. They seemed to pay me no attention, but I could see what was happening and thought nothing of it.
Within a short while, they went back inside and continued to drink. I used to go to bed around 8 pm and did not know what happened over the following hours. I would later learn that at some point during that evening, Boogie became drunk and argumentative. My mother then asked Boogie to leave, which he did, but when he went outside, he decided to fire a bullet through our living room window. I must have been sound asleep because I heard neither a gunshot nor the commotion that I am sure ensued following that shot. Luckily, no one was hit during that incident.
When I awoke the following day, I saw my mother using a screwdriver to remove a bullet from the wall in our living room. I also saw a small hole in our living room window.
It was only then that I learned what happened later that evening. The two men left our home together and drove to the heart of our town of Davis Station. At this time, we lived approximately 3 miles from the center of Davis Station. Once they arrived at Davis Station Center, they continued drinking on that fateful Friday evening.
At some point, the two men must have gotten into another argument. I don’t know exactly how it happened; Boogie would later shoot “Brown” with the same gun he had proudly shown him only hours earlier. Brown later died because of his gunshot wounds.
Although the shooting did not occur at our home, if someone were doing a serious investigation, they might want to know the entire sequence of events. Where were they that whole evening? I could see the concern on my mother’s face. However, it was later revealed that our home was not the last home they left that Friday evening.
A few days later, one of Brown’s sons came by to learn more about his father. My mother told him what she knew, and he seemed appreciative. In some ways, we were lucky because law enforcement was not interested in any serious investigation. To them, it was just one Black man killing another Black man. What is there to investigate? They knew who the shooter was, so the case was closed.
I know nothing about the trial, if there was one. I do know that Boogie was sent to prison. In the upcoming years, I often saw Boogie as he worked on a chain gang. The chain gang consists of prisoners chained together to perform menial or physically challenging labor, such as chipping stones or cutting grass, usually along state highways or railroad tracks. They were monitored by guards with high-powered rifles and could not escape without being shot; they were chained the entire time. Usually, when I observed him, no other kids around me knew who he was or anything about the story I remembered.
Each time I saw him, I would reflect on that fateful Friday evening years earlier. I would look at him and wonder if he remembered me. Did he remember the young kid observing him show the weapon to the man he later killed? Or, perhaps, he thought my testimony was used to imprison him. Maybe he could not wait to get out of prison and get revenge.
I would look into his eyes and wonder if he realizes that there is a kid looking at him at that moment who knows exactly why he is in prison. That this kid saw him only hours before his life changed. I do not think so! To him, I was just another kid observing them cut grass. He would not have realized that he had taught me a valuable lesson. And that lesson is we must be in control of our lives as every moment. Because those moments when we are not in control could lead to a history that will haunt the rest of our lives. On that fateful Friday, not only did Brown die. Boogie died too.
About ten years later, a friend told me that he and his family were driving past this little store near the town of Jordan when they saw a crowd of people standing in the yard around a man lying on the ground. He had just been killed. My friend told me he later heard the man’s name was “Boogie.” I knew his last name (but will not mention it) and knew he had only recently completed his ten-year sentence.
I told my friend, “I know of a “Boogie!”; he had not long left prison for a killing he did years earlier!”
And it now appeared that someone had just killed him. And I began to wonder who might have killed him!
When I was a kid, I was very precocious. I was small in size but much older than my age. I knew things that most kids my age did not know. And I remembered almost everything. Even today, I can tell my siblings about things that happened that amaze them. I am not sure if any of my siblings even remember this story. One of my closest friends once told me he thinks I was recording things as they happened.
At five years old, I saw the beginning of a tragedy, and ten years later, I would be made aware of its ending.
But the story has never died; it has been with me all these years.
Perhaps my blessing is remembering so many lessons from the troubles I have seen.
Jerome Pearson