The Heights (1998) pt 1
Snow never looks good when it’s been on the ground too long, it never looks good when it’s muddy, and it sure as hell never feels good when it causes the wind to move at twenty-five-miles per hour biting your knuckles until they become too stiff to move. My knuckles were stiff right now, and I couldn’t move them. Not because of the cold, or the spinal shock I got each time I tried to move them, that I could deal with. I couldn’t move them because of the stare I was getting from Lucifer’s spawn also known as my aunt Angela. Man if looks could kill, I’d be six feet under. Her stare was menacing, she was throwing daggers from her brown orbs, and her head tilted to a sharp fifteen-degree angle daring me to move an inch, and then again I really couldn’t— considering I was stuck between a rock and a hard place, literally. The over crowdedness of public buses during rush hour wasn’t new to me, the Spanish were flooding our neighborhood and they were everywhere. But today, I wish I wasn’t stuck between the fat balding construction worker and the pregnant hussy who was going on about her “dead beat, no money having, flaccid dick” baby father and how he’d been late on his child support this month.
“You even listening to me?” she asked, in a tone that said knew the answer but wanted me to acknowledge her.
“I-I ye—” I tried to conjure up a lie as quick as possible, but my words were failing me.
“What? You think you better than me?” she asked again, I knew this was a rhetorical question so I didn’t answer.
Ten minutes later, she hopped off the bus waddling like an oversized penguin, she must’ve been seven months along the way she was off balance and her feet were the size of a woolly mammoth. I’d almost feel sorry for her if she didn’t have the morals of a prostitute. We were so alike in that we were from the same neighborhood, hard exteriors and often misunderstood, yet so different in that she was pregnant and I was not. Her red hair that had been dyed one too many times fell loosely over her shoulders. She could’ve been pretty I thought. If she’d lose that permanent scowl, dye her hair its natural blonde—and stop being the neighborhood slut. I almost felt sorry for her, without her stank attitude she was not all that bad. Around here, you become a hard rock—on the outside to shoo away the gangsters, dope dealers, or perverted uncles who had a thing for underage girls with daddy issues and a gem on the inside— but she was all hard rock and no gem. I almost felt sorry for her. At least she could get the guy, even if it was for the night, she could get any guy she desired, and any guy who had one too many thug passion would think her beautiful.
Slowly I looked up to find Angela taking a break from giving me nonverbal threats and instead her attention was stolen by a baby who was wailing like a banshee. I could tell by the way her nose crinkled and the small beads of sweat that were on her forehead she wanted to smack that child but didn’t want to risk an assault charge, at least not today. Silently, I prayed to whoever listens to that shit and took the opportunity to whip out my cassette tape player, and skipped to track five; Doo Wop (That Thing). I remember it like it was yesterday—
‘The miseducation of Lauryn hill’ came out three months ago and I stole some money from Angela’s TIPS DO NOT TOUCH stash to get a copy. I get told I was too grown for my age anyhow so I had the bright idea of wearing an old Translator Crew tee and Angela’s denim shirt that was too big for me, I was practically drowning in it and denim shorts. My hair was in braids and there was no way in late August I was going to leave it down, so I put it in a ponytail with the help of a cut up bandana. Summer was coming to an end but not around here, the streets were coming alive and everyone was outside throwing a barbecue or dancing in the street because that’s what we did, that what we’ve always done. The walk to Benny’s was short, but for some reason it felt long, I could see everything. Shentae with an accent mark over the e and her friends were Double-Dutching in the middle of the streets, the fire hydrant was busted and no one seemed to care as the little Puertorican kids were playing in the water and I could hear Vanessa smacking her gum, no not smacking popping, throwing clothes out the window of her apartment and yelling at Jose something about he should go back to whatever whore house he was coming from. Although my Spanish was shit I figured I wasn’t far off considering the way he slurred his speech and his drunken stupor.
In the midst of observing what made my neighborhood hood (and unique) I didn’t realize I had reached my destination. “Benny’s Record Shop” was sprawled out on top of the rundown building, with the open sign on display. The building was so old, some of the letters were washed up and spelling enny’ ord Shop instead. Benny was too sick to run the shop, his daughter was too hip to be bothered to run the shop, so they hired some newbie from out of town; word on the street was the new hire as Shantae would describe was “two scoops of hmmm chile.” I let my feet carry me into the familiar shop that I’d spent most of my summers discovering artists; old, and new. That’s when I met Juice—
“Can I help you?” A voice said. It sounded odd, it didn’t belong to someone from this neighborhood, let alone this state. But I could tell he was trying to sound like he belonged here.
I turned around to see who it belonged to and then I forgot what I was here for, my words were failing me. So I didn’t say anything, and stared at him as if that was any less creepy than standing here in silence.
“They haven’t released an album in two years” he said, in a way that said he was trying to make conversation, and I was staring in a way that said I needed a restraining order. I never trusted Shantae whenever she talked about boys, last time she’d talked me into going out with her cousin Flaco from out of state that was “girl, a brotha is fineeee. He a little crazy cuz he don’t let nobody fuck with him cuz he little but now he got muscle and ‘allat” long story short, that didn’t go so well. Don’t get me wrong the brotha was fine, but he thought buying me a cola pop and a sandwich from old man Vinny’s bodega was enough to get him some nookie, like I was some hoe off the streets, obviously I said no. Then he asked me to suck his dick, whipped it out like it was nothing, I said no. Again. I didn’t know where his dick been at and I sure wasn’t about to catch no damn STI over some broke ass nigga who could only afford cola pop and a sandwich from an undercover nigger hater. I did kiss him, but only because he kept pressing me for one, you’d think he’d have game after all that pressing right? But n-o-o-o this nigga got spit everywhere, he was mad sloppy and he kissed like a fish.
“You’re a fan? Funny you’re the only one I’ve seen since I got here that knows them, my girlfriend hates them” he said, chuckling at the last part. And with that I snapped to reality from my summer daze. In my brief lapse of consciousness I knew some things; this brotha was fine, he had great taste in music, shantae was right for once in her life, and he has a girlfriend.
“Can I get the Lauryn hill album?” I asked, tugging at the sleeves of Angela’s denim shirt. “The cassette version” I added.
A trip to the NEW RELEASES aisle and he was back with my requested album. I followed him to the counter and he rang me up.
“That will be $7.99” he said
I reached inside my fanny pack, gave him the money, and he gave me the cassette.
“Thank you” I said and I walked out.
With the new album in hand and my pride still intact, I made the move I wasn’t supposed to make: for all I know this may be the last time I saw him, after all he was only here for the summer so what did it matter anyway? I had nothing to lose, so I walked back in.
“Hey, I’m rocky by the way” I said.
A curt smile spread across his face and that meant I hadn’t just made a fool of myself.
“Rocky?” he asked with one eyebrow raised.
“It’s meant to be short for Brooklyn, and my dad was a big rocky fan, he thought I’d be a boy. Imagine the surprise on his face when I wasn’t” I laughed, trying to make a joke. I did that when I was nervous, or uncomfortable. And right now I was the former.
He chuckled. “Rocky” he said tasting how it sounded in his California-New York wannabe accent. It sounded good. “Nasir—Nas—Juice, everyone calls me juice” he said
“Juice?” I said, this time I was the one raising a questioning brow.
“As a kid I couldn’t sleep without juice, so my mom started calling me that and it stuck” he explained.
“Nice to meet you na—I mean juice” I said.
The bus came to a shrieking halt and I was catapulted back to my reality, and as I expected, Angela’s eyes were trained on me. She wore that look that said you’re so dead, and I couldn’t wait to get this over with. I knew skipping school was wrong but I was hoping this time I wouldn’t get busted, but unfortunately I had no such luck.
“The heights!” the bus driver called, signaling for those who needed to get off at this stop. He looked like he could use some sleep, and food because he looked worse than I felt.
Killing me softly that’s what Angela was doing, and as we walked up the stairs of our rundown project building, I couldn’t help but fear that this might be the last time I walked up these stairs. She was my aunt but she looked like she was about over my shit and maybe killing me would be what she needed. The silence continued until we got to apartment 3a. My heart beat faster and faster and faster until I couldn’t take it anymore. When she slid the keys in the keyhole, it sounded like death dealing bullets and I was on the other end of that metaphorical gun. The door opened and—
“Rocky wake up you’re going to be late, I don’t want your principal calling me again!” Angela yelled, waking me out of my nightmare.
“You’re having one of those nightmares again, come on you’re going to be late for school”
30 minutes was all I could get for a shower, grooming and breakfast. Record time if you asked me before I heard the roar of Juice’s beat up Volvo V90.
“Yo rocky come on!” he yelled.
I threw my backpack over my shoulder as I made my way out the door.
“Don’t you dare skip school today!” Angela yelled.
“Love you too, Ang” I called out, closing the door behind me.
I got in the car, and Juice had some west coast shit playing on low volume because we always gave him shit about it, Skin Head was his usual quiet self in the backseat trying not to laugh at Vito’s ramblings about his midsummer night’s dream with shantae, which was just his Shakespearean way of saying “he hit that.” Not to doubt him but I was pretty sure he hadn’t been in pussy since the day he came out one.
“Yo stop at old man Vinny’s real quick I gotta get some condoms, the one I got last time hurt my balls” Vito said.
“Nigga you supposed to wear condoms on yo dick not on yo balls” Dope said scrunching up his face as he did whenever Vito said some dumb shit, which was all the time.
“This nigga a foo, lyin’ on yo dick ass nigga”, T-bone said.
“Men shut the fuck up, you aint got big dick problems” Vito countered.
“Aye men turn that shit up” T-bone said tapping juice on the shoulder as we stopped at a red light.
“I thought y’all aint like that west coast shit” Juice said with humor in his voice, knowing cube was the only nigga T-bone listened to.
“Aye men quit playing” T-bone said reaching forward and turned up the volume, then he started rapping as he stuck his head out the window “Thinkin will I live, another twenty-fo' I gotta go cause I got me a drop top And if I hit the switch, I can make the ass drop Had to stop, at a red light” Juice joined him at some point and the lights turned green. As we drove off to school, a smile spread across my face and I couldn’t help but think it was going to be a good day.
The Heights chapter 2: Dope-Man-Dope-Man (1997)
Mondays were shit, at least that’s what I was accustomed to thinking as the nights got shorter and days got longer. The first day of the week, which almost always left a bitter taste in my mouth; that would be my blood or a stabbing pain that would take the rest of the week to heal. I woke up in a good mood today, though in retrospect, I can’t seem to remember why. Maybe it was because spring was finally here, I knew that because the woman on the radio who went by “Tasha .B.” said so. I listened to her every morning before I went to school and at night before I went to bed, her voice was a mix of raspy and smooth, not too high not too low, but perfect enough for radio.
“Y’all, this right here is going to be the hottest track this summer, now don't say I ain’t say so when this joint blow up” she said, her voice going up one octave and I could sense how excited she was about announcing this next song “Coming in at number one is the loved, the hated, you know his name—the Notorious BIG with ‘Hypnotize’” she said, as the record started to play. Mom always said rappers were a bad influence on the culture. But as the first verse kicked in, I couldn't help but jerk my head in sync with the music. It may have been a hip-hop track but it was easy to feel the jazz-funk pieces that were scattered all over the track control my movements.
I took the radio with me into the bathroom, the one bathroom we all shared and by all I meant me, my mother, and my father. At least the hot water was running, which wasn’t surprising after the stint mom pulled at the management office and practically told the manager to “stick his sorry where the sun don't shine”. I thought we’d have to move out, but as luck may have it, they turned the hot water back on. Mom may be skinny as toothpick but she was not one to be tried, even dad knew better than to get on her bad side.
Unfortunately I wouldn’t be using the hot water today—
Lately I've been waking up with cold sweats, and dad said a cold shower was what I needed. He also gave me a page out of this monthly Playboy magazine subscription, something mom didn't know about, and he swore me to secrecy never to tell her. This month Faye Resnick was gracing the pages in less to no clothing and I got to work. After what seemed like forever, Faye wasn’t helping matters, the once-cold water was now lukewarm and I was running out of time, so I let my imaginations go beyond the magazine page, and there she was—
Brooklyn St. Michaels, in all her melanated glory wearing next to nothing.
Then there were lips, her lips, everywhere.
“Andre” she said into my neck, biting.
“Yeah” my words coming out as a whisper.
Her voice made me come undone
“Andre”
I was getting sloppy
“Andre”
“Andre”
“Andre”
“Andre” this time her voice morphed into the voice of my mother and only then did I realize she had been calling my name.
“I’m coming” I said, and mentally cringed at the inconsequential double entendre.
“You alright in there? Hurry up, breakfast is ready” Mom said
“YeahImgood.” I said, choking out the words.
I got dressed in a hurry and made my way to the kitchen. Dad wasn’t around, so I had to suffer the awkwardness alone. The tension was so thick it was taking up space in a place that had none left. Every day, Mom insisted on walking me to the bus stop not because she didn't trust me but because she didn't trust the neighborhood, and being that it was filled with dope fiends didn't help much. I’d hate to be on the receiving end of whatever she’d do if she caught a street-rat trying to sell me drugs. And today was just like any other, she walked me to the bus stop as we waited in awkward silence.
As the yellow bus approached, mom looked at me and smiled while fluffing up my fro that was now too long it got me mistaken for a girl nowadays.
“Ma’ stop, you're messing up my hair” I said, frowning trying to get her to not embarrass me anymore than she already did. If the kids on the bus saw this, they'd have a field day with me. Not to mention, I was still uncomfortable about the incident earlier.
“I'm sorry, I'm sorry” she said, keeping her hands to herself. As a smile grew across her face, she wasn’t mad at me, that was certain. I guess I was mad at myself and it was easier to project that onto her instead.
Everyone got on the bus, Vito wasn't coming to school today, he'd caught a bad case of being bullieditis and he was sitting out today’s punishment, which meant I’d get beatings for two. I pulled out a pad and pencil from my backpack and started drawing, when someone came to sit next to me. At first I thought it was Vito, and he'd changed his mind, but the brown skin looked nothing like Vito’s pale skin.
“I’m sorry do you mind if I sit here?” she asked. She looked in my eyes and I couldn’t say no to her. Brooklyn St. Michaels was asking to sit next to me in what seemed like a dream but wasn't, it was reality.
“Yeah sure” I said moving my backpack out of the way and dumping it on the floor.
We didn't speak the whole ride, mostly because her boyfriend Hakeem Whitney was throwing silent threats my way that suggested he didn't want me to speak to her, and if I did it'd be the worst mistake I ever made. And I'm pretty sure speaking to her would be a mistake considering the seven minutes in heaven that took place this morning. Once we got to school I got off the bus as fast as humanly possible, sprinted towards the bathroom, and locked myself in a stall. I needed to take a piss. The door to bathroom opened and I could hear two sets of footsteps making their way to my stall. I held my breath hoping it would pass as seconds went by. When nothing happened, I assumed they'd left. I tried to flush but of course the shit was jammed.
“Fucking piece of shit!” I hissed.
By now one would think, beating up the scrawny kid with Steve Urkel glasses, was a bit lackadaisical and the ones doing the bullying would move on to a new conquest, but like always, I was wrong.
“Dope man dope man, hey can you score me some from your mommy” Whitney said, his pubescent voice kicking in.
Without missing a beat, Whitney and Gaye started rapping together, and I counted to ten because I knew the minute they stop, they'd kick open the door and I was going to get a daily dose of verbal torment, or head dunks into the toilet bowl. Today would be the latter.
“It was once said by a man who couldn't quit Dope man, please can I have another hit? The dope man said, Cluck, I don't give a shit if your girl kneels down and sucks my dick" they said in unison.
“Six…seven…eight…nine…ten…” I counted, and silence was all I could hear. Nothing, no taunting no banging, just silence. I came out of the stall and on cue they pushed me back in, grabbed me by the legs and dunked my head into the dirty toilet bowl.
“Breathe that shit in, or I’ll fucking kill you” Gaye said, with eyes full of rage that said he wasn't joking.
“Nigga he said breathe!” Whitney shouted, followed by a swift punch to my jaw. My cheeks relaxed and they dunked me again into the bowl, and up and down and up—then Whitney knocked my glasses to the ground, that would be the third broken glass I would have to lie about. The dunks continued until the ammonia burned my eyes and I could taste some of it in my mouth, this continued until I couldn't breathe. My asthma kicked in and no matter how much I wailed they couldn't hear me over the sound of their devilish laughter. My lungs were going through what felt like third degree burns, perks of having a dope fiend for a mother who neglected to take prenatal vitamins or quit using, even after my birth—until the cops found both her and my father half dead in their apartment and took me away. Defective lungs, asthma and all.
“Hey Whitney” said a voice, that sounded like it wasn't used much, followed by the sound of a fist and jaw connecting, and that was the last thing I saw.
The showers were running and I could breathe again, first time I didn't need my inhaler. I opened my eyes slowly and saw none other than Khalil White, aka Skin Head, standing above me with a quizzical look on his face. Only then did I realize my surroundings; I was in the boy’s locker room.
“You let those asshats mess around like that?” he asked, sounding half angry, and half disgusted.
I didn't answer.
“You still smell like piss by the way” he said, leaving behind a towel and a worn out gym shirt.
“You tell anyone I helped you…” he said, not finishing his statement and allowing me to figure it out on my own. You tell anyone I helped you and I’ll kill you, you tell anyone I helped you and I’ll beat you to a pulp, you tell anyone I helped you and I’ll cut you in pieces and leave you on the streets, or you tell anyone I helped you and I’ll burn you alive. The last part I could believe, he was a pyromaniac and word was he got expelled and sent to juvie because he set some kid on fire at his old school. So yeah, I definitely got his point. . .and no one would be knowing Mr. Tall dark and handsome was—well, a little ray of sunshine if rays of sunshine came once in a while, then that was what he’d be.
After I cleaned up, I made my way to the principal’s office. That was where I was every weekday from 9:00 a.m. to 9:15 a.m., making announcements. I hated it. It was only bearable because rocky, was the one who gave me the announcements every morning.
“Andre, Marsha changed up the announcements, here’s the new one” she said
Nineteen— those were the number of words she said to me so far today. The most ever.
“It’s dope” I countered, no one around here calls me Andre.
“Whatever Andre, here’s the new announcements” she said leaving the paper on the table.
As I began reading the announcements, I realized no one called me Andre because no one bothered to know my real name, except Brooklyn Rocky. The way she said my name was just like how I’d imagined it this morning, and oddly I like how it sounded coming out of her mouth. Shit I just realized how double entendre-ish that sounded. Fuck!
“Good morning WHHS, I'm Dope and these are your morning announcements”
As the school day came to a close, I decided not to take the bus. It wasn't a bad walk, plus I would avoid those asshats on the bus anyway. At least I didn't have to feel bad for Vito because he wasn't here today. As the walk to the apartment got shorter, I couldn't help but feel the day was not over. I opened the door to our apartment, and as usual mom was in the kitchen, and dad was somewhere in his room. I looked at the living room and saw a woman who looked like she could be in her mid-thirties with blood-shot eyes, and a man with outstretched arms that looked like oak branches consoling her. I couldn’t see his face, but he looked uncomfortable like he didn’t console people often.
“Andre? That you?” mom called from the kitchen, her voice shaky with each word
Her usual caramel skin looked dewy, like she’d been working up a sweat and her eyes mirrored the lady in the parlor.
“Smells good, Ma.” I said, thankful the tension from this morning was non-existent.
“I love you Dre, you know that right?” she asked
“Ma what’s wrong?”
She didn't answer, she looked me in my eyes, as one lonely tear ran down her right cheek, and then another ran down her left cheek. Her lips quivered, and she couldn't stop the tears from breaking speed limits down her eyes so she pulled me close and hugged me.
“Your mother is here” she said, her voice breaking into what sounded like a million pieces.
Chapter 3: Not The Jewish Rat
Mondays were shit, they were so shitty I would try to devise a plan that would result in me not attending school, yet every plan ended up with the opposite effect. Today, just like any other Monday, was the usual rango-tango dance with me and mom; she’d come into my room in the morning and wake me up for school and I would make up some bullshit excuse in hopes of convincing her to let me stay home but that never worked. Ever. Although, one thing I have learned so far is that mom had the remedy for everything; soup. If I had a broken leg, soup was the remedy. If I had a headache, soup. If I had a fever, soup. If I were to die, she’d probably feed me soup and I’d probably come back to life. So the surprised look on my face when she bought this plan was as authentic as could be, because I didn’t think she’d buy it.
“Cara Mia you’re burning up!” she said, mixing her Italian and English like she always did, and without fail she said what I told you she’d say “I’ll fix you a bowl of soup, vi andrà bene il mio amore” she said in a worried tone. Funny thing was today I wasn't scheming— I was actually burning up.
I reached up to wipe the sweat off my forehead.
“Took you long enough” I said to myself, I've tried so many ways to induce a fever and today it finally worked.
I got out of bed with my blanket wrapped around me, as I made my way into the kitchen, smelling the somewhat familiar smell of mom’s famous homemade tortellini soup, aka her cure for everything.
“Sit, ho quasi finito” she said, ushering me to the dining table and pulling out a chair for me to sit.
“One bowl and you’ll be good to go” she said and I panicked.
Here I was thinking I would get a free pass and not have to go to that hellhole known as school, but obviously my mother had other plans. She placed a bowl in front of me and I scrunched up my nose, this was a different soup and by the smell alone I knew this was going to be bad.
“It’s good ma” I said, lying through my teeth.
She watched me like a mother hen looking after her newly hatched egg making sure I drank every last bit of the soup as I gulped down what was left.
“See—all better” she said kissing me on the forehead.
“Mom I don’t feel so good” I countered, holding my stomach for an added effect.
“Vincent, you have to go—“she tried to say while I upchucked the soup, all over the kitchen floor. It was either that or school and I couldn't go, not today.
“Cara mia, you really are sick” she said
Mom couldn’t call out of work—courtesy of her boss, and dad was away on a business trip so I was dropped off at uncle Vinny’s Bodega. The balding middle aged man looked so much like my mom. Just older, hairier, and dare I say fatter. Every New Year’s eve he’d swear up and down he would enroll in a gym, and sometimes he did, but he never went— his excuse was: “I can’t go, there’s no one to look after the shop” and when mom would try to talk him into hiring someone he’d say “I don’t want those Negros in my shop, stealing my shit, and I sure as hell don’t want those Spanish good-for-nothings either” was his always ignorant-racial answer. Mom would get irritated and drop the subject.
So here I was standing in his shop, while he stared at me like he didn’t know what to do with me, or I was taking up space in his bodega like I didn’t belong here, (which in retrospect was true because I belonged in school, not here, certainly not here). Uncle Vinny was the neighborhood undercover racist, no one knew about it, because he wasn’t vocal about his racism upfront, he was one of those in-the-closet-racist, if you know what I mean. Sans his ignorance and bigotry, he was alright, he let me tear into whatever my hands could reach and I spent the majority of my day eating things that would give mom a coronary if she found out and playing on my Gameboy to pass the time.
The silence was broken when uncle Vinny cleared his throat.
“You know Vito, you remind me of me, except for those eyes, those are your dads” he said, sounding angry at the last part.
Dad and uncle Vinny never got along, but in front of mom they were best of friends. Uncle Vinny didn't like dad because he was German-Jewish and dad didn’t like uncle Vinny because he tried to marry mom off to Antonio DeLuca. All I know is dad and Antonio fought for mom’s love like a page out of Westside story, it was so classic it put Romeo and Juliet to shame. Although, that story always left a bitter taste in dads mouth each time he was drunk enough to tell it, which meant he'd only told it once, and after that he never drank. Said he didn't like the taste, but I think he didn't like mom seeing him that way.
“You hated school, too?” I asked, wanting to know more.
He chuckled, “That’s one way to put it” he said shrugging. “Came up with very lie in the book not to go to school, my mom fell for it, but Rosemary could sniff out a lie even before its told, your mom was is molto intelligente” he said emphasizing the last part.
We talked about his childhood, how he used to be a pro-wrestler called the Punisher, and how much he hated school, then he gave me a condom, said in case I ever got lucky, then he laughed.
“Okay boy, we gotta close” uncle Vinny said as he started cleaning up, and flipped the sign so it said CLOSED!
“Sorry we’re closed” I said, my back to the door. When I didn’t hear the door open and close I assumed maybe it was a nice old lady who’d gotten lost and didn’t have her hearing aid so she couldn’t hear me, when I turned around I saw five guys in all black wearing a mask and they sure as hell didn’t look like an old lady who’d gotten lost and forgot her hearing aid. Two of them were holding uncle Vinny by the neck while his face was covered with a cloth, and a gun to his head.
“Ascoltali! Listen to them” uncle Vinny said, in a tone that suggested he was scared, the so called punisher was pissing himself, same uncle Vinny who would talk smack about people who got robbed was scared. I mean it made sense why he’d be terrified, considering there was a gun pointed at him.
One of the men walked up to me, my eyes bulging out.
“Where’s the money?” he asked, well yelled, I mean he did ask but he yelled while asking so—
“Dargli soldi give him the money” uncle Vinny said, which earned him a blow to the head by the man pointing a gun at me.
“English Hefe!” said, the tallest one, who I assumed to be the leader. Shooting one warning bullet in the air, causing the cola dispenser tin to burst open spewing dark liquid everywhere.
“Listen boy, I aint gon’ hurt you, now your Patrón said give me the money so—give-me-the goddamn-money-motherfucker” he said screaming the last part as if to drill his warning into my brain.
Hurriedly, I opened the cash register, my hands springing into action without being told what to do.
“Yo T-B, give him the bag” the leader said to one of the boys standing by the door
He looked like he’d never held a gun, well compared to the leader he looked like he'd never held a gun before. He handed me the money bag and I stuffed all the money inside while the other guys took milk, cereal, biscuits and other provisions from the store.
“All the money” the one known as T-B said, his voice sounding all too familiar like I’d heard it somewhere before. Maybe it was on TV, or in the streets or fuck —school. I remembered his voice, he was one of the few kids at school who didn't bother me or tell me to “go back to whatever holocaust infested hole I crawled out of”, he was one of the good ones, at least I thought he was until he pulled out a gun to my head and asked me to stuff my uncles money into a black duffle bag.
“Man shut yo bitch ass up” the leader said talking to who I now know is Tariq Bonesteel
“This better be all the money boy” said the leader, grabbing the money bag and backing up out of the store, still pointing the gun at my head.
They ran out, got in a car and drove off into the night.
“Those fucking Negros! Piece of shit! Fuck!” uncle Vinny cursed, while grabbing his phone to dial 9-1-1. A few hours later we were at the police station filing a report. Apparently, a group of robbers were caught doing a stint at another bodega thirty-minutes after Uncle Vinny’s was robbed. Since uncle Vinny couldn’t see the robbers, I had to identify all of them. One by one, they marched in, each wearing a wife-beater.
“What about him? Seen him anywhere before?” one of the cops asked. “They can’t see you, don't be scared” he added.
I looked at them one by one. I knew I couldn't rat Tariq out, he'd know it was me and his posse would probably kill me, but what the hell, I had no loyalty to him or his band of misfits. It was bad enough people made holocaust jokes, I certainly did not want to be branded as the neighborhood (Jewish) rat, that’s what they called anyone who snitched; a rat. In the midst of my internal battle, I realized I didn’t owe Tariq my loyalty, but now he’d owe me his.
“No, never seen them before.” I said, lying through my teeth.
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