I feel compelled to write about one ofthe most overused words of the last decade and so. The word hate. My American Heritage Dictionary simply defines the word as intense animosity or hostility. But where does this amimosity or hostility come from? In the early 90’s, the Notorious B.I.G and Sean P.Ditty Combs popularized the term “playa hater” As outdated and cliche as the phrase has become since, it was nothing short of brilliance to coin a phrase that so accurately describes an common behavior in men.
In Hip-Hop, an expression or act of hate often stems from jealousy or the insecurities of another man. But what makes one jealous or resentful by another man’s success or good fortune? On the surface, it seems irrational for a man to have any concerns about another man’s life and what’s he’s achieved. Like jay-Z says, “what you eat, don’t make me shit.” Another man’s life should never have any bearing on your own.
What is it that turns men into haters? I truly believe it’s not what seems obvious on the surface. It’s really not about the weath, talent, fame,women and success but what it symbolizes to the man who is lacking any one of these things. It’s a painful reminder of his inadequacies and what he hasn’t achieved. It’s a threat to his ego. Subconsciously he feels that somehow, someway he doesn’t quite measure up and that he must be a sucker. As a result, he begins to adopt sucker-like behavior. If he allows himself to indulge in such unappealing behavior, sooner or later, he will eventually get played like a sucker.
There are an infinite amount of examples of how and why people hate. Back in the early 80’s in New York City, there was a talentless graffiti writer named Cap MPC. Cap was the biggest hater in graffiti ever. He was jealous of all the hot burners and whole cars that guys like Kel 1st, Seen Tc5, Min-One, Skeme and Dez usedto produced. Secretly I suspect he wanted to burn, but it wasn’t happening for him. So instead he went over the burners with ugly ass throw-ups and destroyed countless whole cars in order to get fame. He weakly justified his actions by sayingthat he was a “bomber.” Haters tend to make excuses and justifications for their actions. It comes with their weak character.
Hecklers heckle comdedians at their shows because they’re sore that the spotlight isn’t on them. So they attempt to steal some of the comdeian’s shine with whack ass jokes. A good comdedian will send the jerk home embarassed and his girlfriend or wife annoyed with him.
Some hate is more subtle like when a friend always feel the need to one-up you. It seems like that no matter where you been, done or been through, so have they, just a little bit better than you.
Another form of hate is when you present an idea to a friend or business assoicate and they manage to find everycon that is wrong with it before you even finish the sentence, instantly killing your newborn dream.
Other kinds of hate are more subliminal like when a friend or co-worker fails to give you props for something you deserve. Yes, refusing to recognize is a form of hate on the low.
Then there are some hate that is just plain obnoxious and stupid. One time I arrived at a work related party stylishly dressed in a Brooks Borthers suit and Thomas Pink shirt. After some of my co-worker finished complimenting me on my look, one underdressed jerk sarcastically informed me that he liked my “outfit.” I am not a guy who wears outfits.
So you see, their are many different ways to hate. Some people cleverly try to diguise their hate and it isn’t always obvious, but you can always smell it when it’s directed at you. As you begin to grow more sophisicated with your eye for such behaviors, they become rather transparent. Pity the hater. They’re painfully weak, tortured souls you should do best to ignore when they try to throw hate on your game. Kill them with kindness and indifference.
One might try to argue that since I seem to know so much about haters that I must be a hater myself. To this I have to say, doctors know a awful lot about Cancer, but they don’t always have Cancer.
*This blog is not directed at any one individual in paerticular, so don’t make the mistake of assuming. That would be hating on the low. Peace!
Posted on October 31, 2007 at 07:54 AM | Comment (21 comments)
I’m going to make this short and sweet, but I’m talking about the things that bring joy to my life like tattooing, doing graffiti outlines, writing stories and just treating people with the respect they deserve to be treated with, as human beings. If you read some of my stories, this might sound contradictive, but it’s not, when you consider that most of those stories took place almost twenty years ago. It was a different time and age, but that’s neither here or there. I choose to do this blog because it helps me get my name out there as both an artist and a writer. I shouldn’t have to explain myself, but I enjoy the comments that I receive from my audience and I also want people to keep checking in on my blog. Why even do it, if it’s not going to be one of the hottest blogs on 12ozprophet? I’m not trying to have a whack, boring blog. I know that in order to recieve love, you gotta give a little love. That’s why I’m going to continue doing my outline of the week, despite what some of my more high and mighty friends might think about it. I can’t stop them from being rude and obnoxious and disrespectful, but I can tell you one thing, I do not appreciate or condone it. Even when I was the biggest toy, back in the day, I never had a problem with telling somebody to go to hell. No matter who they thought they were in the graffiti world. I encourage you all to express yourselves however you need to express yourself. Peace.
Posted on October 30, 2007 at 06:44 PM | Comment (5 comments)
“Big Ed’s Higher Level Tattoo Studio…the video”
Check out how we get down where I ink at, Higher Level Tattoo Studio in the heart of Washington Heights, owned by my boy Eddie/Resk Tc5. Artists featured:Big Ed and Andy B. We’re nasty with it!!!!
Posted on October 30, 2007 at 12:57 PM | Comment (1 comments)
I’ve rarely seen anything so funny in my life. I get cramps laughing at my sister, screaming at the top of her lung’s capacity, cowering in the corner of my room on top of my bed. The stupid expression on her face is priceless.
Sugar, the white, muscular pit bull I “borrowed” from one of my boys, Juice Tc5 snaps his teeth inches away from her toes. It takes most of all my strength to hold the dog back at a safe enough distance on its leash. My aunt barges into my room. Yelling.
What the hell are you doing?
Don’t think I won’t sic Sugar on you too. You better chill!
My aunt is not amused by my sense of fun.
My sister screams. He’s crazy, Mommy! He’s a psycho for real!
Oh take it easy, I’m just fucking with you. I’m not going to let Sugar do anything to you.
I yank the dog back and command it to sit. I kneel and pet her to calm the animal down.
Good doggie, good doggie. I hug and kiss her, but only a little bit because she stinks.
Mommy, you have to throw him out now. He’s crazy!
Fuck you! How about all those times when you used to bully me and twist my arm? Huh? Huh? Huh? And take my quarter. You’re just mad because you can’t fuck with me anymore. I’ll mess your bitch ass up. Say I won’t…I dare you!
Vincent! My aunt screams, watch your mouth in my house. What the hell is wrong with you?
Oh now, all of a sudden, we’re worry about language? Fuck that shit, Man! I don’t get down with that hypocritical shit. I’m as real as they come!
Man, Elsie really messed you up, boy.
Fuck Elsie!
Jesus Christ, Vincent, she’s dead.
So is Jesus. Whatever! I address my sister. You! Fuck out my room. Now!
I speak to the pit bull. You know what we’re going to do now? We’re going to vamp some writers. Oh yes, we are! I become so happy with the thought that I sing. We’re gonna vamp some writers! We’re gonna vamp some writers!
I leave my house with Sugar the pit bull. I am 16 and I used to be such a sweet, innocent little boy who used to cry at the sight of a dead bird or a mouse caught in a trap, but a few things have happened along the way that have killed the soul of that little boy. Instead lives a monster in his place that hates. The monster hates so much, that he hates even himself. I wish I was never born, but since I was, I wish I was dead. Since I don’t have the balls to take my own life, I instigate my death frequently. I am far beyond angst. I am evil.
Once outside my apartment building, the sun glares in my eyes. I put on my shades. A short, obese man waddles towards me. Although, I find him disgusting to look at, I cannot take my eyes off of him. His stomach hangs to the middle of his thigh. He has to be at least 300 pounds if not more. I sneer at him as he passes by me.
Look Sugar, that’s a nice big snack. You’re hungry?
The obese man sneers back at me. Don’t you dare!
Don’t I dare what? You fat disgusting fuck! Sic him, Sugar!
The pit bull barks uncontrollably at the man. He tries to run, but his legs can not support his weight and he falls to the pavement like a hunted elephant. He looks at me from the ground. His frighten face makes me laugh like a hyena. I have Sugar on a tight leash, just inches from snapping at the man’s fat ankles.
Leave me alone! The man cries out to me. I feel sorry for him, but not enough to stop laughing.
I jerk Sugar back on his leash. Sit! Sugar obeys. Good doggie! I praise the beast.
Lose weight, motherfucker! I yell at the man before I walk off with the dog. I reach the far end of my block when I hear the fat bastard yell.
Hey you!
I turn around. He sticks his middle finger up at me and tries to hurry off.
I crouch low and point to the man. Sic him! I command and let Sugar go. I am intrigued that the dog is amazingly fast. The obese man sees the dog coming and does the impossible and climbs on top of a parked Cadillac.
Holy shit! I exclaim to myself. It’s an unbelievable feat on his behalf, but he makes it on top of the roof. The car sinks low to the ground. Sugar is jumping and snapping his jaws at him. I run towards them, stopping to laugh every other second.
My aunt exits my building. This is not good. My aunt is a lady you can only push so far. She happens to be very unpredictable herself and I never know when she just might slap me. Getting slapped by your aunt in the street is not cool.
I run full speed and snatch Sugar’s leash and yank her back.
Chill, Sugar, chill!
The man is bleeding from his calf. I think the taste of blood excites Sugar. I have to physically hold her down. My aunt is yelling in my ear that I’m a maniac. This is the same lady who shot at her sister with a 22 caliber in front of me when I was 5 years old.
The obese man wants to know if I am her son.
He’s my nephew. Are you okay?
No, I’m not okay. I want your name and address. I’m calling both the cops and my lawyer.
My aunt stands, not knowing what to say. She takes the threat seriously and it’s stressing her out. I stare at the man with evil, unblinking eyes.
My name is Vincent fucking Mayta and I live right here, I point to my building, motherfucker! You come with the cops and your lawyer and I swear on my father’s grave that I will find your fat, nasty ass and chop up in a thousand pieces while you are alive and feed you to my dog. And you can tell them that I said that too.
I hock a wad of phlegm in the back of my throat and I don’t spit, I shoot it at him. The man looks like he’s about to vomit as my gook slides down his face.
You piece of shit!
My aunt looks at me, speechless.
Fuck that shit! I announce as I walk off with Sugar. I rap a song I just make up.
Niggas wanna die! Niggas wanna die! Niggas wanna die!
I flag a cab on Broadway. The driver tells me that Sugar can’t come in. I open the door and carry Sugar inside the car anyway. He tells me that I can’t be in his car with the animal.
Dude, just shut the fuck up and take me to145th street and Broadway.
The driver studies me, not sure what to make of me. I help him out.
Don’t make me tell you again. Go!
The driver bitches up and drives off. I smirk and mumble, “punk ass motherfucker” under my breathe. The Haitian man looks at me through the rear view mirror. I stare at him hard. He looks away. We arrived at my destination.
Four dollars.
Get the fuck out of here. You didn’t wanna let my dog in and now you want to charge me? Are you fucking insane?
I open the door. The man hits the gas as I have one foot out the car. I pull my foot back in quickly.
Do you want to die? I ask the driver, not stopping for a second to consider if he’s even a family man. I punch him in the back of the head. He stops the car and fumbles for something under his seat. I hit him again. He turns with a gun in his shaky hand. I look at his eyes. They’re soft. The guy is not a killer, but a lot of killers aren’t.
You’re going to pay me my money. I am not a sucker!
I look at the gun in disbelief. It has to be at least fifty years old. It pisses me off.
You’re going to shoot me with that piece of shit? What the fuck?
Sweat begins to bead down his forehead. I consider slapping the gun out his hand, but then I think that it might backfire literally. So instead I sit back and relax and pet and kiss Sugar.
Give me my money, motherfucker! What are you doing?
I’m chilling and I’m not giving you shit! What are you going to do? Shoot me if you’re going to shoot. If not, call the cops. Either way, I’m not giving you shit!
Don’t make me.
Shoot or call the cops!
The man is frustrated. I snicker at him.
You punk ass motherfucker! If I was at the end of that gun, you would be finished.
Get out! Get out of my car! You have no morals.
You would get along with my aunt. She says the same thing. It must be true. Later!
I open the door and slide out the car and sing my rap again: Niggas wanna die! Nigga wanna die! Niggas must wanna die!
I enter the 145th street train station. People look at Sugar and me in shock and fear.
Pussies!
I hop the turnstile. The token booth clerk screeches through her microphone.
PAY YOUR FARE!
I ignore her and walk t the downtown end of the station like I own it. I hope West and Zear or Jon-one are inside the lay-up. I think about Jon’s pieces. they’re cool. Maybe I could get West to rock a Psycho outline and have Jon fill it in with his abstract shit. That would be a crazy piece. I get excited about my new piece I’ve formed in my head. But first, I have to rob some writers for paint.
At the end of the platform, I peer inside the dimly lit tunnel. I smell paint. I look around for police. I check my watch. It is not even 9 am on a dead Sunday morning. I assume that they might be changing shifts. I enter the tunnel, keeping Sugar on a short, tight leash. A blue conductor’s paddle conveniently lies on the tracks I check for oncoming subway trains and cross the tracks. I creep past the first row of parked trains and take a peek down the middle of the lane. I see a tall, lanky figure many, many subway cars down. He is spray painting a train. I get excited. In the middle of the lane are a row of steel beams. I walk down the lane on the right side of the beam and it helps me stay out of sight from the lone writer. As I approach closer, I think that the guy has shitty instincts. I would have sensed my presence by now if I was him.
I am within 6 feet before he looks.
Yo, what’s up, bee? You know Psycho?
The guy is obviously taken back by Sugar, but he’s making a huge effort to play it cool.
Nah. What you write?
I write Tack, FBA. You know I did that joint with the sharks in Subway Art.
Oh word! I know who you are.
The tall guy has a mouth full of gold fronts and thinks he’s hard. This tells me that he’s either from Brooklyn or the Lower East Side of Manhattan.
What you write?
He tells me what he writes. It’s a bunch of bullshit initials like R2D2 that I don’t remember. He tells me that he’s down with R.T.W. and that he’s rocks the J’s and the M’s.
Yo bee, that dude Psycho just robbed me of all my paint like two hours ago. I’m going to sic my dog on him and beat his ass.
But aren’t you and Psycho both down with Tc5?
That dude has no respect. He’s crazy. Watch out, bee. He might try to rob you. he’s a sneaky dude.
The guy takes out a pistol out of waist band. This is exactly what I was trying to find out. I check the gun out. It’s another shitty looking gun.
He ain’t vamping shit. I don’t play that. I’m from Brooklyn!
Shhhhh! You heard that? Writers!
I raise the paddle and fake look around. He looks around too. I smash his hand with my paddle and knock the gun out of his hand. He yells.
What the---
The paddle stops him from finishing his sentence. Blood spurts out of his mouth. He bends over holding his face. Damm, I fucked up. I think to myself. Because now I don’t want his gold fronts.
Sic him, Sugar!
I hold Sugar back. The dog snaps his killer jaws at the tall black guy.
Take everything out of your pockets and drop it on the ground. Don’t forget your watch and your chain too.
My mother gave this chain to me. She’s dead.
For real?
Word is born.
Okay, I’ll let you slide this time. But everything in your pockets.
He throws about thirty bucks on the ground.
Can I keep my wallet and I.D.?
It’s a piece of shit. I shrug. Why not? Fuck it, I think.
The gold fronts too.
He throws the gold on the ground.
Now who the hell told you that you can come in here? I lecture to him. You think the one tunnel is a joke? This place isn’t safe. This is F.C. shit, bee.
Yo bee, I didn’t mean any harm, he manages to mumble, I was just doing some pieces.
Oh come on....you were looking all hard and shit a minute ago with your bullshit gun, talking about Psycho ain’t going to vamp you. Well, guess what, motherfucker? I just did.
I give him my crazy eyes look for added effect.
Thanks for the paint, Popeye. Now get the fuck out of my yard.
I watch him walk off.
I sit on the third rail and shift through the spray paint in his duffle bag. There are about 40 cans of beautiful colors. I get happy and sing.
Niggas wanna die! Niggas wanna die!
I think for a second that Juice is going to be pissed because his dog is dirty. Fuck it.
Niggas wanna die!
Posted on October 30, 2007 at 11:01 AM | Comment (10 comments)
“By Special Request Only: Outline of the Week”
Because we all can’t have friends named West, Poke, Dash or Doze.
I’ll honor one outline request a week. Peace
Posted on October 29, 2007 at 09:56 PM | Comment (20 comments)
*Because of the sensitive nature of this story, I choose to respect the identity of the writers/artists involved, some of whom are very well known in the culture. If anybody happens to know who the individuals are I’m writing about, please refrain from exposing them in your comments.
“Why did you stab that boy?”
My aunt titi Olga asked me very matter of factly with a disappointed look on her face as soon as I walked into the entrance of our apartment. I had just spent the last two and a half days fighting and protecting my personal belongings while eating nothing but foul Bolona sandwiches in Central Booking anotherwise known as the Tombs in 100 Centre Street, New York City. I was 15 years old and already charged with attempted murder, armed robbery and a slew of less serious offenses like trespassing. I didn’t have an anwser for her. She expressed her shock and disappointment in me. I was disappointed in myself. Considering my poor upbringing, I managed to showed much promise and potential. I was considered the smartest and the most talented in my family. I had the big personality and was bound to do good things with my life, dispite a few moral indiscretions I showed here and there.The adults in my life had no doubt that I would sooner or later shape up to become a good man. Until now.
In one mindless, egotistical, scared moment, not only did I ruin my life but I ruined the lives of others. An innocent boy was in the Intensive Care Unit in critical condition because of me. I fucked up.
I fucked up so bad that apologies and words could never begin to make it right. The act itself helped solidify my reputation in the graffiti world, a reputation I would have rather done without in hindsight.
Why did I do it? There just isn’t one simple answer to that question, but one truth is that I was scared myself. I unexpectantly found myself alone in the dark tunnel underground of New York City where
anything can happen with no less than a dozen kids, approximately my age and all sizes. I was informed that their would be just five or six of them. I know that number in itself is a little crazy for one man to confront by himself, but it was a feat that I was already used to.
I got to the lay-up from the train station just as the first three climbed down the secret ladder from an escape hatch from above ground. I already had the knife out and had the first three against the wall. One by one I ordered them all to stand against the wall, wondering when they were going to stop. But they wouldn’t stop coming. After the tenth kid, it occurred to me that I might be the one put against the wall. It was just a matter of them deciding to do so. Only in the movies can one man take on a dozen guys. This was real life. I felt it was better for me that I put a stop to any thoughts of taking a stand against me.
One of the kids I was sticking up, I considered to be a good friend. Why would I stick up a good friend? Good friends simply don’t betray and disrespect you. At the time, when graffiti writers and crews were very territorial about yards and lay-ups, 175th lay-up was mine, along with my F.K. boys. Everybody knew that there were consequences to trespassing certein yards. If you got caught in 145th street lay-up, you had to deal with people like Flite, Baby-Rock and FBA. If you got caught in the Ghost, chances were T-Kid, Bio and the Vamp Squad might just get you. This was just how it was back in the day. When it came to the 175th lay-up, I just happened to be the one doing the getting.
I liked my former friend a lot. Wemet at my friend Eddie’s house and got along famously. I thought he was bright, funny and extremely talented. We had sleep-overs and shared many fun times together. I rememberracking graffiti supplies with him, and trying to teach him how to vamp other kids for their shit. This was actually hilarious because he was so not the type. We were cool. So cool that I took him to the lay-up and showedhim secrets that not even Min-One and RTW knew about when they ran the yard back in their hey day. How did I know this for sure? Because their was not one tag in these secret entrances and exits. They were untouched by vandals. I showed my friend the lay-up with one request. Never ever take anybody into these tunnels, much less show expose my secrets. He promised me he wouldn’t and I trusted him.
But sometimes we do things we know we shouldn’t do, because we think we’re going to get away with it. This is just human nature. Prisons are filled with people with kind of thinking. Because he was my friend, I’m sure he didn’t think there would be such severe repercussions. Why should he? All he got to see was the sweet, silly, kind side that only my friends and family got to see at the time. My ugly side was reserved for the physically threatening and utterly disrespectful. Taking one or two kids to the lay-up would have been disrespectful as far as I’m concerned. Bringing upwards to 15 kids was just a big “fuck you” to me on his behalf. I felt I had to do something, much less be dissed and have my reputation compromised.
At 15, most of us are not sophisicated enough to fully understand our own natures, much less our friends. My friend underestimated my wrath, just as I foolishly overestimated his loyalty. The results were tragic. I thank God that the boy lived. I would never attempt to justify my actions. I can only explain them and let people think what they want for themselves. Out of everything in my life, I regret this day the most. Not only did I disappoint myself, I lost a good friend and I ruined an innocent life. That boy did not deserve what I did in the least. A legend was born out of that day, but it’s not a legend that I’m proud of. Being feared is a lot different than being respected. It’s taken some growing up and maturity to understand this. If somebody happens to look up to me this day, I should hope that it’s because they see an intelligent, talented, thinking man who strives to the right thing. Sometimes I fail but most times, I succeed.
To all those involved in that incident that day, for whatever it’s worth, I’m truly am sorry.
Posted on October 29, 2007 at 08:25 AM | Comment (4 comments)
Listening to a little Jigga
It’s about that time
To kick a sick ass rhyme
Like I got the flu
Ahhh-CHOO!
God bless me
And fuck you!
I know that was rude
No ruder than that Bush dude
However though
It’s Psycho-Love, yo!
One hell of a guy!
I don’t cry, I don’t lie
And I refuse to die
And if somebody ever got close enough to pull the trigger
best believe I’m gonna snuff the nigga
And put his lights out before mine go out
You don’t even know what I’m about
Unpredictable
Like one big riddle
I’m a mystery
You don’t even know your history
You jerks never even heard of Kool Herc
or Top Cat
Do you even know who’s Tracey’s kid is?
No wonder Dash be on some shit
It’s enough to make an O.G. wanna flip
All y’all know is Futura and Cope
You fucking dopes
That’s why your name could never go on the map
When was the last time you scrapped?
You buy your fat caps
I’m an outlaw by nature not relation
I have no patience for fake ones
Get a grip before you slip
Never been a Blood or a Crip
I’m my own man
a posse by my damm self
But I have love for all my dudes in my crews
Tc5-IBM-Fc
Doc, West, Poke, Doze,Seen and Dash too
Can’t forget Sye, Oas, Doves and Gets
True school
The definition of cool
You know how we do
Posted on October 28, 2007 at 03:11 PM | Comment (8 comments)
It should have been a pleasant fall afternoon spent with my new friend Emma in bed. Emma wasn’t exactly a new friend. I met her the winter prior at Heart Throbs in 1985 where she was a permanent fixture. We danced together many times and shared just as many drinks. We even had breakfast together at the Chelsea Square diner a couple of times. For some reason, we never hooked up. I like to think that it was because I didn’t need to, but the real reason was probably because I was to slow to close the deal. At 16 years old, it wasn’t like I was exactly swimming in my choice of women or should I say girls. The week before we finally made out and she let me suck on a breast in one of the dark nooks in the balcony area of Heart Throbs. She had pretty, pink, puffy nipples.
Emma’s father was a repair man and would be gone for the day, catching up on the repairs that had to be made through out the Chelsea projects. She was estranged from her mother for some secret, dark reason. We just had to wait for her little 13 year old brother Emilio to get lost for the day, but he was too busy showing off what a little bad ass he was for me.
I know a lot of graffiti writers. Better graffiti writers than you.
Yeah? That’s cool.
As impatient as I felt, I felt somewhat obligated to entertain the kid at the very least. After all, I was here to try and fuck his older sister and he knew it. I always instinctively knew that the guys that frequented my house were there to try to sleep with my aunt Olga and occasionally, my cousin/sister Patricia. The least that these men were going to do was pay me ten minutes of attention and hit me off with no less than ten bucks to get lost for a few hours. My aunt got so angry at me when she caught me going into one of her drunken boyfriend’s pockets in the corridor of our apartment. I thought he was so drunk that he wouldn’t be able to recall the incident, but he dud and never came back to my house. My aunt went through a three month drought as a result, and the following boyfriend was even sleazier than the last. I didn’t rob this one though. The bitchy-ness brought on by my aunt’s sexual frustration just wasn’t worth it. Plus,the new guy had a heart condition. I wasn’t chancing any heart attacks.
I went in my pockets to fish out some money. Flipped through some twenties to find that the smallest bill I had was a ten. Fuck! I didn’t want to give the kid a ten spot. The little bastard already eyed the dough. Too late, I was obligated. The kid snatched the ten off me even before I finished extending it to him. He didn’t say thanks and that really annoyed me.
I told you he was cool. Emma gushed over me, kissing me on the cheek.
Then why is everybody afraid of you then? …If you’re so cool.
I shrugged my shoulders. I don’t know. Some people are just afraid of life in general, I explained to him.
I looked at Emma. You aren’t afraid of me, are you?
Please, I know what’s up. You’re one big teddy bear underneath it all.
See. I lectured. Real people are never afraid.
Go ahead. Go outside. Emma urged him.
Yeah. Why don’t you do that? I tried to help. Go play some video games or something.
You guys just want to fuck! I’m going to tell Dad, yelled the little bastard.
You creep! I don’t want to fuck! I’m still a freaking virgin and Dad knows it. For Christ’s sake!
I almost broke my neck looking at her. A virgin! What the hell? What does this mean? I thought to myself. Shit! I wanted my ten dollars back.
Your sister and I just want to hang out and get to know each other. I gave you ten bucks, come on now. Later!
My eyes grew unfriendly, even downright hostile. The kid studied them, trying not to, but slowly becoming afraid of me. My eyes penetrated him harder. His eyes watered. He didn’t like being intimidated, especially in his own house. The kid suddenly left with out saying a word, slamming the door behind him. Emma locked all five locks on the door behind him.
It’s like Fort Knox in here.
Nah, two of them only lock from the inside. This way nobody can come in on us.
I nodded. Maybe I should have something like that in my own room. My aunt was always intruding on me in the middle of a finger pop or a tit suck.
So you’re a virgin?
Emma nodded proudly.
Shit.
Emma was shocked that I had just said that.
What is that suppose to mean?
It means exactly what it means. Shit!
I’ve always had a knack for saying the wrong things. Is that all you came here for? To fuck! Emma said defensively.
It’s just that I like you so much. I just wanted to be with you. You know, get to know you. There’s nothing wrong with me wanting to make love to you. Is there?
I walked up on her and grabbed her by the waist, pulling her pelvis into mine. We were warm. Occasionally I did and said the right things.
Emma blushed. I do other things. It’s just that I’m saving myself for marriage.
This could only mean that she sucked dick I instantly convinced myself. I felt the horns spouting on top of my head. This was going to be fun.
You do other things? Hmmmm. Like what?
I could jerk you off.
I jerk off everyday! Why would I want you to jerk me off?
Emma looked nervous. I don’t think she wanted to blow it with me. I felt bad for her.
I tell you what? I offered. If you let me look at your pussy, I’ll masterbate to it.
Emma grinned, loving my idea. You will?
I have no shame in my game!
Emma skipped to her room. I followed.
Emma wasn’t the hottest girl, but she was definitely cute and adorable. She had straight black hair cut into a bob with black Asiatic eyes that she highlighted with eyeliner and a few beauty marks positioned in all the right places on her face. At 5’3” she was about ten pounds overweight. Her chubby cheeks made her look heavier than she actually was. She had breasts for days, but her legs were a little skinny for my taste and I think most Latin guys as well. I thought that she would make a good girlfriend, but I was indecisive because I had not learned to cheat yet. It would be two years and a broken heart before I learned to do that. Well… very well.
Emma and I laid on her bed, making out. I felt her ass. She removed my hand, so I put it on her crotch instead. She slapped it.
Stop!
What? I asked innocently, making believe I didn’t do anything that violated her.
I whispered in Emma’s ear. I want you to suck my dick.
You want me to what?
For some reason I immediately felt silly. You know…..
No! I don’t know? Emma was pissed. I had not seen her temper before now.
I should throw you out my house! How dare you disrespect me like that?
I’m just saying, I said, not knowing what else to say.
BANG! BANG! BANG! The banging on the door startled both Emma and I. Usually only cops and landlords banged on the door like that. Since Emma’s father was the super, it must have been the cops. I didn’t have any warrants, not that I could think of anyway. I thought again. No, I most definitely didn’t have any warrants. What the hell then?
Who is it? Emma yelled walking to the door.
Me! The little brother answered aggressively from outside. Open the fucking door! He banged and kicked on the door more.
What’s your problem? Emma yelled through the door, perplexed by her brother’s behavior.
This has nothing to do with you! There was some more banging on the door.
Open the fuck up!
Then I heard the chanting: “Psychooo! Come out and plaaaay!” I rushed to the door and looked through the peep hole. Someone banged it with their fist. As soon as the fist was removed, I could see that the hallway was filled with a posse of 13, 14 and 15 year old neighborhood kids. I snatched my Air Nikes and forced them back on my feet without untying the laces. I took off my watch and bracelet and stuffed them in my pocket.
The chanting continued “Come out, Psycho! Come out and plaaaay!” This was followed by more banging, except that this banging wasn’t produced by a human fist. It sounded like it was made by a pipe or bat. Whatever the object was, it was obvious that it was very hard and was capable of much damage if inflicted upon me.
Your little brother’s a real little punk motherfucker, you know that? I yelled at Emma, who looked like she was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. She went to the door and looked in the peep hole. She was startled by an immediate bang.
Emilio! Why are you doing this?
This has nothing to do with you! Send that bitch ass Psycho out! We’re gonna fuck his ass up.
I’m calling the cops, Emilio.
Why you got to call the cops for? I thought Psycho was an ill nigga, why he needs the cops?
Emilio, this is really fucked up what you’re doing! Wait until Dad gets home.
Psycho’s going to be dead before Dad even thinks about coming home. You stupid bitch!
Emilio’s friends got a laugh out of this. They sounded like a pack of little, dirty hyenas.
I searched the house for an adequate weapon. There wasn’t a pipe, chain or baseball bat in sight. At this point I was simply acting on primal instincts, abandoning any rational thought process I might have. Since I was never one to take flight, I was looking for the best way to fight.
Where does your father keep his gun?
My father doesn’t have a gun. He goes to church.
That made sense since she thought she was going to save herself until marriage. I went for a kitchen knife, but thought that this wasn’t a good situation for a knife. A knife could too easily be turned against me. In fact, in a situation like this, I knew most weapons could be turned against me within seconds. All they had to do was bum rush me all at once, and beat me with my own weapon of choice. How stupid and pathetic would that be?
Only some kind of gun would do. A fierce, shiny, black 357 was better than having a big brother in a predicament such as this. One gun could make a small army part like the red sea. Nobody wants to be blown away. There’s one major draw back when introducing guns, you just might have to actually pull the trigger and that could result to a life of incarceration. It’s a lose/lose situation no matter how you look at it.
I went back to the door and lay on the floor and looked under the crack of it. I saw way too many pairs of sneakers for my comfort.
Emma went to the phone and called 911. I hung up the receiver on her and shook my head no. No matter drama I found myself in, calling the cops had never been an option.
Are you crazy?
Give me the phone.
I snatched the phone from her and dialed Eddie’s number. Lily picked up. Her voice was groggy at 12:30 pm on a Sunday afternoon.
Lily! It’s an emergency. Get Eddie!
I’m sleeping.
Click. Fuck!
I thought and dialed another number.
West’s mother Sonia answered the phone.
Hi Sonia, it’s me, Psycho.
Psycho! How are you, Sweetheart?
I’m fine.
When you’re coming over?
When are you making those potato pancakes? I love them.
That’s for the holidays, Sweetheart, but please come by soon.
I will. Is Isaac home by any chance?
No Sweety, he stepped out about two hours ago with Betty.
Okay. Will you tell him that I called for him?
Of course I will.
Thank you.
Bye.
Bye Sonia.
Click. Double fuck!
Oh shit! It hit me who I really should be calling.
I called my boy Fer from 163rd street. I needed someone who was just as thorough and uncompromising as me. His sister, Euralis picked up. Euralis was cute and we flirted and even made out at times, but I never wanted Fer to know. I didn’t think he would appreciate me messing around with his baby sister. Fer was a little volatile like me.
Euralis, it’s me, Psycho. Please get Fer, I’m in trouble.
Hey Psycho, what’s up? What are you-----
What’s up, my nigga? Fer’s voice came on. I heard Euralis call him a jerk in the background.
Fer! I love you, Baby! I jumped up and down in excitement, knowing that help would be on the way.
What’s up?
Yo, these kids from Chelsea got me trapped up in that girl Emma’s crib from Heart Throbs.
Emma? Isn’t that home girl with the chinky eyes, kind of cute, but kind of whack?
Yeah!
My nigga Psycho! I didn’t know you were fucking that?
Fer, they got me trapped up in here. Like fifty of them. I exaggerated.
What? Are they bugging?
They’re bugging hard, Fer! If you have to go to my house, I have a joint under my mattress and an Uzi in the top shelf in my closet. They’re both fully loaded.
Emma listened to the conversation in disbelief. She ran to the door.
Emilio leave! He has guns!
Fuck that! That faggot doesn’t have any guns! You’re just trying to save him.
No, his boys are coming.
You think I’m stupid, you fat bitch!
Fuck you then, you stupid asshole!
She looked at me, stressed. I shrugged my shoulders.
I gave Fer the address. I’m gonna call my aunt now so she let you in my room.
Nah, that’s okay. We got enough heat to take down the 34th precinct. Hold tight, Psycho. I’m coming down with Ed-Vic and the posse.
The posse was my 163/164 street and Broadway crew that I rolled with every weekend. There were about twenty of us in all. We liked to drink, smoke and go dancing and have a good time. Occasionally beef came to us and then we liked to settle it, most of the time with our hands and every so often with whatever was necessary.
My chest swelled up, knowing that the odds were going to be switched up on these punk motherfuckers outside.
Your brother really fucked with the wrong one, you know that?
They’re only doing this because they think they’ll get a reputation if they fuck you up.
You think? I asked sarcastically.
I went to the door and kicked it.
You know who I am? I shouted through it.
Yeah! The pussy motherfucker we’re gonna fuck up! One of the kids shouted back.
I looked through the peep hole.
I saw the face of a tall, lanky Puerto Rican kid with unruly hair. He hit the door with a hammer.
That’s going to be your face! Come on Psycho. Don’t be a pussy and come out and PLAAAAY! He taunted me.
I banged on the door, pissed as hell.
I’m going to kill all of you little motherfuckers!
We’re gonna fuck you and your mother and then kill you both, you faggot motherfucker!
My arrogance resented being in this situation. In the graffiti world, I was both well respected and feared by most of the community. Now because of my reputation, I had a pack of mangy little dogs trying to capitalize on it at the expense of my beaten down body or maybe even worst.
The kids banged and kicked on the door for the next 15-20 minutes. The voices seem to accumulate. Every minute that passed seemed like a day. I didn’t want to doubt my people and I didn’t want to think that that some circumstances beyond their control would stop them from rescuing me. What if Fer lost the address? This was way before the day of cell phones and even though Fer had a beeper, I didn’t have the number on me. What an asshole I thought of myself for not making sure that I gave him Emma’s home number. Anxiety and uncertainty crept into my mind and seeped through my soul.
Emma sat on the sofa with her arms crossed, biting her nails. I’m not sure if she was worried for me or the potential danger she knew her little brother had foolishly put himself in. I wasn’t so sure what the outcome of all this would be.
Then I heard something that put an instant smile on my face. The beat to “Eric B for President” was being cut up by D.J. Red Alert. I was familiar to Ed Vic’s cassette tape that was blaring outside Emma’s building. I hurried to the window to see the first shiny brand new Lincoln Town car pulling up out front.
Yeah Motherfuckers! I exclaimed. Then another Lincoln Town car pulled up and another one and one more. They all double parked. I saw Fer, Ed-Vic and Big Mark exit one car. I grinned.
Emma ran to the window and gasped. Oh my God.
Smurf, Totem, Little Alan and Henry got out the other cars with a few Dominican dudes from 163rd street that I’ve only knew by face. Totem carried a blunt object wrapped in a triple goose down jacket, an Uzi, no doubt.
Emma ran to the door. Emilio leave! Leave now! Tears flooded her eyes. She attempted to unlock the doors. I stopped her and pushed her away. I liked Emma and hated that things had come to this so unpredictably.
Fuck that! We’re not going anywhere until that faggot motherfucker Psycho comes out.
That’s right! Don’t leave. I’m coming out in a couple minutes!
More than one of them kicked and banged on the door.
The random bangs and kicks stopped. The hallway was more silent than it had been in the last hour. Someone knocked on the door in a more civilized manner. I looked through the peephole to see two very friendly faces, Fer and Ed-Vic.
I unlocked all five locks and swung the door open and gave Fer a hug.
Fuck man, I never thought it would be so good to see you guys!
Yo, you’re scared of these little punk asses.
I stepped into the hallway. It was filled with no less than twenty five little bastards. They were all silent and looked scared to death. It’s amazing what a difference one minute could make. Totem was at the very end of the hallway with his back against a window, pointing an Uzi at them. Everyone else had some kind of gun in their hand, everything from a Berretta to a Desert Eagle. Fer passed me a nine.
I looked for Emilio. He was trying to make himself look invisible behind some of his friends.
Come here, Emilio.
The kid looked at me in the verge of tears.
COME HERE! I screamed at the top of my lungs.
The little bastard slowly made his way to me, having a hard time holding back his tears. I went into his pockets and took my ten dollars back.
Go in your house with your sister and lock the door. As he walked in, I kicked him up the ass. Hard.
I looked for the kid with that hammer that was doing most of the talking. I spotted him.
What’s up, homey?
His face was hard. He looked the least scared out of all his friends. He still had his hammer in his hand. Good choice of weapons, very original, I thought.
Come here, Thor.
He obeyed. I cocked the nine and shoved it in the middle of his forehead. He didn’t blink an eye. Shit, I thought.
Are you the one that wanted me to come out and Plaaay?
He didn’t answer.
I like that. That’s a good line from the Warriors. Right?
I wondered why did everybody looked at me like if I was crazy, even this punk kid.
What’s your name?
Richie.
Ri-CHIE…It’s time to Plaaay! I cackled.
I’ll fight you one on one right now. Richie challenged.
Oh no, Ritchie. We’re way, way, way past fighting now. You lost that option from the get go.
I shoved the gun into his forehead harder.
The only thing I want to do is blow your fucking brains out, you little asshole. How dare you come for me like that with your little Chihuahua friends? You know very well who I am.
Shoot me then, motherfucker!
Damn, this kid was putting me on the spot. This wasn’t good. I looked at Fer. He shrugged his shoulders.
This little Cabron got some heart. Hold on a sec.
I placed my hand on his chest. His heart was beating no less than two hundred times a minute and was about to burst out his chest.
Oh shit! Fer check this out.
Fer felt his heart rate. Oh snap! He started laughing. I invited Totem and Ed-Vic to do the same. We all laughed at him.
Yo Homey, you must play some good poker. I teased, engaging in psychological warfare.
I took the gun off his forehead.
Listen, if I shoot you with this, you’re no longer going to exist. You have any brothers and sisters?
Ritchie shook his head no.
Imagine how your mother’s going to feel losing her only. How old is she?
About 50.
Damn! That bitch is old. She won’t even be able to replace you with another kid. She’s going to have to get a dog or cat. That’s fucked up. I used to have a son named Ritchie, but now I have a poodle named Ritchie. She’ll be sad if I kill you.
I don’t care.
You’re too stupid to care. I’m not going to kill you. Besides, I looked at my brand new Coca Cola rugby shirt from Macy’s, I don’t want your blood and brain matter all over my new favorite shirt.
Fer, take this away from me. I gave him the 9. Let me get something smaller. Someone passed me a Beretta. I thought it was a cute gun. I closed one eye and aimed at Ritchie’s feet. I was going to scare the shit out of him.
Are you ready, Ritchie. Are you ready to see what hot lead feels like in your foot?
Ritchie’s poker face was gone. He was pale and scared.
I looked at the ceramic tiles on the floor. I aimed five tiles to the right from his right foot. I squeezed. The gunshot echoed through out the hallway. My ears were ringing. Ritchie screamed at the top of his lungs. I looked and blood was spurting out at the toe of his blue Nike Cortez. Holy shit! I shot him. How did that happen? I looked at Fer.
Let’s be out.
We all ran down the stairs and out the building. We piled into the Lincoln Town cars. The cars drove away up Eighth Avenue.
You’re fucking crazy! Fer shrilled at me. Yeah, I might have been crazy, but I sure didn’t feel good about it.
Yo bee, that wasn’t cool. Totem told me. What if that kid tries to get you? You never know. Totem was absolutely right, you just never know. That’s the way beef is, it’s always free to haunt you ten, fifteen, even thirty years later.
Let’s check out some Kung-Fu flicks on the deuce. Big mark and Ed-Vic both suggested.
Fer directed the driver to take us to Times Square. We heard the faint sound of police sirens, most likely going to the Chelsea projects.
I thought about Ritchie. I wondered why he was so hard. He reminded me of myself in many ways. Was it his parents that made him like that? He was destined to kill at some point in his life I was sure. My shooting him was going to do one of two things. It would teach him that he wasn’t invincible and humble him, possibly saving him from a life of unnecessary pain and incarceration or it would make him more angrier than he already was and a lot more ruthless, causing him to become a true menace to society. I had the feeling that with a kid like Ritchie, it would be the latter.
I thought about Emma and what a nice girl she was, the nicest girl I’ve ever met at the time. She wasn’t jaded and hard like the girls from my neighborhood. She still had dreams and hope. She would have been good for me. I needed a girl like her to soothe the beast within me.
This piece is dedicated to Fer, Big Mark and Smurf. I know you’re all looking down at me from Heaven and laughing at all the bullshit I have a talent of always getting myself into. I’ll always love and never forget you guys.
Posted on October 27, 2007 at 04:23 PM | Comment (5 comments)
I just want to take a moment to express how grateful I am that you guys take time out of your lives to read my stories. I feel humbled and honored and in return, I will always do my best to respect your time. I know it’s precious. In doing so, I often have to put myself out there and be brave with some of the content of my writings. It’s just what’s required to be recognized in my craft of choice. I refuse to write fluff. I’m aware that there are always going to be some pretentious, pseudo-intellectual, judgmental snots who might feel the need to take pop shots at me. I’ll shut these individuals down accordingly. Most of you however, have been very gracious and a great source of motivation and inspiration to me. I thank you guys with all sincerity.
Peace
Psycho-Love Tc5
Posted on October 27, 2007 at 01:06 PM | Comment (10 comments)
Holy Shit!
I listen in shock. I can’t believe what I’m hearing on the other line of the telephone. If I didn’t know the person who I was listening to, I would be almost afraid of him. But I know that the guy behind the voice is anything but a terror or a threat. He is pure bitch. Still, I can’t help but be impressed with his Oscar worthy performance. The anwser machine message finishes. Zephyr returns on the line. He sounds stressed out and scared. He has reason to be. Ivory is twice his size.
You heard that shit, dude?
Yo, that’s fucking crazy. I can’t believe it. Ivory of all people? That kid’s a fucking punk for even trying to step to you like this.
My roommate West One Fc walks in to the apartment and takes off his Timberland boots.
Dude, you have to hear this. It’s the craziest thing.
Chill for a sec!
West looks stressed out from his day at P.N.B., but I’m too impatient to chill for a second.
You gotta hear this shit! It’s unbelievable. That kid Ivory left a message on Zephyr’s answering machine threatening to kill him, yo! He sounds like a real killer too!
Nah, you’re kidding?
Dude, I’m not kidding. Here’s Zeph.
I hand West the cordless phone so he can hear the story for himself.
As they speak, I think about the Ivory kid and I didn’t like him before. Now I don’t like him even more. He’s was rather new to the graffiti scene, relatively speaking, and he was as an arrogant fuck as they came. A lot of graffiti writers/artists can be, but usually they have good excuses to be. Zephyr is an arrogant fuck in my opinion, but then again, Zephyr is a true graffiti icon who has decades in the game and deserves respect, at the very least. Not only that, Zephyr weighs 145 lbs to Ovary’s 200 lb plus frame. The worst scenario violates my own warped sense of justice.
As far as graffiti is concerned, the way I see it, Ivory was just a fuck-head who has never painted trains, claimed to be down with a bullshit old school crew with a number 7 in it, that really wants to be Tc5. Not only that, Ivory’s never even painted with the crew he represents. Although he does decent pieces, there is nothing distinctive or special about his graffiti. It doesn’t break any barriers, style wise. But if you heard him tell it, the kid invented graffiti. He’s done quite a few pieces and painted with some well known artists like flite and Cope, so now he thinks he’s in the club. Fuck out of here! I’m sure that not only did he supply the paint, but he brought these guys lunch, dinner and whatever their pleasures were.
People kept telling me that Ivory cool, so I gave him the benefit of the doubt and found myself hanging out with him in the Freedom tunnels in Riverside park and then the Lincoln Center area. He admited that he’s heard the stories about how I’ve vamped whole crews and other horrors I’ve caused back in my day, but my mild mannered persona made it difficult for him to believe them to be true. It didn’t take long for him to offend my sensibilities. He told me that I would never be able to vamp him. I smirked at this, the way I’m sure some serial killers do at their doubtful victims. He asked me how did I ever get down with Tc5? If West did all my pieces? He told me that he didn’t believe that I had power in either Tc5, IBM or Fc.He claimed that he could burn most graffiti artists, including me, who happens to be friends with graffiti’s biggest style influences like Doze, T-Kid, Part, Doc and the late, great Dondi White. Anybody other than these guys should never attempt to impress me when it comes to graffiti or they’re just come across as retarded. He went on to tell me that West was a toy and couldn’t do wild style. He was basically the original Borat, except that he was quite serious and wasn’t joking in the least.
I invited him to my crib, not letting him know that I intended to put him on the spot with West.
Get the fuck out of my house, bee. Who the fuck are you, that I have to prove anything to you? You’re nobody. West yelled at him.
West’s temples were tense and throbbed as he successfully controlled his anger. I wondered how much money Ivory had as I secretly hope that my boy cracks him in the jaw. Dude got away with just getting kicked out of our apartment.
Yeah, get the fuck out of here before I flip on your punk ass!
Ivory looked at me like I was a schizophrenic.
After Ivory leaves, West lectured me about bringing toys into our crib.
Fast forward, West handed the phone back to me.
Yo Zeph, don’t worry about a thing. Ivory isn’t going to do shit to you. I promise you.
I appreciate this, Psycho. If there’s anything I can ever do for you. Just let me know.
I’m good for now. But I’ll let you know.
I hung up with Zephyr and called Ivory.
Dude, I just heard that message you left Zephyr.
My calm demeanor confused Ivory. He doesn’t know where I was going with this.
Yeah, he dissed my shit. You know the shit I’m talking about in the 125th street tunnels.
Yeah, but you left it unfinished for weeks so it was fair game, especially for someone like Zephyr. I wouldn’t even have made an issue of it.
Fuck that, Zephyr’s a little bitch!
No, you’re a little bitch and I’ll tell you why?
Ivory huffed and puffed, pissing me off.
Why? He snapped sarcastically.
Because you would have never talked like that to anybody but a guy like Zephyr who weighs less than a buck forty, soaking wet with two bricks in his pocket. If you ever spoke to me like that, you would be drinking your food through a fucking straw for a year and then once your jaw healed, I’ll fucking break it again.
Whatever!
Whatever? I yelled as I get the picture. Ivory wass a spoiled, entitled brat who came from a well to do family and was probably accustomed to speaking like this to whoever his parental figures were.
Listen, not only are you going to apologize to Zephyr, but you’re going to give him twenty cans of paint and not that bullshit paint you be using either.
You’re crazy! I’m not apologizing to Zephyr or giving him paint.
You’re not?
No, I’m not.
So basically, you’re telling me that I have to come and see you.
Ovary doesn’t know how to respond except to say “whatever” again.
I hang up the phone and look at West.
That’s kid’s crazy, yo!
It took me one phone call to find out Ivory’s address. He lived in the Riverdale section in the Bronx off the 1 line. Riverdale is a nice, upper scale Jewish neighborhood. I knew it well because when I was 14, I used to visit it to rob kids for their BMX and Mongoose dirt bikes. I wondered if I ever robbed Ivory, but concluded that he was much too young.
The next day I woke up early and realized that I needed a shopping cart for what I was going to do. I traveled to Washington Heights to visit Eddie. I know that his mother, who is my god mother, has at least two shopping carts that she used to haul laundry to the laundry mat. My friend Dezo Tc5-Fc happened to be visiting Eddie. We all did time together in South Jersey.
Yo nigga, what’s up?
Chilling!
Yo, I’m about to go rob a nigga in his own crib and shit.
Get the fuck out of here!
You know how I do. You heard of that kid Ivory.
Nah, who is he?
Exactly my point but whatever, I’m cleaning him out of all his paint and anything good he has.
Dezo is not quite sure if I’m serious or talking shit. I caught him looking at Eddie for verification. Eddie nodded at him, letting him know that I am indeed sincere.
You want me to go with you, yo? I got a burner.
If you want to, fuck it.
Dezo and I journeyed to Riverdale by cab. I didn’t want Ivory to leave his house before we got there. He looked like the lazy type that liked to sleep in after a Friday night of blunts and this was what I was counting on.
Once at his building, we waited for a tenant to walk out so we can enter. I didn’t want to alert Ivory prematurely by ringing the intercom. I smiled and said good morning politely to the geriatric coming out the door as I walked in.
We get off at Ivory’s floor and I rapped on his door liked an officer of the law.
An older gentleman opened the door. He looked nervous.
Hi. How are you? We’re friends of Ivory. Is he in?
The relieved old man calls Ivory. I heard him yell “what?” He was a nasty kid with no respect for his elders. Just what I thought.
I watched him come out of a room in the hallway. It’s obvious that he just woke up as he puts on his glasses. He saw me and Dezo at his door. A stupid look appeared on his face.
Ivory, what’s up, homeslice? I looked at Dezo. Come on.
We entered the apartment and stroll into Ivory’s room.
What the hell are you guys doing here?
I sat on his bed.
Come on Ivory, you know what’s up? I’m hungry. Why don’t you get us something to eat before we get down to business. Go ahead, be a good boy.
My grandfather has a heart condition. You guys are going to give him a heart attack!
then you should just cooperate. I don’t want to hurt you. I just want to eat and take all your shit. Because really, I don’t give a fuck about the old man. As far as I’m concerned, he’s lived long enough. We all got to go someday.
I’m not giving you any paint.
I decided it was time to put the nonchalant act in my back pocket. I got up from the bed and walked up to him s that I’m inches from his face. I could smell his salami bad breathe. It pissed me off.
You’re going to give me whatever it is that I want or I’ll take your fucking life in your own home.
Dezo takes out his weapon.
Psycho, what’s up? You want me to bust him.
Nah, that’s not necessary. He’s a fucking punk. Put that away.
I look at the steel. It’s very impressive.
That’s really nice, yo. I gotta get one of those.
I’ll hook you up, bro. Good prices.
Dope.
I returned my focus back on Ivory.
I’m fucking hungry. Let’s go eat.
Ivory followed Dezo and I to the kitchen.
You got any bagels, yo?
Ivory looked in the fridge. He did.
Let me get two toasted bagels with butter and some o.j. What you want Dezo?
I’ll take the same.
Ivory hooked up our order like a teenager forced to clean up his room. We took our food back to his room.
Where’s your fucking paint?
Ivory opened up a closet. He had bullshit paint. I yanked his head back by his stringy, oily hair so that he was looking up at the ceiling.
Where’s the good shit, bitch?
That’s what I got.
Bullshit!
I yanked his head back harder. I almost broke his neck.
I swear!
I let go.
Fill my cart up, motherfucker.
I took a bite of the bagel. It didn’t have enough butter for my taste.
Yo, you’re trying to play me by being cheap with the butter?
I threw the bagels and plate on the floor. It shattered in pieces.
Garbage!
Yo, what the fuck?
Shut up! Lucky that ain’t you. Punk ass nigga.
After Ivory filled up my shopping cart, I ask him where the phone was.
Go get it.
Ivory left the room.
Dezo and I giggled like two little kids and gave each other five.
What a sucker!
Ivory returned with the phone. Dezo and I returned to gangsta mode.
Call up Zephyr and apologize.
Ivory hesitated.
Don’t make me tell you again.
Ivory obeys.
Zeph, he whimpers. It’s me, Ivory. Yo, I’m sorry about that phone call. My bad. I’m here with Psycho and some dude with a pistol.
Ivory looked at me.
You wanna speak to Zephyr?
nah, just tell him I said what’s up..
Before I left Ivory’s apartment with the shopping cart full of spray paint, I tapped him on the cheek.
It could have been a lot worst, kid. You’re very lucky, I’m a very mellow dude these days.
As Dezo and I walked with our paint into the street, I remembered how much fun vamping used to be. Maybe I should make a come back and bring some fun to the game? Nah, it would just result in bad karma. let me chill.
Posted on October 26, 2007 at 06:12 PM | Comment (13 comments)
"Why are you disrespecting me?” The jheri curled, pock marked, self proclaimed pimp questioned me.
“Because you always asking for cigs and I don’t smoke. And plus, you’re a fake ass pimp! Now get out my face.”
I was 19 years old and it’s safe to assume that I had a little bit of an attitude. I was locked up in a dirty county jail in Hackensack, New Jersey and I was facing up to twenty years. I was permanently pissed.
“You’re gonna watch how you talk to me, New York.” Pimp warned me.
“Who the fuck are you? I vamp motherfuckers like you.”
I said that a lot. Pimp was in his 40’s and my arrogance allowed me to underestimate his street experience. To me, he was nothing but a silly, amusing man who talked a lot of shit about having a lot of hoes and smacking them up whenever they stepped out of line. In jail, anybody can tell you anything and it’s usually not the truth. Ironically, all the inmates liked to say “Word is born!” after every sentence. This was to stress that they were indeed telling the truth. But in a place full of drug addicts, theives and perverts, how can the truth live? It doesn’t. To me, “Pimp” was most likely to be a strung out crack head than a real, live authetic, pimp out of an old Robert Deniro movie.
“You ain’t vamping a motherfucker!”
“You don’t even know who I am! I’m Psycho-Rock! Tc5...the Vamp Squad, motherfucker!”
Pimp looked confused for a few seconds.
“What the hell you talking about? It doesn’t matter anyway, cause you ain’t saying nothing slick to a big black dick!”
“Don’t be talking no dick shit to me. I’ll kill you.”
Pimp and I squared off. Both of us had on state issued boxer shorts on. I slid the waistband over to the side. I didn’t want my penis to flop out the slit while I was fighting. That would distract me. Pimp had skinny muscular arms and a big, hard looking belly.
“I was in the Golden Gloves!”
“Fuck the-----
Pimp caught me with a right straight followed by a left hook and then an upper cut. Oh shit! I thought as I saw stars and my knees started to buckle. I was rocked and did the only thing I could to do to keep from dropping on the floor. I grabbed on to Pimp. I took in a deep breath, knowing that I had to recover quickly. I saw the separation between his ribs through his skin and dug four straight, stiff fingers in between them like a knife and pushed and pushed until he yelled. Backing away from me.
“You fake ass pimp! I’m going to fuck you up!”
I ran and kicked at his belly, but Pimp was too fast and grabbed my leg in mid air and tripped the other one. I banged the back of my head on the marble floor. It hurt. I realized that I was about to get my ass kicked by a some crack head wanna-bee pimp. I started to regret that I ever disrespected the dude in the first place. He kicked me in the chest while I was down on the floor. He cocked his leg back and was going to kick me again. I snatched his foot as it made contact on my shoulder. At first I didn’t know what to do with his foot, but knew I had to do something. I bit him on his calf. It tasted like baby oil and I was disgusted that I had my mouth on this man, but it was better than getting beat up. As he screamed, I managed to knock him backwards and climbed on top of him.
“Now what, Pimp?”
‘You think you beat me?” He blurted out as he reached up and clap his hands on my ears. I thought he busted my eardrums because all I could hear was a ringing noise. It hurt a lot, but not enough to stop me. It pissed me off and fueled me. It’s funny because different types of pain can do that to a man. When in battle, one should always choose wisely on what type of pain he inflicts. However, not too many men can withstand a direct, hard shot to the bridge of the nose. It just makes you see white lights, cry involuntarily and puts you into a state of minor shock. It stops the hardest of men in their tracks.
I punched straight down at Pimp’s nose, imagining that I would punch through it and into the floor and it showed as soon as I lifted my fist up from his face. Pimp’s nose was now flattened and distorted. The fight was over, but I had to make sure.
“I got that?”
“Yeah.”
“You sure? Don’t make me punch you again.”
“I said you got that!”
“You better not try anything.”
“I won’t.”
“Okay.” I got off of Pimp and checked out my damage. I felt proud, but at the same time I felt bad for Pimp. I went to my bunk and got a towel out my locker. Pimp was already in the lavatory when I got there. He was looking in the mirror. I wet the towel and gave it to him.
“You fucked my pretty face all up. What am I gonna tell my hoes?”
“Sorry!” I said, trying to keep a straight face.
The next day, Pimp was released on bail. Instead of being grateful, he complained that his hoes took too long in getting the money to bail him out and that he was going to fuck them up. We made eye contact as he walked out the gate. He gave me the peace sign.
“I’ll see you in New York, homey.”
I didn’t take him seriously. A week later, my $150, 000 bail was reduced to 80, 000 and I was released with the help of a bails bond man. A few weeks later, I was walking around the Times Square area with my girlfriend Laura. My days of freedom were numbered and she was already turning on me, having indiscreet affairs with other guys. I took a tag with a white Pentel marker.
“Put me up, asshole!” She demanded.
“Fuck you. You can’t be up with me anymore. You suck too many other dicks for that.”
“That’s alright. I’m still down with Tc5 though.”
“You’re stupid. You could never be down with the Five anymore.”
“Seen put me down.”
“Only because you were were down with me. How stupid can you be, you stupid bitch?”
“I’m not the one going to jail, asshole!”
All of a sudden, I heard a familiar voice. “New York! New York!” I turned and Pimp was walking out of a Western Union. I couldn’t believe my eyes. Pimp was actually a real pimp, decked out in a cheesey lime greem suit and derby.
“Oh shit! Pimp, you’re a real pimp!”
He had two women with him, both obviously prostitutes. One was black and the other was Puerto Rican. I never ever thought that street hookers looked good, but these two were definitely fuckable. They were both endowed with world class breasts. They looked a little coked up but not beaten down yet.
“This is the homey who broke my nose.” He introduced me to his hoes.
“I should light your little ass up now!” he said, as he play faked some punches at me and laughed.
“If you weren’t with your lady friend, I would invite you to fuck both my bitches. For free too! I bet you never had two bitches before.”
He was right. I looked at Laura and thought to myself, I definitely got to get rid of this bitch. For real!
Posted on October 26, 2007 at 07:13 AM | Comment (3 comments)
“Leaving the Hotel Bordentown”
June 21st 1993
I didn’t sleep more than 45 minutes through out the entire night. How could I? I got out of my bunk at about 5.30 am and took a shower and got dressed. I took pains to be considerate of the sleeping. I had given away any belongings I had to Eddie and some of the other guys on my tier hours earlier. I went to the TV area. Blood was watching the early morning news. Despite the name, the guy was harmless, at least to my standards. I don’t know the details of what he was in for, I just knew he had life and it had something to do with raping a local politician’s daughter during a burglary. Blood didn’t like me because once I found out he had been gang raped, I threw it in his face every chance I got. It didn’t matter to me if he deserved it or not.
It was the first day of summer and Sam Champion predicted perfect temperatures and conditions for a man’s first day of freedom in five and a five years. I never thought this day would come and I still didn’t believe it. I couldn’t help but imagine that some kind of bullshit administrative mistake would pop up at the last minute and I would be detained until farther notice. I’ve seen these things happen. It could break a man to insanity. I could not allow myself to be excited yet.
Soon enough, the rest of H-Wing woke up. I said my superficial good-byes to most of the guys. I made promises that I didn’t intend to keep. Most of the guys pretended to be happy for me, but it was bullshit. It’s a hard thing to see another man walk past those gates, especially on a day like today, and you’re still stuck here until whenever they say. If you’re not a jealous person by nature, this is the one thing that just might change that.
The hardest good-bye was to Eddie, we had been through a lot of up and downs but always managed to stick by each one other through thick and thin. I couldn’t help feel guilty for leaving him behind. I wished he was his usual asshole, sarcastic self for this one time only. It would have made it easier for me to leave. But he was nothing but graceful about my departure, even with hurt, sad eyes.
At 8.45 am, I was escorted in back into the building through the Sally port and into the Administration’s office where I had to sign release papers and certificates and things of that nature. Afterwards I was allowed to walk out the front door. Even though I was still on prison property, it was a surreal experience. West was no where in sight, but on a day like today, it was just fine with me. I sat on the stoop of the prison entrance. The sun shined on my face for the first time as a free man in over 5 years. He arrived 20 minutes later. I said what’s up and got into his Honda Accord. I was quiet for most of the ride. It was nice to hear a mixed taped with up to date music. I listened to a group called Wu-Tang and a guy named the Notorious B.I.G. for the first time. West filled me in on the current events within our circle. There was a magazine named the Source that everybody read and West had a clothing line called PNB Nation with my friend Serge, along with my future friends, Brue and Bluster. Both of whom I put down with Tc-5. He broke heartbreaking news about his mother Sonia who was a mother figure to me. She always vowed to make a man out of me. I hope she wouldn’t be disappointed if she could see me today. I tried to engage in the conversation, but couldn’t. I was anxiety stricken. I felt that any minute, New Jersey State troopers would pull us over and arrest us. I couldn’t feel at peace until we got over the George Washington Bridge and only then, would my ordeal be over…somewhat.
I was 24 years old. I might have been free, but I wasn’t naïve. My life was fucked. I was a young, uneducated minority with a felony conviction. How did I let my life get to this point? Even more importantly…now what?
Posted on October 25, 2007 at 01:04 PM | Comment (7 comments)
“What Should Have Been a Perfect Murder….Mine.”
It was a perfect night to stay home, order Chinese, smoke a blunt, drink a few Coronas and take care of basic human needs. The weather reported hurricane conditions and looking out the window, the prediction would most likely be true. Lavender and grey skies were angrily swirling about above me. Looking towards New Jersey I could see black clouds storming my way. I almost never went out in the rain if I could help it, but less a hurricane. I was in the midst of a two month sex drought and my hormones were raging. I needed to get out and make something happen. Michelle was my home girl out in Queens and she was having a housewarming party with three female roommates. Something had to give.
When I exited my building, the streets were desolate. Even the drug dealers and crack heads took the night off. The subway was lonely for a Saturday night. As I rode downtown, there was a middle aged Dominican lady riding in my car. She wore heavy make up and was all cleavage. She was attractive and looked hornier than I. Maybe I didn’t have to go to Queens afterall. We made eye contact. I smiled. She smiled back. She ran her fingers across her cleavage. I got aroused. The train pulled into the station. She got up and slowly walked off the train. She had a crazy ass. Should I get off? Before I could answer my own question, a Latin man approached and hugged and kissed her. Fuck! Even though the lady was in her 40’s, I knew she would have been a lot more fun than any of Michelle friends who I probably would have to play a gambit of games with before even a bra clasp would get unhooked. I’ve never had much patience with gender games. To me, it’s whether you want to or not. You know, like eating or going to the movies.
I transferred to the 7 train at Times Square. I was the only person on the train. A drenched and drunk Mexican kitchen worker staggered in with crisscrossed eyes. Through his soaked white pants, I could see that he had a knot of cash at least three inches thick. Devious thoughts ran through my mind. Nah, I decided. I didn’t do these kinds of things anymore. It was better not to start old, bad habits again.
At the next station, the train entered outdoors. It was pouring and things like plastic bags were flying around the air. The rain was beating down on the train. I started having second thoughts about this party.
At the next stop, a big, husky white boy got the train carrying a boom box covered in plastic. He was listening to satanic rock music. He sat across from me. In an empty train car, why did this prick have to sit across from me with his devil music? I looked at the Mexican guy. He was having a hard time keeping one eye open. He knew he was fucked up, but was doing his best to remain aware.
When I looked away, the white boy was staring at me. I looked away. When I looked back, he was still staring at me. What the fuck? I thought. I looked away once more. Yep, he was still staring at me. Oh no, here I go again I thought to myself.
Yo, you write Psycho…right?
Oh shit, I thought. Beef.
Yeah.
You don’t remember me?
I studied his face. I didn’t.
Nah, man.
You don’t?
I just said no.
You should.
Why should I?
He lifted up his shirt, revealing some horrific stab wounds in his fat stomach. Somebody had messed this kid up really bad.
You did this to me back in the day over some paint cans.
I was speechless. I couldn’t remember the kid to save my life. Unless it was him. But that was so long ago. I guess those scars don’t forget. Not for anything, there was at least 15, maybe even 20 of them and they could have easily took the knife away from me and used it on me, which was exactly what I thought was going to happen. Which is why I did what I did. It doesn’t make a difference now. Karma is a bitch that we all have to pay, some a lot more than others.
What stop are you getting off?
The last stop.
Good, we’re going to handle this.
I shrugged nonchalantly. The rain hit the train’s window harder.
The white boy turned his devil music all the way up and got into his zone. I sized him up. He was big. He didn’t look fast and his baggy jeans would make it difficult to move around. Punches to his body would probably be useless. I wondered how sensitive his scars were. Maybe I could grab the flesh where the scar tissue were and twist it. Nah, that was stupid. Fuck. What was I going to do? Going toe to toe with the hands was not going to work. What if I pretended to go toe to toe and dropped down and snatched his ankles from under his feet and once he was on his back, drop an elbow to the middle of his face? The way I saw it, this was my only chance.
Even with my strategy in place, I was still scared. What if it didn’t work? What if he had a knife? What if he was more vicious than I could ever be and bit half my face off? These were not pleasant thoughts. I should have stayed home and watched porn.
The Mexican guy was now passed out. The train stopped at the next station and when it did, I saw a miracle. The doors open and an angry looking black cop stuck his head in. He looked at me and asked, are you with him?
I shook my head fast, no.
He tapped the whit boy and the shoulder. The white boy looked like he’s seen a ghost.
Step outside the train.
The doors attempted to close. The officer screamed and cued the conductor to wait. It must have taken all of ten seconds to do this, but the white boy used the time wisely. He slipped a glock nine hand gun out the back of his jeans and left it on the seat. He got up and exited the train before the cop could think about looking back inside. The doors closed. The white boy and I made eye contact. His eyes were more evil than I had thought. He nodded his head, letting me know that there will be a next time. I nodded my head back, until that day. Inside my heart was pounding a hundred beats a second. I picked up the gun. One shot to the face would have rendered me dead and unrecognizable. I tucked it into my own jeans. I rode to the last stop. The Mexican guy was snoring with his money falling out his pocket. I snatched it out and stuffed it into my pocket. I exited the car. I looked around. There wasn’t a soul in sight. The gun shot would have blended in with the rain and the winds. My corpse would not have been discovered for hours if not morning. If I didn’t know who did it, how would Homicide ever figure out who did it? I jogged down the subway station stairs and into the street. There was a lone gypsy cab waiting to pick up a fare. I got into the car.
Washington Heights, please.
How do you want me to get there?
The fastest way possible.
As the car drove off into the dark, violent night, I sat back, counting the mexican’s money as I questioned my life.
Posted on October 24, 2007 at 07:49 AM | Comment (11 comments)
They say I shouldn’t talk about sex no more!
But I really don’t give a damm about these hoes
I only care about how dope I flow
Cooler than all the ice cubes in the North Pole
Y’all know how Psycho-Love rolls
Tattoos
Don’t suffer fools
Been lucky enough to avoid gunshot wounds
When I walk up in the room
You feel my presence like the six sense
Unruly when I’m bent
My temper goes off quicker with the liquor
Haven’t been the same since
90 days in solitary confinement
Can’t stay silent
Maybe that’s why I rhyme so sick
Talk so slick
Like I just don’t give a shit
Cause when I give it to you…
I give it to you raw
Excuse the cliche
but what can I say?
I’m so hardcore
My testicles drag on the floor
Like a savage or a beast
I’m down with West and but I live in the east
Coast
Where I toast ya, roast ya
Fuck around, smoke ya!
Come on, you know
You never met a dude quite like me before
Don’t be shy
It’s okay to applaud!
The one and only
Macoroni
Psycho-Love
Tc5-IBM-Fc
Suckas can’t see me
I’m live like 3-D
Posted on October 23, 2007 at 07:53 PM | Comment (0 comments)
“The Devil Gets Beat Down in Coney Island”
It was the first weekend that Coney Island amusement park opened for the summer season. I took the D train with my friend Poke, an already legendary graffiti writer, known as being the “son” of Devious Doze of Tc5/Rock Steady fame. I met Poke through Kano Tc5, and then through mutual friends that he went to school with at Art and Design. Poke and I hit it off instantly. It was easy that we already had a common thread in graffiti and both of us being down with the Five. I liked Poke. He was a misfit like me. Kids like Poke and I didn’t rob other kids for the sake of gain. That was just icing on the cake. We robbed for the thrill of an adrenalin rush. We robbed to get off on the fear in our victim’s eyes. We robbed because we were egotistical, sociopathic bastards. Today, however, we weren’t going to do any robbing.
Poke’s girlfriend, a marginally attractive girl named Jenny lived in the Coney Island projects was the purpose of our visit. I didn’t really know Jenny and the few times that I met her was a strictly hi and good bye exchange. Her energy didn’t solicit much more than that. When we met up with Jenny, she was with some friends hanging out on some park benches in front of her building. Her friends weren’t very attractive as well, but were friendlier and more fun to be with. Within ten minutes Poke and Jenny went upstairs to her apartment, obviously to go fuck. This was fine with me and Jenny’s girlfriend as we stood outside, drinking 40 ounce bottles of malt liquor. I told them stories and we talked about our sexual interests. I got two of them to show me their breasts. The more I drank and smoked, the more I wanted to have sex with them. They all seemed interested and I wasn’t focused on any one of them in particular, thinking whatever was going to happen was just going to fall into place.
Poke came out of Jenny’s building alone. We all questioned where Jenny was? Poke simply told us upstairs.
Come on, Psych. Let’s go get a forty.
I agreed and told the girls that I would be back. I couldn’t wait to tell Poke that they showed me their nipples.
Ay-eee Bee, I wish I was there.
We walked and talked about graffiti. He told me a story how he vamped Duster, U.A.
I didn’t know that. I told him.
There’s a lot I didn’t know.
We went into the corner Bodega store and went to the beer refrigerator where we argued over shoplifting Colt 45, Budweiser or Cisco. I was afraid of Cisco. The stuff was poison and I knew I would find myself on the ground, not knowing where I was with just one bottle. I stuffed my 40-ounce bottle in my waistband, not caring that it was obvious that I had a bottle of beer on my person through my tee-shirt. Poke stuffed the Cisco on him. We hurried out the store while the counter man was distracted by a Yankee game on TV.
We walked through Coney Island streets openly drinking and talked about how Tc5 president Seen says that anal sex was the best. At 16, we both still thought that he was nasty and made jokes about it. All of a sudden, a small group of 12 to 13 year old boys ran up on us. They flung objects at us. I got hit in the lip with what I thought was a rock. I looked on the ground and saw that it was a Chinese flying star.
What the fuck? I looked at Poke.
I got beef with these kids.
Jesus! I thought to myself.
I was too shocked to verbalize that he would have me walk around in a neighborhood, knowing that he had beef…even if it was with 13 year olds. We chased them and they scattered back into their buildings, alleys and wherever else in the woodwork they came from. Thinking that was the big adventure of the day, I continued walking around the Coney Island area without a care in the world with a bloody lip.
Two blocks later, a station wagon filled with Latin and Black guys turned the corner and drove our direction, followed by a van with guys hanging off the side of it, wielding pipes, bats and chains. It looked like a scene out of a bad movie.
Somebody is going to get their ass kicked! I announced to Poke as he squinted at the two vehicles, trying to make out the faces within.
Run! Poke yelled as he made a swift about face and booked. I followed behind. We ran about half a block when it became obvious that it we were not going to out run the two vehicles. I also got a stitch on the side of my abdomen.
You wanna stop and fight? Poke asked.
We didn’t have much of a choice I thought.
Yeah. I huffed and puffed to him.
I faced my enemies, knowing full well that I was about to get rocked. How rocked? I just didn’t know. I put my fists up, determined to make my first, if my only punch count. One of these fuckers had to get knocked out. My first punch was intercepted with a bat that broke my forearm in half. You really do see white sparks and lightening when that much pain is inflicted upon you. Next something crashed on top of my head and my legs were yanked out from under me. Within seconds my face was on the pavement and a yellow Timberland boot smashed me in the face and broke my cheekbone. I saw even whiter lightening. I cowered in a fetal position, covering my head and face the best that I was able to with my arms and hands. My body absorbed countless blows and kicks. Every other one causing whiter sparks. I decided if that I played possum, it might put an end to this nightmare.
Kill him!
I think he’s already dead.
The hell with that! Kill him some more!
It was then that I feared for my life. The attack was not going to stop until I did. I heard the sound of police sirens nearby. As the noise grew louder and louder, the hits became fewer and fewer until I was finally alone, beaten, aching and delirious. I could still hear the sirens, but they became faint and disappeared. I wasn’t quite sure what the fuck just happen or even why it happen? I saw my arm and thought what the fuck? It looked like a wet piece of wiggly noodle. I never saw anything like it before and I still haven’t. I looked around for Poke. He was nowhere around. I wondered if he was dead and where was he at. I tried to get up, but I was in too much pain. I stayed there and became aware that with every breath something was poking me internally. It was a broken rib threatening to stab my lung. I was all messed up.
Psst! Psycho!
I looked the direction that Poke was calling me from. He was behind a car. He looked around to make sure that it was safe before he came to me.
Yo Psycho, you’re okay?
I couldn’t believe he was asking me this. I was in a bad movie or dream. My pain reminded me that I wasn’t.
Look, I got fucked up too.
Poke showed me a gash in his hand that probably required three stitches.
I cut myself climbing over that fence over there.
Poke pointed to a fence down the block.
I am going to destroy your life, was all that I could think.
Police arrived and questioned us. Once it was revealed that we weren’t from Coney Island, they became hostile. One officer explained that the kids from around the area were good boys and that we must have been up to no good. I desperately tried to convince them that I didn’t do anything, but they didn’t care about anything I had to say.
The best we can do for you is get an ambulance to take you to Coney Island hospital.
No! All I was able to visualize was those kids waiting for me outside Coney Island hospital when I got discharged to finish me off.
Then I don’t know what to tell you then. You boys are on your own.
The two cops got in their car and drove away.
Ay-eee, those motherfuckers were dicks! That’s why I hate cops!
I was worried that the guys were going to come back and get me.
I wanna go home.
Poke grabbed me by my wet noodle arm and yanked me up. I saw multiple flashes of white, yellow and red lightening and screamed in convulsions.
You motherfucker!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
My tears were uncontrollable as I cradled my arm.
Ay-eee! I’m sorry, Bee.
I recuperated as fast as I could. Poke helped me up by my good arm and helped me get to the subway station like a wounded soldier.
Fucking Jenny, that bitch! It’s good that I snatched her Bamboo earrings off her ears.
Poke produced a pair of gold Bamboo style hoop earrings from his maroon colored Lee twills.
I slapped that bitch up. Ay-eee, Bee, that hoe is cut off for good for this.
I couldn’t believe what he was telling me. It was Jenny’s brothers and her friends who jumped me. I realized that I was lucky that I wasn’t dead.
At the train station, a couple of Spanish old ladies prayed for me and wiped off whatever blood I had with Kleenex tissues. On the two-hour train ride to Manhattan, I drifted in and out of consciousness. I started feeling cold and was trembling.
Ay-eee Bee, what the fuck is wrong with you? You’re shaking like a bitch. Stop that.
I was in shock. The train was in Manhattan and stopped at the 23rd street/8th avenue. My best friend, West One F.C. entered the car on the opposite end. He had might as well been Jesus Christ as far as I was concerned. It was too good to be true and I thought I was hallucinating. Poke thought he was an illusion as well.
Ay-ee Bee, is that, that nigga West?
West saw us and headed towards us. It was him.
What the hell happen, Bee?
They jumped me.
Poke showed him his gashed hand.
I got fucked up too.
West looked confused. You got jumped too?
Nah Bee, I was climbing this fence and….
I woke up delirious the next day in the hospital. I had a plaster cast on my arm and my body ached. I screamed and shouted that I wanted to go home until they discharged me. The sun hit my eyes, blinding me on 168th street and Broadway. I didn’t have any money so I walked the nine blocks to my house on 177th street. My aunt was pissed at me and yelled at me for going to Coney Island in the first place. I retreated to my room and fell back to sleep. I woke up trembling and in a cold sweat. The pain became worst. My aunt gave me whatever painkillers she had available and yelled at me for not getting any painkillers at the hospital. I was only 16, what did I know about painkillers yet?
It took a day because the painkillers became ineffective. My aunt pleaded with me to go back to the hospital. For no real reason, I refused. I got all my coke dealing friends to leave me whatever coke they would. I had a lot. The coke didn’t get me high, but it did numb my body for hours at a time. I sniffed so much coke that I rotted out the membranes in my nose.
I received steady visitors daily. My aunt and my boy/brother Eddie-Resk had to give me sponge bathes because I was so useless. No less than fifty of my friends came to my house to see me and my phone rang off the hook day and night with people checking up on me. I saw or/and heard from everybody I knew except for Poke.
It took about two weeks and a half before I was well enough to go outside my block. The late legendary pop artist Keith Haring was having a party at the Area for the opening of his store The Pop Shop. Any graffiti artist that was anybody was invited to attend. It was a fabulous, glitzy affair. I went with West, Doze, Seen and my boy Fer. Within twenty minutes I saw Poke hanging out with Dontay and Kano. I had enough vodka with cranberry juice in my system by that time to want to break his face with my cast. Keith just happened to walk by to see me with my crazy eyes. I knew Keith through Kano and Dondi from the Fun Gallery and he knew of my reputation for being ill. He waved a finger at me.
Psycho!
I’m cool Keith. No beef. I promise.
Please.
You got that.
Poke approached me.
Yo Bee, what’s up? What the fuck? You don’t know how to say what’s up to your brother?
Get the fuck away from me before I kill you.
Yo Bee, I know I fucked up. I should have called you but I felt bad.
I inched up closer to him, ready to attack.
West came up to me and put his arm around my shoulder.
Yo, I have to talk to you.
What’s up?
West smartly walked me away from the bar and bullshitted with me. I didn’t see Poke for the rest of the night.
The next time I saw Poke was on an early morning on the one train. He was with Jenny. I was stunned to see him with her. The conversation was short, weird and awkward.
During that fall I saw him at different Tc5 get-togethers. My anger had cooled down enough to not want to fight him anymore. I could never forget Coney Island to this day though.
On a cold winter day, he called me and told me that he needed to make some money. He knew my cousin/brother Junior operated a 24 hour crack spot. He asked me to get him a job. I did. Poke worked the overnight shift and I would usually see him finish when I was on my way to school. We took the subway downtown together because he lived a couple of blocks away from my school. Junior sometimes gave me the money to pay Poke when he didn’t want to get out of bed. It was about a month into Poke’s employment when I told Junior that Poke asked if he could be paid in crack. Junior looked at me suspiciously. I lied and told him that Poke thinks he could sell them for double around his neighborhood because the crack around his way was weak. Junior was happy to he