“Saturday Night at the Maytas”
The evening started out like every other Saturday night at my Aunt Olga’s house. There was a festive vibe in the air. The adults were drinking Bacardi dark mixed with Coca-Cola, laughing, playing Spades and having a good time with one another. Stevie Wonder blared on the stereo in cassette tape and things were fun.
I liked whenever my family got evicted and had to go live with my Aunt Olga. It meant that I wasn’t going to get beaten or anything for as long as we stayed with her. I was always safe with her. Sleeping on the hard linoleum covered living room floor represented good times for me. As long as my aunt Elsie, her husband Ernie and my aunt Olga kept each other occupied, I was able to be like any other 5 year old kid and draw, watch cartoons, dance and be as silly as I wanted to be.
My Aunt Olga was a Scorpio and true to astrological legend, she was a very sensual woman with sexy, intense eyes. She wore clothes that complimented her womanly figure and she loved a drink or two. Within a few drinks, she exuded even more sexiness. Her voice became sweet and sultry and she became very affectionate. Her womanliness was a constant source of conflict between her and her sister, my aunt Elsie, a Gemini to the tenth degree. My aunt Elsie was a very attractive lady in her day, but alcoholism and cancer had worn her out and it showed. Her bitter, angry energy only made her more unappealing. Even a 5 year old could see that my aunt Elsie was very jealous of my aunt Olga.
I was sitting in the living room on the corner of the plastic covered sofa, in my own little world, drawing my version of Superman flying over some choppy buildings with the art pad and colored pencils that my aunt Olga brought me for these occasions. I looked at the portrait that my Uncle Pete painted of Olga when he did time in prison. I was afraid of it. I imagined that the eyes moved with a life of their own. It scared me. Next to it was a painting of a happy clown and a sad clown. I felt that the clowns were evil and was scared of them as well, especially if I was alone in the house. As long as there was people and noise in the house, I was fine.
The laughing and joking stopped and I heard shouting. Elsie and Olga were going at it again. Elsie was accusing her of wanted to to have sex with her husband Ernie.
“What’s wrong with you, Elsie? Trust me. Nobody wants to fuck this little shrimp! Olga protested. She mock laughed at Ernie. Come on, you have to be kidding me!”
I knew Ernie was a weak example of a man. I didn’t have the vocabulary at the time to describe what I thought about him, but he was pretty much spineless. My aunt Olga at the time had strong, manly boyfriends and lovers that I looked up to and liked a lot.
“You fucking bitch! You fucked all my boyfriends. You fucked Tito and now you want to fuck Ernie!”
I heard a barrage of obscenities that no kid should ever hear. The argument spilt into the living room. I cringed tightly into the corner of the sofa, hoping not to be noticed.
You always been jealous of me! I can’t help it if Ernie wants to fuck me and he won’t fuck you! I’m a real woman!
Elsie lifted up her blouse and ripped her bra off, showing Olga her breasts, along with all the crude abdominal operations that she had acquired over the last couple of years from Cancer. I hated being exposed to her wounds. She had been severely butchered. As much as it disgusted me, I could not help but stare. at the the pained woman.
I’m a real woman too! I have tits too. Look at you! You’re disgusting! Who wants those?
Ernie was at the doorway of the living room, shaking his head.
Look Ernie! My aunt Olga called to Ernie. He looked at her as she tore off her top and snapped her bra open. The two sisters had nearly identical looking breasts with pink protruding nipples. My aunt Olga’s swayed upwards though. I looked at Ernie. He was having a hard time not looking at Olga’s breasts.
You fucking cunt! Elsie yelled.
Elsie swiped at Olga’s face with her nails, scratching her cheek. The two wailed at each other, pulling one another’s hair.
I sat, motionless, fearing that if noticed, somehow the violence would transfer to me. For a sick woman, Elsie was getting the best of my aunt. She was a fearsome woman. In between hits, Olga pleaded with Ernie to break it up. The man sprung into feeble action and had a tough time peeling his wife off of her sister. My aunt retreated to her room.
Don’t fuck with me, bitch! They use to call me Blackie! I’m from the old school! Elsie taunted Olga. She looked at me with arched eyebrows. I looked away. Elsie became distracted by a wall mirror. She saw that she didn’t get away unscratched and got pissed off.
I should kill that fucking bitch!
It’s not that bad. Ernie offered.
Elsie’s voice changed and got softer. You still love me, right, Baby?
Come on, Ma, you don’t have to ask that?
The two kissed, pecking each other on the lips. I thought that they were gross.
Olga entered the living room with a small metal object in her hand. It took several seconds for me to realize that it was a gun. My eyes widen, thinking that this about to get very serious.
How dare you come into my fucking house and attack me and think you’re going to get away with it. Fuck you!
Olga pointed the gun at Elsie’s face. I froze, unable to move.
You’re going to shoot your own sister, you fucking animal!
BOOM! Olga squeezed the trigger. I shut my eyes tight. This was something that was only supposed to happen in the movies, and usually with guys. When I opened my eyes, I was confused to whether Elsie had been shot or not. She was clenching her chest as she was. She was also wobbling around, unsteady and looking like she was going to fall any second.
My sister shot me! My own sister!
There wasn’t any blood to be seen. Realizing that she missed, Olga aimed at Elsie again. I braced for another explosion. Olga pulled the trigger, but I only heard a clicking sound. Frustrated, she rushed Elsie and bashed her on the forehead with the gun. Blood spurted out in abundance. Elsie was drenched in her own blood within seconds
Oh my God! She shrieked over and over.
Shut the hell up, you fucking bitch! I’m sick of your shit!
I wondered if this kind of stuff happened in everybody’s house. It didn’t happen on the TV shows with the nice white families like on Happy Days. Why couldn’t I be with my nice Irish mother in California? Was it because I looked more like my Latin father than her? Was this my punishment?
Ernie helped Elsie out of the living room. I heard the running water coming from the bathroom. Elsie was sobbing like I never heard her before. My aunt Olga glared at me as she left me alone in the living room. I didn’t dare bulge from where I was at. I stared at the paintings. I could have swore that the eyes on my aunt’s portrait shifted, scaring the shit out of me. I tried not to look at it, but couldn’t resist. The clowns looked sinister, staring at me with evil eyes. I wanted to cry, but was afraid that if I got caught, I might be bleeding too.
I overheard Elsie crying to Olga. How could you do this to me?
Olga was stern. You abuse everybody. I’ll be dammed, if you abuse me in my own house. You abuse Ernie and if Louie could see what you do to that kid, he’ll roll over in his grave. You have to stop it. What do you get out of this?
Vincent’s fine.
No he’s not! He’s a freaking basket case! The boy’s afraid to say two words in one day.
I wondered what a basket case was. I thought about a basket and a briefcase. I didn’t get it.
Why did you take him from California if you were going to treat him like this?
Mind your business. I’m his guardian!
He’s my nephew!
I wondered if Elsie could send me back to California.
It wasn’t long before the police arrived. Two tall white men with mustaches, one of them waved to me and asked how I was doing? I nodded, okay. The other one just stared at me. Who knows what he was thinking. The cops had a conversation with Olga, Elsie and Ernie in the kitchen. Every time Olga or Elsie raised their voice, one of the cops told them to keep it down, reminding them that there was an innocent kid in the living room. This made me happy.
My cousin Patricia came home. She made a scene of her own and argued with the cops for wanting to take her mother to the police station for additional questioning. The cops assured her that she would be home tonight.
This is fucked up! Patricia screamed before she retreated to her room and slammed the door. Soon the house was silent. I pulled my pajama bottoms over my feet and slid across the linoleum floor to the bathroom. I didn’t want to make noise or have Patricia come out her room. I didn’t like her when she was angry. I was afraid of her too. I peed and made back to the living room successfully. I saw something shine within the carpet. I picked it up. It was the bullet. I thought it was cool looking. I pointed it at the evil clowns and threw the bullet at them, imagining that I shot them dead. This made me feel safe enough to finish drawing Superman.
Posted on November 06, 2007 at 08:23 AM | Comment (5 comments)
By Special Request: Outline of the Week: Fews
Next: Cloud 9 and Jel FC
Posted on November 04, 2007 at 10:50 PM | Comment (9 comments)
The mess line couldn’t move fast enough on this Sunday. It was 10:30am and I was starving and my tier was one of the last ones to be called for breakfast. Breakfast looked unusually good today, bacon, eggs and toast. Since most of the prison population didn’t eat pork, I would be able to have as much bacon as I wanted to. I even planned on smuggling a bunch up to my tier to snack on through out the day. I could see that the officers guarding the mess hall were getting impatient and wanted to shut mess down. All they needed was a reason. Because the mess hall had be ready to receive visitors by 12:00 am, they were already rushing inmates out, sending them back to their tier, regardless if they finished eating or not.
I looked at the coffee bins to make sure that they weren’t empty. I saw two black guys arguing, each getting more aggressive with one another by the second. There were some unwritten rules within the inmates at Bordentown. One of them was no matter what, do not fight in the mess hall on Saturday and Sunday breakfast or you will be shun upon by the whole population. Fighting gave the C.O.’s the excuse to immediately shut down the mess hall regardless if you ate or not and dinner would not be served until about 6 and even 7 pm after the food packages were processed. There were about five people ahead of me when one of the black guys swung on the other one. What the hell? I thought out loud. That was it. The guards broke up the fight and arrested the two inmates and shut down mess. A sergeant ordered an inmate kitchen worker to shut the shutters at the serving window. Breakfast was terminated just like that. Everyone was sent back to their cell blocks, hungry and pissed.
I wasn’t expecting a visit that day and I only had one can of tuna and two Cup of Noodles to hold me for the day. The monthly state pay, which is when everybody gets paid for whatever job they were assigned was two weeks away, so most everybody was tapped when it came to food and snacks that was sold through commissary. It wasn’t a good day to miss breakfast.
I went inside my cell and lay in my bunk to daydream about the simple things in life, like walking into a bodega to buy an ice cold Corona on the sunniest day of the year, when all of a sudden, I heard a commotion outside.
The guy that swung first at mess was being escorted by three officers into my tier. Apparently there wasn’t any room in segregation, more commonly known as the hole. He was locked in an empty cell where he promptly went to sleep despite half my tier talking shit to him. He yelled that he didn’t give a fuck about any of us. I got a Tupperwear bowl from my cell and filled it with hot water from the shower area.
Our tier officer saw me come out with mischief in my eyes.
“Behave, Mayta.” He commanded.
“I’m not doing anything.’
“Yeah, right.”
I waited for the guard to disappear out of sight and went to the black guy’s cell and tossed the hot water through the bars and on him. He yelled and jumped up and down, making funny faces. The guys on my tier laughed. I was the youngest and most mischievous inmate on my tier. I was always up for a practical joke, to play fight or tell an ill story. You could say that I was an entertainer of sorts.
“Yeah, we don’t give a fuck about you either. You fat, country bastard!”
He put his face to the bars.
“I’ll fuck your little Puerto Rican ass up!”
I punched him in the face through the bars. I didn’t retrieve my arm fast enough and he grabbed it and hyper extended it, opposite my elbow joint. I saw white lights and I screamed. I thought that he broke my arm for a second.
“Roland, let my little homey go! Now!”
Roland obeyed Smithy. Smithy worked the kitchen and was well respected through out the whole prison system. He wasn’t the least bit of a trouble maker, although I knew he practiced Martial Arts. I don’t think it was just karate that gained Smithy all his jail house respect. Smithy must have been big time in the streets or something.
My arm was aching. Had I been alone, I’m sure I would have been in tears.
Thanks, Smithy.
This was the second time Smithy had my back. One time he saved my life when thirty kids from Newark had me and my Eddie cornered in the staircase dug out with shanks. He called my co-defendant Eddie and me, his sons from New York. I didn’t have a problem with that.
No problem.
Smithy tossed me a B.L.T. sandwich from his kitchen whites pocket.
Thanks. I went back to my cell, ate the B.L.T. and went to sleep. I didn’t sleep long before the guys at the TV room woke me up, hooting and hollering over an Eagles football game. I walked towards the room in my flip-flops. Roland was in front of his cell, holding the bars.
“Hey you little Puerto Rican faggot!”
“Your mother liked it.” I answered back.
“You think it’s over? Smithy can’t save you forever.”
“Fuck you, fat ass!”
Roland was 5’10” and about 255 lbs of muscle and fat. He had a baby face, except that he had evil eyes.
“Wait until I get out of here. You know they’re going to release me right on to this tier since they already have this room available.”
This made sense. There was a strong possibility that Roland might become a permanent resident of E-3. Roland was a big boy to be beefing and fighting with.
“I’m gonna fuck you in your little Puerto Rican ass. Watch!”
“What?” I said, stunned that he said this. Threats like this wasn’t common in Bordentown. I knew rapes happen, but only in the hardest lifer tiers.
Roland took out his penis on me.
“You ever had one this big in you?”
“You fucking, faggot motherfucker! “
I stormed into my homeboy Uribe’s room. He was a Columbian guy that was in for a lot of cocaine.
“Uribe, let me get the biggest Tupperwear bowl you have.”
“Why?”
“Cause I need it.”
Uribe went under his bunk and gave me a Tupper wear that was meant to hold a
cake.
“Perfect. Let me have your baby oil.”
Uribe knew that I was up to no good.
“What are you going to do?”
“That black motherfucker took out his dick on me and told me he was going to rape me. The one they have locked up in the empty cell.”
“He did what?”
“Yeah! I have to do something about that. Now let me have your baby oil.”
Uribe gave me his baby oil.
I borrowed, begged and stole 15 bottles of baby oil. I also borrowed four electrical stingers that were sold through commissary. I poured the oil into the lid of the cake holder and plugged the stingers and let them sit inside, heating the oil little by little.
The C.O. on duty was a body building fanatic. I gave him my entire collection of Muscle and Fitness and Flex magazines. This didn’t guarantee anything, but he has been known to turn a blind eye for certain people…like me.
Roland was sleeping on his stomach, snoring, oblivious to the danger that he was in. I had to tell the guys on my tier what I was up to, so they could get their stories straight. Nobody seemed to like Roland, especially the guards. I’ve seen him making a show out of dissing them on more than one occasion in the halls of Bordentown.
It didn’t take long for the oil to begin boiling. The plastic bowl was threatening to lose shape and possibly melt. Someone gave me an even big bowl to transfer the oil into. The C.O. peeked into the T.V. and saw what was going on. He went straight into the officer’s bathroom and stayed there.
A speck of oil hit my forearm, causing instant blisters, giving me an idea how painful this was going to be for Roland. Someone tossed me some leather work gloves.
I cautiously carried the bowl, blanketed with towels to the front of Roland’s cell. I had to figure out what was the best way to toss the oil without harming myself in the process. It seemed nearly impossible. Some of the other inmates agreed that it wasn’t going to happen. Without thinking I just did it. A few specks of oil got on me, but the adrenalin I build up, allowed me to ignore it for the time being.
Roland instantly woke up, screaming in agony. He jumped out of his bunk and practically climbed up to the top of his ceiling. He banged against the wall and went into convulsions. The sight of it mesmerized anybody that was watching. It seemed everybody said “Oh shit!” at once. Then Roland did something stupid and yanked off his white tee shirt. Layers of skin stood stuck to the shirt, revealing bright pink flesh that was under it. At least a third of his back and head had been burnt by the oil. Roland finally passed out. I stared at him. I felt somber. It had been a long time since I’ve done something this evil. To escape the feelings that came with it, I immediately numbed up. Yeah, I felt kind of sorry for Roland. It’s difficult to see any human being suffer in such pain.
Would Roland cause me the same pain if given the chance? Probably. Would Roland rape me if possible? Most likely. Was I in prison? Yes. Then fuck Roland and anybody who threaten to do me harm. That’s just how you have to be.
Dinner mess came. Some of the inmates congratulated me and approved of my actions. As the night passed, I became less happy I became with myself. Would I ever do anything like that again? If necessary I decided. I just hoped necessary never comes.
Roland was discovered after mess during count. He was taken out of the tier in a stretcher and taken to Saint Francis Hospital in Trenton, New Jersey.
Everybody was locked in their cells and Internal Affairs came to interview everyone on our tier. The black man in the cheap tweed suit and eye glasses stared at me intensely. He looked like an alcoholic to me.
“I heard his screaming. I thought I was dreaming or something, so I went back to sleep.”
“You weren’t watching football? The Eagles.”
“I don’t like football.”
“What kind of man doesn’t like football?”
I shrugged.
“I was too busy fucking and fighting to like football when I was growing up.”
The I.A. investigator didn’t like my sarcastic remark. I scratched my nuts.
“We’re going to find out who did this.” He announced as a threat.
“I hope so. I sure don’t want to wake up being burnt by hot water.”
“Did you say hot water?”
“Yeah. Who wants to get burnt by hot water?”
“Get out of here! Next!”
I got up.
“If I ever get burnt like that, my family is going to sue you and this prison. You better find out who did this.” I walked away with a smirk on my face.
I went to my cell and went to sleep. I had nightmares of Roland screaming for what seemed the whole night.
Posted on November 04, 2007 at 09:42 AM | Comment (13 comments)
Cause you know you have to hook your girl up.
Posted on November 02, 2007 at 04:31 PM | Comment (2 comments)
“Outline of the Week:Mare 139”
Next Outline:Fews
Posted on November 02, 2007 at 02:49 PM | Comment (8 comments)
Check
Psych-Love
Keeping it crispy and clean
In 83 I started causing havoc on the scene
You can’t imagine all the things I’ve seen
Never been accused of being mainstream
When you were in bed, having wet dreams
of doing pieces on the line with Dez and Skeme
I was up in the yards getting some head
From bitches like Lady Bug instead
Chilling at the Roxy when they were shooting Beat Street
Nigga like you was still skeeting in your bed sheets
I had ink stains on my fresh sneaks
You just was a little fool with shitstains in your Underoos
That’s the difference between me and you
I’m that nigga and that dude
Dontay Tc5 knows how I do
Right before we went bombing I said chill
I’m gonna put this bitch to suck my dick real quick
Ten minutes later, she came out the alley wiping her lips
Then I tagged up my whole block like I don’t give a fuck
Then another sucker got stuck up
While Shock 123 was doing time
I was getting mines, vamping 4 or 5 suckers at a time
This was about the time of the crack epidemic
And New York City was sick
Every other motherfucker on the street was ticked
Pre-Guilaini
During the days of John Gotti
You better had a shottie
Cause beef was considered fun to some
And every fake one caught a real bad one
I remember when the Ball Busters broke Crazy Legs jaw
Homeboy’s shit was scattered all over the floor
I know you want more, you want an encore
But I don’t write these stories for the glory
Cause on the real
I’ve got nothing to prove
Been there, done that
Scrapped, packed a gat
Whatever it takes
I do that!
I’m Psycho-Love
Now I have a question for you
Who the fuck are you?
Posted on November 01, 2007 at 09:20 PM | Comment (8 comments)
As soon as I entered the 145th street lay-up, I knew something wasn’t right. It was a Sunday afternoon in 1985 and there was always a lot of activity going on between West, Zear, Zame, Risk, Serve, Jon-One, Wane, Doc and Web, but in the distance I could make out that there were people who did not belong in the tunnels. I could only see their shadows, but they were playing and making lots of noise. 145th was a regular party during those days, eating pizza, Micky D’s or Chinese food while whole cars and burners were being exucuted, but it wasn’t that kind of an undisciplined party. One might have smelled spraypaint coming from the tunnel on the platform, but you didn’t hear a peep from within. I walked faster to investigate. I saw the kids that were violating. They were Dominican kids about my age that lived in the streets above the tunnels. This meant that they were potential trouble, which is why my F.C. brothers didn’t regulate in the first place. In fact, Risk warned me.
“Yo Psycho, those kids are Ball Busters and they live right upstairs.”
“So what does that mean? That they can come up in here and do anything they want?
“Yo, they can have this tunnel flooded with niggas in seconds.”
I shook my head no. “Fuck that.” I knew the drill. I came from F.K. and these kids had to be put in check...immediately.
The Ball Busters were Manhattan’s most notorius street gang in the early 80’s. There was hundreds of them, responsible for countless murders. The thing I knew was this, it was 1985 and their hey day was maybe 82-83. They barely existed at this point and most people who claimed to be a Ball Buster were wanna-bees that didn’t make the cut during their real era. This didn’t mean that a bunch of Dominican kids that had the convenience of living above the tunnel couldn’t make trouble for F.C. Still, I didn’t see that as reason not to protect my property. I stepped to who seemed to be the ringleader of the violators.
Yo, what the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
The kid looked at me with exaggerated arrogance. I knew I had to make a drastic example out of him before the situation got worst. If I just let him walk out, he would bring ten more of his punk ass boys with him.
“Nigga pleez, who the fuck you talking to like that? My brother will fuck all you niggas up! Ball Busters in the house!”
“Your brother?”
“Yeah nigga. My brother’s Cuba-Rock, Ball Busters. He’ll run this whole shit. He don’t give a shit who you are.”
I grabbed the kid by the throat, with a clean grip on his Adam’s apple and squeezed it, taking care not to crush it too much.
“Guess what? Your brother’s not here and not only is he not here, I don’t give a fuck about your brother.”
One of my boys told me to chill in the background, which pissed me off, because it only served to validate this kid’s claim that he and his crew was indeed a threat.
Before I choked the boy to death, I let him go and pushed him back inbetween two subway cars. He had tears in his eyes and he was a combination of angry and embarassed.
“You’re going to get yours. You don’t know my brother. He’s crazy! He’ll kill your fucking ass!”
“No! You know who’s crazy? Really, really fucking crazy? Me?”
It was then that I took out my 007 hunting knife and poked the tip of it into the cheek of his face. He screamed at the top of his lungs.
“You see! I told you I was crazy!”
I punctured his face again and again and again and again and again until he had a face was full of holes. Laughing madly at each and every scream he produced.
“Now get the fuck out of here.”
I helped him leave with a kick in his ass. My boys complained to me that I just caused major beef. I knew the Ball Busters would be down here within half hour. That their initial emotional response would be to kill me. I was aware of this. I advised my boys to get out of Dodge and I did the same.
At home, I let a few hours pass and I decided to return to the lay-up armed with a double barrel sawed-off shotgun with plenty of shells. I don’t know why, I was just curious to see what was going down.
Once inside the tunnel, I heard activity going on within but couldn’t see anybody. I climbed into the first train and situated myself in the conductors booth of the frist car that overlooked the entrance of the lay-up. I spray painted the windows black, leaving only a small circle to spy. It wasn’t a half hour before of group of many twenty Dominican kids entered the yard with bats, sticks, knives and chains. I’m sure at least one or two were actually armed with guns.
I considered blasting them through the window when they got near enough. With a double barrel shot-gun, it would have been easy to pick off at least five of them and the rest would have ran like bitches. It was a fearsome weapon indeed. But that would have meant the end of graffiti at the 145th street yard and F.C. wouldn’t have became the legends they have, if I had made that choice. So instead, I chilled. My heart raced as I could hear the kids entering the train I was in to investigate. I could hear them talking shit from outside the conductor’s booth. I crouched low on the floor and aimed the shotgun at the door. One squeeze of the trigger would have blown the door off and break very rib on the right side of my torso at the same time. I waited it out. Sweating, feeling anxious. Telling myself not to freak and start blasting. Someone tried the door. I took a deep breathe. My finger was ready. The door didn’t give and the intruder didn’t have diligence in him and left it alone. It took a few minutes to realize that I was safe.
It was the middle of the school year and for the most part, F.C. didn’t frequent the 145th street tunnel much during the week. By the next weekend, my new enemies would certeinly be caught up in some new drama. This is just how it is in the streets.
During the week, F.C. and the writers of that time hung out at the 125th street train station, taking pictures of our whole cars and top to bottom pieces. I arrived later than usual. The reason being was that I was picking up an Uzi machine gun from a friend named Little Man One. It was best that I traveled armed to the teeth for a week or two. When I exited the 1 train, everybody told me that about thirty Ball Busters just left minutes ago on the last train uptown looking for me. I grinned, knowing that 30 heads were no match for my Uzi. I made it known that I didn’t leave my house with no less than a shot-gun or an Uzi at best and yes, I would think nothing of using it if I had to. This got to the Ball Busters and just as I thought, they made one more obligatory appearance for the sake of not appearing like cowards and disappeared. I never heard anything from them again. F.C., Jon-One and the rest were able to continue making graffiti history.
The streets are very much like world politricks. If I had let those kids invaded 145th street without repercussions, they would have continued and continued until it was a problem I wouldn’t have been able to solve with a few harmless stab wounds. Letting the enemy know that I was strapped with big things, encouraged them to move on to the next drama. As ill as my actions might have seemed, there was never a point when there wasn’t a method to my madness. But only I knew this until now.
Posted on November 01, 2007 at 08:17 AM | Comment (7 comments)
