My vision was cloudy behind my swollen eyelids, but even in the night, I could make out my cousin’s trademark black baseball hat and shades. I see him bullshitting with one his street employees on the block. They seem to have some kind of brag fest going on. He lifts the the bottle of rum in the brown paper bag to his mouth and drinks. I aim the end of the shiny gun at his head as I brace myself physically for the impact. I squeeze the trigger. The blast it creates is a lot louder than I expected. It makes my eardrums ring. I can not hear and wonder if I will be permanently deaf as the window of the furniture store across the street shatters in thousands of little pieces. I squint looking for my cousin. People are running in every direction, scurrying like rats. Where’s my cousin? I see the stupid black hat behind a parked car. I point the gun aimlessly and shoot again. I can see that I missed my cousin but hit the car. Its alarm goes off. My cousin runs east. Look at the fucking faggot run, I think as I squeeze the trigger four more times. I stand in a cloud of gun smoke. It makes my eyes water. I sneeze, hurting my broken nose and blacken eyes.
I’m 15 years old and out of bullets. Fear and nervousness replaces adrenalin and rage. Police sirens are a common sound in Washington Heights, but now they are coming from all angles and I wonder if they are coming for me? Were my cousin and his boys making their way up the stairs, to shoot me or throw me off the side of the roof or both? My feet felt glued to the tar floor. The door to the entranceway of the roof opens, scaring the shit out of me. I aim the nickel plated 357.Smith and Wesson magnum at it. It’s my boy Necko who works for cousin, selling crack.
Vinny, what are you doing? His voice always had a soothing and calming quality to it.
I can barely hold back tears of anger as I explain that my cousin fucked me up for wearing his new Adidas sneakers to the yards.
Necko examines my face. The expression on his face said it all. I’m all fucked up.
Yo, you have to get out of here. Now!
Necko gently shoves me, Go!, and I dart across the rooftops to the last building on 178th street and I hurry down the fire escape. I hear gunfire.
One of my cousin’s henchmen hastily shoots my friend in the abdomen. Necko recovers from the gun wound and a year later as Necko moves up the ranks of the cocaine and crack trade, his assailant mysteriously disappears from the neighborhood, leaving a wife and three children behind. It’s known that Necko had always held a grudge against Jimenez.
I go to the George Washington Bridge bus terminal. I don’t want any of my boys to see me in my beaten condition. I go inside the men’s lavatory. There’s a Hispanic, middle aged homosexual man leering at me, crudely adjusting his crotch.
What the fuck you looking at? I yell at him. I kick him in the stomach. Get the fuck out of here before I kill you.
The gun drops out my waistband with the kick. The gay man stares at me confused. I pick up the gun and point it at him. He rushes out the restroom. I look in the mirror at my fucked up face and think that maybe I should have kept my weapon concealed a little bit better. I better go.
I walk out of the rest room and look around. I see the homo talking to P.A. police on the far side of the terminal. They look and walk my way. Oh shit! I run down the terminal stairs and on to Broadway. I flag down one of the hundreds of Lincoln Towncars that work as livery cabs.
I ride to 168th street and pay him. I’ve taken too many chances for the night to ditch him without paying the three dollar fare. I walk back uptown. I past McDonalds and toss the gun in a dumpster parked outside of it. At this point, it’s more of a liability than an asset.
I call home. My aunt picks up.
Hello?
Hi Titi.
Vincent, where are you?
I went to my friend’s house.
Oh my God, honey…I’m so worried about you. Are you okay?
No, that bastard broke my nose and I can’t see. My eyes are swollen shut…like Rocky.
You see that’s what he gets. You don’t even know what happened after you left.
What happened?
These other drug dealers, big time guys, tried to kill him and everybody on the block. Necko got shot. It’s been crazy here all night.
Nah, get out of here! Who does he think did it?
He thinks some Dominican guys from 173rd street. He said the names, some crazy names. Wapo, Grapo. I don’t know. I want you to come home now. It’s not safe out there.
I know about the guys from 173rd street. Not only is my cousin out of their league, but they pay him no mind. It’s a delusion of glanduer on his behalf that they should even be concerned about his Mickey Mouse crack operation.
I don’t want to come home. He might beat me up again.
He’s not. He’s getting ready to go to go to “war.”
Oh word! War with who? The guys from 173rd street? That’s funny to me.
I don’t know, I just know he’s here with all his boys with all these guns. I just want them to leave. I don’t need this. I’m an old woman you know. Come home, please. I don’t want you to be involved.
Okay.
I make my way up back to 177th street. Trying to glare at the people staring at my black eyes, but I don’t think I look very intimidating.
I walk into my aunt’s apartment. My cousin and his boys have my room occupied. I peeked in. There are guns scattered all over my bed. He snaps his fingers at me and dismisses me.
Get the fuck out of here. This is for real gangsters, not little kids. We’re going to war here.
Gangster shit! Word up! I say as I walk to my aunt’s room. The sarcasm is lost on him. My aunt treats my eyes with witch hazel drenched cotton puffs. Afterwards, we are able to listen to everything being said with the help of a couple of drinking glasses placed on the wall with our eardrums pressed on them. I smirk as my cousin blames one of his boys for stealing a nickel plated 357.magnum. Then I hear something that makes my heart drop.
I’m telling you, Bee, it was your little cousin. I saw him with my own two eyes. You’re bugging out!
I hear what sounds like a slap. My cousin yells.
My little cousin doesn’t have the heart to do something like that. He’s just a graffiti kid! Just say you’re afraid to go to war. You always been a punk, the weak link in this crew!
My aunt whispers to me.
He hit him right?
That’s what it sounded like.
My cousin is 25 years old and very stocky with Mike Tyson like strength, which he often abuses, both inside my household and in the street.
Oh my God. He’s too much. Somebody going to kill him, you know?
I sure do.
Get the hell out of here! My Cousin yells. My front door opens, I hear somebody leave and close the door.
One of my cousin’s boys wants to know if he thinks it’s wise to wait until they hear from the big boss, a guy by the name of Richard.
When Richard isn’t around, I’m the boss! What I say… goes! My cousin barks. My cousin sends someone to the liquor store for a bottle of Barcardi. I hear sniffing sounds.
My aunt whispers to me again. He’s been drinking and sniffing cocaine! That’s how he’s going to war? Jesus Christ! What a dumb ass.
I know. He’s a fake gangster.
Don’t tell him that.
I know.
My aunt and I grow bored of listening to my cousin’s bullshit and watch more entertaining gangsters on TV instead.
The next morning when I wake up, both my eyes and nose are killing me. Puss comes out of the ducts of my eyes. I can barely see out of the slits that are my eyes. I hope my cousin is dead. The fucking bastard!
My aunt sits in the kitchen, crying in her Bustelo coffee. For a second, I believe my prayers have been answered.
Titi, what’s happened? I ask innocently enough.
Oh my God. You look horrible. I haven’t heard from him. I think he’s dead.
Nah, he’s okay.
Where is he then?
He’ll be back around. I’m sure.
The phone rings. Shit! I think that I jinxed myself. My aunt picks up the phone. I learn in the first minute that my cousin is laying low at my dyke cousin’s house in the Bronx. He can’t come back to Washington Heights. He wants to speak to me.
What’s up? I asked, annoyed.
Listen carefully, Cousin Psych. This is important. I can’t come back to the hood for a while.
Why?
I’ll tell you later. For now, go to the closet in the hallway. Take the green toolbox that’s on the floor to your room and lock the door. Make sure Titi doesn’t see what you’re doing.
Okay.
The heavy toolbox puts strain on my eyes and nose as I struggle to carry it to my room. I open it and shift around. My eyes open as wide as they can at what I see.
Inside, my cousin continues, is five ounces of blow and about 2,500 dollars in cash. You see it?
No. I tell him as I flip through the cash in dominations of hundreds and twenties.
Keep looking, it’s there.
I open up the zip lock plastic bag and sniff inside. It gives me shivers. The coke is beige, uncut and potent.
Dude, I’m looking everywhere. There’s nothing here. You sure none of your boys had access?
No, nobody had access but me.
Are you sure, it’s not in the little tool box instead?
Go check. it might be there.
Drunk ass motherfucker, I think to myself as I help myself to a sniff of cocaine. It stings.
Nah Dude, it’s not in here either.
You sure?
Dude, I’m looking in the toolbox as we speak. There’s nothing but screwdrivers and pliers in here.
It’s has to be there!
You wanna come here and check for yourself, Dude?
I can’t. What don’t you understand? They want to kill me out there.
I don’t know what to tell you. It’s not here, Dude. And I have a headache and puss coming out my eyes. I’m going back to sleep.
Damm, what am I going to do?
I don’t know, Dude.
You have any money?
I’m broke. That’s why I borrowed your sneakers in the first place. I would have brought my own if I had money.
I’m sorry about what I did, Cousin Psych. I guess I overreacted. Yo, you can have those kicks. They fit me small anyway.
Fuck those sneakers. I don’t want them. I got a job. I start Monday. I’m going to have a lot of sneakers! I tell him as I lie on my bed, flipping through his money.
Cousin Psych, I love you, man.
You want to speak to your mother?
I walk out the room and pass the phone to my aunt.
Later that night, I take a nice chunk of my newfound wealth and coke and spend the night at a local whore house. Isn’t this what all 15 year old boys do?
My cousin doesn’t return home for six months. He never hits me again after this.
Posted on December 16, 2007 at 03:24 PM | Comment (6 comments)
