“Psycho Rock!”

In a neighborhood filled with wild, reckless and violen kids, I quickly developed a good, solid reputation. I wasn’t the craziest, strongest or even the best fighter by far, but I could always be relied on to always fight fast and hard. I’ve been asked many times if I ever lost a fight before and my answer is always consistent.

“Of course. Anybody who has never lost a fight must be a coward who chose every single one of his fights very carefully.”

When one comes from a neighhood where violence is the only language some people speak and understand, having “heart” is an invaluable asset to have. It could also be your biggest liability if you’re not careful.

Tracey was a black kid who migrated to Washington Heights from the Bronx. At a time when the Bronx was the place to be, this gave Tracey instant street credibility. It didn’t hurt that he had a stocky, powerful built. He had a big afro and carried himself like a tough guy. He had an intimidating presence and I was glad to be his friend. I learned fast that in the Heights where beef could pop up at any given moment, it was better to hang out with people who could handle themselves with their hands. There could be consequences to keeping company with the weak, stupid and unreliable. When choosing my company, I always tried to make the best choices I was capable of making. They weren’t always good.

One day after school I was sitting on a car, basking in the sun, enjoying my rising popularity. Just a short time earlier I was a nobody, and now kids were going out their way to say what’s up to me and slap me five. It did wonders for my condidence and ego. I had on my first pair of white shelltop Adidas with black stripes. I wore the sneakers with fat laces as loose as slippers, which was the style at the time. I didn’t like it. It made me feel vulnerable. The style just wasn’t practical for a life in the street. I remember feeling annoyed with myself for not thinking for myself and falling victim to the popular trend.

Maybe I gave my thoughts too much energy because Tracey came along and snatched a sneaker off my foot and started playing catch with it with some other moron that I didn’t know, but seen around. Both kids were pushing their boundaries with me and testing how far they could go, in a way that must have felt innocent and safe enough to them. Tracey missed a catch and my brand new Adidas hit the concrete ground and got scruffed up. The two allowed me to pick up my sneaker and examine it. I made an effort to control my anger.

“You fucked up my sneaker. Are you gonna get me a new pair?”

“You better suck my dick! You must be crazier than a motherfucker!”

There were many kids observing, waiting to see how I was going to handle the situation. Tracey also knew he was being checked out and his eyes kept on darting from me to his audience and back to me. He decided to make a show out of dissing me, calling me all kinds of names. I had no choice but to take action or look forward to Tracey fucking with me more and more until I finally did.

“Okay. But you know you’re doing this to yourself?”

“Do what? You punk ass motherfucker!”

I secretly had a razor blade sitting in the side of my mouth. I had mastered spitting it out flat out my mouth so that I didn’t slice my tongue or anything. I spit out the razor, confusing everybody and took a swipe at Tracey’s brand new jeans. Giving them a nice clean cut across his thigh.

“Good. We’re even.” I declared.

Tracey looked at the rip on his Lees and looked at me shocked.

“My mother’s gonna flip! Nah motherfucker...you’re gonna buy me a new pair. Fuck that!”

“You and your mother can suck my dick, if you think I’m buying you shit.”

All eyes were on Tracey now. As soon as he came within three feet of my space in aggression, I didn’t hesitate to swing. He never saw my flurry of hooks coming. I landed every one of my punches on his head. He charged me and I grabbed him in a head lock and ran towards the brick wall of the school building. I stopped short and let him go, causing him to smash his head against the wall.  The Playboys from my block saw what was going on and took it upon themselves to jump Tracey. I didn’t stop them. Instead I sat back on the car and watched gleefully, knowing that people would always think twice before testing me from now on. After the Playboys finished fucking Tracey up, I walked off with them. Tracey called out to me.

“That’s fucked up, Psycho! I thought we were boys.”

“Like I said, you did it to yourself.”

The following day after school, I carelessly passed by Tracey’s block on 184th street as I always did. I saw some of the guys on his block checking me out. I walked extra hard, eyeballing them. I knew they were up to something. I didn’t see Tracey and I didn’t want to act too concerned about him. Suddenly I felt a sting and saw yellow and orange sparks. It felt as if somebody had cracked an egg over my head and it was dripping all over me. It was weird. I couldn’t figured out what had just happened.  I touched my head with my hand and it was covered with dark burgandy blood. It started to drip into my eyes. I looked at my reflection in the nearest car window and I was drenched in blood. I turned to see Tracey with a motorcycle chain in his hand. He looked pensive and scared. His boys started closing in on me.

“Any one of you motherfuckers put a hand on me and I’ll have this whole block flooded with niggas. You know who my people are!”

They paused. I could see by their eyes that they were wising up. I approached Tracey. He looked like he wanted to run but didn’t dare. It would be hard for him to live in the Heights afterwards if he did. My veins were alive with adrenalin. My eyes were crazed with rage and the sight of my own blood provided me with motivation. I grabbed Tracey by his afro and smashed my knee into his face. There were a cast iron gate in front of the building next to us and I rammed his face into it. I tried to push his head through, inbetween the bars ,but it just wasn’t possible, but the attempt inflicted much pain to Tracey. Frustrated, I wanted to give him a punishment that he could never forget. Ordinary punches just wasn’t going to do. I took out a Pilot marker from my back pocket and tagged “Psycho-Rock” sloppily across his face and pushed him away in disgust.

“I tagged your face! You see, you can’t even beat me sneaking me. You can never ever beat me. I’m better than you!”

I walked off bloody. A huge crowd had gathered during it all. I recognized many faces from school and the neighborhood but I didn’t have anything to say to anybody. The next day at school, word got around that I took on Tracey’s whole block by myself. My reputation started to proceed me and I foolishly felt the pressure to live up to the hype. I tried to sneak in my house to clean myself up and see how badly I was damaged. My aunt Titi Olga was in the corridor and busted me.

“Oh my God, Vincent! You gone too far now. You’re punished!”

Posted on October 12, 2007 at 08:09 AM   |   Previous Entry   |   Next Entry   |   Entry List   |   Email Entry   |    Digg

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