The Old Neighborhood (20 page)

“Yeah, Mickey. Dey're the ones,” Ryan lied quickly.

“Kung Fu motherfuckers… Don't go fightin' with dem… What de hell you t'ree tinking? You gotta break dere fuckin' legs with ball bats,” he said laughing. “Patty had one, made it in woodshop. We used dat thing all the time. Called her Big Bertha.” He adjusted the rearview mirror to see me. “You still got Big Bertha lying around the garage?”

“I'll check,” I said, still breathing hard, though the wires slackened. Mickey grinned sadistically in the small mirror.

“You do dat,” he said as he put the Lincoln in gear, and we glided away from the curb.

As we passed the corner, they spotted us. One of the slouchy GDs threw up the pitchforks. Jan'n'Rose peered into the Lincoln, too. Their mouths hung open, eyes wide with recognition.

Ryan pointed out the window with his thumb, then he turned slowly to look at me. His eyes bugged out.

‘
What the fuck?!'
he mouthed. I looked back and shook my head. My heart finally slowed, and I took a large chug from the Tall Boy. The horrors swirled in the cab.
What'd Mickey a said if he recognized Jan'n'Rose? How the fuck could they be hanging out there anyway?
Rage, fear, and anxiety swiftly coursed through my mind. It all churned slowly in my chest like it was inside a steadily cranking meat grinder.

•

IT WAS A COMPLEX DYNAMIC
that brought the girls to the Jungle, one as complicated as their bloodline. The girls fearlessly delving into the most violent neighborhood in the area made sense on a few levels. They came across as black girls to most strangers; only Caribbean people could really identify them as Dominican. To white guys, they were pudgy black girls. To black guys, they were thick, exotic, light-skinned girls. Then, when they found out they were islanders, they became even more exotic and coveted. It was only natural they'd be attracted to black guys, too; ethnically speaking, it makes sense. Growing up with roughnecks for older brothers and a fierce father, the Juneway Jungle was a prime locale to find a boyfriend. It just woulda made it a whole lot easier on me if they hadn't had a thing for GD's.

We'd head up to the U.P. of Michigan in the summer to hunt quail and whitetail, but mostly to fish for giant tiger muskie. The lake was named Lac Vieux Desert, and like Lac Ness, it was deep as fuck—two hundred feet in some spots. The muskies would just hover down there in the deep like logs at different depths. Dad had one of those sonar monitors, and we'd sit there and watch it between hour-long bouts with casting these woolly, long lures; they had five sets of three-prong hooks and four different-colored furs. It was exhausting. It'd have been fun if we were hooking into musky, but at Lac Vieux Desert, we spent ninety-five percent of the time beating the water. The girls would be done by the sixth hour of the first day, and they'd spend the rest of the time pouting in the cabin. I really had to feel bad for them. In the same way Dad was only capable of creating male offspring, he didn't have a clue how to engage the girls in a family outing.

There was other crap to do up there, but pretty much nothing for girls, so we'd go canoeing on this river. They have these giant black flies up there that'd bite the crap out of you! And maybe Jan'n'Rose had sweeter blood or something, 'cause those flies bit the hell out of them every year. The sun'd just be blazing down on us, and the girls would be swatting each other and squealing, “Get it off! Get it off!” every five minutes. There were rapids, too—these swift little rapids that'd kick your ass—and the girls were too busy swatting flies to really handle 'em. Inevitably, the girls would capsize and fall into the frigid water. It's amazing how different those two were. Ma always made note of Jan's fiery Spanish blood, but it was Rose, with her much lighter complexion, who carried more of the Spanish genes. Rose was the calm and easy-going one. Jan was always trying to control everything—shouting out orders even though she had no sense of direction and no real ability in a canoe. Dad would try to coach them, but it was hopeless. I remember that summer we eased down a peaceful, quiet stretch of river. Just downstream before the bend, a white heron stood frozen in the shallows watching the water for prey. Jan made some bonehead decision on how to negotiate a rapid and their canoe began to drift and twist sideways, eventually sweeping into one of the large boulders perpendicularly.

“Ohh, God!!!” Rose yelled, gripping the gunwales. There was a splash, and her paddle floated down stream. With their inertia, the canoe slid up atop the boulder and rose until the canoe's bottom hovered momentarily above the water's surface.

“This is all your fault, Rose,” Jan hissed.

Rose unleashed a long, frightened moan that ignited a fleet of sparrows in the trees above into flight—even the white heron swept up and vanished around the bend. Their canoe leaned downward into the chute and caught suddenly in the speeding stream. It twisted abruptly and capsized, sending them both plunging neck-deep into the icy water. Rose's arms flung up in the air as her scream tore through the peaceful quiet of the U.P. forest.

Rich chuckled and shook his head. Nancy reached over and slapped his arm.

“What? They did it to themselves,” he replied.

The canoe bobbled to the surface and both girls clutched its side. They strained their necks through their life preservers and sucked gulps of air.

Rose screamed and grabbed a gunwale. Her puffy hair spread out like a mop on the surface of the water.

“Help!” Rose screamed, gurgling water.

Rich burst out laughing, and I just shook my head.

“Patrick, get in there and help them,” Ma demanded.

“I'm not getting in that water,” Dad shot back as we paddled over to them. “Rose, listen to me! It's not that deep right there. Rose—damnit, stand up!” Rose stood. It was about chest-high. Rich still laughed as the girls walked the canoe to a shallow spot.

“Go screw yourself, Richard!” Jan hissed.

“Jan, you're something else,” he chortled. “I could watch this all day.”

“If it wasn't for Rose paddling the wrong side, we would have been fine.”

“You told her to paddle on the right! We all just saw it, Jan!” Rich pleaded.

“Richard, shut it. I'm tired of you teasing them,” Nancy complained.

“Oh, they're fine,” Ma piped in.

“No. I'm tired of it, Rich. They're your sisters. Put a sock in it!” Nancy argued.

“Girls, girls. You got to tip the canoe over to get all that water out of it first,” Dad said.

Jan seethed, “I don't know why we have to go on these stupid vacations anyway.”

“You keep it up with that mouth, Janet, and you'll be sitting in the car next time we go out to do something.”

“Fine. I don't even frickin' care!”

“Come on, Jan. We're already wet, let's just get this thing going again,” Rose added jovially.

“Rose, just shut it!”

“You guys come on already. Just tip it over, and let's go,” I whined.

Jan scowled at me, and I knew I'd be on her shit list for the rest of the trip. By the time we got to the end, Jan was still soaked and trembling with rage, and Rose was sniffling and wiping periodic tears. All Dad wanted was some peace, quiet and nature, but from the look on his distressed face, he'd probably have preferred to be managing a hungover construction crew on a Monday morning just to get a break from this. Ma just looked tired and fed up. Ma and Jan had never gotten along since the very beginning; it was always Ma and Rose that clicked—just nature I guess. Jan loved our father. I guess it was something about the way he controlled everything—his power. He is, to this day, a stark individual and a powerful man. I guess Jan wanted that for herself—to find her identity, her power, and it probably was somewhere in that anger and frustration waiting to turn into something.

CHAPTER 14

THE GOOD GIRLS

THERE'S A PRIDE IN BUILDING SOMETHING
with your hands that you just can't get from any other accomplishment. It's in the raw physicality—its semi-permanence. It links you into something bigger—the infrastructure of a city, of a country. I've built and rebuilt dozens of streets and bridges all over Chicago. It links you into something bigger—the infrastructure of a city, of a country. You know that spider web of bridges where the Ike, the Dan Ryan, and the Stevenson intersect? That interstate hub would not have remained standing if it weren't, in small part, for my hands and my sweat. Ten years have passed, and the concrete that surrounds the patches I helped extract and replace on the piers is now spotted with new rotten sections. Even so, it's that semi-permanence—that long-endured resistance that the work represents. It's about that glance at a patch you broke out and helped pour as you zip past at sixty-miles an hour. It's the memories of the sweat, pain, and danger. It fortifies your spirit when all your other worldly efforts seem to be failing and crumbling around you.

I'd been working on it for six months, and when you're fourteen, six months is an eternity. Some parts were old-school— scavenged off of junk bikes down at Maxwell Street, or from ones we'd stolen from around the neighborhood. Others, I'd saved for, doing extra chores, selling my old baseball cards and comic books, and, of course, more recently, from slanging. Dollar by dollar, I'd raised the funds and bought parts out of magazines based on the West Coast. All that was left to do was to take the UPS box out to the garage. Cut it open. Throw some inner tubes in the white-wall tires, then stretch them along those Show Chrome, 250-spoke rims. Pump some air in 'em. Hook the back rim up through the rear hub. Stretch the chain on the spindle. Find good tension, and crank the nuts tight with the Crescent wrench. Then, throw that front wheel on the bent springer fork with the twisted braces, and it was ready to go.

I flicked the light on in the garage and just stared at it. It was up on two flipped plastic milk crates. The curved metal fork had flat, twisted bars for braces. The twisted-metal made the light pop white, so it looked like a chain of incandescent orbs end-to-end. The ape hanger handlebars jutted up tall and proud. The fuzzy, black and red zebra print banana seat sagged lazily. The candy apple red Sting Ray frame beamed crisp. Its serpentine bars made the bike appear to surge forward. All the other junk and half-built or broken down bikes slid back in silent homage to my bike's unfinished, un-ridden excellence.

Once the wheels were on, I mounted the bike for the first time. I sat tentatively and listened to the pops and creaks under me. The rubber tires stretched, and the bike held up fine. I bounced a few times and watched the tires for pressure; they held firm, and the white-walls only ballooned slightly. The bike clanked a little, but it wasn't the clank of an old rust-bucket beater; it was the clank of a fresh ride—a new creation finding its groove.

I got up, leaned the bike on its pedal, and opened the sliding garage door. I walked it out into the alley and shut-up shop, then I got on. I took a deep breath and rode under the alley lights. My knees were high up under my armpits, and my back stretched as I reached way out in front to cling to the ape hanger grips. I pedaled the lowrider as the spring popped and hummed like a slinky. The fresh tires loped and bobbed over the uneven alley pavement. Above, the crescent moon beamed down its florescent appreciation.

I reached the end of the alley and turned towards the hospital.

“Ah shit!” Ryan yelled with a goofy, proud grin.

A bunch of other kids were there, and all of them turned to watch me roll up. Angel sat on his sill; the creases of his tan Dickies ran down his long, sprawled-out legs. As I got close, he smiled and nodded. His bike was leant up against the hospital wall. Its midnight-purple gleamed.

“Hell yeah, boy,” Ryan said, smirking as I rolled to a stop in front of the sills.

“It looks sick, man,” Angel said, looking at me. His eyes were sad, and his lips fought off a frown.

The other kids crowded around and made random comments and asked questions. After the excitement dropped off, I set my bike next to Angel's, and we took up our posts on the sills.

“Man, I'm gonna get my bike out here,” Ryan said.

“Do that shit,” I replied.

“You already woulda had it out here if you didn't spend all your loot on dat fool's gold,” Angel said smiling at me.

“Man, this is 14-karat gold,” Ryan said as he thumbed the thick herringbone necklace that hung around his neck.

“Yeah,” I muttered. “And it costs as much as my fork and my rims together.”

“Ah, but not everybody can be a pimp like me,” Ryan said, rocking back and smiling.

“Yeah, all your girlfriends do look like crack whores,” Angel retorted. I burst out laughing.

“Fuck you,” Ryan ejected, disgusted. He thumbed his herringbone. A faint yellow ring misted into the fibers of his white t-shirt.

A group of girls walked up to the sills; Hyacinth was with them. These were the pretty girls, the nice girls. Always dressing up when they came around. The Good Girls. The Good Girls got straight As. They all smelled like flowers and honey and candy. The Good Girls all covered their mouths when they giggled—their rings and bracelets glimmering. They always had their fingernails and toenails painted the same color and makeup on, but just a little bit. They listened to boy bands and B96. Their voices were girly and light like fairies'. Their skin was like the Noxzema girl's skin—creamy, vibrant, soft, and smooth. They wore lip gloss that tasted like stuff—stuff you'd never think you wanted to taste, but when they were close, the scent of it made your mouth water like a hound dog on a fresh track. They wore necklaces with nameplates written in cursive, and if they wore one with a boy's name on it, it meant they was goin' with 'em. All us guys had gotten nameplates just in case…. The Good Girls always seemed like they knew something was going on, even when there wasn't, 'cause there was always somethin' goin' on when the Good Girls came to hang around wit' us.