The Old Neighborhood (46 page)

“Naw,” Angel said, smiling. “I just got it mixed up with that last 8-ball.”

There was a silence as I looked at Ryan, shocked. Ryan's chin sucked into his neck. A vile grin slashed across his mouth.

“It's cool, man. I don't even like it,” Angel said.

“You fucking idiot,” I said slowly.

Ryan's torso swelled below his Celtics jersey. He bobbed on the toes slightly, then his flabby fist slapped into Angel's jaw. His jaw compressed into his throat. Angel slowly fell away with his eyes closed, a slight smirk on his lips, hands limply at his sides like he was playing—like he was falling backwards expecting someone to catch him. No one was there except the cold sidewalk. I lunged and reached out to try and snag his shirt, but it was too late. He fell flat out, and his skull splashed and bounced on the concrete. His eyes retracted up into his skull and flipped like two movie reels hitting their ends. A hum came from his mouth. Blood pooled under his head.

“You're through now, motherfucker!” Ryan shouted.

“Ah, shit,” I said, crouching down and cradling Angel's wet head.

“You son of a bitch,” Ryan snarled, pacing back and forth. “One thing. You couldn't do one thing for me.”

Angel's eyes were half open, still flickering.

“You gonna be alright, man,” I whispered to him.

It shocked me that Ryan had that much pop in him. None of us'd ever put anyone clean out. I'd never known who'd win between all of us heads up, and to see Angel dealt with so easily had me embarrassed for him. It had me wondering if I was all wrong about my speculation and if Ryan really was the baddest with his hands after all.

I saw a light come on in a house across the street. “Ryan, man. Take off, you're blowing up the spot.”

“Son of a bitch,” Ryan shouted.

“Go on. Get the stash, and get the fuck outta here,” I whispered. Ryan hesitated, grimacing. “NOW, MAN!”

Ryan jogged across the street, then squatted down, grabbed the stash, stuffed it in his sweatpants pocket, and started walking down the arterial alley towards the Bryn Mawr house. A squad car pulled into the alley in front of him, and he froze in the bright beam as the car came to a halt.

“Be cool, man,” I whispered to myself. I watched Ryan and the dark figures in the squad car staring at each other. I knew the squad could see me and Angel on the sidewalk—him bleeding and me holding his head up. I tried to play it off. I smiled and grabbed him by the arm. I tried to pull him to his feet, but he was still out. His head slumped limply.

The cop flicked a switch in the squad, and its blue and red strobe lights twirled alight. Without hesitation, Ryan broke down my alley out of sight. The squad roared after him, strobe lights spinning. The siren careened as the wheels squealed around the corner.

“Fuck!” I yelled. “Wake up, man! We gotta fuckin' hide now, you asshole!” I pulled Angel up by both his arms. “Wake up!”

Angel got to his feet, kneading the back of his head with his palm. I pulled him along towards my house by his elbow, and by the time we got half way, he had it together enough to jog. We cut through the gangway to the garage. Other sirens popped on around the neighborhood as the whole shift slowly committed to catching Ryan. I only hoped he could ditch the stash before they got him
.

I sat on a milk crate near the garage door listening until the sirens stopped, and I knew they'd snagged him. Angel was a mess. His jaw puffed and reddened where Ryan'd cracked him. He had this far off look on his face as he slouched on the couch. Finally, his eyes just slid shut, and he drifted to sleep. I watched him as the low light crept in the small windows of the garage. His mouth hung open, and his skin was like brown porcelain—calm, at peace, and pure, like a child dreaming.

After about an hour, I woke Angel up and walked him home. We didn't say much; he was too out of it anyway. I headed over to the house on Bryn Mawr. Wacker sat on the front porch smoking a cigarette. His thick arms flared as he saw me. His face was worn and wrinkled. The scar was more prominent now—like he'd been branded.

“What the fuck happened?” Wacker said, standing up.

“You guys got any loot laying around?” I asked as I walked up.

“Yeah… Mickey's already over there bailing 'em out.” He sat back down with a defeated exhale. “Well, we hope anyways.”

“What?”

“We don't know if they're gonna let him go,” he said. “He got caught with some weight all bagged up. It's distribution.”

“Ah, fuck. They got it?” I sighed as the shock set in. How much weight? What's the law for a minor?

“You fuckin' kids,” he said in disgust. “I don't know what Mickey was thinking puttin' youse three to work.”

“We were just packing up shop, and the cops rolled up.” I raised my shoulders.

“You think they was watching you or something?” He shot me a cold look.

“I don't know.” I shrugged.

“Were they watching you?!” he said, leering over me.

“We ain't had any trouble 'til this,” I said, raising my hands, palms up.

“Fuckin' Mickey! Puttin' kids out there like that.” He looked out into the street. “That fuckin' asshole! Your old man woulda never put up wit' shit like this!”

“What?” I said, mystified.

“When your dad started this shit, he never woulda even considered putting kids out there like that. Back then, kids got to be kids. The older guys dealt with the serious shit.”

I tried to swallow what Wacker'd said. Could it be true? My old man started the TJOs? It couldn't be, but he was so pissed, I didn't pursue it. I didn't believe him. Maybe that shot to the head made him nuts—who knows? We sat and waited in silence for an hour or so. I was sick to my stomach, and I gagged a few times but didn't throw up.

“You look like hell, kid. Go home,” he said, flicking a half-smoked cigarette. “I'm tired of lookin' at ya.”

I stood up and paused.

“Go on. Everything's gonna be alright. It's a first offense. They'll let him go, we'll get him a lawyer, and he'll be fine.” He shook his head and looked down.

“You living here now?” I said as I started down the stairs.

“Naw, I got my own place down on Granville with the niggers, working nights at the college. I just came by when Mickey called. My only night off, and I got to deal with this shit.”

“What'd'they got you doing?” I asked.

“Janitor.”

“They make good money, right?” I raised my eyebrows.

“Yeah, lucky me. It's this parole shit. It's only six months though.”

“Yeah?” I rubbed my eyes.

“Yeah,” he said. “Now get outta here, kid.”

“Alright, Wacker.” I stepped off the stairs, and he got up and walked inside the house in silence.

I walked towards home slowly. I was mad and sick, and my heart filled with hatred for the neighborhood.
Every time we get past one thing, another thing that's even worse pops up. When's this shit ever gonna just let us be?

•

I FOUND MYSELF WALKING
towards Hyacinth's house. It was just past midnight, and a near perfect silence hung on Hermitage. All the parked cars were bunched up on each other like dead-locked traffic. An alley cat scampered around the corner of the hospital parking garage. Deep down, I didn't want to bother her, wake her out of the peace of sleep. I could see her in my mind as I walked—her angelic, golden-brown face; those large eyes softly shut, flickering, dreaming. I thought about her future and what happens to pretty girls on the honor roll. She'd be going away to college. She'd end up a doctor or a lawyer, drive to work in a Beemer or an Audi, have a family, be happy and good. Then, I thought of where punk-ass drug dealers end up. I figured I was headed to jail or maybe dead. If I was lucky, I
'
d end up swinging a hammer like my old man my whole life.
Maybe I could go to college, I don't know.
I was getting an A in physics, but with a 1.8 GPA, I wasn't exactly college material.
Ah, hell,
I sighed. My chin tucked into my chest as I stepped over the cracked pavement with tiny little weeds wilted between the cracks.
I ain't on shit—can't even get V'd into a gang I've been riding with for years, and now I don't even know if I want it.

I walked up the sidewalk to her window, pulled myself up, and tapped on it with my fingertips. She suddenly shot up straight on her bed, turned, and hurriedly pulled the window open. Her scared eyes searched mine as her chest heaved under her nightgown.

“I had a dream about you. I was dreaming that you were drowning out on the lake, and it was the dead of winter, and there was ice, and there was… I, I just couldn't get to you, and you slipped below the ice in-between….” She threw her arms around my shoulders and buried her face into my chest.

“It's alright, baby,” I said, kissing her on her forehead as she nestled her face into my neck.

After a few moments, she looked up.

“What's up? What's going on? Why are you here?” She looked up, lip trembling.

“It's just…” I wished I hadn't come. “It's Ryan. He got arrested.”

“He got arrested? For what? Selling weed?” she replied, shocked. And for some reason, I couldn't lie to her then. I couldn't lie to her anymore.

“Naw, he was selling something else.”

“What?”

“Heroin….” My eyes burned.

“Oh, my God….” She recoiled away from me with her mouth gaping open. “You, you weren't part of that?”

I looked away and tried to shake the guilt from my face. My throat ached.

“Your brother, Joey… How could you get involved in that?”

“I don't know.”

“You got to get away from it,” she said as tears welled in her eyes.

“I know…,” I said, finally able to look her in the eyes.

She started to cry in heavy, loud sobs, and I reached out and stroked her hair. She just kept crying. Her eyes shifted from horrified to hopeless, and I could see all I'd been doing to her—how I'd been hurting her, how I was so fucking bad for her, like a poison. She was the sweetest person I'd ever known. She loved me so much. She was my first love, and this was what I did to her? This is all I'd been doing to her for months—making her hurt, making her cry.

I finally calmed her down enough so that I could go. We kissed one more time. I whispered I love you over and over in her face and ears. Her lips were hot and damp, but this time for another reason—the wrong reason. She shut her window, and I walked home.

•

I WASN'T WORRIED
that the cops had called or came by. I knew better that Ryan wouldn't talk, but then I thought,
What if O'Riley walked up and just threw it all on the old man's lap?
My shit'd already be out on the lawn by now, so that'd be the answer. It wasn't. I went in and got into bed wondering what it'd be like to face a real charge—a felony—shit that they were gonna slap years on you for. Then, I thought of Lil Pat. Thought of how he'd gotten older in there, how he'd grown up in there, really, and how hard that must be to have to fight, cut, and kill just to survive day-to-day. That's not the life that I wanted. That's not what I wanted to be. I saw Lil Pat years from then, as a carpenter, as a father, owning some house way far away from here. Tears welled up and burned my eyes because I didn't know if I'd ever see my big brother again, and all for this. All for nothing.

It took a long while, but I slept and dreamt that I was stepping through a thick, dark-green jungle. No path, only a tangle of vines and thick bamboo stalks that rose up toward the spliced blue sky. Steam rose from the black ground. I had to reach my legs up towards my shoulders, then stretch my feet way up over the entwined green before me to make any forward progress. Birds flicked up at the tips of the bamboo, and tall, bustling trees swayed above, drifting like dark-green clouds. There was a slow roar and a light trickle in the distance as flies buzzed and swarmed about my face and ears. I moved towards the roaring trickle of water that would end this tarring oppression that was twisting tightly around me. I fought and struggled for a long, long time, until the roar was all around me. Still, no break in the slimy vines and foggy steam. Then, I reached out and split the bamboo as if it were a drape drawn closed before me. The world opened, and a light-blue river rushed and swirled past. On the far bank there was a stone shore, with a sparse forest and hills beyond. Then, a fire. Three men stooped above a carcass—a chest-high mound of mangy and knotted brown fur. The beast—head in profile with his purple, crusted tongue dangling below his snout. The men worked without words, hacking into the ribs of the beast with short blades. Then, suddenly, the smallest of the men was Ryan. His bare, pale arms slathered with deep-red blood that dripped steadily from his wrists. All three of them were bare-chested and smeared with dark, chunky blood. I knew the other was Mickey and was horrified to see Chief's emaciated face. He stared at me. The side of his head was peeled open, and black organs pulsed through a gaping wound at his solar plexus. He stood up. Blood dropped from his fingers in heavy globs. He stared at me, long and without recognition or expression, then he burst into laughter, his torso hunching. The black organs swelled from the wound and jostled with each laugh. My chest convulsed with rage at all the disdain he'd shown us three. The disdain he'd shown the world even. When he killed, it was without hatred!

“What!?!?!” I screamed, but no sound escaped me. Ryan and Mickey busily drew and strung their blades through the carcass, slicing hunks of meat below the pulled-back flaps of hide. ‘What!?!?!' I screamed, then ran out into the river and found no bottom. The water gushed up, encompassing me. I was drowning. The river was suddenly an incandescent violet with white foamy swirls surging and thrusting me downstream to the deeper roar. I fought to the surface, finding air and water. The roar rose into a rumble so powerful that it shook even the water. I saw a wide, deep canyon with a steam cloud rising up to the heavens at its center. The sun played in it like a golden haze and ignited it into water droplets that fell instantly. I descended, cascading and careening into the dismantling fog below, then I exploded into consciousness and awoke on my back, bouncing atop the mattress. The springs squeezing as if I'd just landed.