The Old Neighborhood (7 page)

“What,” Rich shouted toward the bushes. “Can't hold your liquor?” He set the amp he carried down on the stones and opened the truck's back hatch.

It took a second for my eyes to adjust—it was the black dude with the spiked mohawk. He sat and clutched his stomach. A smear of dark red blood covered the white Dago T. His eyes stared blankly into the bushes.

“You alright?” I asked. I reached out and touched his ankle.

Sy walked up next to me, still chuckling at what Rich had said.

“He's hurt,” I said, glancing up at Sy.

Sy bent down and looked.

“Oh shit! Call a fuckin' ambulance!” Sy yelled as the other guys scrambled back inside.

“Shit, man! You OK?” Sy crouched down. The guy looked at Sy and started to say something, then his head just slumped to the side, and he passed out. His thin torso began to slide down the wall. Sy pushed the bushes back and reached in, grabbing him and holding him up.

“What?” Rich asked as he sauntered over.

“He's fucking hurt, Rich!” Sy shouted. “Call an ambulance!”

“Oh shit,” Rich laughed. “Them skins got him.”

“Wake up, man,” Sy said and slapped him lightly on the cheek. The guy seized. A line of yellow ooze slid out of his lips, touched the stones, and then slurped back before just dangling from the corner of his mouth. He started to shake violently, and his legs jerked and kicked up the stones.

“Man, leave that nigger where he lays,” Rich said, laughing.

“What the fuck, Rich?” Sy yelled. “Are they calling or what?”

“Come on, Joey,” Rich said as he put his arm around my shoulder and led me to the truck. The fat bouncers rushed out of the club.

We left after the ambulance got there. I was in back, scrunched next to Sy.

“Think he's gonna die?” Rich said as he turned slowly onto Peterson. The red and blue ambulance and police strobes spun and spilt onto the crowded street.

“Shit, I don't know,” Sy answered. “He looked bad, didn't he?”

“He came to the wrong fucking place,” Rich said.

“That guy wasn't doing nothing to nobody, man,” Sy said as he slammed his fist into the pleather headrest in front of him. “He was just slamming like the rest of 'em.”

“Had the wrong skin tone is all,” Rich drawled as one of the others chortled.

“Richard, would you quit that shit already?” Sy sighed. “What the hell they ever do to you?”

“Ahh, they hate me just as much as I hate them,” Rich laughed. I thought about Jan'n'Rose and wondered if they really did hate each other. It sure seemed like it sometimes. My mind drifted as we drove home along Peterson, and I thought of the black punker and hoped he'd be OK.
Why do people hurt each other so bad?
I felt the bumps along my forehead.
Why can't we get along?
I closed my eyes and tried to think of nothing as the wind howled in my window. The Assyrian floated in a black haze. His eyes were closed, and his arms were folded over his chest in some ancient burial pose.
Why'd you have'ta die?
His mouth opened, and he whispered, “I ain't dead,” then he smiled and vanished.

We pulled up in front of the house, and Rich double-parked. He got out and walked me toward the house.

“Now you know you can't tell Ma or Dad or anybody what happened tonight, right?” Rich said, rubbing my shoulders. “Or else you won't be able to go with again, OK?”

“OK,” I said, and started up the front stairs.

“Alright. I'll see ya later buddy,” Rich said.

“OK. Thanks, Rich,” I went through the front door and didn't tell a soul.

Rich was like that. He could be really good to me sometimes, and he could be a miserable son of a bitch, too. It all depended on his mood that day I guess. But to be honest, when I look back on it, I could see that he really loved me. He even really loved Jan'n'Rose, too. He was just all mixed up and living in a fucked-up world out there—almost getting raped like that. I mean, that could radicalize anyone. All those crazy radicals out there, all of 'em had either something horrible happen to 'em, or some kind of mental illness, and Rich had both. That made it rough for him, and it was only gonna get worse.

He needed a guy like Simon around. Sy had sense. He could make sense of the world for these guys. He made them feel like what they were going through mattered and had meaning. That respecting each other and being there for each other was what mattered. The whole North Side knew Sy, whether it was because of his bands or just that he was always around the metal scene back then. People just latched onto him. He knew everyone, and everyone loved him. Sy had a sense of right and wrong, too— something Rich had lost somewhere along the way. Without Sy around, I think Rich woulda been doing way worse shit out there in the neighborhood. In fact, I'm sure of it.

CHAPTER 5

SEEDS

MY BROTHER BLAKE
was a terribly sick child. He had a hole in his heart the size of a walnut, and they weren't sure if he'd make it his first five years. He literally could have been rushed into surgery at any moment, so Dad even stepped down from his foreman position in order to take on a Union Steward job, (basically, the Union's eyes and ears on the site). He couldn't afford to get laid off and lose his insurance, even for a week, and stewards worked all year round. By the time Blake was about twelve, the hole sealed up on its own. He started playing Pop Warner football with the High Ridge Chargers and ended up being pretty good.

Lil Pat was a brutal big brother to Blake. Don't ask me why. Sometimes, when two eggs hatch, a terrible war unfolds within the nest. That seemed to be the force of nature at work between 'em. Rich told me that when they were little, Lil Pat would do horrible things to Blake. Things like literally holding him down and taking a shit on him, or pushing him out of a tall tree, which broke Blake's arm. It was a long, cruel list, but Blake survived.

Blake started out high school as one of the smallest and slightest kids at Gordon. He was a little over five foot and about a hundred and twenty pounds. He worked hard on the football field and ran the practice squad. He concocted mock defenses in order to imitate their next opponent. But then, something miraculous happened: his sophomore year, he started to grow. By the beginning of his junior year, he was closing in on six feet in height. By the end of the season, he was 6
'
1
"
and starting receiver and safety for a pretty strong Catholic League squad.

His growth spurt had its ill effects on Rich, who'd been bigger and taller than his older brother for several years by then, though Rich could never fight a lick, and Blake could always best him. But now that the tide had shifted, so to speak, Blake recalled the brutality he'd endured most of his life inflicted by a big brother. So, he decided to educate Rich on what it was like to be a hated little brother.

One night, the summer before Blake left for Drake, shit got messy. He'd moved into one of the side rooms in the partially-finished basement. We had a TV and stereo set up down there.

It was about one in the morning, and Rich and Sy sat on the sofa in the basement chowing down on Italian beefs and bags of greasy fries, nodding their heads vigorously to the heavy metal that poured out of the stereo. They were drunk and high, as usual, and on the down-turn from a bright night at the Metro.

The basement door opened. Blake rumbled down the stairs and past the TV console. In one fluid motion, he leaned down, clicked the stereo off, and continued to his room.

“What the fuck?” Rich shouted.

Blake clicked the light on in his bedroom, then popped his head back through the door.

“Get out. I'm going to sleep.”

“Fuck you.”

Blake ran across the room, leapt onto Rich's lap, and straddled him. Rich raised his arms feebly, and Blake slammed his fist savagely into Rich's nose. The length of Rich's nose mushed sideways. Blood erupted onto his black Pantera t-shirt. Sy jumped up and attempted to pull Blake off.

“Aye, he's your brother God damnit!” Sy shouted, disgusted.

Blake planted his feet on the couch, stood, twisted, and shoved Sy hard, sending him reeling backward.

“Now get de fuck outta here, ya big pussy!” Blake yelled as he leapt off the couch and stomped toward his room.

“You didn't even give me a chance!” Rich yelped as he leapt after Blake. Blake spun sharply and raised his fists. Rich halted mid-step. Then, he sneered and spit a mouthful of blood at Blake that spattered on his neck and his plaid Gap shirt. Blake reeled back, grossed-out.

Rich stomped out of the basement with Sy behind him.

•

I REMEMBER RIDING
down to Maxwell Street with Rich in his brown Bronco. He was telling about all the things you could get down at the Maxwell Street Market.

“What kinda things,” I asked.

“All kindsa things,” Rich said as he opened the flip-up lid of the wooden box he'd built into the space between the seats. A small, chalk-white pistol lay at the bottom of the large box.

“Is it real?”

“Yeah, it's real,” he replied as he lifted the pistol out, released the clip, and slid it free. “Dem look like BBs to you?” Rich handed me the metal clip.

I slipped the top bullet out of the structure.

“Damn!” I rubbed my fingers over the smooth brass casing and the heavy, metal tip. “What is it, a .22?”

“Naw, it's a .25 semi-automatic,” he answered as we drove down Hollywood.

“Aw, man, that's bad as hell! So you don't got to cock it every time?”

“Just once,” he said, glancing at me. I gawked at the small-caliber bullet as I rolled it in my fingertips. “Give me dat fuckin' thing,” he said, snatching the clip out of my hand.

I handed him the bullet, and he slipped it back in the clip while steering with his knees. We drove south on Ashland. He picked up the gun from between his legs and popped the clip back in the grip. Then, he placed the pistol back in the box and shut it.

Rich had a way of turning things into these folkloric adventures. As we moved through the city, he gave me a history lesson on the South Loop Skid Row. Then, he eased a slow left onto Halsted through the mob of passing people. We rolled slowly forward as the long line of traffic eked ahead of us. People cut between the cars and trucks as they crossed the street. There was a beat-up, white box-truck near the first intersection, and a green street sign hovered above it that read “Maxwell Street” in white letters.

A series of bums rushed up to my window. Their haggard faces leered inside as they waved gold chains and watches in my face. One thin, black bum in a blue t-shirt blared out, “I got socks!” as he passed. He held up a large bag of tube socks. His crusty fingers and yellow nails squeezed the bag tightly. The socks bulged against the plastic like a balloon ready to burst.

“What?” Rich said, glancing at me. “What's wrong? You look like you're gonna piss your fucking pants.”

“What if they ran at the door? What would we do? There's no way outta here.”

“That's what the .25's for,” he said, smiling. “Go ahead.” He flipped the box open. “Hold it if it'll make you feel better.”

I slowly reached in and picked up the .25. It still looked fake, but it was much heavier than I expected. I squeezed the white grip enclosed around the spring-loaded clip. The rough, metal-finished barrel was heavy and made it want to point downward. My hand felt big around the grip, like the gun was made for a hand not much larger than mine. I passed it over my lap and slipped it alongside my outer thigh so I could hold it between my leg and the car door. A calm set in my chest as I exhaled a deep breath. The faces of the bums turned comical, clownish even. A fat nose with long, black hairs shot out of each nostril; an old, wrinkle-faced Polack mug with a kid-sized, black and red Chicago Bulls cap stretched around his narrow scalp. I grinned with the knowledge that all I had to do was raise that thing up and squeeze to make them disappear. Inside, I finally felt that powerful aura of Pistol Pat.

I heard the pop from that night at the carnival—that hollow pop that rang out in the midst of all that joy. I thought of where the bullet went.
They all go somewhere right?
The asphalt, the church wall, a ricochet.
Hell, it could have hit me, or a little baby in a stroller. How could he have been so reckless? How could he be so foolish?
A pregnant woman walked past my window with a giant, plump belly. It was like she was gonna give birth right then and there, or explode.
Maybe he deserved to die.

I could see through the people that filtered past to these glass storefronts filled with racks of clothes, suits, shoes, and gold jewelry.

Up ahead, above the bustling sidewalk, I watched the profile of the street. The 100-year-old, dark brick, three-story buildings leaned and rested against one another like a string of winos in a frozen saunter. Several of the buildings had given way and collapsed in spots. The rubble extracted. Vendors had set up along the sidewalks. Children ran and played behind them in the hilly, glass and concrete-speckled lots.

Twangy blues riffs spouted up from electric guitars every so often. Then, they were swallowed up by the slow thumping baseline of hip-hop that flooded out from the boom boxes of the street vendors who sold tapes.

I could smell a heavy odor of onions caramelizing and rank fried sausage as we got to Maxwell Street. To the west, there was a large lot that was full of makeshift shacks. Rich parked in front of a hydrant. I put the gun back in the box, and we locked the doors and went shopping.

•

WE PLAYED BASKETBALL
on summer evenings in my alley. We used the hoop Dad'd built onto the sloped roof of our garage. I was always just a little bit better than anyone on the block around my age. Only Ryan could beat me and only sometimes. I wasn't the best shooter, but I could always dribble past people and make these running shots. They weren't layups because I was further out from the hoop. I'd dribble past my defender, jump, and sling the ball from my side with both hands with the form of a kid just barely strong enough to shoot on a big hoop. And I'd always bank my shots in using the red box on the backboard as my target. We played most nights. The girls from the block would lean against the far garage, chit-chat, and watch the game. One of them was Hyacinth—a skinny, little Filipino girl who lived on the end of the block at Hermitage Ave. She had thick jet-black hair with long bangs cut straight across her forehead, big amber eyes, and a cute smile. I had a long-running crush on her. She was in my grade at St. Greg's, and sometimes we'd walk home from school together. When she was really sweet and flirty with me, she'd twirl her finger in her hair as we talked. That's how I knew she liked me, too, 'cause I never saw her do that with nobody else. It was an unconscious attraction—a magnetism that had us always beside each other when us kids were grouped up. Our hands thoughtlessly intertwined, then unraveled swiftly when anyone spied us doing it. Our cheeks would blush. Then, I'd have to sock anyone who sang “Joey's got a girlfriend.” Slowly, we stopped caring about it, but that was later.