Читать книгу The Old Neighborhood - Bill Hillmann - Страница 8

CHAPTER 3

THE LAKE

THERE WAS A HEAT WAVE that summer. It was a dry, coarse heat that scorched the lawns yellow and deepened the skin tones of the children. Grandma had told Jan’n’Rose to stay out of the sun so their Afro-Caribbean skin didn’t turn black, so they stayed in the house most of the day and walked the neighborhood at night. They’d go over to the apartment building two doors down to hang out with their friend Maria and flirt with the Mexican boys who lived there. They were always on the lookout for Lil Pat, Blake, and Rich, but they didn’t mind me tagging along. Maria was tall and thin with long, black, curly hair and thick, purple lips. Sometimes, for a joke, Maria would take me by the hand and lead me into her bedroom. We’d lay together on her bed with the lights off, and she’d moan, calling out my name—loud—so my sisters and the others could hear her in the next room, and I’d kiss her full lips in the dark. She’d gasp quietly with the giggling from the next room flooding in through the thin walls. The scent of her grape lip gloss made my mouth water as it soothed my always-chapped lips. One time, she even let me give her a hickey on the side of her soft, warm neck with the low light of the alley lamps filtering in through her window.

•

I STILL MADE MY WALK to collect the protection money along Clark for the TJOs every Sunday. Ryan started coming with, and we’d spend the afternoon joking about the things we’d stolen along the way. It was a team action: one of us going up to the manager to collect the envelope and buy something like candy for a quarter, while the other grabbed chips or lighters or anything of value to a kid. Sometimes, Lil Pat and Mickey would pick us up and drive us down to Montrose Beach where we would wade out into the blue and marvel at the clear between our feet like a lie. We’d skip rocks and climb on the huge concrete cubes lining some parts along the shore as the older guys drank beer, smoked joints, counted the money, and laughed at the profile of the city they thought they owned.

Ryan lived at the Dead-End-Docks on Paulina Ave. between Thorndale and Rosehill Ave. Paulina dead-ends at Rosehill into this six-foot, concrete, castle-style wall; the same style wall as the ones that encircle Rosehill Cemetery a few blocks west. His alley butted up against the Clark Street. Ace Hardware’s loading docks, which made the alley three-times the width of any in the neighborhood. That drew little knuckleheads from all over. They swarmed around back there incessantly. It was like the United Nations of juvenile delinquents: blacks, Irish, Mexicans, mutt whites, Assyrians, Filipinos, and Puerto Ricans. They shot hoops on a plastic milk crate with the bottom stomped out. Someone just nailed it to a wooden electricity pole, and they played with a mini basketball. The alley ended in a big vacant parking lot. A legion of bold, yellow-headed dandelions sprouted up through the cracks in the old asphalt. Past the lot, across Rosehill Ave., there was a row of small houses with full-leaved trees nestled around them. The immense, tan structure of the hospital leered above them—the only present and capable authority.

I was over there one afternoon that August. It was hot out like the inside of an oven set to bake. Ryan and I leaned against the fence separating the alley from the lot. The top horizontal bar was warped in a low-hung bow from the kids jumping it while running from the cops and each other. Ryan had his shirt off, and his thick shoulders and neck were seared red with chalk-white sunblock slathered over them. The heavy freckles were like brown sugar sprinkled up his arms and across his brow and cheeks. He wore gray sweatpants and black and white Chuck Taylors.

This little runt of a black kid named BB spliced a mini basketball between his legs. He had a missing top-front tooth and crazy graphics etched into his scalp. He was in the middle of a lecture on how ‘mothafuckin’ good’ he was at basketball to a disinterested audience. BB made up for his small stature and age deficiency by having the loudest mouth for miles around, and he’d have gotten his ass whooped every thirty seconds if it weren’t for his brother being a high ranking Black Stone Ranger.

A gangway gate creaked open halfway down the alley, which led to a large, red brick apartment building. A wooden stairwell snaked down the rear of the structure, and two older black kids sauntered out. Everyone’s eyes shot towards them. The first out wore a black Starter cap with a large gold “P” above the brim. The other one had on white jogging pants with the left leg rolled up to his knee and a black pick comb jutted upright from the back of his cone-shaped afro. They all flocked over, and Ryan and I trailed in their wake.

“Krazy Crew!” the one with the hat bellowed, elongating the words. He threw up a quick wrist-flicking hand gesture. The mob of kids instantly echoed it. They formed a “C” with the thumb and index fingers and a “K” with the middle, ring, and pinky on the same hand.

“Monteff,” the one with the pick said. “Mama’s looking for you, go on inside.”

“Awe, T-Money, come on,” Monteff cried, throwing his head back in agony.

“Aight, it’s your ass, nigga… Speaking of ass whoopins, ya’ll been holdin’ down the set?” His tall, thin body loomed over us. His Adam’s apple bulged.

“Hell yeah. Aw hell yeah,” us kids roared urgently.

“We need to hand out any violations?” the one with the hat asked. He mashed his wide fist into his palm high over our heads. “Any mouth shots?”

This sent a shiver of frightened murmurs through the crowd. Even BB got spooked. His eyes bugged, and his bottom lip drooped open.

“Ah, we just fuckin’ witcha,” the older boys said, bursting into laughter. A sigh of relief hissed from us kids.

“But ya’ll need ta get toughened up,” T-Money said. “So we gonna have us some boxing matches today.”

“How about dangly, old Leroy,” BB shouted. “He ain’t never fought nobody.”

“Yeah?” T-Money asked, furrowing his brow. “Come’ere, Leroy.” Leroy sifted to the front. “And who else?” T-Money scanned our faces.

“What about Joe,” BB said. “Dat white boy prolly neva fought nobody.”

“Who’s Joe?” T-Money asked.

All the kids turned and shot their index fingers directly at me. A pang singed through my throat. I’d been in plenty of fights. I was the toughest kid in my grade at St. Greg’s, but all these kids were from Pierce—the rough public school down the street.

“You wanna fight?” T-Money asked, baring his yellow-white chops.

I nodded and pulled my t-shirt off. The kids oowwwed.

“Hell yeah,” T-Money said. “I like your style boy, you look like you finna whoop ole Leroy.”

The boys formed a shoulder-to-shoulder circle about the size of a boxing ring. I slipped my crucifix off and handed it to Ryan. He slid it over his head without a word.

“Twon, get Leroy’s corner,” T-Money directed, motioning to the other big kid.

Leroy was a little taller than me and skinnier. He wore a white t-shirt with grease stains streaked across the belly and some tight cut-off blue jeans. Leroy twirled his finger through his light-brown afro that sprang out puffy and thick like the tips of cauliflower.

T-Money crouched down to my eye level and gripped his jogging pants as he chomped a wad of Juicy Fruit. “You got him, champ. You just gotta go’n whoop his ass... Hit him like dis.” T-Money bobbed on the toes of his black Reeboks. Then, he threw quick-darting punches into the air like he was swatting flies with closed fists. Years later, when I started to box, fighting at park districts around town and then the Golden Gloves, I’d learn that boxing was way more than hitting and getting hit. But I’d always look back at this as my first real bout.

My stomach was uneasy and bloated. The plan was to get him in a headlock, hip-toss him to the ground, and then pound his face with my free hand—a move that had won me most fights. But I was usually angry when I fought. Now, I just felt sick and dizzy as the circle of boys hooted.

“Naw… I betchu Joe’s gonna whoop his ass,” Ryan sneered at a mahogany-toned black kid who’d just walked up.

BB solemnly stepped into the center of the circle of boys, announcing, “And in this corner,” BB raised his small palm towards Leroy, “with a record of zera and zera... dangly, old Leroy...” Laughter rippled through the ring.

“And in this corner,” BB said, raising his arm towards me, “also with a record of zera and zera... Whitey Joe...”

Everyone’s eyes beat down on me as they giggled and clapped. Mad, eager smiles spread across their faces, and BB waved us both to the center of the ring. Twon loomed behind Leroy, and he glowered down at me. A thin line of peach fuzz undulated above his mouth. T-Money kneaded my traps and shoulders. They walked us up close to each other, and our foreheads almost touched. Leroy and I tried to make mean faces, but they slid from grimaces to grins.

“Rules...” BB said, looking down and scratching his chin. “Fuck... it ain’t no rules...” The crowd squealed. “Aight, no bleedin’ too much, and no cryin’.”

The boys roared.

“Now go back to your corners, and come on out swingin’,” BB declared, placing his hands on his hips. “And don’t be swingin’ like no girls or nothin’.”

As I walked back to my corner, Ryan rushed up.

“You got him, Joe... You got him.” Ryan’s green eyes gleamed. His spiky buzz-cut blazed in the sunlight like a copper crown.

I smirked. My heart pulsed. The yells deafened me. I couldn’t think. I just scanned their faces. An obese, light-skinned black kid with a saggy, off-yellow shirt; a little white kid with a blond box cut; a wiry Assyrian kid with a shaggy, loose-curled afro. All of ’em bounced on their toes with the same excited, toothy grins. The ground felt soft and unstable under my sneakers. Their sudden shouts spouted up and swallowed the next.

“Let’s get ready to rumble!” BB bellowed, and then stepped back. Leroy and I stood across from each other. We didn’t know what to do.

“Go on an’ fight,” BB ordered, and clapped his hands together.

We walked out in the middle. Both of us awestruck, we smiled and glanced around. Suddenly, Leroy’s fist lurched out and cracked my forehead. A loud “Ohh!” rang from the circle. My head rocked back. I’d never been punched like that. I saw the fist, then the blue sky. Then, I was looking back at Leroy again. A howl surged through my ears. It wasn’t funny anymore. An orb of broiling energy materialized in the center of my chest. I squeezed my fist, and the energy gushed straight through my arm and bottlenecked at my wrist. Then, it exploded as my fist burst into Leroy’s eye socket. His head whipped back, and his smile evaporated.

We commenced to drive our clutched fists into each other’s heads. There was no form, no technique. The blows were all guided by complete and blind malice. I heard nothing, thought nothing. There was no time, just the moment. We teetered into the circular wall of boys, and they just shoved us back toward the center.

After a few calamitous minutes, I drew arm-weary. Tears splashed down Leroy’s face. His lip sparkled with blood. I couldn’t catch my breath. My arms flapped at my sides like two dead lake trout, and I crumpled to the cement. A joyous howl ballooned up around me. The sudden embarrassment wrenched in my heart and hurled me to my feet. I rushed Leroy and dug my fist into his belly, deep, so he cried out. Then, he crumbled to the ground and wept in heavy, tired sobs. T-Money rushed into the middle of the ring waving his hands over his head.

“That’s round one. End-a the round,” he said, then he grabbed my elbow and led me back to the corner. Twon picked up Leroy.

“That’s good, Joe!” T-Money urged. “You got him! You gon’ whoop dat marg!”

Ryan stepped up on my side. His bright eyes glowed. There was a hopeful smile on his thin lips. “You all right, Joe?” he asked. “You all right?”

I got a lump in my throat and nodded.

“Damn, Leroy, I thought you was a sucka... You ain’t a sucka at all...” BB squeaked. “But you betta not let that white boy whoop you.”

When T-Money called out for round two, a few hot tears streamed down my face. I didn’t want to stop, and I didn’t know why I was crying. The tears infuriated me. I wanted to fight, and I wanted to win. Leroy’s bottom lip was split down the center, and bright-red blood glistened across his quivering mouth. A thin stream slid down from the cut and mixed with the tears streaking along his cheek. The bloody tears suffused at his chin, then dribbled down to his shirt in murky, red splotches.

They called for round two, and we went right back at it. We fought toe-to-toe like that for a very long time. It became a battle of wills. I cracked first. The sizzling heat, the surging roars, the bursts of white in my vision—it was all too much. I got dizzy, stumbled, and then locked eyes with the wiry Assyrian kid. He looked worried. It could have been his brother. The dead Assyrian’s face swirled up and flashed in my mind—his blood-dampened hair, the frozen scream. I tried to say I was sorry, to tell him that I pray for his brother sometimes. I’m so sorry. Leroy smacked me with a hard punch to the forehead, and I crumpled to the pavement and curled up in a fetal ball.

Suddenly, BB leered down at me.

“One... Two... Three... Four...”

Ryan dashed over and squatted down on his hams beside me.

“Come on, Joe, get up... Please get up.”

Ryan’s strained face floated over me before the cloudless, stark-blue sky that hovered above. The sun was silhouetted perfectly by his round head. My crucifix dangled down from his neck and swayed over my eyes. What if he don’t wanta be my friend no more. This cool calm spread over me. I wiped my tears, took a deep breath, and stood up. Then, I walked straight to Leroy and cracked him. He reeled backward, and I unloaded a barrage of shots that bounced his head around like a paddle ball. Finally, Leroy spun and belly flopped on the cement. His cheek clapped the concrete and kicked up a spray of white dust that caked the whole side of his face. The dust clung to his tears and sweat like flour sprinkled on wet dough.

BB counted over Leroy. My fists felt like hot goo. I heard the low rumble of a Diesel engine, then tires crinkling atop the pebbled alleyway. The obese black kid stepped up behind me and pounded his heavy paw on my back. The others joined him, and their many hands jolted me as I stepped back, heaving. A car door unlatched, swung open, and slammed shut. I craned to see over the ring. There was a light-brown truck just down the alley. Suddenly, Leroy sprang up and drove his shoulder into my hip. We both tumbled to the pavement, sprawling, and I knew I’d roll him. He straddled me and tried to punch down, so I yanked his shirtsleeve downward, reached up, and clutched his mucky, tear-drenched jaw. Then, I twisted and toppled him. As we rolled, a large hand clamped down on my arm and yanked me clear up into the air. My big brother Rich’s glossy, steel-blue eyes flashed in mine. His teeth flared at the center of his bristly beard. The wild, brown curls of Rich’s shoulder-length mullet swayed fiercely as he ambled through the wall of kids. He knocked BB flat on his backside. I dangled from his grip with the tips of my sneakers scraping the pavement. He snatched his backward, red Marlboro baseball cap off his head. T-Money scampered alongside us with his brow furrowed.

“What? You his brotha or something?” T-Money pleaded. “It was a fair fight. He was doin’ fine. He was finna win!”

Rich stomped on. As we got to Dad’s old Diesel, he shoved T-Money in the chest. Then, he yanked the passenger side door open and threw me in by my arm. I landed on his girlfriend Nancy’s lap.

“Richard, stop it now!” She hissed. Her long, straight brown hair spilt out of her headband.

Rich slammed the door shut on us, then spun around on T-Money, who looked young and frail up next to him. Rich’s chest heaved beneath his sleeveless, black Iron Maiden shirt.

“You wanta beat up on my brother, nigger?” Rich spat, then smashed two quick fists into T-Money’s face. T-Money tumbled backward and clutched his mug.

BB threw a stone that pegged off the side Rich’s head. Rich stomped around the front end of the Diesel, jumped in, and we peeled off.

“FUCKIN’ NIGGERS!” Rich screamed maniacally from his window.

A wash of garbage and rocks clinked and banged against the windshield and side panel. Monteff whipped a half-empty RC can that clanked on the windshield and splattered a string of fizzy, brown suds across the glass. The Bronco careened out of the alley.

“WHY THE FUCK YOU HANGING OUT OVER HERE!” Rich screamed, spittle spurting from his teeth.

“They’re my friends!” I replied, writhing in Nancy’s arms. My head pulsed as lumps inflated along my forehead.

They quarreled as we pulled in front of the house. I hopped out and ran upstairs to my room and collapsed on my bed. My chest heaved as I sobbed. The dark-blue drapes were drawn closed, and they filtered the harsh light. A cool, turquoise haze filled the room. Stone-sized knots swelled on my forehead beneath my scalp—pulsing mounds that itched and burned like giant chicken pox. My hands and wrists felt large and hollow, and a thin film of blood dried on my knuckles.

Light footsteps entered my room. I bawled uncontrollably, lying flat on my back. Jan’s pudgy hand appeared, palm up, and her deep-brown fingers spread. A sopping-wet dish rag peeked out from between the gaps in her fingers. Droplets of cool water dripped off her knuckles and spattered on my cheek and brow. She brought her hand close, and the ice cubes jostled in the folded rag. Then, she flopped it onto my forehead. I gasped. The shocking chill instantly soothed and deflated the burning knots.

My whole body eased as Jan sat on the mattress beside my arm. Her soft, brown face. Her thick, frizzy hair pulled back and tied with a rubber band. The silky, black curls splayed out over her shoulders as she gazed peace-fully out the window at the head of my bed. The slow breeze parted the drapes, sending vertical slivers of light across her chocolaty skin. A thought slithered though my mind: is she a nigger, too? Strings of agony coursed down my throat and planted in my heart. She stayed beside me, silently strumming her fingers gently through my hair. My love for her, my sister, like a giant, deep lake with bright yellow sunlight streaking its peaking surface. I went to say it—to say it all—but it got caught in my throat as the exhaustion billowed up and encompassed me in a heavy, warm fog, and I sank into sleep.

•

I LOVED THEM the way boys love older sisters, and they adored and tortured me equally. When I’d started grammar school, I hated it. I’d fight and refuse to go each morning while Ma was out picking up the babysitting kids. At first, they’d scream at me to get ready, I’d scream back, and we’d get nowhere. Later, they’d bargain and offer to carry me piggyback. More often than not, they’d carry me to school. Grandma saw us a few times as we crossed through her gangway, and she told everyone I was their prince. In a way, I was, I guess, but I was also a despised pest. Once, as I rode piggyback in the falling snow, my boot slipped off. I didn’t say anything until we got to St. Greg’s in the hopes it’d disqualify me from school that day. They screamed at me the whole way back trying to find that boot. Jan was inconsolably enraged, and Rose was near tears because we’d been late several times that month—all my fault. I don’t know how they put up with me. On summer nights, they’d get their revenge.

Jan’n’Rose hung out with their Filipino friend Marge and her effeminate little brother, TeeTee. Jan had this way of turning everything into a military action, so instead of strolling the neighborhood, they’d march. Or, Jan’d march and they’d follow. Whenever Jan saw me, she’d unleash this seething scream and sprint after me. I’d take off running, and the rest of them followed, laughing. It sucked sometimes, but I loved them like that—like every moment of my life they were my sisters. Not my adopted sisters, or my black sisters, or my Afro-Caribbean sisters. Just my sisters—that simple. Our neighborhood was so accepting of us and them that it was like nobody noticed. That fight was the first time it’d been thrust in my face. They were different than me. Even though every fiber of my being knew they were part of me, and I part of them.