CHAPTER 2
Fifty Years Earlier - New York City - July 1976
(Song: Marvin Gaye - Inner City Blues)
Mad as fuck.
Riding the air-conditioned Greyhound, pulling on that last smoke, crossing Willis Avenue Bridge into Harlem, 116th Street, over to Manhattan Avenue, straight down 9th. Dry lightning flashed behind abandoned buildings, throwing shadows on niggers standing around steel drums, street corners, burning whatever-the-fuck, thinking, man, it’s July, it’s hot, too fucking hot, niggers making fires, steel drums, street corners.
Bus stopped, corner 41st and 8th, air brakes hissed, a warning not to get off.
But I did, I always did.
Concrete sidewalk broiled, soft, sticky, sidewalk gum, grabbing my sneakers, approaching dusk offered nothing, thunderstorms over in Jersey didn’t. Breeze, maybe.
Peeled leather jacket off, waiting for Mikey, get off the bus.
"Smoke?” I said.
"Sure." Mikey said, offering up, pack of Kools.
"Menthol shits for niggers," I said, waived him off.
"Your choice."
“Where to?” Mikey said, picking up plastic garbage bag, his clothes. “Hit a porno shop, get a hand job?”
"No," I said. "It's late."
Me, nothing. No plastic bag, no clothes, no shoes, nothing. Left it. Anybody knows, another placement, don’t bring nothing. Show up with nothing, state has to kick it up, new clothes, new shoes, new sneakers, the works.
Mikey’s going home, he rolled up.
Standing across from Port Authority, air, heavy, smells like piss, neon signs everywhere, ‘Steaks-Chops-Cocktails’, ‘Live-Nude-Girls’, ‘Pawn Shop - Open 24 hours.’ Up, down 8th Avenue, car horns, truck horns, bus horns, yellow cab horns, all sounding, unmoving, gridlock on Friday night.
Seven blocks, to 34th Street, Penn Station, The Long Island Rail Road. Breezing prostitutes, pimps, pushers, junkies, every corner, nigger boys pressing in, “Loose joints, buttons of hash, a dollar.” Tripping on drunks, dry coffee cup, cardboard sign, said, help me, man. City’s bankrupt, sanitation men on strike, garbage piled, elbow high, street, sidewalk.
Yeah, man, no one gave a shit-fuck, corner 8th Avenue, 41st Street.
Every month, same play. Some guy figures wise, drop busload, motherfuckers, weekend pass, reform school, block from the forty-duce.
Never could understand that.
“Center of the world, man,” Mikey said, nodding at the subway entrance next to us. “Subway’s right here, Port Authority’s across the street, seven blocks to Penn, seven east to Grand Central.”
“Fucking stupid, ask me,” I said.
“You’re right, man. You’re right.” Mikey said.
“Forget the needle?” I said.
“In my bag.”
“Good.”
“Getting into some rain,” Mikey said, looking up.
Gust of wind, lifted, cigarette butts, paper plates, coffee cups, whatever flew. Front page headline, Daily News, landed, ‘Welcome to Crime City’.
"Beer,” I said.
"Terminal?" said Mikey, standing directly under green neon sign, flickering, ‘Terminal Bar’.
"Right."
Terminal Bar, worst fucking dive bar, New York City. Doors crusted open, embracing never-ending stream, low-class scum, business on 8th Avenue. Dark inside, floors darker, sticky with what-nots, what-fors, you-don’t-want-to-knows. No tables, no chairs, no food, just cheap drinks, worn-out bar stools, sad old fuckers, dropping coin to drink, permission to nod off, unbothered, safe, maybe, few minutes, few hours.
Me, Mikey, twenty-five cent beer, a plastic cup, pack of smokes fifty, no questions. Enough, at sixteen, weekend pass.
No pass today. Discharged. For good.
Unfolded dollar, laid it. “Two beers, pack of Lucky-Strike’s,” said to barman.
Sketched bar quick. Threats, fights, stick-up guys, anybody, a problem, two white boys from Long Island. Few drunks, junkie nodding off, head on bar. Noted, three Puerto Ricans, one nigger, far end, near bathroom. Headbands, cut-off jackets, definitely gang bangers, loud.
Keep a sharp ear, you see. Quiet, you know trouble’s about to kick up.
Barman returned, beer, cigarettes, moved right off.
"Smoke anytime I want in this place," I said, tapping a Lucky, lighting up.
"Why Southampton," Mikey said. "Why out there?"
"East Hampton," I said. "Think I had a choice? Eisenberg said I had to go.”
"Who's Eisenberg?"
"Social worker," I said. "Got two months off."
"You got early discharge, man. I did the eighteen."
Mikey continued, “What about going home? How come you're not going home?”
“Nope.”
"Maybe, you finished your bid, go home. You got eighteen months, right? Judge out in Suffolk County gives everybody eighteen months. I got eighteen months. How come you got early release?”
“Don’t know.”
“Seriously, man, I think you should be going home."
"Me too," I said.
"Should have finished, man.”
“Oh yeah, why would I do that?”
“Have to send you home, right? That’s the way it works. Judge sends you upstate, do your bid, you go home. You know what I’m saying?"
“No.”
“I wouldn’t be saying yes to another place. No fucking way, man, not me, I’m going home, did my time.”
"Fuck is your problem, Mikey?”
Getting annoyed. “Two more months. No way, man. I'm done."
Quiet, drank the beer.
“Tastes like piss,” Mikey said.
“Beats huffing gas in auto shop.”
“Right, man, fucking gas breath.”
“Needle,” I said.
Mikey unfolded small rag, laid out two-inch sewing needle. “Snatched it in the laundry, it’s fresh.”
“That’ll work.”
“Thread?” Mikey said. “You got thread.”
Grabbed the leather, found loose thread, inside seam, pulled it. “Don’t need much,” I said, holding up six inches.
Stood needle, bar-top, winding thread, around and around, pulling tight, row after row, tying off midway.
“What about ink?” Mikey said. “How are we going to do it without ink?”
“Hand me that cap.” I said, nodding, beer bottle cap on the floor. Hand in pocket, my jeans, pulled out plastic, bic pen, snapped in half, emptied few drops black ink in cap.
“You first,” Mikey said.
“Pussy.”
“I aint nobody’s pussy, man.”
Dipped needle, thread, absorbing ink.
“What are you going to do?” Mikey said. “Knife, a snake, or something?”
“Don’t know.”
“Maybe a naked chic, man, some big tits, show some bush. Show it.”
“A cross,” I said.
“You a Catholic?” Mikey said.
“Kind of question is that. Of course I’m Catholic, everybody’s Catholic.”
“That’s not true, man.”
“Saw a kid with it, looked cool. Problem is, these,” I said, running fingers, my left arm, across shamrock, spider, diamond, letters spelled out ANGELA, the scar.
“Got to fit it, here, somewhere,” I said.
“Why not your right arm? Got room there.”
“I’m a righty, man,” I said. “Only person could do it is you, and you don’t know what the fuck you’re doing Mikey.”
“That’s bullshit. I can do it.”
“Not happening.”
“That going to hurt?”
“Does it matter?”
Flattened left arm, bar top, plunged ink-soaked needle, deep, into skin, just above wrist.
Fucking hurt.
One black dot, two black dots, dozens and dozens, black dots, stabbing, over and over, red blood, black ink, ran down my arm.
“I’ll do same as you.” Mikey said. “We’ll both have tattoos. You know what I mean? You know what I’m saying?”
“Can't hide this shit, Mikey.” I said, holding up left arm, examining outline of a cross, ink, blood, spreading down onto the bar.
“Wow, that looks cool.”
“Give me that,” I said, nodding at cloth, needle wrapped in. Mikey handed it. Wiped the blood, black ink.
“What are you going to do in East Hampton?”
“Don’t know.” I said.
“Hamptons, that’s where the chicks are, right?”
“Rich assholes.”
“Yeah, you’re right, man, fucking assholes. Rich assholes.” Mikey said.
“What do you know about the Hamptons?” I said. “You don’t know nothing, Mikey.”
“That’s where Adventureland is. It’s in Riverhead, that’s next to the Hamptons, right? My mother said she’s going to take us there when I get home. We’re going to Adventureland. You ever been there, ever been to Adventureland?”
“Nope,” I said, not looking up, wiping blood, ink, plunging, poking, filling in gaps. “Eisenberg said I might get a job there.”
“Get you some pussy there, man. I got pussy there, got it on the roller coaster, girl gave it up, just like that, no problem, fucked me on the roller coaster good, man, big fucking tits. You know what I’m saying?”
Getting tired Mikey’s shit. Bullshit artist. Always talking, talking, throwing bullshit. He’s no friend. Me, I’m a greaser, comb my hair back, got some tattoos, leather jacket. Mikey’s tall, skinny kid, ponytail, bell-bottoms. Met last year, Suffolk County children’s shelter. Stupid fucking name, they put you in cells. Talked and talked, all night, through grate on the floor. Never saw the kid. Not once. Gone, next morning. Took him back, Great Eastern, reform school, upstate.
Six months later, I’m at Eastern, kid says, “You know what I mean, know what I’m saying?”
Yeah, Mikey.
Two white guys, the joint, three hundred niggers, spics, Manhattan, Harlem, the Bronx, capping on assault, burglary, rape, murder. Hung with Mikey, not tight. Nope, don’t get tight, not at Eastern.
"Kind of place is it?"
"Convent,” I said, jabbing, poking. “It’s on the beach."
"Convent? Place with nuns? You going to a convent, man? How’s that work? Fuck goes to a convent, anyway?"
"Group home,” I said. “Not a convent no more. Eisenberg said there’s forty guys."
"How long you got to be there?"
"Don’t know,” I said, stabbing, deeper, harder, filling gaps between dots, tightening up.
Two days ago, Eisenberg, social worker, says, “Hey, want to get done early?”
“Sure, man.” I said. “Sign me the fuck up.”
“You leave, day after tomorrow.”
“Great.”
“One thing,” he says, “You’re going to a boy’s home out on Long Island.”
“Not going home?”
“No.”
“What if I finished my sentence?”
“You don’t go home.”
Still, it was a choice.
Sixteen months at Eastern. Stabbed in the arm, eye socket fractured, dozens of fights. No, man, done, no thinking on that.
Time was up, time counting days. Group home, counted days, foster home, counted days, children’s shelter, counted days. Counting days to go home, everything, anybody, thought about. Eastern’s different. Caught a sentence, hard number, eighteen months, five-hundred-forty-seven days. Cut loose in four hundred eighty six.
“Never should have been sent to Eastern,” Eisenberg says. “You’ve been in the system too long.”
“Yeah,” I said.
“You're becoming institutionalized,” he says.
“Yeah,” I said again, louder.
Heard them talk, institutionalized kids, system kids, they said, staff called them fucking animals.
Now, I’m one.
“They’re saying you're dangerous, you can't go home,” Eisenberg says.
“Who said that?”
“Your father, stepmother, the other counselors, the psychiatrist,” he says.
Couldn’t shake it. Getting placed, sixteen, knew it was over, too close to the end, short-timer. Eighteen, Family Court has to turn me out.
Mad. Mad as fuck.
Bad thoughts, over and over, inside, my head, never stopped. Thinking, want to hurt someone, get close, make them feel it.
Feel something, anything.
Plunged needle, deeper, faster, blood, black ink. Fuck, hurts.
Mikey said, "Can't wait for tonight. Going to hang with my boys, sleep in a real bed. Going to be great to be home."
Mad as fuck, mad as fuck. Mikey’s going home.
Wiped the blood, the ink, tied cloth around my arm.
“Your turn.” I said.
Mikey, shade green, said, “Gotta hit the can.”
He left.
Laid a bill, four beers, knocked two back right quick, lit a smoke.
Thinking, next move. Convent, forty guys. Oh man, year ago might have pissed my pants. Minor league stuff, now. Running away, not an option, never was, too fucking lazy.
Ten minutes, fifteen minutes, Mikey’s not back.
Looked over, nigger boy, one Puerto Rican, gone.
Time to get to it.
Leather on, downed another beer, grabbed barstool, waived it at two spics at the end, “Don’t even fuckin’ think about it,” I said.
Outside bathroom door, listening. No voices, no yelling, no shouting, only muffled sounds, bodies moving, slamming against things.
Kicked door open. Puerto Rican, his hand, Mikey’s throat, against stall door. Mikey looked over, eyes spoke. Moved on the spic fast, hit him hard, side of the head, barstool, fell forward into the stall, stomped, back of his head, jammed face into toilet. Blood, few teeth, sprayed across tiled floor.
Nigger? Where’s the nigger? Turned, there, behind the door. Double hit him, my fist, across bridge, that wide nigger nose, more blood, knees collapsed, slid to the floor, jammed my boot between his legs, cried out.
Time to go.
Grabbed Mikey, pushed into barroom.
Barman grinned at me. Smiled back, big as I could.
First time I smiled all day.
Someone put up (‘Miserlou’ by Dick Dale), the jukebox.
Feeling something.
Ran out, 8th Avenue, Friday night crowded, action enough, disappear quick. Heading south, fast, pushing, shoving, moving like we didn't give a fuck, ducking hookers in storefronts, past cops, ready in raingear, smoking cigarettes, not-giving-a-fuck about nothing, sidewalk, packed, commuters heading home,
At 38th Street, sounds, screeching tires, screams, over there, Plymouth Fury moving fast, on the sidewalk. Oh, man, those boys from the Terminal, hunting for us. Car, crashed, corner mailbox. Cops, awake, guns pointed. Over for those assholes.
Moved into street, congested, running between cars, then up, across car hoods, slipped, rolled onto navy blue Ford LTD. Big ass LTD horn sounded, long, loud. Spun around, my knees, like a spider, ready, for something, anything. My face into windshield, close, there, handsome, blond-haired, blue-eyed boy, behind the wheel, angry, lips curled, unsounding curses spilled, tucked under his shoulder, beautiful, fragile, long-haired girl.
High school kids, my age, probably. Friday night, daddy’s big car, nice clothes, nice hair, nice teeth, pocket full of money, entire fuckin’ world, theirs, don’t even know it.
Quick jerked, my shoulder, head, at windshield, like I’m going to hit that boy. Shit himself, pushing back into the seat, fear. Smiled at him, looked over, the girl, carefully probing, her kind, soft eyes. Nothing. Not a thing. Empty.
Rolled off, moving into traffic, searching for Mikey.
At 34th Street, rain started, large, fat drops, here, there, smell of oil, asphalt, steaming up, the hot street. Thunder, lightning, then it came. In sheets.
Across the street, sign appeared, LONG ISLAND.
Ran downstairs, Penn Station.
“Call me,” Mikey said, slipping paper to me. “Be out to see you, I’ll bring my friends.”
“Right,” I said.
Needed to get away from Mikey.
Penn Station routine. Penthouse magazine, pint Southern Comfort, bottle Colt 45, down to the public shitters, lower level. Empty stall, locked door. Finally, breathe, shitty, filthy fucking underground, toilet air, piss water, the floor, relieved, alone now.
Desperate, feel good, about anything, dropped pants, grabbed dick, jerked off, Penthouse girl-next-door, wishing, hoping, feel something, normal.
There it was.
An eye, gap of the door.
Jumped up, Colt 45 bottle dropped, glass, shattered, everywhere, “Hey, motherfucker!!”
Punched door, yelled more, punched again and again and again. Legs twisted, slipped, fell, my knees, the floor, the piss water, the beer, the broken glass. Looked down, dick out, pants down, wet, am I cut?
Man, that moment on the floor, gave it up, didn’t care, about nothing, about any of it.
Pulled together, got out, headed over, train platform. East Hampton train slipped in, rush, wind, grabbed slip of paper, Mikey’s number, lost, gone.
Didn’t give a shit.