Rollin’ Thirties neighborhood, a packed beige Cadillac rolled to a stop in front of me. Looking hard for recognition were the twisted, contorted faces of bangers from I-don’t-know-where. I tried to look as unconnected as possible. The legal folder that held my letters and pictures from China—with the set scrawled blatantly across the front of it —was between me and the back of the bus-stop bench. I was being inspected for any signs of being a banger. Perhaps these cats were Harlems just patrolling their ’hood, something I have done a lot.
I’ve found some very out-of-the-way people in the ’hood on some of my patrols. One particular night I rode up on a carload of Miller Gangster Bloods sitting comfortably in an alley behind the Western Surplus. I was able to I.D. them by their loud talking. I was on a ten-speed bike, and once I confirmed they were enemy, I rolled up on the side of the car and emptied my clip into the faces and bodies of the occupants. Out of bounds, trespassing, free-fire zone—hell, I had a dozen reasons to fire on them. “Free country” never crossed my mind. Besides, this wasn’t America—it was South Central.
The Miller Gangsters were from clear across town, 120th Street. It’s possible that they didn’t know where they were. Or it could be that they did know but had little respect for our ’hood, since they had never had open confrontations with us. I’d tend to believe the latter. This is why it’s necessary to read the writing on the walls. Fuck street signs. Walls will tell you where you are.
Not seeing any clear signs in my face or dress code, the idling Cadillac began to ease forward. For identification purposes the passenger raised one hand out of the window with his thumb and pinky finger extended, the other fingers hidden in his palm. I recognized the sign immediately: Neighborhood Rollin’ Twenty Bloods. No doubt they were on a military incursion through Harlem ’hood, their worst enemy. “Hurry up, bus,” I found myself whispering. “Hurry up.”
The bus came, and I rode attentively down Normandie, reading the writing on the walls, passing through several ’hoods. Normandie Avenue can be compared to the Ho Chi Minh trail. It is the main artery of well over forty sets, spanning from Hollywood to Gardena. Normandie is a vital supply route. From dope to dynamite, Normandie has seen it. From King Boulevard to Florence, the bus made its way through the Harlem Thirties, Rollin’ Forties, 5- Deuce Hoovers, 5-Six Syndicate and 6-Deuce Brims. Block after block, set after set, everybody belonged to something. The writing scrawled on the walls told fabulous stories. I knew most of the names written by face, but it was hard to picture the individuals writing them. Bending down, moving, scanning to see who’s watching them… some cats just seemed too sophisticated for that. It’s funny, too, because as much graffiti as covers our city walls, hardly anybody ever sees it being done. As much as I have struck up on walls, I’ve never been asked to stop or been asked what I was doing.
On Seventy-first Street, the street before Florence, I reached up and pulled the signal cord to be let off. I disembarked at a walking-run. Florence and Normandie was a hot corner. I turned the corner onto Seventy-first and trotted past Li’l Tray Ball’s house and wondered if I should stop. No, I decided, make it home first. It was now well past midnight. Although there are more murders in the city on the weekends than the weekdays, it has nothing to do with gang members being workers. Gang members work all day, every day. This was a Wednesday, but that didn’t mean I was more likely to survive. No, I was more likely to be killed any time and any place they caught me!
I scurried along, ducking and dodging into driveways and behind trees. Anyone in any other part of this country would have thought I had either stolen something or was a nut. But any resident here who clocked my antics knew I was just trying to get from point A to point B in one piece.
When I got home I went to the back door, but it was locked. So I went back around to the front and knocked, but got no answer. I’ve never had a key, never wanted one. I never asked Mom for one, and she never offered one. I knocked again, harder. Still there was no answer, but Mom’s car was there.
Suddenly I heard noises from across the street and saw flashes coming from Welow’s garage. I went across the street cautiously. Welow was welding some pieces of metal together and working on his car. He was a civilian who worked at General Motors every day, but on the weekend he’d pull his 1974 Monte Carlo low-rider out and have a ball. He had a lot of tools and welding equipment. In fact, he would saw my weapons off for me and then smooth down the barrels on his grinder. When he saw me his eyes lit up. We rapped a bit before he broke out some pot. My system was clean from not doing any drugs while in jail for six months, so one stick of pot blew me over.
When I finally jetted back across the street I was really on paranoid. I banged on the door now.
BAM! BAM! BAM!
I was doing the get-the-fuck-up-it’s-the-police knocks.
BAM! BAM! BAM!
And that’s who Mom thought it was, because before they had come to my cell with the search warrant they’d gone to my house. Not believing Mom when she told them that I was already in jail, they still made her come out of the house and get on her knees on the front lawn like a common criminal.
I saw her now, peeking from behind the curtain. She couldn’t recognize me, so she hit the porch light, splashing me with light. I freaked and bent down to avoid in-coming rounds.
“The light,” I shouted, pointing, “turn the light out, Mom!”
Hearing my voice, she finally registered who I was. Just as abruptly as I was splashed with light, I was now doused with darkness. The light was screaming “Here he is,” but the darkness said, “Shhh, it’s all right, it’s all right.” Mom opened the door slowly, after undoing more locks than I ever remember having seen on that door.
“Hi, Mom,” I said with a dopey marijuana smile. I know she smelled it all over me.
“You know they going to come get you, don’t you?” she said with a look of why-you-keep-doin’-me-like- this.
“Who?”
“The police, that’s who!”
“Fo’ what? I ain’t done nothin’.”
“Boy, you done broke out of jail!”
“Naw, Mom, I beat my case. They let me out.”
Mom assumed that because I was sixteen she had to come and get me, like always. But I was not in juvenile hall anymore. In the juvenile tank they just let you go.
“Boy, are you sure?” she asked accusingly. “’Cause I can’t take them trigger-happy fools running up in here treating me like no thug. I work too hard for that shit, you hear me?”
“Yeah, yeah, I hear you, Mom,” I said with my head down, wandering the length of the hallway feeling like “Damn, ain’t nothin’ changed, I see.” “You been to see Shaun?” I asked, trying to get her off my back.
“Yes, I went last weekend. You know they gave him thirty-six years and life. My poor baby.”
Uh-oh, I thought, here it comes. “Mom, I’m tired, I need some sleep.”
“You need to stop smoking that goddamn weed,” she hollered after me as I walked down the hall.
I closed my bedroom door and waited, hoping she wouldn’t come into my room and continue preaching. I knew she meant well, but I wasn’t up to it tonight. I wanted to be loved, to be missed, to be wanted, not scolded.
Now I was angry. I changed into my combat black, went out the window and into the garage. In a bag under the old chest of drawers, I had a 45 automatic that I had gotten from A. C. Rabbit, our Korean homeboy, before my capture. The .45 had only two shells in the clip. I went across to Welow’s and he gave me eight more shells. I got on Li’l Monster’s new ten-speed and rode quickly toward Brim ’hood, all the while cursing about my mother’s disregard for my feelings, never questioning mine for hers.
From Sixty-ninth to Sixty-second I pumped furiously, needing to shoot somebody, eager to vent my anger. Rounding the corner on Sixty-second and Denker I encountered what looked to be two couples sitting on the back of a car playing oldies, hugging, being lovers. I slowed my pace and gave them the most evil mad-dog stare I could come up with. All four turned their heads and, I’m almost sure, prayed that I kept going. I made a tight circle in the street to see if any one of them were looking at me, but none were.
I peddled on toward Halldale. When I found no one there I doubled back. Noticing that the couples had vanished, I peddled on up Sixty-second to the other side of Brim ’hood by Harvard Boulevard. Getting halfway up the block, I noticed a furtive move to my left in my peripheral vision. Turning abruptly in the direction of the movements, I grabbed for my weapon. Before I could draw, the movement shot out of the shadows like fluid. “Damn,” I said to myself, “a cat.” Shit, the damn cat seemed to be doing just as I had been doing not more than an hour before, trying to get from point A to point B in one piece. I watched the cat momentarily before I continued my scan of the park.
