by Darrell King
I was bleeding on the side of my face badly and I was quite dazed from the blow. I felt sharp pains in my side as their hard sneakers footed me in the ribs.
“Now you little pretty muthafucka, ya mama’s gonna be wearin’ black.” I looked up hazily and saw the familiar sight of a switchblade gleaming under the street lamp’s glow. He and his pals approached me like a pack of hungry hyenas. I knew that if I wanted to see my tenth birthday, I’d better act quick. It was a good thing that I never left home without the little pearlhandled twenty-five automatic that my brother had given me a year earlier. I never had reason to use it, until now.
I was buckled over in obvious pain and couldn’t see clearly, but I drew my “heater” and started busting caps. The black sucka yelled and fell over, writhing horribly and gripping his knee. The bald Jake who had a machete strapped to his belt, drew it and came swinging the heavy blade and cussing in Jamaican tongue. I squeezed off two shots; one hit him in the shoulder and the other slug slammed into his windpipe. I heard him scream wretchedly, and then he fell to the ground. I heard the sickening sound of blood gurgling within his dying gasps. The fat boy with the afro stood spellbound as two of his homeboys fell wounded.
At that point, he turned and hauled ass down the dimly lit street. I fired twice in the direction of the fleeing punk, but I missed the son of a bitch. The blood lust was upon me now and I walked over to the wounded bully who started the whole thing.
“Listen,” I said, “I’m gonna take back all my money, gold, comics, and my fuckin’ magazines. Then I’m gonna blast your punk ass!” I screamed at him.
“Fuck you, ya red piece a shit!” yelled the punk. I stuck the barrel of the twenty-five automatic forcibly in Ratman’s slobbering mouth and squeezed the trigger. Though what I held in my hand was not a powerful weapon by far, when fired at point black range, it did its job. I watched as his brain matter and lifeblood spilled out on the concrete of the playground. I collected my money and stuff as though nothing had happened. With all the gunshots and fracas that went on minutes earlier, several lights went on in the surrounding buildings. I knew that the cops would be coming soon from all directions, so I got my shit and disappeared.
I sorta laid low for awhile after that bit of innercity adventure. In fact, from the middle of June ’73 until September ’73, I kept quiet.
The only action that involved me was when I got in a fight with twins from the adjoining apartment complex. The twins, Maurice and Monty were ranking on my brother Paco and calling him names like jailbird and buttboy because of him being sent to the juvenile detention center. I jabbed Monty in his mouth and split his lips open, then I kicked Maurice in the gut and put a choking headlock on him that caused him to beg for mercy. I kept applying pressure until a building janitor broke it up and ran us off the premises.
Later that evening when I came home, there was Mama sitting on the couch talking to a strange man. The man was tall, sturdy, with a medium dark complexion. He was very handsome and well-dressed. He was quite a gentleman; he treated Mama like a queen, which she was. He spent the whole afternoon at the crib. He commented on my excellence in school and encouraged me to continue it throughout my schooling.
“The black man built the pyramids and developed the first basis for modern technology as we know it. He laid down the first blueprints for advanced settlements and civilization,” he said beaming with racial pride. “So I’m sure an intelligent young brother like yourself will add to the rich heritage of black greatness.”
I felt something strange within my soul. Was it pride or was I just impressed by the way the man so eloquently expressed himself, I never really knew. I did know one thing though -- here was my first role model. A role model that I could respect and honor. His name was Mr. Yusef Lewis Matthews.
“The man was your father Eric,” DiAngelo said referring to me, “and he was the only father that me and Paco ever knew.
When my tenth birthday came around on October 31, 1973, Mama threw a birthday bash and Halloween party in my honor. The apartment was decked out in orange and black with paper maché spiders, bats, and skeletons hanging from the ceiling. Mom baked lots of brownies, cupcakes, and sugar cookies in Halloween shapes for us to enjoy. She made a large bowl of punch that had ghost-shaped ice cubes. Mama and her boyfriend Yusef took pictures of my friends and I in our silly lil’ costumes.
We played all kinds of Halloween games, like bobbing for apples and hitting the pinata. Then it came time for me to blow out the candles and cut my cake. After the singing of Happy Birthday was over, I blew out the candles. Then came time for opening the presents, my favorite part of the party. I was presented with a special gift. There was a kid dressed up as an astronaut. I wrinkled my brow in puzzlement as he came over to me. This couldn’t possibly be my gift, I thought. Mr. Matthews removed the astronaut’s helmet, which was too difficult for the kid to handle alone. When the helmet was off, tears welled in the corners of my eyes. This indeed was a special gift. I ran over to the astronaut and hugged him tightly. After being away so long, my big brother Paco had finally come home for good.
*****
“Once more Paco and I were one. I was pleased to have him back. Even though she didn’t show it, Mama was happy he was home as well. Paco hadn’t changed that much in two years. He was still as streetwise and belligerent as ever. But Mama made it clear as crystal that she would not tolerate any foolish or disrespectful behavior from him. He was so happy to be home among his family that he made a special effort to behave himself. Paco even got into his schoolwork more and passed several classes. Since his return in October, he had only been in five fights, and not a single one was on school grounds.
During November of 1973, Mr. Matthews came over quite often to see us. With his quick wit, good humor, and extensive knowledge of ghetto culture and street slang, he won over even the rebellious Paco. Although “Snake” was Paco’s nickname during our earlier days in the neighborhood, it was never used that often, but nowadays, he insisted on being referred to as “Snake.” He won the nickname “Snake” from his serpentine weaves, twists, and curving motions during fights. He claimed that while he was a member of the Ebony Warriors street gang in reform school he lived up to his name, because his lightning quick hands were as fast as striking vipers. That statement always made me smile because I knew my brother was conceited and over exaggerated a lot when it came to fighting and sex.
“Mannnn DiAngelo, you shoulda seen me!” Paco said brimming with emotion. “I kicked ass when I was in Jersey! When I first got in the joint a couple niggas tried me. But I beat them pussies. One time this big old Italian punk called me a mutt because I am half spick and half nigga. I kicked him right in his stomach. I shoulda kicked him in his balls though, because that cracker whipped my fucking ass good that day. I’m not gonna even lie to you.” I could scarcely conceal my chuckles when he said that, because ever since I had known my older brother, he had never admitted that he had gotten his ass kicked. “But the next day, I caught his white ass in the shower and cold-cocked him with these on,” said Paco showing me a pair of shiny knuckledusters.
“Man DiAngelo,” cried my brother laughing uncontrollably and smacking me on the back, “you shoulda seen that big naked muthafucka lying under the shower with his fuckin’ face all busted up! He was Moby Dick and these,” he said, pointing to the knucklebusters, “were his harpoons.” He then fell unto the floor in a fit of hysterical laughter. After his humor had subsided, he crawled back on the bed and seated himself beside me.
“So what did you do while I was away?” he asked. I related all the relevant events of the last two years to him while he listened intently, seemingly pleased by my criminal activities. He was especially captivated by my recitation of the playground incident. “Yeah, that’s my little brother, boyyy, I wish I coulda popped the fat one for you,” said Paco rolling a joint of weed.
“Hey man,” I shouted, “I don’t want that shit smelling up the apartment. Mama will smell it when
she gets back and you know she will kick both our asses.”
“Chill out Lil’ Dee, I’ll open the windows. Anyway, Mom’s out with what’s his face; she won’t be back no time soon,” Paco said encouragingly.
“So, what you think about Mr. Matthews anyway,” I asked Paco curiously.
“Ya mean Yusef,” he answered, exhaling marijuana smoke. “He’s pretty cool for an old dude, and smart too. Mama seems like she likes him so I guess he’s okay.” I was happy to know that Paco liked Mr. Matthews because I did. Over the months Mr.
Matthews taught us a whole lot about the Bible and the Holy Koran. He taught us the true meanings of the Holy Scriptures and Koran, which is filled with black prophets such as Jesus and Mohammed.
Never had I realized that the study of theology could be so interesting. Even my older brother, whose attentions seemed to be stimulated only by fisticuffs, recreational drugs and well-proportioned females, found reason for further study and knowledge on the topic.
“Moses, Adam, Abraham, and Solomon as well as many other servants of Allah have been depicted as being Caucasian. But in all reality, they were as black as you or I,” Matthews would say with great pride and wisdom. Since Arabic was the language of the Original Man, Mr. M went through great pains in teaching us the spoken and written Arabic language. But in seeing that I was more linguistic and interested than my streetwise sibling, Mr. M spent more time teaching me.
The budding relation between him and Mama got more and more serious as time went on. By December 1973, after the Christmas holidays we spent time with Aunt Jennifer while the two of them went on a weekend trip to the Poconos. That year we decided to celebrate New Year’s Eve at home instead of going to Times Square, which is always noisy and crowded. The idea to stay at home was Aunt Jennifer’s, but she decided to go out and take rambunctious Paco along; as they say, “Birds of a feather flock together.” Mama laughed as she watched Paco and Aunt Jenny walking nimbly through the gently falling snowflakes and across the snow covered sidewalk, progressing toward the big gray Lincoln which was parked on the curb.
Mama, Mr. Matthews, and a few neighbors all got together and had a big joyful celebration. I, in the meantime, enjoyed myself in the company of all the little cuties who flirted openly and aggressively with me. After everyone left for the night, Mama and Mr. Matthews started acting like two lovebirds. I left them asleep in each other’s arms in the living room. They finally got engaged on March 5, 1974. I remember coming home from school the Friday evening and finding them discussing relocating to the West Coast.
“Well I don’t know Yusef,” Mama was saying. “The children will have to adjust to an entirely different lifestyle. I’ll have to ask DiAngelo and Paco about this.”
“Sure thing Lydia,” returned Mr. Matthews. “I understand. But I’m sure that you and the boys will simply love California. There’s so much to do and see there. There’s plenty of good paying jobs for you and great schools for the boys. Furthermore, I’m sick and tired of this hectic New York lifestyle. When we get married I want the best for you and the boys and I know that this can be more easily achieved out in California than here in the ‘Ole Gotham’.”
Mama just smiled affectionately and looked at Paco and me, then she popped the question. “How do you guys feel about living in California?” Paco was the first to open his mouth.
“Where at in California? I hope it’s not San Francisco; all the booty boys live there,” he said with disgust. We all busted out laughing.
Then Mr. Matthews said, still grinning “Well Paco, not all of ‘Frisco is gay. In fact, the city itself is very lovely, but your mother and I plan on moving to
Los Angeles.”
“Lots of sun, fun, and bitch…” Paco caught himself and saw Mama’s eyes glaring down at him, “… girls,” he said quickly, copping a weak smile. I grinned at his discomfort.
“You better watch your mouth Lovett,” warned Mama, playfully slapping him on the back of his curly bean.
“But seriously though,” Paco said, “I’d love L.A.
Let’s go tonight.”
“Hold on there mister,” Mama interrupted, “What about all your little friends, like Chico and the others?”
“What about them?” Paco asked unconcerned.
“They ain’t nobody special; forget them.”
“Well I guess we heard that loud and clear,” said Mr. Matthews, laughing.
“Well let me ask my baby now,” said Mama bending down and putting her soft brown hands on my shoulders. “Would you like to live in Los Angeles, baby?”
“Of course he would,” interrupted Paco.
“Shut up Paco,” I snapped at him.
“Mama asked me not you.”
“That’s right Paco,” Mama agreed, “I did ask DiAngelo.”
Paco glanced over his shoulders and sat down on the couch. I sat in deep meditation, briefly pondering over this and other things on my mind when my inner most thoughts were broken by Mama’s sweet voice.
“Well baby,” said Mama, “What about it? Do you
think you’ll like it in L.A.?”
“Yes I think I’ll like it… I think I’ll like it a whole lot,” I answered. Mama glanced over her shoulder at Mr. Matthews and smiled broadly, showing her pearly whites. He smiled back and winked at me.
“Then it’s all settled,” said Mama, “we leave for
Los Angeles at the end of the month – probably March 31st.”
*****
We actually left on April 16th of that year. We were delayed because Aunt Jennifer had been arrested for distribution of cocaine and was being tried in a Manhattan court. Both Mama and Mr. Matthews, or “Dad” as we now referred to him, testified on her behalf. Luckily for Aunt Jenny her great popularity and her shrewd Jewish attorney made nearly all of the proceedings a major disaster for the prosecuting attorney. After long court hours and expensive legal fees, she was released on a minor possession charge and ordered to do six months of drug rehab.
After the trial was over we were ready to skip
town. We were all driven to JFK Airport in style by none other than Aunt Jenny herself, who rented a stretch limo for the big send-off. Well let me correct myself— Aunt Jenny didn’t drive us to the airport herself, but a chauffeur with a French accent did. When we got to the airport, we took our luggage out of the limo and the baggage handlers took away our suitcases. Aunt Jenny hugged me, Paco, and Dad. Then she stood in front of Mama motionless.
It was a long while before either sister spoke to each other. “Well it looks like this is it,” said Aunt Jenny, her voice cracking. Mama continued standing, her eyes were tear filled and her lips trembled with emotion as she tried to force the words that wouldn’t come. Finally, overcome with sorrow, she rushed into Aunt Jenny’s arms and embraced her tightly all the while sobbing woefully. “You take care of yourself Lydia,” said Aunt Jenny, whose eyes streamed tears as well.
“I love you Jenny,” Mama said sniffling. “Please try and stay out of trouble, okay?”
“But of course Lydia,” answered my aunt. “Do you promise?” asked Mama questioningly.
“Cross my heart and hope to die,” Jenny returned. They both smiled and then she bid us goodbye and good luck and slipped into the back seat of the limo. The chauffeur closed the door and walked to the driver’s side and drove off. We watched as the luxurious vehicle slowly made its majestic progression down the street and away from the airport. The four of us then made our way for the bustling JFK International station where inside Mama and Dad took care of purchasing the airplane tickets.
Paco, in the meantime, kept himself busy by either playing pinball or flirting with the little cuties throughout the airport terminal. I also played pinball and managed to pick a few pockets. The airports, bus and train terminals are all unfortunate places for foreigners and out-of-towners, who aren’t accustomed to the Big Apple and often find themselves easily victimized by the denizens of Gotham. I, being no different from any other stre
etwise New Yorker, took full advantage of the opportunity at hand. Since arriving at the airport I had already discarded four wallets. After relieving them of their contents I netted myself a profit totaling over three hundred dollars.
I was so pleased that I decided to turn Paco onto the game. I melted into the diverse multitudes who went hither and thither throughout the airport. I soon ended up in a small game room where I noticed Paco holding a conversation with a dark skinned chick with shapely legs, a big ass, and nice tits. I nearly abandoned the idea of interrupting him, but knowing my brother as I knew myself, the only thing that surpassed his appetite for battle or his lust for sex was his love for money. So with that in mind I marched over to him and the girl and said loudly, “Excuse me!” Paco turned in my direction with clenched fists, expecting maybe an angry boyfriend to be confronting him. But seeing that it was only me, he unclenched his fists and relaxed.
“Yo, DiAngelo, ya timing’s bad bro’, can’t you see that I’m busy right about now?” said Paco, slightly irritated. I smiled devilishly and flashed the money in full view of him. His eyes went wide with surprise and interest. “How the hell did you get all that bread man?” he asked excitedly.
“I’d tell you, but you’re with your company right now,” I said. “What company?” said Paco leaving the girl behind and stepping over to my side.
“Are you just gonna leave that fox hanging?” I asked.
“Man, fuck that bitch,” said Paco with a most volatile tone in his voice.
“No, fuck you nigga,” snapped the girl with her hands on her luscious hips.
“You suck my dick bitch,” said Paco as he grabbed his crotch and made a lewd gesture toward the girl.
We both walked out of the game room amid the
stares of bewildered patrons and the filthy cuss words hurled at us from the now infuriated female. When we got outside the game room, I related the events of the past half hour to Paco. He decided immediately that he wanted in on the action by pulling off a few thefts for himself before catching up with our Mama and Dad. I looked at the clock on the outside of the game room. The time was 7:00 pm; our flight didn’t leave for L.A. until 7:45. That meant that we had plenty of time to get paid. Me and Paco worked the oldest trick in the book. I’d pretend I was lost and looking for my brother; I’d stop and ask some poor unsuspecting fool if they could help me. Of course they would be willing to help a little lost kid. While I distracted them by talking, Paco would quickly and deftly remove their wallets. Foreigners were the most easiest targets. It was like taking candy from babies. After about 30 minutes we had picked thirteen pockets and had accumulated eight hundred and fifty dollars. This did not include the three hundred that I had previously taken on my own. So together we had a grand total of one thousand one hundred and fifty dollars. We went into the bathroom to count our money again and decide how to divide it. About 30 seconds after we were in there an East Indian man, with a white robe, complete with turban and a handlebar mustache, came into the bathroom. He went into one of the stalls, and after a considerable amount of time, he came out. As he washed his hands under the faucet we both noticed the valuable jewelry that he removed from his hands before washing them.