The Old Neighborhood

by Bill Hillmann

  “Aye, Wacker. Welcome home, baby,” Fat Buck said. They embraced and patted each other on the back. Then, Fat Buck pressed on. “What, do I remind you of your celly? Big bad Bubba? You probably miss him already, don’tcha?” Fat Buck remarked over his shoulder.

  “YOU FAT FUCK!” Wacker roared, red in the face. “I’LL RIP YOUR FUCKING HEAD OFF!” He lunged for Fat Buck, but Mickey restrained him, and everyone in earshot just laughed.

  “I’LL SHOW YOU WHAT FUCKIN’S ALL ABOUT!” Spit flung from Wacker’s lips. “Bust that fat ass of yours!” he yelled as Fat Buck swayed back upstairs muttering to himself.

  “Excuse me,” Charlene said, getting up from the kitchen table. “But this is the only ass you’ll be busting tonight, mister.” She pointed her index finger at her perfect butt cheek and twisted it like she was extinguishing a cigarette.

  She gave Angel as mischievous smile. He smiled back. Wacker’s grimace twisted into a knot.

  “Aye, Mickey, can we go up and watch?” I said quickly.

  “Yeah, go ahead.” Mickey pushed me on the shoulder towards the stairs.

  I grabbed Angel around the shoulder, and he finally broke eye contact with Charlene. We made our way up the stairs.

  “She’s fine as hell,” Angel said, stepping up the stairs in front of me.

  “I know she is,” I said in disgust.

  We got to the top of the stairs and heard hard-banging bedsprings and a high-pitched moan from one of the bedrooms. I snatched Angel by the arm.

  “Do you got any idea who Wacker is, bro?” I asked, glaring at him. “He will drag you out back in the alley, stab you in the throat, go back inside, drink a six-pack, and laugh about it.”

  “Come on,” Angel said, breaking my grasp and starting towards the open bathroom where Fat Buck and Ryan sat.

  “It’s your fucking funeral, bro,” I called after him.

  “What’s all this talk about funerals?” Fat Buck asked, leaning over Ryan. The small metal tattoo gun hummed in his big paw. “This is a celebration.” He didn’t look up. “Young blood here’s getting his first ink.”

  Ryan clenched his teeth on the toilet seat. His shirt sleeve was rolled up, and Fat Buck went to work on his right shoulder. I noticed the words ’Thieves Junkies and Outlaws’ written in cursive at the base of Fat Buck’s skull.

  “Does it hurt?” Angel sang in an obnoxiously curious tone.

  “Fuck you,” Ryan spat with his eyes squinted shut.

  “Hold still, damn it,” Fat Buck growled.

  I carefully slid behind Fat Buck, who sat on a wooden chair that creaked every time he shifted his enormous weight. Beads of sweat bubbled up on his creased brow and spotted his scalp. He smelled like a bear that’d taken a bath in whiskey.

  I sat on the edge of the tub as Fat Buck slowly stretched the black ink along the outline of a silver dollar-sized five-point star. The skin all around it blossomed up pink and puffy.

  “Joe, how’s it look?” Ryan asked with his eyes still clenched.

  “Badass, man,” I said. “Badass.”

  Ryan smiled for a second, then went back to his grimace.

  It took a while. We drank as Ryan squeezed his fists at the sides of the mauve toilet. Underneath the star, Fat Buck wrote ’T.J.O.’ in block letters, and it was done.

  “I love virgins,” Fat Buck sighed. He grabbed his beer can off the sink and poured it over the puffy, red skin that surrounded the tattoo. Ryan screamed and gripped his tat like a wound, then he launched to his feet. The veins in his neck strained purple.

  “Motherfucker, Bucky!” Ryan said, then punched him in the chest. Fat Buck’s rolls jostled and swallowed the punch, and he heaped up off his seat and snagged Ryan in a bear hug. Fat Buck rocked his hips back, and Ryan’s feet came off the white tile floor.

  “Welcome to the TJOs, brother,” Fat Buck said, then kissed him on the forehead.

  “You son of a bitch,” Ryan said, squirming in his grasp.

  We rumbled back downstairs, and the party was in full swing. A bunch of girls had showed up. All hell broke loose, and we jumped right in it.

  In the midst of it, Wacker stormed up and grabbed Ryan’s arm with both hands as we were hollerin’ at some older girls who giggled up against the wall. Wacker stared at the star and letters and let out a roaring, manic laugh.

  “It’s final now, kid! No turning back!” Wacker yelled. Drool slipped from his mouth.

  “Never even considered it,” Ryan said as he looked him in the eyes.

  Mickey’s voice sprang from the couch next to the coffee table. “Aye, get over here.” We made our way over.

  “Carve that boy up a line,” Mickey said as Ryan sat down.

  Chief plopped a pile of white dust onto a mirror on the table, and a sick feeling snaked into my stomach. I stood across the small coffee table as a little guy with slicked-back black hair carved three narrow lines out of the white mound with his state I.D. I walked around and slid in next to Ryan on the couch, then nudged him with my elbow.

  “Ryan, man,” I whispered. “What about not messing with your own product, man?”

  “What?” Mickey said. “Naw, this cocaine, kid.” He took a rolled dollar bill off the table, bent down, and snorted a long line. The white grain disappeared into the green roll, hard and fast. Mickey’s face surged up at me. His eyes bulged and rolled around in their sockets like he’d gotten cracked in the jaw.

  “But you sure as hell better stay away from that stash,” Mickey added, pinching his nostrils and glaring at me. “End up like fuckin’ Pistol.”

  “Naw, he’s gonna stay away from that, too,” Wacker said, jamming his index finger at the coke. “And those are direct orders from you know who.”

  “Fine,” Mickey said, then passed Ryan the rolled dollar bill. Mickey put his hand on Ryan’s back and leaned him down to the table. Ryan snorted up his line, then rocked back into the couch cushion beside me. His eyes blinked as he rubbed his nose.

  “Want some, Kung Fu?” Mickey asked Angel.

  Angel shrugged and sat down next to him on the couch, then leaned down and snorted the last line.

  “You boys want some more a-that, you just let me know,” Mickey said, laughing. “Gotta do something with all that money you boys are making.”

  “Come on, Joey,” Wacker said, then nudged me towards the back porch.

  We sat on the wooden steps out back. It was quiet, and the alley lamp loomed high over the pitched roof of the garage. Wacker opened a pack of Camel Filters and offered me one. I dug one out, and he plucked one for himself. He sparked his silver Zippo and brought the healthy, swaying flame to my smoke. I inhaled. There was a tattoo on his hand where his thumb and forefinger met that read ’TJO’ in those same simple block letters.

  “Now dem letters there,” he said as he showed me the tat, “they’ve got me in a lot a trouble.” The Zippo flame lit Wacker’s hardened face. “Kinda trouble I wouldn’t wish on nobody, especially not family. Now, I ain’t saying Mickey don’t love Ryan.” He toked his cigarette hard, and the butt roared red like a hot coal. “But, Patty, he really loves ya. You’re his baby brother, ya know?”

  “I know he does,” I sighed.

  “What I’m trying to say is, kid, you ain’t never gonna have those letters on your skin.”

  I exhaled a plume of smoke and looked at him. My heart jumped in my throat.

  “Patty, he asked me to watch out for ya,” he said. “You, you ain’t never gonna be no TJO.”

  “But…”

  “I know you’re already involved,” Wacker broke in. “And he’s gonna be pissed about dat, but dat’s as far as you go. You’re one of us, but you ain’t.” He looked off northeast toward Senn and the lake. “He wants ya to go to college or some shit, and you better.” He pointed at me with his cigarette. “You better.”

  I looked down as joy flooded my chest, and I missed my brot
her more than ever. But then, humiliation dug lines through the joy. Maybe, he thinks I ain’t hard enough. Hooks dragged across my stomach and planted in my gut. Ryan ain’t so bad; I’m the one who stabbed a fucking GD! Then, my mind suddenly blanked, and I felt like something hugged me from all sides. I closed my eyes and felt like I was floating slowly upward. The hooks plucked free from my stomach, and I grabbed at the wounds.

  “Don’t take it too hard, kid, and don’t worry about nothin’,” Wacker said, putting his hand on my shoulder. “You know I’d gut a motherfucker in about a second over you, right?”

  I smiled and nodded.

  “Oh yeah, and Patty got word of what happened the other night.”

  My eyes shot at him. My heart raced. What night? Shit, a hundred fucking things’d gone down over the past few months.

  “If that motherfucker ever comes back around the house, don’t do nothin’. You just give me a call, and we’ll finish the job,” he said. “I know that motherfucker’s probably a Stone. That’s why you didn’t tell nobody, right?”

  I went to speak, but he stopped me with a wave of his hand.

  “Well, either way, he’s gonna have to go. We’ll bury that nigger in the fucking alley.”

  I nodded.

  “But, hey, this is a party. What the hell are you doing out here?” He slapped me on the back. “Now go on in and stir you up some of that pussy runnin’ around in dere.” He nudged me with his shoulder.

  I got up and started inside. When I got to the back door, I turned. “Thanks, Wacker.”

  “Don’t thank me, kid.” He didn’t turn to face me.

  I went back inside, and Angel and Ryan were hanging on that same group of older girls who were just laughing at ’em. The night went on like that for a while. I was down, thinking about things too much. I got quiet and wanted to see Hyacinth. I knew she’d probably be asleep, but I decided to go over and check.

  “Hey, Ryan, I’m taking off bro,” I said.

  “What? Why, man?” He had his arm slung on a brunette with frizzy hair.

  “I ain’t feeling too good.”

  “Alright, bro.”

  “Aye, where’s Angel?” I asked.

  “I don’t know.” He looked around. “I think he went upstairs.”

  “I’m gonna go say bye to him and get outta here.”

  “OK.”

  I headed upstairs. No one was up there that I could tell. I walked the hall to one of the back rooms, and as I turned the corner, I saw Angel with a girl draped over him. I smiled at him, but he just straightened up, rigid. The girl’s head spun around—it was Charlene. I walked right up, grabbed him by the arm, and pulled him away from her, hard.

  “What the fuck are doing!?” I shouted in his face.

  “Hey!” Charlene said, shoving me.

  “You trying to get him killed?” I spat at her.

  “What!” Charlene shouted. “Wacker? He doesn’t own me.”

  “Come on, man. We gotta go now before somebody sees this.” I pulled Angel down the hall. He drunkenly let himself be dragged with his head bowed. When we got downstairs, Ryan saw us and rushed up.

  “What’s going on with you, Joe?” Ryan asked.

  “We gotta get him outta here, NOW,” I said.

  “What?”

  “NOW!"

  “Alright,” Ryan replied as we shuffled out the front door. I was last to walk out. I looked back over my shoulder at the coffee table. One of the older TJOs held a spoon in one hand and struck a lighter beneath it. The spoon was full with a muddy, brown liquid. Angel laughed as I hurried them down the porch stairs and up the street. We turned into the alley.

  “Now, what the fuck’s going on, Joe?” Ryan said as he spun around.

  “This motherfucker’s rubbing up on Wacker’s girl,” I replied, then pushed Angel. He fell against a dumpster, drunk.

  “What the fuck?” Ryan’s eyes widened. “You trying to get killed, bro?”

  “That’s what I said!” I kicked Angel playfully in the chest.

  Angel laughed and curled up next to the dumpster like a sleeping baby, holding his gut.

  “I couldn’t help it,” he pleaded in a childish whine. “You saw her; she was the angel-slut!” He gasped for air.

  “This motherfucker is gonna get killed for sure,” Ryan laughed.

  “Don’t I know it,” I replied.

  We both bent to help him up, then started down the alley with Angel between us—his arms draped over both of us.

  “Well, did you touch her ass at least?” I asked.

  “Oh my God,” Angel squealed, then broke away from us and ran out ahead. “It was like heaven,” he yelled out into the alley night. “Like heaven, God damnit.”

  •

  LATER, I WALKED to Hyacinth’s house. Her light was on, which meant she was up reading anyway. I was glad; I hated to wake her up. She opened her window, and I climbed up on the wooden sill and kissed her. We whispered in the dark.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “It’s my brother. He did something for me. I don’t know how to feel about.”

  “Which one?”

  “Pat,” I sighed. “He made it so I could never be a TJO.”

  “That’s good, Joe. You don’t need to be hanging around those crazy assholes anymore.”

  “I know, but it’s like… Ryan, he’s practically my frickin’ brother for Christ’s sake, and he’s a TJO now.”

  “But that’s different. Ryan isn’t you, and you aren’t Ryan. You’re you, Joe. I know Ryan’s a good friend and a good person, but you’re different.”

  “But, Pat’s a TJO. My real brother, my blood.”

  “But look where he is, Joe,” she pleaded. “Look where it got him.”

  “It wasn’t the TJOs, it was shooting that fucking heroin!” I seethed, full of rage. “It destroyed him inside,” I spat loudly, then checked my voice. “He was a good guy. He was always a kind brother to me. He was a good person. He is a good person.”

  “I know he’s a good person, Joey. I know it because of what he just did.” She reached down and gently stroked my hair. “He’s protecting you.”

  “I don’t need no protecting!” I pulled my head away. “I can handle myself out here.” I gestured to the street.

  “He probably knows that, too. That’s why he did it. Joey, you stabbed someone the other day.” She started to cry. “That’s a very serious thing you did.” She inhaled a stuttering breath. “You could go to jail for a very long time over that.” Tears beaded down her round cheeks. “They could take you away from me for a very long time.”

  “I know, I know. I’m sorry. I love you…” I climbed up and nuzzled my face into her cheeks and wiped the tears with my forehead. “Don’t cry.”

  She caught her breath, then wiped the tears back. “I want to tell your brother I’m grateful for what he did. And you should, too… You should, too….” She broke into a hard sob again, and I did my best to corral it until she stopped. I went home feeling terrible that I’d bothered her with this—that I’d made her cry all over again.

  •

  THAT NIGHT, I dreamt I was walking down some strange street in broad daylight—some old-style town with fancy lamp posts. Then, the beast walked along the sidewalk across the street from me, and the Assyrian walked behind it holding a chain that stretched to its immense neck. Then, Ryan appeared ahead of them on the sidewalk, and the beast growled. The Assyrian yanked on the leash, and the beast sat. Ryan noticed them. Then, the Assyrian unleashed the beast, and it galloped toward Ryan. Ryan just bounced on his toes, laughing like he had something up his sleeve, like he knew a secret nobody else knew. As the beast got close, Ryan cut down the alley and vanished. The beast disappeared behind him.

  CHAPTER 28

  ELECTRON POSITRON ANNIHILATION

  TO RYAN, being a hype was the ultimate show of weak
ness. I guess, for him, dealing it was the act of punishing his father for his frailty, brutality, and eventual failure. There was a hunger in Ryan’s method. He would not hesitate for a sliver of a second to stick a hype straight in the jaw for the slightest foul in attitude or misconduct. He took a certain pleasure in it that scared me; not fear for myself or for the junkies, but fear for Ryan’s own fucking soul. It made me want to grab him by the arms and shake him. Tell him, ’That ain’t your old man you just hit, Bro! It’s just some poor, bum-ass junky!’ And you’d think that kinda behavior would hurt business—it didn’t; it only made the junkies revere him. It made their approaches more subtle, made their money right every time—not none of that change and penny bullshit. It got to the point they didn’t even talk to Angel and me except to ask for Ryan. Even they’d demoted us to lookouts. I didn’t care. The thick wads of green that swelled in my pockets made my skin itch, and I found myself handing money out to panhandlers—sometimes $50 bucks a pop, startling them and making them stumble after me trying to give me a hug with tears in their eyes. But I knew all the while it’d find its way back to Ryan eventually.

  •

  ONE NIGHT, Lil Pat’s old girlfriend Angie showed up at the sills. I thought she’d crawled in some hole and died. Figured being a hooker and a junky gave her about a hundred percent chance at the HIV. There was a brisk, dry breeze that night. The temperature had settled in the teens. Angie was thin, thinner than I ever remembered her, with bleached straight-leg jeans on that only came down to her shins. Her red-striped tube socks were all bunched up in a thick wad at her ankles above her grayed tennis shoes, and she wore this heavy wool red and black flannel that was so big and old it could have been Lil Pat’s. Her hair was all crusted and tangled, and she shook in these brittle tremors that made it look like her arms were gonna crack off at the shoulders. Her face was all dried out, porous, and wrinkled. There were dark makeup smudges under her eyes like she’d been crying earlier in the day, or week even, ’cause she smelled like she hadn’t showered in at least that long.

  “Aye, Joey, can I have a cigarette, honey?” she croaked in her raspy, tired tone.