by Luke Loaghan
The next day at lunch, I asked Sam about Delancey’s present. He was angry.
“I’m so pissed. She’s such a typical you know what. I got $150, cut school with Carlos, and bought her a bottle of expensive French perfume. I gave it to her in front of all her friends. She said no thanks, that she’s allergic to the perfume. In Iran, no one is allergic to anything. I’m done with that girl, man.” Sam was brooding.
Served him right. Sam did nothing in school for the previous three days other than borrow money in an attempt to impress Delancey. He got nowhere fast. I didn’t think he had real feelings for her. He only knew that I found her attractive and that was enough to set him off. It was a game for him.
“Don’t even think of asking out Delancey; she would reject you instantly,” Sam said out of the blue, and his words resonated deep within my head.
The school workload was starting to pile on. I had eight classes, papers due, and tests coming up. Senior year at Stanton was meant to prepare students for college, and the normal heavy workload increased. In addition to state tests, I also needed to take Stanton’s final exams, which were famous for being more difficult than any state exam.
In gym class, some students discussed an assault on a student who was on his way home the day before. It could happen to anyone, and they discussed self defense options. The Deceptors had hospitalized the student. The sophomores in the locker room were in shock.
I felt indifferent, having had heard similar gang stories for years. I rarely saw a policeman on a school street. It was equally rare to see police on the subway, with the exception of Manhattan. I guess their job was to protect the working wealthy of the big city, and everyone else had to fend for themselves.
The boys in the locker room were planning to carry weapons for protection. A few months remained until graduation, and I didn’t want to ruin my chances of getting into a good college by getting caught with a weapon at school. I was too close to the end of high school to make such a stupid mistake. The best way to deal with gangs was avoiding them.
It was common to see a student showing off a knife in the cafeteria. Weapons have become a mundane showpiece; someone always had one. Anyone could buy a gun for fifty dollars in the park across the street. A masked student sold guns in the park every Friday. No one knew who he was, but everyone knew where to find him. He was Stanton’s very own arms dealer.
The kids of Stanton were smart enough to have their brawls outside of the school building. I had never seen a weapon pulled during an after school fight. Brooklyn had turned into the Wild West and if someone were to pull a gun, ten guns would immediately point back in their direction. Most of the fights involved fisticuffs only. The longest fight I had personally witnessed lasted sixty seconds. I could defend myself for sixty seconds without a gun.
In gym class, I lifted weights to exhaustion, but still looked like puberty had lost my address. I’d been lifting weights since I was fifteen, with minimal results. Guys like Mino and Jacob increased my insecurities, and skewed my body image. “A sound mind in a sound body” was engraved on a plaque outside the weight room. I could no longer feel my arms, but still did not resemble a classic Greek hero. Perhaps I never would.
The school employment office finally had good news. That weekend I would start working part time at a café in the city. The owner of the café hired me without an interview. It was good enough for him that I was a Stanton student. I needed to be at the café at seven o’ clock Saturday morning. It was great to finally be earning some money, but the new job also reduced the time I had to study for the SATs.
Chapter 4
Saturday morning, I eagerly rode the subway at six a.m. to the World Trade Center. An hour later, I was running through the ground floor of the Twin Towers, crossing a sky bridge over West Street, and jogging down the marble steps of a monumental glass and steel building called the Winter Garden. The Hudson River shimmered in the early morning sunlight.
An information kiosk explained that the magnificent building I was standing in was built on a landfill, using dirt excavated during the building of the Twin Towers. It was designed by Cesar Pelli. The newly constructed World Financial Center was like an entirely different world, a different dimension.
The owner of the café promptly started training, teaching me how to bake cookies, muffins, croissants, and operate the register. I was to start baking at seven a.m. every weekend. At eight a.m. a second shift would start. The owner of the café created a four page list of instructions. The first sentence read, “If you can’t stand the heat, get out of the kitchen.”
At eight o’clock, three high school girls and one guy started their shift. They were all Chinese Americans, all young, all pretty. They did not need training and were from his other café at the Seaport. The girls had known each other for years – from Chinatown, elementary school, middle school, and, currently, the same local high school.
They spoke a mix of Cantonese and English. I was listening from the back of the café, shocked by their conversations. They were discussing night clubs, parties, sex from the night before, and how exhausted they were from the whole thing. At times, the girls told dirty jokes to each other and laughed intermittently.
I was feeling awkward around them. I continued to listen, surmising that “Dai Lo” was the head of their gang. They were just teenagers, but had already lived ten years more than anyone I knew. They were hardworking, smart, well spoken, some with ambition to attend an affordable college in the city. Family and gang obligations required that they stay close to home. I spent the first day on the job just listening, hardly speaking.
I was feeling like an outsider on many levels. Toward the late afternoon, about a half hour before my shift was over, Christine asked about my high school. When I told her I went to Stanton, they all laughed. Christine was the most loquacious, and the prettiest of the girls. She said they knew a lot of boys from Stanton. Kenny, the boy in their group, was displeased.
It made sense that they would know students from Stanton. Many kids from Stanton were from Chinatown, and a few were Chinese gangsters. These kids were smart enough to pass the entrance exam to get into Stanton, and smart enough to keep their grades up, but rumors always swirled about their involvement in nefarious activities.
Not all the Asian kids at Stanton were in gangs. The gangsters were easy to spot because they dressed the same. They dressed like the kids I worked with at the café. The gangster dress code included tight black pants tapered around the ankles, plain canvas sneakers, either a plain white or plain black tee shirt, and oversized denim or nylon jackets. Their hairstyle was blown dry very high, spiked, with lots of hair spray and gel. Some gangsters’ hair stood six inches high or more. Most of the boys had earrings in their left ears.
My first day at work ended at 5pm. Exhausted, I fell asleep on the subway ride home. My first weekend at the café ended at 5pm on Sunday. I still had six hours of homework, and three hours of studying to do. Upon arriving home, I did not spend much time with my brother or my father. In the past, the three of us had always spent Sundays together.
The ensuing week at school was typical. I studied for the SATs well past midnight. Sleep was the least of my priorities. The unofficial Stanton policy on sleep was, “you can sleep in the afterlife.” I wrote a few articles for the newspaper, and went home to study and make dinner on my designated nights. I deftly avoided the robberies and gang attacks on the school’s perimeter, and on the subways. More stories circulated about the Deceptors.
The Deceptors were a unique New York City street gang, because no one knew who they were. They operated out of many city high schools, and were always in disguise. It was rumored they had over a thousand members. Stories swirled that kids in school were the same Deceptors robbing and attacking other students. When they attacked, they wore face paint, ski masks, or bandanas. They wore hats and big coats. Some of the Deceptors were students gone evil, some had been co-erced, and others were just students who wanted to be in the gang.<
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Fear grew with each more incredible story about the terror of the Deceptors. Exaggerated stories became oral traditions, and freshmen often quivered in their shoes at the mention of them.
On Saturday, I went back to work at the café. I quickly started my job, baking an assortment of foods, and making several urns of coffee. I made bagels as well, some with butter, some with cream cheese. At eight a.m. the rest of the crew arrived.
They were talking loudly about the Dai Lo. I listened, but did not participate in the conversation. Their Dai Lo had stolen some clothing from a department store and was tackled by a security guard before getting away. The work day was slow and dull. I kept listening; it was fascinating stuff. Christine said that the Dai Lo was going to miss a couple of days of school.
“Where does he go to school?” I asked. Everyone dispersed. Christine smiled.
“Where DO YOU go to school?” she asked, and I inferred that the Dai Lo went to Stanton. They did not speak too freely for the rest of the morning. I may have overstepped my boundaries.
Kenny felt that one of us would be fired unless business picked up. I hoped it wasn’t me. It wasn’t cheap to be a high school senior. Expenses like college application fees, trips, the prom, and more, added up. And I just needed money to buy things. I couldn’t ask my father for money. I could hear him now saying, “money doesn’t grow on trees.”
The next day, Sunday, there was a new manager for the café named Mike. He was tall and lanky, bald, with glasses. I would guess he was close to thirty years old. Christine said that Mike always arrived late, and slept at work. She had worked with him at the café’s other location.
She was right. Mike was a disaster. He never actually did any work. Mike was the only adult at the cafe, and was friends with the owner. In the real world, it paid to be friends with the boss.
Christine and Kenny were talking in Cantonese and laughing. I asked, “What’s so funny?” She said that I dressed funny. They giggled again.
“You guys dress funny, like typical Chinese gangsters,” I said. They were offended and threw wet sponges at me. It’s not okay to tell Chinese gangsters that they actually looked like Chinese gangsters.
“If you wanted to be incognito, then why dress this way?” I asked. Christine explained that everyone in Chinatown dressed this way.
“It’s incognito in Chinatown.”
Later that day, Christine remarked that I wasn’t bad looking but needed to do something with my clothes and my hair.
“I know a backhanded compliment when I hear one,” I said. She asked if I wanted to go shopping after work. I was a little surprised by how forward she was, but agreed. I had just been paid, and liked the idea of hanging out with her. She was a very pretty girl, with a slender build, and a smile that made her look like a child at times. Her skin was remarkably smooth, despite the make up.
Christine and I went to Chinatown. We walked to Hester Street, an old street with small stores and traditional Chinese restaurants. The entire population was mostly non-English speaking Chinese immigrants. We shopped at a store she suggested. Christine spoke to the store clerk in Cantonese. I tried to speak to the clerk but she ignored my questions about the prices. I figured she did not speak English. I asked Christine to ask her how long she’d been in New York. Christine asked in Cantonese. The clerk crossed her arms, and responded, “I was born in Brooklyn, you idiot!” I bought a cool outfit from her, like nothing I had ever worn before. I had always been a Levis and Tee shirt guy, until now. These threads I bought were the style of Christine’s choosing, and reminiscent of Chinese gangsters.
Next we went to a barber shop. They only spoke Chinese, as a far as I could tell, but I didn’t want to assume anything. I told the barber, “Give me a trim, nothing drastic.” He looked at me puzzled, unable to understand. Christine told him in Cantonese how to cut my hair. Ten minutes later, I was shocked by my haircut. My hair stood tall on top, spiked to the max, and cut to the scalp on the sides.
I thanked Christine for her help and told her I’d see her next weekend. I gave her a hug goodbye, and almost didn’t want to let go. I had never embraced anyone so soft and tender before.
On the subway ride home, people kept trying not to look at my hair. New Yorkers rarely stare, but the people on the subway were obviously not told about this rule.
When I arrived home, my father was concerned. He was not accustomed to his oldest son not showing up for dinner. I explained that I bought some clothes and went for a haircut. He asked if I had looked in the mirror before I left the barber shop. I said I liked the cut and this would be my new look. My father looked at me, shook his head in disbelief, and walked away.
On Monday at school, I had a new found sense of confidence. I wore my new clothes, and sported my new hair cut. I was wearing black khaki pants, tapered to the ankle. I wore an oversized t-shirt, and an oversized denim jacket. The other kids stared and some even giggled.
Delancey approached me at lunch and said she liked the new look. Her opinion was the only one that mattered. Several people asked if I had joined a Chinese gang. The Chinese gangsters giggled every time they saw me.
Sam was quiet after overhearing Delancey’s comment. He looked irritated. We kept eating lunch. Carlos asked where I got the new clothes and haircut. I told him about Christine, the café, and the shopping trip. Carlos said it looked “bad in a good way.” Sam said I looked like an idiot.
It seemed the wheels in Sam’s head were turning.
“You can’t pull off this look. It’s not you and it works better for other people. Besides, why are you wasting money? You should be helping your family with their expenses and saving for college.” That was classic Sam. He always knew my real concerns, and which buttons to push to activate my self doubts.
“To each their own,” I said.
I’ve never been the type of person that sought after attention or relished it. I’d been perfectly happy being incognito my entire life, but at this point things were changing. The way I felt about drawing attention and the comments that came with it, also changed. I liked the fact that Delancey liked my new look, and that Sam didn’t. Anything that irritated Sam meant that I was doing something right.
Sure, I was thinking that I should’ve used the money for something better, something more long term. But, I experienced something new that day. I had lifted some of my inferiority complex, even if it was temporary. I had more confidence, and even walked with a little swagger. Not bad for a poor boy from Queens.
“So, what’s with the new look?” asked Delancey. I told her about Christine, and working at the café.
“I wanted something different,” I added.
“You look so much more grown up.” She giggled as she said this, and Sam glowered.
“I wasn’t going for more grown up, just cool,” I said.
“Oh, excuse me. Definitely cool!” she said.
We all laughed, except for Sam.
Later that day, I had to write an article on the basketball team. Stanton’s basketball team was one of the best in Brooklyn. For the first time, I interviewed shooting guard Eddie Lo.
I didn’t know Eddie Lo well at all. I knew who he was, but who didn’t? Eddie was famous at Stanton. I don’t want to sound like I had a crush on the guy, but he was everything I wished I could be. Eddie was the coolest guy in school.
I would describe him as good looking, with an overabundance of testosterone. He was stylish, wore the latest fashions, including a very expensive leather jacket. No one messed with Eddie, either in school or out of school. Eddie Lo was the only Chinese-American member of the basketball team and was hard to miss at six feet four inches tall and a bulky two hundred and twenty pounds. He had fully developed muscles in parts of his body where I didn’t even have tissue. He also had a long scar across his neck, and a necklace consisting of a jade pendant tied around a red thread. Eddie Lo was also a dangerous Chinese gangster with a tattoo of a large snake on his arm.
During the inte
rview, he said a few colleges had contacted him about playing basketball. However, he wanted to stay close to home to help his family with their business. He needed to go to college in the city, close to his family’s clothing store in Chinatown. He had seen me at his family’s store over the weekend, and joked that I looked like a Chinatown gangster.
“You should talk,” I said. He accused me of wanting to look like him. We both laughed.
Eddie wanted to play basketball for St. John’s University in Queens, but he felt his reputation and tattoos eliminated him from most college basketball programs.
A few days later, when the paper came out, Eddie thought the article was about him, and thanked me. I had intended for the article to be about the basketball team, but since Eddie Lo was the only player interviewed, I could understand his interpretation. Eddie said his father was really proud to see an article about him, even if it was just the school newspaper.
I loved basketball, but I had not played for years. I did not have a basketball hoop in the driveway of my home. As a matter of fact, I did not have a driveway either. I’m not sure we even had a basketball. For me to play basketball meant going to a nearby playground or park. These basketball playgrounds were always a hub for criminal activities and drug dealers. My father was very strict about my brother and I avoiding these places. Fights usually broke out during the games.
The next day, Sam was in the hallway wearing tapered black pants. He even had my hair cut. He said he got the clothes from the same place I did. I was confused. Sam said I looked stupid, but he went out and bought almost identical clothing, and got the same haircut. He stole my look!
Maybe Sam was jealous. Maybe he was gay. Maybe he was just trying to get Delancey’s attention. How many other guys would deliberately go out and steal my look?
Three days later, Carlos also had the same haircut. It was becoming normal for Carlos to do whatever Sam did.
Carlos said the Deceptors were going to attack Stanton on Halloween. Fifty kids were sent to a hospital the year before during a similar Halloween attack on a different school.