by Joy, E. n.
Shaking his head with disbelief, the older hoodlum entered the car and leaned back against the cool vinyl of the passenger seat. He pulled out a partially smoked blunt from the glove compartment and sparked it up.
Baby frowned and busted his partner off with a quick sweep of his hand as the other thug offered him the smoldering blunt, but Baby refused it. His mind was set on something else as he decided against getting in the car, but headed back toward the fast food window instead.
I just couldn't sit there and let that creep rob my brother, so I hopped out of the truck and walked toward the window, all the while checking my rear to avoid a sneak attack from his homie. I slowed to a shuffle as I observed the surprisingly long line that had just recently formed outside the carryout window.
Montel patiently waited until the cute, smiling girl on the other side of the window brought him his correct order. He stepped aside, peering into the green and gold paper bag, making sure that his order was indeed right this time around. He paid little, if any, attention to the silent black clothed figure skulling up next to him.
Baby lit a cigarette, taking two or three drags off of the cancer stick before moving toward Montel. Brushing rudely through the line of customers in pursuit of his mark, I too followed Baby as he pursued my brother. Realizing that he was being followed, Montel stopped just short of the pick-up truck, turning to face his pursuer.
"S'up, Big Homie? What set you claim, Cuz?" Baby asked Montel.
Montel saw me walking up behind the gang banger and calmly waved me over to his side where he handed me the fast food bag and car keys, bidding me to return to the pickup.
"I don't claim no set, young brotha," I heard Montel say. "I used to, but not anymore."
"You don't claim no set, huh? Well, yo' tats say otherwise, my man. S'up, you tryin' to perpetrate somethin' you ain't, homie? I hope not, 'cause that's dangerous, dawg." Baby flashed the gang sign of the Reapers toward Montel.
My brother stared stoically at his young, brash counterpart, nodding silently before answering with his own gang sign hand movement.
"S'up, Black. This here is Baby reppin' Santana Block Skull and Bones Reapers 4 ever, Cuz. Speak on it."
Montel adopted the aggressive stand of the infamous Compton Street gang. "S'up, Black. This here is Widow Maker, blood in 1986, dime piece duf in the BAY, boss playa O.G," he said in a solemn tone. "But now it's all over. I'm done, retired from the game forever. That's it."
Baby wrinkled his youthful face in confusion as he took in the words of a Reaper superior. "Say what? Retired? Naw, naw, see. . .you got it twisted, Black. Once you get in, you can't get out. It's Reapers 4 ever. Ya feel me?"
"Is that what you think? It ain't no way out? If so, then I feel sorry for you, young brotha." Montel shook his head. "Listen up, Baby, I'm not your enemy. I'm just another black man out here tryin' to make it just like you. When I was your age I didn't have a father figure because he ran out on my mama when I was just a little boy. The Reapers were my family; Pretty "T", Skippie Dee, DiAngelo, Paco Lovett and all the rest of the old school street legends of the past. Yeah, I slang rocks, pulled drive-bys, pimped hoes and robbed cats at gunpoint. All of that so-called gangsta stuff. And ya know what? I still ended up in prison. And inside the pen it was every man for himself."
Baby stood there listening intently, while I stood a couple feet away, disobeying my brother's initial orders.
"There was no kinda 'brotherhood'," Montel continued. "I saw betrayal on a regular between fellow Reapers. I even knew of homies who were marked for death by Reaper homies. I'm tellin' you, you have your own mind, brotha. Do you, and forget about pulling' the trigger of a gun for some warped idea, or insane sort of gang loyalty. You're just being brain washed to kill your brotha, another black man who may look just like you or me. There's no honor in that, Baby. You know it and so do I."
Montel turned away briefly from Baby and turned toward me. "Go on and crank up the ride, Cee. I'm coming in a second."
I gave Baby an evil stare before doing exactly what Montel had told me to do. Baby never once glanced over at me. His attention was totally consumed by Montel's words of wisdom. For a minute he even seemed to be considering the truthfulness of what he was being educated on, but then he returned to his street savvy persona.
"Man, forget all that crap you talkin'," he snapped. "You ain't nothin' but an ole busta! A sell out! You don't deserve them tattoos you got, fool! Matter o' fact, you don't deserve to live, dawg!" Baby raised his tank top, revealing the rubber grip handle of a semi-automatic pistol tucked into the front of his creased khaki pants. "I bet you scared now, ain't you, homie?"
Montel didn't reply. Baby chuckled, as if proud he'd instilled fear in an old G.
"Yeah, you ain't nothin' but a busta!"
Montel's eyes narrowed into slits as he eyed the gun bearing youth before him. He cracked his knuckles on each huge hand. He flexed the bulging pecks in his chest. He moved his head from side to side, cracking the bones in his thick, bull like neck like a heavy weight prize fighter preparing for a bout. It quickly became apparent that Montel's prison hardened aggression and bravery had now taken full control as he faced down his adversary with the courage of a lion.
For almost a full two minutes, Montel stared Baby down before he finally turned his back to him and walked toward the truck. A large crowd had gathered in the distance and mumbled amongst themselves as the tense parking lot show down ended in a bloodless truce.
Baby flashed Montel and me his middle finger and spewed a torrent of choice words our way before the crotch grabbing thug strolled triumphantly toward his '64 Impala. He threw up gang signs before entering the driver's side of the classic vehicle. Baby put the big car into drive after cranking up the engine and squealed out of the parking lot, bouncing along on hydraulic shocks as, once again, gangsta rap music blared from the interior before he disappeared down the distant South Los Angeles freeway.
"I hate that fool," I growled angrily, referring to Baby. "And tell me, Montel, why didn't you just beat him down? If I had known you'd just stand there, I would have whooped his punk butt for you." I stared with angry frustration at my big brother who simply stared forward at the highway up ahead.
For a split second, I thought of my brother as somewhat of a coward. But then I knew better. Montel Philips was never one to back down from any individual or situation regardless of how dire it might appear. He had, after all, survived a notoriously ruthless prison. It was now clearly evident that Montel, in deed, was a changed man. That was all good for Montel's sake, but Baby was another story, and something told me that our interaction with Baby would not be the last and any future run-ins might just result in bloodshed-or worse.
Chapter Six
By Memorial Day weekend, the summer of '99 kicked off with urban tales of Baby's recent runin with a seemingly invincible foe. Word on the street was that Baby had emerged triumphantly, easily trumping his adversary in a show of gangsta bravado that caused the man he faced down to cower before him like the punk that he was. This blatant exaggeration of the incident, spread throughout the hood like a wildfire generated by the Santana winds.
The Reapers began harassing me with a renewed sense of urgency to join up with them. Redrum, being the set leader, seemed to take great pleasure in singing the praises of his suddenly popular cousin and went as far as warning me of the fact that Baby was still in pursuit of my brother.
After school Redrum did what he and the rest of the teenaged Reaper thugs always did; gather at the bus stop on Santana Street, which was down the street from Mr. Lee's corner store. I had decided to ride home with Fatima Smith, an upperclassman at Compton High who had a big time crush on me. I never really felt the same way about her because she wasn't really my type. She was far from ugly, just not my type. But she pushed a clean ride; a plum colored Buick Enclave that she let me drive on several occasions.
As we entered my neighborhood, Fatima begged me to stop at Mr. Lee's so that she could g
et a slushie and a bag of cheese puffs. Reluctantly, I agreed. I felt it was the least I could do for a lovelorn girl whose advances I'd spurned so many times each passing week. Upon arriving at the store, we exited the car and went inside. We were both walking through the cheap goods stacked aisles when three wise cracking ruffians dressed in the typical black Skull and Bones print garb brushed past us. While Fatima and I moved through the aisles in search of cheese puffs, we were followed closely by the thugged out trio.
"Pick up a couple bags of chips, some cookies, doughnuts and two or three liters of soda aiight?" the oldest looking dude of the three said loudly to his boys. "'Cause homie right there and his broad is gonna buy our stuff. Y'all feelin' me?"
"Naw, Black, we aiight for today, but we'll catch up with him again. Then we'll go up in his pockets," another said. I ignored them and just kept it moving.
"Hey, homeboy, your time's runnin' out," the oldest said. "You either gonna rep Skull 'N' Bones Reapers, or get dealt with. So if you know what's good for you, you'll make the right decision."
The three flashed me and Fatima evil looks before walking out of the store, nonchalantly cracking jokes with each other as if nothing ever happened. I would have to endure several more incidents similar to that one as the school year came to a close. Though I took more than my share of verbal insults, putdowns and direct threats of bodily harm, no one had resorted to any physical violence. Not yet anyway.
I, on the other hand, surprised myself with the amount of quiet patience I exhibited during those trying times. I guess a lot of what Montel had been teaching me had began to sink in somewhat because I truly began to realize just how childish and pathetic the whole 'bash Cee-Love' thing was. And even more importantly, I realized that as long as no one dared touch me, I could care less about their rude comments or childish behavior.
When it became clear that I wouldn't be moved by their actions or comments, the angry gang affiliated students began spreading vicious rumors around school that I was afraid to speak up for myself, much less fight back. Soon a large part of the student body in and around Compton High began to believe the hype, with even a few of my so-called close friends shunning me.
On the home front, situations were hardly better with Mama's hard drinking boyfriend Leon back in her life and acting a fool as usual. Even Leon himself, who'd learned of the incident from fellow co-workers down at the sanitation plant, began making little off color comments around the house in regards to me and Montel's supposed cowardice. It became increasingly evident that nearly the entire neighborhood felt compelled to ridicule and make fun of us.
Montel had grown up quite a bit mentally and spiritually during his time spent behind bars. He'd battled some of Pelican Bay's most violent inmates, winning some scraps while losing others. He'd been shanked and had shanked, other prisoners. In short, he'd gone through hell and high water during his ten year sentence. So there was nothing outside those prison walls that could possibly bother him out on the streets. Besides, most of the gossip was mainly from punk kids and wanna-be thugs anyway.
Most of the true riders like DiAngelo Lovett, Paco Lovett, Skippie "Dee" and Francisco were either dead or doing hard time in one of California's overcrowded penitentiaries. These cats were the founders of the Reaper Nation and would never stoop to the lowly status of being gossipmongers, unlike their contemporaries. However, when the neighborhood's growing disrespect reached out and touched Mama, it was a different story.
I had just turned the corner, headed home, after finishing a physical game of street ball early one Saturday when I observed two of the neighborhood kids sassing Mama as she confronted them near the entrance to our house. Mama sometimes slept in late on the weekends, particularly Saturdays. This happened to be one of those Saturdays. Two of my classmates, Toby Wilder and his younger brother Jeff, seemed to always manage to wash and wax their '74 Chevelle on Saturday mornings. They also blasted their car stereo for the full hour or so. Mama had grown weary over the past month awakening irritably to the thump of bass just outside of her window each Saturday morning.
"We ain't turnin' nothin' down, lady!" Jeff spat, eyeing Mama angrily. "You always complaining 'bout something. What you need to be doing is keepin' ya punk sons in check."
Mama nearly lost it after that snide remark. I thought that she was going to slap his face. "You're much too disrespectful for your own good, so I'm going to have to call the cops."
Jeff glanced over toward Toby who shrugged his shoulders before he went back to waxing down the whip. "I know you're familiar with the term 'snitches get stitches', aren't you?" Jeff asked. "Well, I'd say you'd just better leave well enough alone, if you know what's good."
By the time I walked up on them, Toby had decided to add his two cents and now both he and Jeff were yelling at my mama angrily.
"Back up off of my mama or you two are gonna need the Reapers and every other gang in L.A to get me off of y'all!" I was breathing heavily, more from building anger than the basketball games I'd just finished. I quickly stepped in between Mama and the two frowning Wilder brothers. I calmly asked Mama to go back into the house while I took care of the situation.
Mama left only after I promised her that there'd be no fist fighting between myself and the Wilders, and even then she went reluctantly, keeping a watchful eye on us from the living room window.
"Listen Jeff. . .Toby, I don't care what y'all think about me or my brother, but none of y'all bet not ever talk to my mama like you just did, feel me? The only reason we ain't going to knuckle up right now is 'cause I promised her not to. Now I'm going inside."
The two Wilder brothers said nothing as they slowly backed away across the street toward their car, mumbling audibly as they went. As I turned to walk toward my house, three neighborhood kids came swiftly up the adjoining sidewalk, yelling out to me at the top of their lungs.
"Cee-love, you gotta come down to Mr. Lee's," they yelled.
"Why? What's happening?" I asked.
"It's your brother. He's down there getting ready to do somethin'," one of them said. "I dunno, he looks pissed!"
"A'ight, let's go!" I bailed down the street swiftly behind my peers. I could see other kids from around the way racing at breakneck speed also in the direction of Mr. Lee's convenience store.
When we arrived, winded and sweaty from running, we all saw Montel sitting calmly on the hood of Mr. Larry's Ford pickup. Seemingly carefree and relaxed he sat clad in a white cotton tank top, and meticulously creased khakis with the bottoms cuffed up over his black and white Chuck Taylor's. The morning sun kissed the deeply bronzed skin of his brawny frame as he quietly munched on salted sunflower seeds, spitting the shell out indiscriminately on the cracked sidewalk.
"Hey, Cee-Love. S'up witcha? You mind getting me some more sunflower seeds?" Montel asked me. "These things are good. Boy, I'm tellin' you. Get ya self somethin' too if you'd like," he said to me as I approached him. He scanned the faces of teens who'd gathered by the dozens along the sidewalk. They were staring back at him and mumbling softly amongst themselves.
The next thing I knew, he was handing me some money. Not knowing what else to do, I went into the store and did as he'd asked. I came out of the store with his seeds and change and leaned up against the truck next to him, waiting for something, anything to pop off. Then a sharp gasp went from the assembled crowd as Baby and several other Black clothed Reapers emerged from around the corner of the store advancing with slow, yet determined steps toward my brother and I.
"Well, well, well. . .I see ya li'l cats are serious about reppin' yo' set, huh?" Montel stated. "A'ight then, you leave me no choice than to show you how real G's get down."
Everyone gathered along the sidewalk watched with bated breath as the baby faced thugs approached the muscle bound O.G. As the Reapers came closer, a pair of chromed out low riders screeched to a halt along the sidewalk next to the pickup truck. Immediately, ten black and blue bandanna wearing, machine gun toting thugs hopped from the insides. T
hey surrounded the seated Montel as they faced Baby's startled set with drawn weapons at the ready.
Montel hopped down from the hood of the truck onto the sidewalk below. Slowly, he walked over to the teens who stood staring with uneasy silence at the cold, hollow barrels of the assault rifles pointed their way. "This here's gonna be a fair fight today," he started. "A whole lotta you kids been talkin' about me and my li'l brotha, Cedrick, behind our backs. Well, I'm here to tell you that today all that is gonna cease."
Baby and his crew just stood there in shock as Montel continued.
"See, my homies right here behind me rep Avalon Gangster Crip and Four Deuce Reaper gang. They're gonna make sure for an ole O.G like me that there'll be a fair fight, and afterwards, the winner will lay down the law to which everybody in the hood will adhere to. . .no questions asked. This is the way we did it back in the day and it's the way were gonna do it now."
I was sort of nervous, yet anxious to blow off so much needed steam, which had built up to the boiling point ever since the initial incident with Baby. So, I rolled up my shirtsleeves and trotted out onto the sidewalk to face Baby. The large group of teens gathered around the both of us, becoming loud and boisterous as they egged us on in anticipation of the inevitable fight to come.
Baby was relieved of his pistol and switchblade before he was allowed to step to me. We circled each other, each one of us looking for an opening to strike as we bounced around upon the concrete, throwing punches while bobbing and weaving amidst the frenzied yells of the ghetto crowd. Seeing an opportunity, I struck with cat like quickness, landing a solidly thrown punch on the right side of Baby's bandanna wrapped head. The blow caused his knees to buckle instantly as he simultaneously slumped forward to the pavement below. Baby broke his fall with his outstretched hands, but as he crouched on all fours trying to shake his head free of the cobwebs into unconsciousness, I again struck him forcefully with yet another blow to the head and two or three sharp kicks into his ribs.