Becoming A Son

by David Labrava

  Me and Jeroen instantly became friends. He ran this really cool nightclub called the Man’s Ruin. Just like the tattoo, with the girl in the Martini glass and the dice and the eight ball. I got a job being the doorman/ bouncer there the second day O was in Amsterdam.

  It was a sunny day when I arrived in Amsterdam. A sunny day is a special thing in Amsterdam everyone is outside enjoying the weather.

  We pulled up to the tattoo shop that my girl worked at and there was a bunch of guys with vests on having water pistol fights. They were grown men all running around like kids, all soaking wet, laughing and joking. They looked like cowboys on acid. I could see they were buck ass wild and way serious. They had a whole bunch of really nice motorcycles all lined up out front. This was the first time I had ever seen anything like this before. This was not in my realm. I was a city Thug. I wanted a muscle car. Not a bike.

  “Who are these guys?” I asked my girl.

  “They are Brothers.” My girl said proudly. ‘They are a really tight family of brothers. And they all ride bikes.”

  I looked around. There was about thirty of them having the time of their lives. One of the Brothers walked up to me.

  “Is this him?” He asked my girl.

  “Yes.” She said.

  He came in real close and stared in my eye, looked me up and down. I didn’t back up or flinch at all. I knew he was trying me.

  “Does everyone in your country have feet that big? Cause I don’t know if we got shoes dat big in Holland.”

  “One of the other Brothers dumped a bucket of water on his head and he turned around and chased him down the block. I looked at my girl and said real serious.

  “If he wants to see what I’m made of I can show him.”

  She looked at me like I was insane and rolled her eyes.

  “Relax. Your gonna love these guys.” She was right.

  I am a creature of habit and I immediately got into a program in Holland. Idle hands are the devils workshop. I knew better that I needed to get busy. I joined a boxing team and started working in the tattoo shop in the day and working at the Man’s Ruin at night.

  The same thing every day works for me. I would wake up and go to the boxing gym and box with a coach and all these other guys around my age. Then smoke a joint while I walked all the way to the tattoo shop. When I got to the shop the owner would hand me about thirty needle bars. I would sit in the back and fill the needle bar orders for whoever was working in that shop, usually about four or five different artists. So four or five different artists could complain on the bars I made so I had to make them great. This is before factory made needles. Hell this is even before artists wore latex gloves.

  After making needles for a few hours I would then draw or trace and if I did that long enough I got to do a small tattoo. This was a very good apprenticeship. I learned a real lot. My girl was the best and she helped me a ton. After dinner I would go to the Man’s Ruin and be the Doorman.

  The Man’s Ruin was the local cool bar in town. Across the street was a bar called the Richter, like the Richter scale. The whole name was, ‘36 op de schall van Richter’. 36 on the scale of Richter.

  The Richter closed at three am and The Man’s Ruin was open till six. People rang the buzzer, which said ‘Members Only’ underneath. Just like old school mob hangouts. I would open the slot and if I wanted to, I let you in. This was the in place. All the Brothers hung out here. And the Rockers and the dealers and whoever else was in the IN crowd. Herman Brood and his Wild Romance, the coolest band in town would come in after rehearsal every night.

  I would be sitting at the door with one of the Brothers, me in my suit and him in his vest and let in who ever I wanted. The Brothers took a real shine to me, and me to them. I had gotten out of jail and moved to Holland. They sort of adopted me.

  I had been in Holland for a few months when I went with my girl and the owner of the shop to the clubhouse to return a generator. The Brothers showed me all around the clubhouse. I was still into wearing suits. I had only ridden dirt bikes a little bit as a kid.

  One of the Brothers looked at me.

  “So, what do you think?” I looked at them all real serious.

  “I now know what I am supposed to do on this earth. I’m gonna be in this family. I’m gonna be one of your Brothers.”

  My girl looked at me.

  “Well that’s not going to work for me because then I will become second in your life.”

  “Well then I guess it’s not going to work for you.” I said matter of factly.

  They all started laughing, even her.

  “That didn’t take long.” She said with a smile.

  I slept like a baby that night. My ever changing plan was becoming clearer. I think what over whelmed me the most about the Brothers was how they treated each other. They greeted each other like they hadn’t seen each other in five years, every time they saw each other. It was beautiful to see. That and how great they treated me made me want to be part of that family. I knew for sure that was what I was going to do.

  33

  “Wait your turn.” Toni said to me as he stepped back into the fight and smashed one guy then another. I was out with the Brothers and we were in another bar fight. I stood anxious and at the ready to mop up any of Toni’s leftovers.

  Toni’s motto is, ‘When in doubt, knock em out.’ Toni lived by that rule.

  He taught me a whole bunch of things. All valuable lessons. Like showing class. You can show class by tipping big, or by knocking the right guy out at the right moment, or not knocking him out at all. It just depends on the situation. There are all kinds of ways to show class.

  I bought a round of drinks for a few Brothers who were standing at the bar. Whenever a Brother walked in the bar I bought them a drink. They earned it in my eyes. I was starting to understand what it took to be a Brother. Which was A LOT.

  “Prost.” Prost means ‘cheers’ in Dutch. I was already getting a handle on the language. I held out my drink to toast Toni. Before I could down my drink Toni grabbed my face with his hand and looked me square in the eyes.

  “You look me in the eyes when you toast me. Everyone gets a look.”

  “Got it.” I said.

  He let my face go. I looked at everyone one at a time and they each looked back, dead in my eye and we all took a drink.

  I had been living in Amsterdam for over a year and I was evolving into the person I am now. I went from wanting a muscle car to a hot rod bike, and wearing a suit to jeans and a vest. I still had a thug mind set, just now more of a motor thug.

  Amsterdam was as wild as a gold rush town back then. There were junkies everywhere. They would break into cars daily. Every morning there would be used syringes and burnt foil at the door step. At this time I was not in to dope yet. I had done it before but I wanted to stay away. I knew for certain the Brothers and any one else I was near ESPECIALLY my girl would not be having it, so I stayed away.

  In fact I started beating up junkies. They knew to keep off the block where the tattoo shop was. They avoided that block at all costs. They would get beat and come back with the cops.

  “It was them.” The junkie would be dragging some cop to the scene of where he was most recently beaten and robbed of his dope. He had a fat lip and a black eye. The cop was rolling his eyes.

  “They smashed my works. Threw my dope in the canal. Arrest them.” The junkie screamed.

  “Lucky YOU didn’t end up in the canal.” I said.

  All the Brothers laughed. The cop looked at the ten brothers sitting there and the beaten up Junkie.

  “Now now theres no harm done. Run along.” The cop told the junkie.

  “WHAT? YOU’RE NOT GOING TO ARREST THEM?” The junkie was in shock.

  Now the Brothers really had a laugh. The cop walked away, the junkie ran.

  Days turned into weeks turned into months turned into years. I stayed clean and in my program for over two years. I evolved from what I was into what I am now.

&nb
sp; I remember there was a sign painted in the shop. ‘As you are I was, as I am, you will be.’ I took that as if it was directed at me.

  After about two years I was getting more than comfortable. My girl and me had broken up long ago. I spent most of my time with the Brothers partying like rock stars. Literally leaving bars that were closing at six am and walking to ones that just opened at seven.

  On any given night we would cruise about eight bars, getting in at least two fights per bar. These guys walked everywhere like Vikings and the town treated them this way. Some cities really cater to the Brothers. Amsterdam is one of those towns. The Brothers are part of the mystery, the mystique of the town. I was in awe of them, I revered them, I emulated them.

  “You get one chance to screw up with us, not two, so do good. Think about your actions.” I was told.

  The lessons were nonstop. I had changed completely without seeing it happen. That’s evolution baby.

  I no longer worked in the tattoo shop but I was still the doorman at the Man’s Run. I had made a whole bunch of friends. Everyone wanted to be friends with the doorman. It was always up to me to let you in the door or not. If you didn’t tip me good the last time you left you might not get in the next time. Whenever someone was leaving the bar my buddy Jeroen who was part owner and one of the bartenders, would yell out to the customer.

  “DENK OP DE PORTIER!” Which means, Think about the Doorman. Then the customer would reach into his pocket and get me a tip.

  On any given night I would make about three hundred Guilders. Gliders. This was before the Euro. 5’s were Green. 10’s were yellow. 25’s were red. 5o’s had a sunflower. 100’s were Blue. 250’s were Purple, The 1000 notes were also Green. Just like the 5’s. Everyone tipped the doorman when they left. At the very least they would give a 5 note. One time this old drunk had made a real mess, knocked all the glasses over in a drunken rage. Pissed off my buddy real good. Whenever ANYONE got out of line my buddy would scream.

  “LABRAVA……OUT!” and look at whoever the hell he wanted out. I walked over to the drunk and looked him dead in the eye.

  “You can walk outta here like a man or I am going to drag you out like a drunk. Believe it. Your choice.”

  The guy looked at me and saw I was way serious, shrugged his shoulders and walked out. Then at the door he turns around and hands me a tip. I take the bill and toss him out shutting the door behind him. I looked down and the tip he gave me was not a five but a thousand note.

  “He gave me a thousand note.” I said. I held it up just as the buzzer was ringing.

  “That’s him. Swap it for a five.” I stuffed the bill in my pocket and took out a five. I opened the door and the guy slurred something in very drunk Dutch. I knew what he was saying. He wanted his thousand back. I handed him the five. He looked down through his drunk goggles and did a double take. He looked up at me and shook his head again and walked away mumbling something. I shut the door and did the right thing. I bought drinks for everyone.

  One day my buddy walked in early.

  “Come here. I need your help.”

  I followed him upstairs. He broke out some foil and a little packet.

  “We have a long distance call from Persia.” He broke out a gram of some unbelievable Persian Heroin. He had no idea that I had already had a small problem with this shit, the problem being was that I like it too much. And I didn’t tell him. I got as loaded as can be that night. I still worked the door, you never think anyone can see if you are high, but they can.

  I immediately knew it was getting time to get out. I had not learned the lesson yet that this is not a geographical problem. Dope is everywhere. And a real Junkie will find it. Anywhere.

  I woke up the next day and I felt like I had been run over by a truck. I lived in a three room flat across the canal from the biker bar in town. My flat was one room each on top of another. With very steep stairs, like a ladder. Heat was from a kerosene heater which stunk.

  I knew where to get dope. There was a part of town called the Nieuw market, it was about six blocks away. That block was like night of the living dead. The street would be PACKED with junkies, most of the clinging to life, all shriveled up and Zombie looking. They would be standing anywhere and everywhere smoking foil or shooting dope. Poor Dutch shopkeepers would be standing behind the glass scared to death. The junkies had absolutely taken over this part of town. I never went there, ever. But now I heard it calling, like with a megaphone.

  There is a difference between someone who has been exposed and someone who hasn’t. Once you have been exposed you always know dope is in the world. Even if I never did it for the first two years there, I always knew it was there. It’s a voice in your head that says ‘Dope is right over there, and you know how to get it.’

  I spent my last months in Amsterdam by myself for the most part. I knew better than to get caught in that part of town. I was not under any rules, I was not part of anything so in reality I could do whatever I wanted to. I just knew it would be frowned upon. Imagine, I spent my first two years there beating up junkies, now I was starting to become one. I hadn’t done enough dope in my life yet to see what was happening.

  I drifted away from the people I knew who would not like me doing this and I started dabbling in dope. I think it was as much of a thrill to not get caught copping dope as it was doing it. I would wrap a big scarf around my face, put a jacket on with a wool hat and sunglasses. It was as cold as the North Pole so I didn’t look out of place. Then I would ride my bicycle all the way around to the other side of town and enter the Nieuw Market from the other side, so there was not a chance of me running into anyone.

  As you got close dealers from Surinam and Morrocco would approach in packs, all of them trying to make the sale first. They would come running up.

  “Chinga dope Bro. Muja hebba. Brown. Vitte.” Which means, ’I’ve got it. What you want. Brown. White.’

  And they are selling anything, everything, dirt, broken glass, so to avoid getting ripped off I had to have them burn some from the package I was buying. You could smell if it was real in an instant. They would turn around and ride back the way I came.

  I started hitting that part of town more and more. Too much and I knew it. I would smoke for two days then go to the gym and lay in the sauna all day and sweat it out. I did this routine for about two months and I knew it was time to go. I had worn out my stay. I packed up and headed back to Schipol. It was a sad day leaving Amsterdam. I had changed on some many levels while I was there. I had a clear view of what I wanted to do with my life, and a small peek at the monster standing in my way. Myself.

  34

  I didn’t have a lot of money when I left Amsterdam so I took a flight to New York City. It was cheaper than flying straight back to California. I had some friends in The City who played in Rock bands and I started working as a roadie for all kinds of local bands. Circus of Power, The Battalion of Saints, The U S Fury’s, basically whoever was playing at any of the local clubs. The Cat Club, The Kitchen Club, Washington Square, The Wah Wah Hut, all over the city. Live music was big and there was a real scene going on. Heroin was the in drug. China White, Persian. Everyone did it. At least everyone in the crowd I was hanging in, but I didn’t know that when I landed. I just knew I wasn’t ready to go back to San Francisco. I still had my tattoo equipment but I wasn’t doing that so much. It’s kind of hard to tattoo when you are strung out all the time so I kind of backed away from the blood business for a while.

  Everyone there shot dope. No one smoked it. I started living with this girl named Stacey. She weighed about ninety pounds soaking wet, with a monster size dope habit. She was as hot as can be in her heavy metal outfit, black hair with white skin like she hasn’t seen the sun in a year. A snow white tan. We were in love with dope and each other which is a bad combination.

  We lived just outside of Alphabet city. Our apartment was right above the daytime spot. Three short flights of stairs. Like four stairs each landing. I would jump down e
ach level then kick the front door open. There were all kinds of Dominicans selling Heroin and Coke from about six a m till six p m. We lived in her Grandmas rent controlled apartment. It was a one bedroom, with a closet and the kitchen in the living room with a bear claw bathtub in the corner. The rent was next to nothing and we still could barely afford it. Everyone month her grandmother would be screaming that she was going to throw us out.

  The night time spot opened up from about six till three am. This was a Heroin dealership that had been in business over thirty years in the same location. It was Mob run and it would take in over twenty grand every day of the week. They had lookouts on both corners. The building was in the middle of the block and the junkies waited across the street. There was a skinny black doorman named Clancy and he would call out three people at a time. If a beat cop came walking up the street the lookouts would scream out,

  “YO MIKEY!” and all the junkies would walk in very direction. It was kind of funny. Those beat cops were paid off I’m sure, but they still would not be able to ignore thirty junkies waiting in a line for dope. In that line was every type of person, rockers, businessmen, homeless junkies, dealers, hookers, college kids, you name it. It just went to show you how Heroin transcended all classes, all denominations, all races. It didn’t matter who you were or where you were from. Once you let it in your life, it became your master.

  Soon as you walked in the building there were two mobsters, one standing one sitting. Nobody was really sure it was Mob run, but that was the rumor. That rumor made everyone behave. Can’t mess with the Mob.

  “NO ONES. NO FIVES. HAVE YOUR MONEY OUT AND READY.” One of the Mobsters would call out as we walked down the hall. They both had big guns in their belts. And they had the best dope in the city.