The spot is swarming. Two busy dealers buzz about, working the stream of cars that flows slowly down the block. They use hand signals, whistle in code, retrieve inventory from the wheel well of a parked car.
Wonder if I made a mistake coming here. Long-haired white boy in camouflage and combat boots. You might say I’m out of place in Sundown Park. To them I’m a devil worshipper, a transvestite. Or worst of all – a cop.
I can turn back, forget the whole thing. But I’ve trooped too far to return empty handed. Besides, I told Frankie I’d take care of this….
Green light.
Four felons surround a red IROC-Z parked at the curb. Skinny and shirtless in two-tone Lees, the loudest of the crew squats to appraise the rims. His boy lights a Newport, licks his thumb and wipes a smudge from his otherwise gleaming shell-tops. Two others, both in green windbreakers and oversized Gazelles, pass a quart between them, quietly assessing the vehicle.
I press the folded five-spot in my palm.
On the nearby stoop a party is in progress. Chico Stix, Coco Rico, a 100-watt battleship blasting beats. A chubby cretin in black mesh tank top springs down the steps of the old brownstone and halts before the car, stroking his mustache.
Begin the long walk up 39th Street.
Dusk falls like an itchy blanket. I sidestep a gutted garbage bag, dance over some chicken bones and approach the crew.
The shirtless one struts toward me.
“What you need?”
“Got mesc?”
“Strictly crack.”
A cicada rattles. I stand dumbly, my plans dashed.
“Wait up,” he says, calling in Spanish to the stoop crowd. I envision myself beaten down and robbed, run out of the neighborhood.
As I’m preparing for flight a hulking, jiggling mass of a woman descends the steps of the brownstone. There’s an infant in her arms.
“Red Star,” she coos, still in baby-talk mode. “Two for five.”
Our exchange is swift. I pass her the folded five-spot, and from within the child’s swaddling her dimpled hand magically appears, two tiny red cylinders in the open palm. I store the hits in the cellophane of my Marlboro box.
Then I hear the screeching brakes.
An unmarked Crown Vic and two squad cars.
The block erupts. Crackheads scatter like late night roaches when the kitchen light goes on – minus the insects’ natural cunning. Some bump into each other and stumble to the pavement. Others stand still and mumble, their fried nervous systems overwhelmed by activity.
The IROC crew evaporates like wisps of smoke into doorways and windows and alleys. The stoop, save for some Chick O Stick wrappers and a discarded diaper, is empty.
For a moment I stand rooted, as stunned as the crackheads whose heads are being cracked by roid-crazy cops.
Then I spot him. One of the Gazelle kids. Jetting across the street.
I follow.
He hurdles a wall of trash bags along the curb as I trail close behind, nearly spilling out on the landing. Shocks shoot through the soles of my combat boots up into my knees. The pain must be affecting my vision because he seems headed directly into a garage door.
I’m about to pull a 180 right back into the pummeling arms of the law when Gazelle slips into a sliver of darkness between the garage and the rundown building beside it. With no other choice, I do the same.
I’ve never felt so lucky to be undernourished. It’s a tight squeeze, even for my boney ass. I follow him to a slice of light up ahead and find myself in a trash strewn courtyard.
Before me towers the backside of a crumbling apartment building. A few yards away, my unwilling guide smirks slyly as he brushes off his windbreaker. Then he turns and races across the courtyard toward an open entrance to the building.
I’m puzzled by his urgency. There’s clearly no chance of the cops spotting us back here. But I soon see why he needs a running start. Beside the entrance, nested in a mound of newspaper, is a pit bull nursing her litter. A chain extends from her neck to the nearby gate, where one of her pups lies dead in a cloud of flies.
The pit springs and snaps, just missing Gazelle as he dashes to the safety of the building. It seems the chain is just long enough to allow the dog to maul potential trespassers. It’s possible to slip past her, but don’t trip or misjudge the distance. Your balls just might be pureed in the Jaws of Death.
Safe in the doorway, Gazelle smirks slyly one last time, then vanishes.
The pit, having missed her chance with him, now directs all her snarling rage my way. Every striated muscle of her thin frame works against the chain, driven by a single purpose: to kill me.
I weigh my options. To either side of me stands a chain link fence, ten feet tall and topped with razor wire. Behind me, beyond the garage, the Tuesday-night sweep is in full swing.
I have no options.
The pit has worked herself into a frenzy: barking, frothing, snapping at air. I scan the ground, noting objects in my path – a toaster oven, a melted comb, a web of metal hangers. It occurs to me that the building’s occupants simply toss their junk out their windows.
I gaze upward, just in time. From a fourth floor window comes a barrage of D-batteries. They hit the pavement with a dense CLACK, CLACK, CLACK. My moment of peaceful contemplation is over.
Another wave of batteries lands around me as I launch myself toward the doorway – and the vicious pit. Her barking now is high pitched, hysterical. Her body coils tightly in anticipation.
I hear the jaws snap, feel the hot breath on my forearm as I race past. CLACK, CLACK, go the batteries against the pavement. Except one, which produces a slightly deeper, softer sound.
Upon entering the doorway I turn briefly to see the dog lying unconscious on her side, one hind leg spasming slightly. A lone Duracell, the one that made contact with her skull, rolls slowly toward the hungry litter.
***
I approach my new block with caution. Two of the streetlights have been shot out and the torched car on the corner forms an ominous shadow. No, this area hasn’t been ravaged by the “crack epidemic,” but East 3rd Street certainly has its share of illicit activity. Crossing the dusty front yard to my porch, I recall the first time I visited here with Frankie, a couple years ago, around the Fourth of July. Little did I know then that I’d one day be calling this wreck home.
The house slouched on a small barren lot, its grimy blue siding contrasting with the cloudless sky. Frankie rapped on the door as I peered through a tear in the window shade, hoping to catch a glimpse through the murky glass. A freckled teenager opened the door. Frankie told him why we were there and he led us in.
I stood awestruck, surrounded by the greatest assortment of explosives I’d ever seen. Stacked wall to wall were a thousand mats of firecrackers and jumping jacks. Grosses of rockets, from lowly whistlers to 24-ounce jobs, were piled from floor to ceiling. In the China closet was a display of pinwheels, fountains, and an array of mysterious items with enticing names like Black Cat and Colorful Bird. And behold, spread on the table like a holiday feast, the big guns: M-80’s, cherry bombs, pineapples. Even mortars. My mouth watered.
At the head of the table sat a stout middle-aged woman, her face freckled like the boy’s. She patiently replied as we inquired about prices and carefully made our purchases. Frankie filled a shopping bag. Having slightly less cash, I bought one pack each of firecrackers and jumping jacks. My last sixty-five cents I splurged on a Colorful Bird, although I had no idea what it did. (I lit it a few hours later and the Bird whipped erratically in the sky before vanishing into an apartment building’s open window. Worth every penny.)
So I’d unwittingly previewed my future home long before tossing my mattress to the floor. I can’t stand in this front room without briefly reliving that moment of awe. Now the fireworks are gone. I’m surrounded by cardboard boxes, wads of newspaper and the collected debris of Mom’s life. I clear a path to the stairs and head on up to sleep.
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