Ms. Dinsmoor

It's an unseasonably warm March day.  This sort of strange warmth in winter months has apparently become the new norm.  I was sitting on a bench on 17th street pondering this when an elegant, elderly woman sat next to me.  She held a bouquet of flowers and an eco-friendly canvas bag full of greens.  I gathered she stopped to rest.  I had a brief but lovely conversation with her.  I mostly listened.  She looked like Anne Bancroft in Great Expectations save she didn't appear to've been suffering from a broken heart.  A great big smile, she wore lipstick, her nails were short and perfectly polished in red, her hair was beautifully silver and freshly cut. The frame of her glasses were red as well, complimenting her manicure, a touch of silver jewelry on her wrists. A timeless outfit, it was colorful, capris and fresh black slip-ons.  She talked about how fortunate we were to be alive and enjoy this beautiful day.  After her rest she cradled her bouquet and stood up, her glasses on the bridge of her nose, she looked me straight in the eyes, gave me a big smile and bid me farewell. 

Datsun

It was so hot that day ... I spent the day exploring la ciudad that mornin' up until the early evening with my cousins.  In August it is disgustingly hot nearly all the time in Santiago, especially in the gritty "city."  Children run the scorching concrete barefoot, every other person sells paper lotto tickets, men exchange pesos for dollars like walking banks... Helmetless motorcyclist zoom by everywhere.  It is busy, chaotic and dusty.  We stopped at Bader for cervezas vestida de novia and quipe ... Before the sun is entirely down we head home.  Marcos, Francis and I jump in the letter E Concho that heads in the direction where my family lives.  The Concho, a four door Datsun, fits, or squishes 3 in the front and 5 in the back, depending on the weight of  the customer.  That day, two commuters occupied the front passenger seat of the car we hailed... My two cousins and I occupied the back seat.  The driver effortlessly gives me my change for our fare while he manipulates the stick shift.  Although there were holes in the seats and even in the floor of the decrepit automobile we were in, the engine purred like a young Lion.  In route, we stopped to let yet another passenger in.  The driver pulled over in his Datsun, like a NYC bus save for the hydraulics, and picked up a young mother and her toddler, a little girl.  She opens the rear passenger door, precisely were I am sitting, makes eye contact with me, subtlety looks me over, we have a moment, and she hands me her baby.  The mother, I presume, sits on whats left of the weathered leather of the back seat of the Datson, her baby on my lap.  The baby, her freshly shampooed hair under my nose, her mom staring out the manually rolled down window.  The baby's tiny feet hang over my knee, her pretty dress, white, covered in blue flowers is playing with her hands ... Her mom, day dreaming out that Datsun window.  The baby and mother's stop is before mine... She opens the Datsun's door, steps out, I hand her, her baby, no words are exchanged ... She picks her up and cradles her toddler on her shoulder and walks away.  The sun blocks their faces... 

The Washing Machine

It is Saturday, January 4, 2014, barely three days in to the New Year, I'm in a deep sleep, recovering from the last two days of the total madness I got myself into.  I'm having this fantastic dream with Lizzy Caplan.  The setting of the dream was of perfection.  It was dim save for the light from an enormous fireplace, Novella Vague's, "In a Manner of Speaking" was playing in the background.  We were laying on this huge Grizzly Rug in front of the fire and Lizzy looks sensually in to my eyes and says, "I Love you Rafael!", in the way that signals that guarantees vertical jogging was about to go down.  And I say, "Te Amo' Lizzy !!!" And just as Lizzy was about to remove her shirt, BANG! BANG BANG! "Rafelito ! Rafelito ! La maquina se rompio !" My mother knocking on my door.  I'm abruptly woken up, got drool on my face, cold in my eyes, look at the clock, it's 9am !  I respond. "Que??..." "Mami, son las 9 de La manana."Que maquina?? De que' tu ta hablando." "Sal' pa' ensañarte", she says.  I crawl out of bed, pissed off that I missed my "chance" with Lizzy, open the door half asleep and follow her to the kitchen rubbing my eyes and scrathin' my ass.  La maquina no sirve, ve a ver si lo aregla", she says. "Ma'!", pero  que se yo' de maquina'??" Yo' no puedo areglar eta' biana."  But I humor her and take a look anyway, I mean the f'n thing is 20 years old.  "Ma' yo creo' que ya no sirve.  Eta' maquina e ma' vieja que to nieta', I say.  "Y ahora??" she says in that dramatic Dominican way. "Vamo' comprar otra'" she says.  "Ta bien' cuando quiere ir?", I say.  "Vamo' ahora", she says all sweet like.  "Ta' bien I say slightly grinding my teeth."  "Tate’ pronto" she says, knowing damn well I get ready in minutes. "Tu ta' bravo?", she says. "No' mami, e que yo taba’ teniendo un sueño buenisimo con una actriz ma buena' que el diache", I say.  "Ahhhh, dejate' de tar durmeindo de mujeres y bucate una' novia viva !, y afeitate", ye eto' y lo' otro. I just tuck my tail in between my legs and lock myself in the bathroom while she rambles on about all the things I do wrong, put my arms on the sink, look at the reflection of my bloodshot eyes in the mirror, make a shape of a gun with my right hand and pull the trigger.

Ok, I'm all ready to go get this new f'n Washing Machine. Been ready for a while and my mom is still fussing around looking for this and that.  She announces she ready.  She's bundled up like she's gonna' climb Mount Everest or something. She looks like a little bear.  I'm like ma,' Its like 58 degrees out.  I was wearing a Jean Jacket and a hoodie.  She ignores me and shows me a wool lady's hat that she claims she found in my room. "De quien e' eta' gorra'?, De una de esa mujeres, que tu cre', que yo no se, que tu trai aqui cunado yo estoy durmiendo??" I said, "What??" I've never seen that hat in my life! De' que tu' ta hablando??."  "Neva' seen it" she says in her thick accent, "yo te conoco' ati'.  No importa', proque yo la lave' y ahora e' mia. Vamono."  She then wears the thing like Marlon Brando in the Wild One.  The truth is, I've never seen that f'n hat in my life but I respond, "ta bien, lo que tu diga."

In the hallway while we wait for the elevator, she insists she wants to go to Sears in Newport Centre Mall in New Jersey to buy the machine.  I try convincing her to lets please just go to Queens and get the thing there, but to no avail.  So instead of hopping on the f'n E right there on 23rd and 8th we gotta' walk all the way to 6th ave and 23rd street and hop in that dungeon of a train station, the Path.  I hate that train station.  I feel like I'm breathing toxic fumes every time I'm down there.  We finally get there after like 20 minutes because my mom walks like she doesn't have a care in the world.  She's been in the city more than half her life and she still walks like a country gal.  It takes us about an hour to get the f'n Mall because of track trouble and her slow walking but we finally get there.

We walk through the mall, I walk slightly ahead following the signs for this f'n place while keeping an eye on my Mom at the same time because I want to get the hell out of there as soon as possible.  I swear, It's like she's my toddler.  We get to Sears, find the appliance area and make our way to the Washing Machines.  There are like 50 sales people and just my mom and I.  Right away we're approached by this very nice 60's Guyanese salesman.  He shows us this machine and that machine and seems quite knowledgable.  My mom then focuses on a Kenmore Elite !  She want's a Kenmore, because the other one was a Kenmore and it lasted 20 years and so on.  I'm a little concerned because this machine is digital, lots of buttons and sh!t.  I can see the sweet Guyanese salesman has become subtly excited.  This machine is top of the line. I suppose it means a nice commission for him.  He begins to try and show me what the machine can do but he's wrong about every other thing.  I kindly correct him and he puzzled a bit, his spectacles low on his nose one hand on his chin, intently listening and agrees.

My mother is convinced.  She likes this one. "Eta' maquina, va' combinar con mi estufa y nevera" she says.  I say to the salesman, ok brother I'll take this one.  The salesman responds in his heavy Guyanese accent, "no don't worry, you're going to get a brand new one from the warehouse."  This dude thought I was talking about taking the sample machine off the floor, right then and their even though it wasn't even an option.  Anyway, now the real fun begins.  This transaction should have taken all of 15 minutes and ended up taking about an hour and some change.

Guyana and my mom and I walk through the empty store and get to a cash register.  He begins to explain to me the options in financing and such.  He gives me one I'm interested in.  It included 5% off if a store credit card is opened, free delivery and 6 months 0% interest.  That sounded good to me so we proceeded.  All I needed now was my mothers Social.

I have a paper and pen in hand.  Mom, "Dame' tu Social." She looks at me strangely and I can practically hear her brain working.  She slowly gives me a number.  I write it down.  I'm like, "Ma', tu ta segura??." She's like, "Si."  We go through the process with old Guyana.  The man types like 1 word per 5 minutes, it's f'n torture.  We plug in all the information and now It's time for the Social, he strikes the Enter button and the name on the screen reads, Adam something in Pennsylvania !  I turn to my mother who's face is flushed red from all the clothes she has on and said, "Ma'. Eso no es tu numero. Coje tu tiempo y damelo otra vez. Ok." She turns around, sounds like she's mumbling a prayer. Gives me another number.  "Ma'. Tu ta' segura'??" Still looking a bit not sure, she answers, "Si."  Let's try it again Guyana.  We go through the whole slow process again.  Get to the Social, plug it in, strike the Enter button; a man from Montana pops up !  I'm about to loose it. "Ma", I say all calmly, "Ese no es, tu nuuummmerrrro."  She's been fumbling with a ton of little papers she has in her purse, I think she's even called my busy ass, Executive brother who lives in meetings to ask him about her Social. "Ma! tu numero??" She looks at me again with her Marlon Brando hat on and gives me another number.  "Ma, You are killing me. Tu ta' segura??" She looks at me with sheepish eyes and says, "Si."  "You ready sir", I say to the salesman.  Dude is cool as ice. "Yes he says."  He then begins the process again but this time I'm pretty sure he misses a step.  he now begins to plug in information manually.  I'm a little worried. We plug the social and it goes through.  Finally, I'm thinking.  He announces, 50 thousand dollars credit.  "Your mother has great credit he says." 50k sir ! Are you sure?  Here it is, he proudly shows me the freshly printed, temporary paper credit card.  I'm thinking, does my mom own massive stock in Apple or something?? 50k is a lot fn' credit !  I go along with it because now I'm exhausted.  I see he's punching in the information for the sale as slow as molasses. I turn a sec and hear the machine printing the receipt.  The sweet sound of me getting the F out of here.  Then I noticed, he missed a bunch of stuff.  He missed the 5% 0ff. It was 12 months instead of 6 months, There was a hauling fee that was to be removed.  I'm like Guyana, this is all wrong man.  He looks at me, apologizes and announces, "Not a problem, we can fix this right away."  Cancels it.  I watch him very, very closely now.  I review it, it's now perfect.  He runs the receipt.  A message on the computer says to call Citi Bank.  I'm like what F now!  

Guyana calls the f'n bank.  He hands the phone to my mother but the customer service dude on the other line only speaks English and I can't do the translation because of confidentiality and shit.  We wait for a translator.  Not long after the translator is on the line.  The man is peppering my mother with questions of streets and addresses she's never heard of.  After 10 minutes of this shit I take the phone and start to ask the f'n guy what the exact problem is.  He can't tell me, but I get it out of him because I knew what it was.  I said, "Is this an identity issue?? "  The customer service dude, pauses and reluctantly says, "SI." I hang up the phone all frustrated and shit and look at little Guyana and my mom.  I huddled up with them and I said, "You two biejitos are killing me!" My mom has given me the wrong number three times and Guyana has plugged in the wrong information twice !  

I take my mom to the side and say, "Ma! Por el amor de dios ( i'm an Atheist by the way ), piensa bien o los vamos !! Ya no puedo mas !"  My sheet of paper is riddled with wrong social security numbers.  She finally thinks she's got it.  "Ma!  la ultima vez y lo vamos."  She agrees because I'm about to kill somebody.  I look at Guyana and calmly tell him, scratch this entire f'n thing, we're starting from the begining.  At this point, I've seen him do it so many times that I take over and plug in all the information in under two minutes.  I punch in the goddamn number and finally her name pops up. It's my sweet mothers name, IT FUCKING WORKED !  We ran the purchase and we were done.  I calmly scolded old Guyana and told  him to be more careful in the future when it comes to manual entries.  He agreed, we shook hands, I turn to my mother who now has her big ass coat at shoulder length and says to me in English:

"I'm Hungry."

Current day:  

My mom receives three different credit cards from Sears that I have to sort out.

I've got all sorts of hand written instructions on the Washing Machine so that she can stop complaining to me that she has no Idea what any of the buttons mean even though I warned her.

This is my life.

The Alleged Hat some mystery chick left behind

The Way My Mom Rocks the Alleged Mystery Chicks Hat

The Washing Machine and all it's buttons

The Washing Machine and the keys to the instructions on the wall.

The Instructions on the Wall

My Mom 

Bronx Bound

I’m back from school for the summer! ; a few weeks before I met the Love of my life, which I of course fucked up, but that's another long ass story.  Got my caesar lined up like I did every Friday at a Barber shop 110 blocks North of my block in Harlem the day before, my sideburns grown an inch and some change below my ears, shaped in to a pencil point.  Got fresh Polo Boots, my baggy jeans tucked in em’, a mustard colored, no particular name brand golf shirt tucked-in and a woven leather brown belt to match my boots, bought 3 or 4 sizes bigger than my waist, so the end could be folded in to a knot, sort of like a tie.  In those days I had my Aiwa Walkman with me all the time, and was playing my bootleg, De Ti Depended album for the One thousandth time. It was a hot ass summer Saturday night in 1994, and I hopped on the D train to make my way to my cousins on Creston Ave. in the Bronx.  I smoked an L on the way to the train and took my sweet time getting there. It’s only three blocks and an avenue walk from my building but by the time I got there, half my blunt was gone.  The C Train got there as soon as I dropped my token in the turnstile.  I hopped on, a heavy scent of Joop and Marijuana on me, and got off on 59^th street for the transfer to the D.  The D came, all the White people got out; in those days that was the last stop on the D for the vast majority of White people, especially during the night, unless there was a Yankees game.  So anyway, they get out, I walk in, find a seat next to the doors as I prefer and sat down like a sack of potatoes.  ”Stand Clear of the Closing Doors, next stop 125^th Street”, the conductor announces over the loud speaker.  I relax, start bopping my head to the music, lookin’ around, got my L in between my index and middle finger; that arm resting on my right thigh, my Left hand holding my Walkman.   At this point, I’m feeling pretty good… I mean, shiiiit…  I’m back from school, got my hair laced, got my fresh clothes on, I’m smoked out and listening to Hector… Life is good. 

Most the folks in my car look middle aged, getting home or visiting family like I was I suppose… All is still well.  125^th street finally came and with it came three grimy looking Black hoods, BX bound like I was.  I didn’t pay that much mind to them but I did notice them, subtle like, as soon as they stepped in and they noticed me, subtle like as well.  They sit to the left of me, next to the other set of doors.  So a few stops later, 161^st , Yankees Stadium comes and 90% of the riders get out, leaving me alone with the three grimy, very Hood lookin’ dudes that got on at 125th and I still got 5 stops to go.  I’m still relaxed, haven’t changed my, “cool guy” seated position, still got my half of L in between my fingers.  I quietly pop the button of my Walkman, keep my earphones on so I can hear them but pretend I’m still listening to music.  They’re talking about me… In my head, I’m thinking, these mother fuckers are gonna’ try an rob me!  I’m a bit high, and when you’re high, you can get a bit paranoid, although I’m pretty sure these mother fuckers are talking about me.  The one with the beard, looked like the leader; he had a dingy green army hat on, with a dingy army coat (It’s summer kid !! ) on to match and a pair of busted ass Force Ones.  He looked mean like a mother fucker.  His other boys looked a bit younger but equally as mean.  The dude with the beard, the bottom of his forearms resting on his thighs was quietly barking instructions to the other two who were sitting across from him.  These mother fuckers are gonna’ try an rob me…

Moments later, the bearded dude gets up and sits across from me, eyes down.  10 seconds later another one comes sits three seats next to bearded guy, his eyes down, his right hand covering his face below his nose like a B boy.  The other one, a skinny fuck, who I decided, If things went down is the guy I’m going to punch first is giggling nervously and standing up.  The bearded dude is trying to get him to shut up and stay where he is, but he ends up sitting directly across from me, still giggling, eyes down. 

Lets review.  Three Dirty looking Black dudes, One “pretty” lookin’ “Spanish” dude, expensive boots, Walkman, nobody else on this Bronx bound D train.  Nobody on the train kid… and they get up, all three, one by one and sit directly across from me.  It’s not looking good anymore kid...

I still pretend I’m listening to my Walkman, but now I’m staring at all three of them, one at a time.  They, their eyes down but a very apparent menacing look on their faces.  At this point subtleness has been thrown out the window.  As the train approaches the next stop, I decide to get up before I see florescent light outside the windows.  I abruptly get up, take one more, deep stare at all three of them.  I’m breathing heavily, my heart is pounding and I bang a left to the other side of the train.  They still wait, a bit more anxiously this time, I can tell because they began to fidget.  I wait, the train doors open, I wait until they nearly close and was out of there faster than Ricky Henderson stealing his 100^th base in a season kid !  Holy Shit!

I ran up the stair case on 174^th Street and the Grand Concourse and immediately flagged down a Gypsy cab.  I was visibly nervous, told the cab driver what just nearly happened and he proceeded to lecture me on how I should take up Karate…  I half listened and began to grow angry when I noticed I lost my L… Fuck !!

Chorus Of Noises

My mornings in the DR in the long term would take some getting used to. There is a little bird and a lizard that live in the enormous tree outside my window. A little bird that chirps its high pitched chirp, till no freagin' end. "Chirp , Chirp , Chirp , freagin' Chirp!" I've never wished harm on a animal but if ever one deserves to die its that little bird. Does it not have other little bird friends to chirp with? Why doesn't it get hungry? It's not a baby bird... I daydream of opening fire with a submachine gun, devouring the branches with the bullets , some ricocheting off the side of the building until bird no freagin' more ... The lizard is quiet but he freaks me out when I find him chilling behind the curtain on the window like one of those Garfield suction cup dolls. In between and before that maniac bird chirping and my Lizard friend, is the 2 am , 4am and 5 am rooster crow. The F'r lives a few houses down but you'd think he's in the same room with you. Then there are the dogs barking. I swear, dogs bark in this country like they're cheering at some kind of dog Super Bowl. Then there is the cleaning lady who lives in the house next door who has the worst singing voice I have ever heard. If Rafael Trujillo was alive and heard her, he'd use her as some kind of torturing device. On top there is a baby next door who's cry sounds like a gargoyle or some sh!t... It's the weirdest cry I ever heard... Its like she's gargling and crying at the same time ... These long gargling , baby crying, gargoyle like sounds... Every night I've gotten home , not sober and have to deal with this chorus of noises. So I wake up half asleep and have to then deal with a cold ass shower. The Dominicans do not believe in hot water. Every morning I have to pump myself up before I jump in that icicle chamber. My heart races and I will myself in like an Olympic ski jumper, let out a few screams and grunts, wash my body in a shivering motion. All and all though this is a beautiful country.

"Can I get a Guinness and a Shot a' Makers ..."

"Can I get a Guinness and a Shot a' Makers ..." My New York accent is thick... Ima' last of da' Mohicans in this joint; in many joints in NYC these dayz... The rich are swallowing my city whole keed' ; it worries me sick to my stomach ... The Half King is my spot, although I rarely see another mofo' that looks like me in this place. I met the ambassador to the US of Venezuela here once though ... He was cool, talked up a storm. The bartender is this young , tattooed goddess with a welcoming manner. Daniel knows me by name although I've only met her three, four times. I know, I know its her job but I like to imagine I'm different in her eyes. Had dinner with some dear friends in Hells Kitchen ... A little Peruvian cuisine... Thought I'd introduce my Scandinavian friends to a taste of a little South America; they loved it as I suspected ... It's a Tuesday, near midnight during the holiday season, the place is packed and cheerful ... I'm alone, stopping for "one mo" like those that love the drink do. At a loss of the written word for a while ... Put my pad down for a minute ... Take a swig of the Makers, wash it down with my Guinness ... Clench my teeth, they thump from the heat of the alcohol , like a heart beat. Cash is runnin' low these days , but somehow I manage the boozin' and the eatin'... Somehow I'm flush on the cusp of havin' rabbit ears ... Somehow , somehow brah'... I check my balance on my bank app frequently ! Damn ! A second swig finishes my shot ... I gulp it with a deep breath , exhale through my nostrils ... The buzz of the patrons continue and continue and I plug away ...

What's in a Name ??

My brother lives a Stop away from the train I need to take to get home.  Tonight, instead of hopping on the Train where he lives only to have to transfer at the next station, I decided I’d walk the 9, 10 minutes to that Stop.  It’s a charming October night and besides, I love the fall.  I enjoy the feel and sound of my feet stepping over the fresh, autumn leaves that litter the ground.  I like the threat of winter the wind carries this time of year.  On the way, parallel to Queens Boulevard is the Queens Criminal Court House.  It’s the very same courthouse where the three Detectives accused of shooting Sean Bell were acquitted in 2008.   Anyway, when I walk, I stare and study all the buildings in my path even If I’ve seen them a thousand times.  I'm not sure what goes on in other cities but here, criminal defense attorney offices prop up like weeds, very close to criminal courthouses like bodegas near Projects.   There are dozens of them.  They have neon signs on their storefront windows that mesmerizingly blink, Lawyer / Abogado.  One of the storefronts in particular caught my eye.  It’s directly across from the courthouse.  The sign on its storefront window reads in huge red and green letters, Schwed & Zucker... Puzzled I thought, why would anybody facing prison, hire attorneys with names that look and sound like, Screwed & Sucker ?? Those two words carry multiple meanings, one for outside prison walls and one for in them.  Think about it. 

Hereafter

There are social moments I observe in the hood in which I have applied the term, The Butterfly Effect or the Ripple in the Pond Effect.  Moments in which small occurrences result in eventual chaos or negative consequences.

At 6 pm this evening I slowly walk my sweaty body through the NY heat and humidity back to the block.  Just returning from a vicious workout, I’m feeling pretty good.  My thoughts are all over the place as usual; my family and friends, politics, what my drunken a$$ got myself in to this past weekend…hahaha the usual…  

My thoughts break when I observe a late 20’s to early 30’s young woman, not THAT young, take the wrapper of the Twinkie or Ding-Dong she was about to scarf down and casually discard it on the community grounds, as if the world was her garbage can.  She’s ignoring a teenage girl that follows her annoyingly calling out, “Mom, Mom! Mommy!!.”  The mom wobbles her obese body up the ramp of her building as she eats her wrapper-less, high fructose corn syrup treat that she washes down with a 16 oz Pepsi. The teenage girl, no more than 14, is dressed extremely provocatively, in tiny cut off jean shorts and a shirt that exposes her entire core.  Her shirt barely covers her developing upper body; a visual disturbance to the decent person and a delight to the deviant.  The visual and sounds of the moment fade away as I enter the yard.  Four dope-fiends pass me, talking and laughing in raspy voices about what they were gonna’ do and how they were gonna’ do it.  I continue walking forward and witness a woman yelling obscenities at her tiny, stunned toddler from a bench.  On the left of me is a very young brother, counting a knot of money in his hands the size of a Chihuahua.  I enter my building, and wait patiently for the elevator.  As I wait, a young brother shows up at the magnetic door with his two small kids.  The elevator door opens and I get in.  The young brother was struggling with the key and couldn't open the door.  You gotta’ wiggle that thing a bit, it takes practice.  He struggled enough for me to decide to race over and hit the button that releases the door.  He doesn’t Thank Me.  I race back to the elevator before the doors close and hold them open for the brother and his two toddlers. He doesn’t Thank Me.  When the doors open, a few floors before mine, I speak, “Have a good night brother.”

Alligator

Number 1 Lieutenant is arguing with Number 2 Lieutenant in a tent after a failed reconnaissance mission in where a 17 year old soldier was just killed.  Number 1 Lieutenant chucks a personal Item of the young soldier who just died at Number 2 Lieutenant and says, “ You got him killed today…”  Number 2 Lieutenant, in a mellow, numb voice says. “This is war, many have died…”  Number 1 Lieutenant, “Is this how you made 1^st Lieutenant from Private in 2 years??”  Number 2 Lieutenant, “I guess it is.  I did what I had to do.”  Number 1 Lieutenant is interrupted from his next set of angry, disgusted words by a tiny voice.  An orphaned 6 year old girl and her 7 year old brother have entered the tent.  They seem to be having a bit of an argument as well.  They’re both dressed in raggedy, dirty clothes. Children of War.  They live in the temporary camp / base with the soldiers.  Despite what she’s wearing, she’s still beautiful.  She’s got short black hair, big brown eyes and has lost her two front teeth as children her age do.  A casualty of war, her Left, little arm has been amputated just below the elbow.  “Excuse me?.” She says.  “Excuse me?.” In her baby voice.  She demonstrates her stump and says to the Lieutenants.  “Isn’t it true that my arm will grow back when I grow up??”  Her brother, “It will not grow back, It will not!  Her, “It will grow back, it will…”  Lieutenant Number 2 breaks in to a long, loud, crazy, hysterical laugh.  Number 1 Lieutenant stares at him in disbelief.  Number 2 Lieutenant says to the 6 year old, orphaned child with the raggedy clothes and her missing limb in a crazy, humorous voice.  Her big brown eyes begin to swell with tears. “Look.  What do you think you are, a Lizard? He continues his laugh.  “It will never grow back.  Arms don’t grow back.  You’ll be armless till you die, you little freak!”  Number one Lieutenant loses it and begins punching him in the face as the baby runs away crying, wailing that it isn’t true.  Number two Lieutenant doesn’t fight back, takes the beating.  A beating he craved... Scene Ends.

The Front Line - Hangul: 고지전 Gojijeon - 2011

DRAGO

I left my Iphone on top of the trunk of my brothers Maxima while I dug through my gym bag looking for the car key.  Accidently left it there and got in the car, slowly backed up out of the parking garage and in to the street.  Honest mistake, the phone is just as black as the car.  Pealed off (after I saw it was safe, no pedestrians in the way) like Ryan Gosling in Drive.  I didn't realize until I hit Hillside Avenue that it was missing!!  Pulled over and frantically looked for it... Nothin'!!  I panicked, thoughts racing trough my head; 500 bucks for a replacement, how will I be able to annoy all of the FB crowd with my political comments, locations of the many bars and restaurants I frequent, and photographs of the food I've eaten!  I whipped around like Christian Bale in his bat man motorcycle, raced across Hillside, banged a left on Queens Boulevard until I peeled in to the Garage as the automatic garage door was still opening.  The sound of the brakes screeched, opened the door the car is still running...   I dug through the seats, the front and back, the floor, NOTHIN!.  I turn my attention to the garage floor, look all around, look under the car, hope I didn't run it over...  "F@CK!!!" I SCREAM, my word echos through the Garage.  I park the goddamn car, frustratingly grab my bag, scream "F@CK!!" again a couple of times, find my brothers keys and run in to his apartment.  The f@cker isn't there!!  I needed his phone to call my phone.  I empty the contents of my gym bag, look in every crevice, seems like It has a thousand little pockets, NOTHIN'!!  My brother doesn't have a Land Line, I mean who does these day.  I start looking around in his bedroom and find his work blackberry, AHA!! GODAMN IT!  I begin to dial the number on the thing.  The numbers are so small that I had to redial two or three times before It works.  Three rings and a dude that sounds like Drago from Rocky IV picks up.  A wave of relief falls over me but still have a hint of anxiousness.  “Hello.” Drago says.  I swear he sounds just like him.  Me, Yeah, how you doin’… Uhhm You find my phone??  Drago, “Well, if you're calling it this is your phone.”  Not a hint of friendliness in his tone. Sounds really shady.  I’m keeping my cool but I’m suspicious.  My mind begins to race again.  ICloud, I could call the police, track the phone and get his ass, he can’t be too far.   Me, “ So where can I pick it up.”  Drago, “Where are you?”  Me, “I’m on 84^th Drive or I can meet you; what ever works…”  Drago, “Give me your exact location and I’ll come and drop it off right now.”  I give him the address but I’m suspicious.  Maybe he’s planning an escape route, a way to totally avoid me.. DAMN!  A few minutes pass.  I’m looking up and down the street, NOTHIN!  I’m contemplating calling him again...  A few seconds later I hear a couple of honks…  I turn around and a brand new Black E Class Mercedes Benz is double parked in front of my brothers building.   I apprehensively approach the vehicle and look for his eyes; It’s him, Drago.  He roles down the Window and hands me my phone.  He’s bespectacled and is dressed like he’s about to go play golf.  He smiles at me when he hands me my phone.  I'm thinkin' SWEEEEETTT!  Drago, “What kind of car to you drive??”  Me, Well, A 2012 Maxima Sport.  It’s not mine though, It’s my brothers.  Drago, “Man, when you peeled off, I saw an object fly off the back of it and hit the ground like a pin-ball.”  Remarkably, It was perfectly intact but a tiny crack on the top right of the phone and I don’t keep a rubber cover on it.  I shook his hand firmly, thanked him for returning my phone, and explained that I didn’t want to insult him with a tip, I mean he was driving an 80 thousand dollar car.  He smiled assuringly and drove off.

SOAP

“You catch that motherfucker that snitched??.” Says this older man in his late 60’s, not a hair on his head, built like a bull, to the friend I’m having a conversation with; his name is 5 Stars.  The old man doesn’t acknowledge me although he broke my conversation, his piercing grey eyes directed at 5 Stars.  “Nah, I heard he’s doing a bid.” says Five Stars.  Older man, “If you end up doin’ a stretch because of that piece of shit make sure you get some pay back.  You may end up in the same prison with da' motherfucka’”  5 Stars, “Believe me I will...”  Older man. “This is what you do if you see em’.  Get two socks fill it up with a couple of bars of soap, any kind of soap.  Get it soft, mash it up and let it sit in a corner.  Wait a day, and the fuckin’ thing will turn in to a fuckin’ BBBBRRRick! (emphasis on the B and R).”  The old man is as serious as a heart attack.  He still hasn’t acknowledged me.  He continues.  “Get that motherfucka’ in the showers.  You hit him over the head with that shit, Pa’ng! (Spanish slang to describe a blow) and he’s done."  Throw the sock where you dropped him and before you know it, some other motherfucka’ will pick up the sock discover the soap and he’s got some soap, hahahaha.”  5 Stars, “I was just gonna’ beat the motherfucka’ up regula’, but I gotchoo’”  He gives 5 Stars a pound, doesn’t look at me once although I was staring at him and hanging off his every word.  The old man walks away laughing. “Soap motherfucka’, soap!.”

Funk

"I live for the funk ..." I listen... Nothin' but Hip-Hop playin' in thjs joint... I'm the only hood....Williamsburg. The bartender is this pretty little thing from Philly... Her family is Palestinian. She has tattoos on the inside of her little fingers. Some are already faded, though she's younger than me, I'm 37. My Makers is full.. She's 28... I think I'm in love....

Missed Call

Mami'... Just saw your missed call from dayz’ ago... That

three in the morning drunk call...  Sorry I missed it.  I'd have enjoyed insanely removing your clothes as we savagely kissed on the way to my bed.  ( Porque, porque te' casaste'! )  Make love, and that's what it was.  It was what it was... No more.

Joop

I walk in to PRET, get my morning coffee and I make my way to the counter… The young girl behind the register gets a whiff of my cologne and says; all flirty eyes… “Are you wearing Joop??” I said, "Yeah, been' wearing it for years..." Girl, "My father wears that…" TOMA! She thanked me for the pleasant, scented reminder… Turns out her dad's three years older than me… This is my life…

Native NY Bike Messenger Vs. Hipster Bicycle Dude

Traffic comes roaring down 9th Avenue as the lights turn green.  Leading the Charge of the pack of automobiles is a Hipster on his fixed gear bike.  At the same exact moment a Native New York City Bike Messenger is heading West up 26th street.  It’s the middle of the day.  I cross calmly heading East, Down These Mean Streets as the pack comes closer and closer.  A collision seems inevitable between the two.  Neither wants to give way.  NYC continues his charge; hipster wobbles but successfully avoids the hit.  Three words are exchanged.  NYC bike messenger dude, turns his head and yells, "Fagot!!".  Hipster Bicycle dude,  far enough up 9th where its safe, the cars act as his body-guards, turns his torso all the way around and yells back, "You're welcome!!"  I continue my walk West. 

A Good Life

6th Ave, in the 20's is especially dark around 7:30, 8pm... It's somewhat commercial; vibrant with shoppers and commuters of the evening rush... They walk up and down the Ave... Among the crowd an old, heavy, golden retriever makes his way. Reminded me of Mr. Snuffleupagus from Sesame Street, except for this guy is gold. He's limping terribly, he's arthritic, but still makes a slight attempt to acknowledge a feisty Papillon revealing a twinkle in his eyes as if he was a pup again. He's got very little time, I can tell by the concerned look on his owners face. He looks like he's lived a good life, fighting on through that crowd... He wants to live…

On a Stage

One late night... I'm walking through my projects on my way to my Moms'... The park is empty save for an old friend and his girlfriend... I've never seen her before... I walk past... I wanna' say "whatup' B" (I haven't seen him in a minute; he just came home from a bid) and hesitate to get his attention... They're arguing but the look in their eyes is of the kind a parent dreads... Drug fueled.. The street lamp highlighted them in the darkness as if they were on a stage... He looking directly at her, diagonally 6 feet away, eyes glazed as if his mother just died, yelling belligerently, leaving his mouth open between his yell; cold in his breath, saliva dripped from his bottom lip... She, hands folded, shoulders shrugged, a paranoid look in her glazed eyes, staring in a distant opposite direction...lost... My old friend who I played pool with, who I shared countless laughs with....caught in that all too familiar disastrous web…

The MTA

New York City Transit. The train is at a standstill. An apparent important message over the PA system is to be announced. The MTA, "Attention, attention." The commuters stand at attention. They stop reading, headphones are removed, chit chatter has stopped to listen to this important announcement. "The next stop, inaudible, inaudible, inaudible." The MTA continues. "The next stop, inaudible, inaudible, inaudible. Thank You for riding the MTA." An entire subway station filled with perplexed faces. Nobody knows nothin'...

Street Smart Eyes

Returning from the Yankees game tonight (we won...so happy the f@@@ing millionaires win another one)…  A family affair if you will.  Saw the game with my old boss who I Love as if my dad.  My best friend Chino was there too; we're practically brothers. Took the D from 161st and got off on 7th Ave, not realizing the E was out of GODDAMN service after 10 p.m. on weekdays this week.  Took me a minute before I noticed the flyer taped to the station pillars.  I decide to walk.  53rd to 23rd...  Aint' that bad on a warm night… I stop at my buddy's bar on 47th street in route.  He just happened to be there.  We shoot the shit for a while...  I pound a Guinness and a Makers.  It’s a work night and it’s nearly midnight; it is time to go home.  I hail a cab and get dropped off on the block.  Put my bounce on, my New Era is low, the brim is crisp; the collar of my corduroy sports jacket popped, rockin’ fresh, Grey and brown SB Dunks... The Yard is silent.  Come across this early forty’s brother… He looks jail house, been in prison more than once tough…  His cornrows are banged-up, a feminine looking fella strategically walkin' behind him it seems.  The feminine dude, holding flowers close to his chest like a bride’s maid... Drugged out kid... Cornrow says to me… (he thinks I'm a hustler) "What up Par’..." I say nothin' but look at his eyes with my experienced, street smart eyes, and continue my bounce...

Summer Love

“Maria! MARIA!! Come hea’… come hea’.” A little boy shouts, with a concerned look on his face at who is apparently his girlfriend. He’s no more than 10, 12 years old. One foot on his scooter, is wearing an adult size snap-back, backwards. His head is so small, that the snap of the hat is on its last button. The apparent girlfriend is walking away slowly like if on a graduation procession, but with no particular destination. She’s no more than 12 years old herself and is wearing disturbingly tiny shorts, her hair up in a bun. It is clear she’s upset. The girlfriend she is walking with responds for her, “She don’t want to talk to you! She don’t want to you… DAMN!” The boy gets on his scooter and begins to propel it as if he’s circling the wagons, never taking his eyes off her and mumbling, “Aight’, aight’, aight’…” As I witnessed this, a memory hit me like a warm summer breeze. I got my heart broken on that same particular spot when I was around the same age. Her name was Jennifer and she was this gorgeous little Boricua from 116th street. And 24, 25 years later, I come across the same exact spot and some other little boy is getting his heart stomped on… He’ll never forget it. Ahhh, summer love…