07-13-2017, 02:36 PM
I spit a mouthful of blood onto the plastic linoleum of my ma’s apartment and try to pick myself off the floor and rise to my feet just as another thundering blow plows into my neck, knocking me back down. The pointed black toe of a boot jabs into my ribs and I stifle the rotten curse bubbling to my lips.
“Common, knock it off already!” my mother pleads in a nasally voice. She stands in the threshold of her bedroom gripping the door frame. With my skull planted against the dirty kitchen floor, I can see her face twisted with worry behind the sunken sad eyes that have grown deeper and darker as her habit got worse these last two years. From my vantage point I can catch a good view of our squalid place and can even spot a mouse hiding unhelpfully under our grimy old couch.
The big man above me hocks a gob of spit on my back and replies in a husky Latin voice, “This hijueputa think he grown after plugging some Chinamen in Vietnam? You think you big, fanfarrón?” He punctuates his point with another kick to my ribs. This time I can't hold it back and let out a pained groan.
My ma scampers across our dingy little apartment in her slippers and nightie and wraps her arms around the thick set pimp’s muscled bicep. “He didn't mean nothin’ by it, baby. He's a good kid, I swear it!” she coos with all the sensuality a 56 year old used up whore can muster. Her voice has the crackle of street gravel that came from working on her back for over three decades. She never had it good when I was growing up, but she was still a looker before I got shipped off to war.
Look at her now.
I can feel the bitter tears coming to my eyes when I think about how many years El Jefe Negro took off her life, trading rocks and a pipe for tricks. She had had other pimps in her life, but not like this. Not like the bully standing over me in my ma's kitchen. With the placated tone of a very egotistical man, El Jefe steps over my body and leads my ma to the bedroom door, “Kids dees days got no respect for authority,” he mutters. Still tethered to his arm, she caresses the blue collar of his police uniform with a yellowed nail and taps lustfully on his shining badge. She can probably smell the skag tucked into his breast pocket and she's seemingly forgotten about me on the floor.
He rummages in his pocket and tosses $1.20 in loose change at me. It clatters and rolls against the floor as he ushers ma into the bedroom. “Go catch a movie caripicha, and don't come around for a couple hours.”
As I continue to dream of the past, I see myself walking down 42nd Street. The toughs and the know-it-alls used to call it the Deuce back then and it was years before the Mayor took a broom and swept all the street trash off the curb and into the gutter. Back then, you could see it all while taking a stroll down that avenue of sin and dirt. Both sides of the street were cram packed with grindhouses and cheapo peep shows running pictures back-to-back until the reels melted off. A couple of hotels squatted between the ramshackle old theaters, but most of those charged by the hour. Weaving down the sidewalk you were likely to walk into fake gold-watch sellin’ hucksters and their pickpockets two blocks down that’d steal it right back. You’d run into junkies sailin’ along on the high seas of their personal dreamworld and the pushers that could sell you a ticket to come along on the cruise. There were trannies, hustlers, pimps and gigolos ready to satisfy any fetishistic homo or hetero itch you had to scratch, and hey, if you were lucky you might even spot a gal that had 6 inches of prime real estate between her legs for your dick to rent.
Like every other down on his luck kid fresh off the boat from ‘Nam, I roll into one of the nearby porno theaters. The falling letters on the marquee say it's a triple bill - “The Stimulators,” “Lucky Pierre,” and “Great Sexpectations.” I seen the last two already, but a ticket only costs $1, and I’ll have enough leftover to buy a popcorn instead of checking out the gore flick next door for $1.55. I paw past some old cow wearing a fake mink coat by the ticket stand, slide my change through the window to some geezer who couldn’t care less and walk into the theater.
I pick out a choice seat by the aisle that’s a respectful distance from some sailor getting a blowjob from who-knows-what two rows up. Just as my wide ass settles into the creaking chair I feel a little tap on my shoulder. I turn my head and can see the light of the projector glowing through the big puff-ball of the dude’s Afro and he waggles a baggy full of grass at me.
“Naw man, I’m broke.” I say.
Some dopesick hooker at his side coughs phlegmatically and pulls the guy back to his seat.
We settle down for the picture and just as the trailers are almost finished scratching by, I can hear the man and his date light up some dank smelling joint and start puffing smoke at the back of my head. I try to focus on the almost incomprehensible plot of “The Stimulators” while ignoring the gagging sound coming from below the sailor’s lap when I feel another tap on my shoulder.
“Psstt, hey man…” the Afro man whispers. I turn and can see his glossy red eyes through the light of the X-Rated feature.
“Gemme some of that popcorn and I’ll give you a hit, yeah?” he asks.
I hand him back the barrel of greasy popcorn and he hands me back a smoldering blunt. After a few puffs, I pass it back over my head to the pair and they send back a half empty tub.
In seconds I can feel the smutty film getting hazy in my eyes and I drop the tub of popcorn to the floor as my stomach lurches.
“What the hell was that?” I whisper over my shoulder.
“You don’t like getting wet? That's PCP, baby! Angel’s Dust. Ride that Loveboat,” the voice replies through the smoking dark of the grindhouse theater.
I hold my hand to my chest and rush towards the toilets. The floor trembles and bends like a piece of salt water taffy with each step, but in a drenching cold sweat I finally make it to the bathroom and vomit half a hot dog and three hand fulls of undigested popcorn into the sink. I run the water on the chum and try to wipe down my face. I try to look at my reflection in the mirror, but some asshole has spray painted, “NIXON RULES” in pink graffiti across most of the surface.
I turn, gasping and wipe my mouth with a hairy forearm and look into the open stall just behind my back. Some junkie is passed out on the toilet seat and didn't even have the decency to pocket the rubber hose still wrapped around his arm, let alone latch the damn door. The room is still spinning, but less than before. With uneasy lumbering steps, I sway to the sleeping clown and rifle through his pockets.
Rolled up newspaper,
$4 in nasty smelling bills,
A comb,
and a couple of stolen spoons.
As I’m thumbing through the guy’s gear and pocketing his dough, the dopehead slumps over and careens to the floor. I can hear a clattering sound of something slipping out his back pocket, so I roll the junkie over and I see fate sitting on the filthy tile of that bathroom floor: a .38 snub-nosed revolver.
I hold the weapon in my hands and it takes me back for a moment in my drug-fueled haze to the jungles of Vietnam. The barrel on the weapon reads, “SMITH & WESSON” in precise stenciled letters. As I heft its weight in my palm and look down the cylinder at the four slugs still sleeping in the chamber, I put a name on each bullet: El Jeje Negro.
“Common, knock it off already!” my mother pleads in a nasally voice. She stands in the threshold of her bedroom gripping the door frame. With my skull planted against the dirty kitchen floor, I can see her face twisted with worry behind the sunken sad eyes that have grown deeper and darker as her habit got worse these last two years. From my vantage point I can catch a good view of our squalid place and can even spot a mouse hiding unhelpfully under our grimy old couch.
The big man above me hocks a gob of spit on my back and replies in a husky Latin voice, “This hijueputa think he grown after plugging some Chinamen in Vietnam? You think you big, fanfarrón?” He punctuates his point with another kick to my ribs. This time I can't hold it back and let out a pained groan.
My ma scampers across our dingy little apartment in her slippers and nightie and wraps her arms around the thick set pimp’s muscled bicep. “He didn't mean nothin’ by it, baby. He's a good kid, I swear it!” she coos with all the sensuality a 56 year old used up whore can muster. Her voice has the crackle of street gravel that came from working on her back for over three decades. She never had it good when I was growing up, but she was still a looker before I got shipped off to war.
Look at her now.
I can feel the bitter tears coming to my eyes when I think about how many years El Jefe Negro took off her life, trading rocks and a pipe for tricks. She had had other pimps in her life, but not like this. Not like the bully standing over me in my ma's kitchen. With the placated tone of a very egotistical man, El Jefe steps over my body and leads my ma to the bedroom door, “Kids dees days got no respect for authority,” he mutters. Still tethered to his arm, she caresses the blue collar of his police uniform with a yellowed nail and taps lustfully on his shining badge. She can probably smell the skag tucked into his breast pocket and she's seemingly forgotten about me on the floor.
He rummages in his pocket and tosses $1.20 in loose change at me. It clatters and rolls against the floor as he ushers ma into the bedroom. “Go catch a movie caripicha, and don't come around for a couple hours.”
As I continue to dream of the past, I see myself walking down 42nd Street. The toughs and the know-it-alls used to call it the Deuce back then and it was years before the Mayor took a broom and swept all the street trash off the curb and into the gutter. Back then, you could see it all while taking a stroll down that avenue of sin and dirt. Both sides of the street were cram packed with grindhouses and cheapo peep shows running pictures back-to-back until the reels melted off. A couple of hotels squatted between the ramshackle old theaters, but most of those charged by the hour. Weaving down the sidewalk you were likely to walk into fake gold-watch sellin’ hucksters and their pickpockets two blocks down that’d steal it right back. You’d run into junkies sailin’ along on the high seas of their personal dreamworld and the pushers that could sell you a ticket to come along on the cruise. There were trannies, hustlers, pimps and gigolos ready to satisfy any fetishistic homo or hetero itch you had to scratch, and hey, if you were lucky you might even spot a gal that had 6 inches of prime real estate between her legs for your dick to rent.
Like every other down on his luck kid fresh off the boat from ‘Nam, I roll into one of the nearby porno theaters. The falling letters on the marquee say it's a triple bill - “The Stimulators,” “Lucky Pierre,” and “Great Sexpectations.” I seen the last two already, but a ticket only costs $1, and I’ll have enough leftover to buy a popcorn instead of checking out the gore flick next door for $1.55. I paw past some old cow wearing a fake mink coat by the ticket stand, slide my change through the window to some geezer who couldn’t care less and walk into the theater.
I pick out a choice seat by the aisle that’s a respectful distance from some sailor getting a blowjob from who-knows-what two rows up. Just as my wide ass settles into the creaking chair I feel a little tap on my shoulder. I turn my head and can see the light of the projector glowing through the big puff-ball of the dude’s Afro and he waggles a baggy full of grass at me.
“Naw man, I’m broke.” I say.
Some dopesick hooker at his side coughs phlegmatically and pulls the guy back to his seat.
We settle down for the picture and just as the trailers are almost finished scratching by, I can hear the man and his date light up some dank smelling joint and start puffing smoke at the back of my head. I try to focus on the almost incomprehensible plot of “The Stimulators” while ignoring the gagging sound coming from below the sailor’s lap when I feel another tap on my shoulder.
“Psstt, hey man…” the Afro man whispers. I turn and can see his glossy red eyes through the light of the X-Rated feature.
“Gemme some of that popcorn and I’ll give you a hit, yeah?” he asks.
I hand him back the barrel of greasy popcorn and he hands me back a smoldering blunt. After a few puffs, I pass it back over my head to the pair and they send back a half empty tub.
In seconds I can feel the smutty film getting hazy in my eyes and I drop the tub of popcorn to the floor as my stomach lurches.
“What the hell was that?” I whisper over my shoulder.
“You don’t like getting wet? That's PCP, baby! Angel’s Dust. Ride that Loveboat,” the voice replies through the smoking dark of the grindhouse theater.
I hold my hand to my chest and rush towards the toilets. The floor trembles and bends like a piece of salt water taffy with each step, but in a drenching cold sweat I finally make it to the bathroom and vomit half a hot dog and three hand fulls of undigested popcorn into the sink. I run the water on the chum and try to wipe down my face. I try to look at my reflection in the mirror, but some asshole has spray painted, “NIXON RULES” in pink graffiti across most of the surface.
I turn, gasping and wipe my mouth with a hairy forearm and look into the open stall just behind my back. Some junkie is passed out on the toilet seat and didn't even have the decency to pocket the rubber hose still wrapped around his arm, let alone latch the damn door. The room is still spinning, but less than before. With uneasy lumbering steps, I sway to the sleeping clown and rifle through his pockets.
Rolled up newspaper,
$4 in nasty smelling bills,
A comb,
and a couple of stolen spoons.
As I’m thumbing through the guy’s gear and pocketing his dough, the dopehead slumps over and careens to the floor. I can hear a clattering sound of something slipping out his back pocket, so I roll the junkie over and I see fate sitting on the filthy tile of that bathroom floor: a .38 snub-nosed revolver.
I hold the weapon in my hands and it takes me back for a moment in my drug-fueled haze to the jungles of Vietnam. The barrel on the weapon reads, “SMITH & WESSON” in precise stenciled letters. As I heft its weight in my palm and look down the cylinder at the four slugs still sleeping in the chamber, I put a name on each bullet: El Jeje Negro.