Living and Dying in Brick City (22 page)

The funny thing is, Rock was a little dude. He stood no taller than five feet seven inches and was outweighed by practically
everyone he encountered in the ring and on the street. But he could fight; he knocked his opponents out. And, of course, he always had that gun. Everybody in the neighborhood measured their own street credibility by Rock’s. If you were a part of his camp, you never had to worry about anyone else targeting or testing you. Rock had a virtual army, with generals and soldiers ready to take on any task.

Lil’ Moe was never on Rock’s hit list, in part because Rock and Lil’ Moe’s brother, Big Moe, had once been best friends. They’d trained together at a local community center. But as they got older, they went their separate ways. Big Moe was the opposite of Rock. For every bad thing Rock did, it seemed Big Moe did something positive. He didn’t do drugs, and he volunteered his time at the community center. He was the one who got his little brother involved in boxing.

Lil’ Moe and I had to be at least five years younger than Rock, which felt at the time like a different generation. We weren’t considered a threat to him or his empire. Actually, we were excited if Rock spoke to us or knew our names as he prowled through the neighborhood. He would walk past us as we played and at times acknowledge us by shooting the ball during a basketball game. He would shoot a few jumpers and keep moving. This only increased his popularity among the guys my age and left us feeling important.

“Rock shot some hoops with me today,” I’d say, bragging to friends who hadn’t been there, and I could see the envy in my boys’ eyes. Even the teachers at my grammar school who didn’t live in the neighborhood were familiar with the character named Rock.

“Who
is
this Rock?” they’d ask after hearing his name again and again.

Nobody could have guessed that a new neighborhood king was about to be crowned that breezy spring night as we talked about
the fun we’d have later at the skating rink. It was Friday, and soon everybody would be heading there. It was a neighborhood tradition. By the time the rain came pouring down, we were all circling the rink with top-twenty hits blasting and colorful lights flashing. Lil’ Moe was gliding with such rhythm across the waxed hardwood floors that he appeared to be floating. He made a nice twisting move, and just then, a girl tripped and fell right in front of him. He swerved to avoid running over her, but he went flying directly into Rock. The impact lifted Rock into the air, and he hit the ground with a loud thud. Embarrassed and furious, Rock hopped up and tore into Lil’ Moe. And just like that, the fight was on, skates and all.

It lasted for what seemed like an eternity, and to everyone’s shock, Lil’ Moe got the best of Rock. With both of them wobbling on skates, Lil’ Moe dodged all of Rock’s best moves, while throwing his own combination of punches, leaving Rock’s face and his pride bloodied. For weeks afterward, the neighborhood seemed to collectively hold our breath, waiting for the sad moment when Rock would exact his revenge. To our astonishment, that day never came. Everyone suspected Big Moe had negotiated peace. But Lil’ Moe became the new neighborhood hero for putting Rock in his place.

Eventually, I went away to college and lost touch with Lil’ Moe, who stayed behind in the neighborhood. When I returned to Newark to start my residency at Beth, I ran into him outside his old building in the neighborhood. It was during the Thanksgiving holidays, and he was working as a stock clerk at the local grocery store. I could tell that dark days were upon him. He had those hollow eyes, was overweight, and was missing more than half his teeth. He appeared disheveled. To overcome the uncomfortable silence, I asked if he was still boxing, but I immediately felt ashamed for doing so. He looked at me with a bit of confusion, as
if I should have known by looking at him that it was a crazy question.

“Man, I haven’t picked up the gloves in years,” he mumbled.

He told me that life had dealt him some serious challenges: His mother had died, Big Moe had been seriously injured in a car accident, and Lil’ Moe’s girlfriend had just left him for another dude. “And I’m stuck here,” he said. He told me he’d heard about my going off to college, and he talked about his own regrets.

“Man, my life would have been totally different if I’d stayed in school.”

I could tell he was depressed, but I was at a loss for the best way to reach out to him. “Man, I work right at Beth Israel,” I told him. “If you ever want to come by, just give me a call.”

In retrospect, I realize that I must have come across as distant, disconnected, and maybe even disingenuous. If I could have peeked into the future, I might have really tried to connect, to remind Lil’ Moe who he was, and let him know that there was help available. Instead, I simply shook Lil’ Moe’s hand and promised to stay in touch. I’m sure we both thought we’d see each other again. There’s always tomorrow, right?

That was 1999. I didn’t hear his name again until a few years later, when a co-worker in the emergency department asked one day if I’d heard about what happened to Lil’ Moe. I hadn’t, but I knew intuitively as my co-worker launched into the story that it wouldn’t be good news.

It was New Year’s Eve, and Lil’ Moe got together with a few friends from the neighborhood to celebrate. They were smoking, drinking, and playing cards, when Lil’ Moe, probably already loaded, pulled out a gun and tried to recruit players for a game of Russian roulette. No one was willing. He called them cowards, but still none of them budged. The crazy thing is, no one tried to talk him out of it either. Perhaps they were all too drunk to realize
he was serious. Even when he put the gun to his head and pulled the trigger, they figured he was just fooling around. Surely, he’d taken out all the bullets. Who would be foolish enough to play this crazy game with a real bullet in the barrel? He fired three times, they said—
click, click, click
—before
BOOM!
Next thing his friends knew, twenty-six-year-old Lil’ Moe was down, and his brains were splattered across the wall.

Major panic followed—the screams, the frantic call to 911, the flashing red lights, and the body bag. Then came the regrets. His friends were full of them. They wished they’d paid more attention, insisted he get help. They wished they’d halted his ridiculous suicide mission. They wished they’d stepped in when they still had a chance.

But just like that, Lil’ Moe’s tomorrow—and his friends’ chances to step in—had vanished.

The following signs may mean someone is at risk for suicide. The risk is greater if a behavior is new or has increased and if it seems related to a painful event, loss, or change. Seek help as soon as possible by contacting a mental health professional or by calling the Lifeline at
1-800-273-TALK (8255)
if you or someone you know is:

T
he patient’s face was a blur as the stretcher whizzed past me in the halls of Beth Israel one summer afternoon in 2002. But I recognized his dreads. Those thick, shoulder-length locks told me what my pager alert moments earlier could not: that I knew this patient.

I ran to catch up. My eyes followed his oversized white T-shirt to his face, confirming his identity. It was my friend Mark, the cook and cashier in the hospital’s ancillary cafeteria. He’d suffered a severe asthma attack.

“I’m here, man,” I said, trotting beside the stretcher as emergency workers rolled it to the resuscitation room.

I had warned Mark about the cigarettes. Smoking and asthma are a deadly combination, and Mark knew it. But, like Mr. Tate and the millions of people in the country addicted to smoking, Mark wouldn’t—or couldn’t—quit. He probably thought he had forever to change. He surely couldn’t have guessed that forever would come so suddenly, on this beautiful summer day as he sat on the passenger side of his best friend’s car, idling at a traffic light, just moments from his destination. When the EMS team arrived, Mark was barely breathing. His six-foot frame lay stretched out on the pavement, as still as the air. His best friend, Shawn, kneeled beside him and held him. Emergency workers quickly inserted a
breathing tube, administered intravenous drugs, and rushed him to Beth, where my team worked frantically to save his life. But the cardiac monitor showed no pulse, no heartbeat. I looked down at my friend’s lifeless body and knew it would take more than my medical skill and strong will to bring him back. It would take a miracle.

M
ark was one of the friendliest, most upbeat dudes I’d ever met. Most days, I’d rush into the cafeteria just before my shift or during a break, and he’d be there behind the counter, with his condiment-stained apron shielding his stylish clothes. Just a few months older than me, he was the cook, cashier, delivery guy, everyman, doing whatever it took to keep the small operation running smoothly. The main cafeteria on the second floor was closed part of the day, so the smaller one was always bustling with hospital workers who watched the clock while trying to grab a quick bite or a cup of caffeine, and family members needing food or respite from sick loved ones. But no matter how busy he was, Mark never failed to acknowledge me. It really touched me how much my presence at Beth Israel seemed to mean to many of the hospital’s hourly workers, many of whom had grown up in Newark. Beth hired heavily from the surrounding neighborhoods, and when I joined the staff, word circulated quickly that the new young black doctor had grown up in the hood, not far from the hospital.

“Proud of you, man,” I heard again and again from the orderlies, janitors, cooks, and clerks, who became my first friends. Thanks to people like Mark, I loved coming to work. Mark went out of his way to be kind. He’d spot me in line and flash his brilliant smile, thirty-two perfectly aligned teeth set against flawless mahogany skin. “Hey, Doc, I got your drink ready to go,” he’d say, reaching over the counter to hand me my regular, a large hazelnut coffee with cream and two sugars.

We became friends one day when I was picking up my regular.
Traffic was relatively light in the cafeteria that day, and Mark joined me on my side of the counter. He carried a pack of cigarettes, and I assumed he was headed outside for a break.

“Doc, you leaving?” he asked.

“Yeah, I got to make it upstairs,” I said. “I heard things are already pretty busy today.”

We headed toward the exit, and I held the door open for Mark and followed him into the hallway, just short of the escalator. It was a Friday, and only a few hours stood between Mark and his days off. But his spirits seemed unusually heavy. And I could tell he wanted to talk.

“I wanted to be a doctor once,” he began matter-of-factly. “But I messed up in school. Following the wrong crowd, you know, and then dropped out.” He paused and shook his head, reflecting on the past. “I had a bunch of toos. Too fast, too grown, and too dumb for my own good. Look at me now. I’m working in this dead-end job, no future in sight.”

It surprised me to see Mark in such a mood. He continued without any prompting, “Man, the only good thing that ever happened to me was my baby girl. You’ve probably seen her around here. I was eighteen when she was born. I was so happy, though if I had to do it all over again, I’d wait. I got a job as soon as I found out my girl was pregnant. I figured I would work double shifts, sixteen hours a day, whatever it took to give her and my baby a better life. You know, I didn’t want her coming up like me, without her daddy. I promised her and her mother when she was born, right there in the delivery room, that I would always be there for them. The years went by and, you know, I never made it back to high school, let alone college. Before you know it, you’re working hard just to stay in place.”

By then Mark was fidgeting with his cigarettes. The nicotine was calling, and I knew he had only a few minutes for break. The
emergency department wouldn’t shut down if I got there a few minutes late, I figured. I motioned for him to follow me outside. As soon as we stepped onto the concrete, he reached for his lighter, pulled out a cigarette, and touched it to the flame.

“I know what you mean,” I said. “It’s so hard to get ahead. But it’s never too late to go after your dreams.”

He took a long drag on the cigarette. “I’ve been here at Beth ten years. I do it all, man, but I’ll never own this café. I’m just a worker to the owner, nothing else. I’m reminded every day that I have to take shit from people. They walk all over you when they know they can. But what can I do? Just walk away?” He chuckled. “That’s why I’m so proud of you, Doc. You did it, man.”