The Vulture (11 page)

Cooly and I slid back into the park and rationed out the stuff we bought. Almost none of the guys had left the park, even though I told them to. I disregarded it because I had so many things on my mind.

‘You gittin’ high t'night, o’ whut?’ Cooly asked.

I looked up, and everyone was gone except us.

‘Yeah, man. I got some smoke and some wine down in Tommy's cellar. I'm gon’ make it down there later. I got some things to think about.’

‘I kin dig that,’ Cooly said. ‘I git that way.’

‘I'll ketch you later,’ I told him.

Cooly probably knew what was going on. We had been hanging out together long enough for him to have an idea what was on my mind. There was no big issue as I could see. I was just restless. I wanted to be bigger and older and more important. I didn't care about controlling the Juniors, because they didn't really hold a lot of check. We didn't fight. We got high. I kept remembering back to the party. That was
when I got jolted into another plan. Lee had invited me to this gig when I told him I would deal with him. It was the end of June, after all the high schools had closed for the summer.

John Lee's Party

June 28, 1968 / 8:30 P.M.

John's party was on the twenty-eighth of June. I remember so well because it was also my older brother's birthday and my mother didn't want me to go out. She figured he might call or something, and she'd want me to be around so that we could get on the phone like one big happy family. Matt took that seriously, because he considered himself the head of the household. I told her that I had some partying to do and not to wait up. I took off with her sitting on the sofa tuning up to cry.

I walked into the liquor store on 18th Street and Eighth Avenue about eight-thirty. The storekeeper looked at me for a second.

‘Can I help you?’ he asked.

‘Bacardi Light in the pint,’ I said through a cloud of cigarette smoke.

He reached behind him and plucked a pint of the clear liquid from a lower shelf. He reached for a bag on top of the cash register. I could see the big German shepherd that guarded the place standing at attention at the end of the counter.

‘May I see some identification, please,’ I was asked.

‘Sure.’ I went through the ritual of fumbling through my pockets and my wallet before coming up empty-handed. The dog moved closer.

‘Gee! Looks like I didn't bring it with me.’ I paused for a
second. ‘Look, I always buy from the older cat. He don’ ask me for nuthin’.’

The man began to chuckle a bit as he handed me the bottle.

‘See that you bring your draft card in or something next time.’

‘I'll do that,’ I said.

I was wearing a lightweight spring jacket, and I hooked the bottle into the inside pocket and strolled to the park on 17th Street and took a seat.

Once inside the park, I felt better. The sun dimly watched everything progress slowly with its one hot eye. Up and down the street the night people were starting their rounds. Career women and just plain laboring hags staggered home from their nine-to-five with bundles cramming their arms and chests. The calls always started around this time. The music and the gambling that the P.R. people dig so much was off and running. A Parks Department maintenance man was picking up pieces of broken bottles and beer cans. Even the breeze seemed to know it was Friday.

I wondered idly what the gang would be into. Friday night, so they were probably somewhere high. The broads were out of school too, so they might have taken the whole thing down to the dock, where they could sip beer and smoke in peace. The broads would go anywhere as long as they could lay all over everybody and get dicks hard without going too far. Maybe there was a dance in Chelsea. I hadn't even bothered to find out the schedule. For a second I wanted to be with them, because I didn't know what John's party would be like. I knew that a lot of the girls would be my age, but they were always looking for cats older than themselves. What the hell? If it was as dark as I figured it would be, all raps would be the same. I opened the rum and took a swig. It burned a bit and left a sour aftertaste on the edge of my
tongue. I was tempted to tip into José's and buy a Coke to mix with it.

One of the Puerto Rican boys came over and sat next to me.

‘Hey, man! I'm su'prise to see you over here,’ he said.

‘Why?’

‘I been tol’ you at war wit’ Seedy the smoke man.’

‘You musta heard that from Seedy,’ I said.

‘Whuss wit’ you an’ him?’

‘I ain’ in no sweat, man. Seedy got tight jaws ‘cause I ain’ dealin’ wit him no more.’

The Puerto Rican was carrying a bottle of Amigo in a moist paper bag. He took a large swallow and handed it to me. I handed him the rum, and he nodded.

‘I heard you wuz gonna hit him an’ he got wize.’

I didn't comment on that.

‘He started carryin’ a gun. ‘Zat true?’

‘Iz whut true?’

He took another straight shot and handed me the rum.

‘Look, man, you wuz dealin’ wit’ Seedy until two days ago, right? Now you wit’ John Lee.’

I nodded both times.

‘There mus’ be a reason you deal wit’ one man an’ then another.’

‘Whussat gotta do wit’ me hittin’ Seedy an’ him totin’ a piece a thunder?’

‘Ef you got another dealer, Seedy ain’ necessary anymore, an’ eef you theenk you wuz cheated, then you might wan’ revenge.’

‘Jus’ like that?’ I asked.

‘Sure.’ He took another swig from the wine bottle and grimaced when he set it back between his feet. ‘This iz tough shit.’ I nodded.

The thing to do was to play it cool. Seedy was a junky, and
it was his word against mine. The redeeming factor for me was the three Spanish boys I had who hung out with me. That meant I couldn't be all anti-Spic. Any sign I made that hinted that what I was supposed to have done was more than idle chatter would get me a visit from a few razor carriers that I knew.

It was an unwritten law. If a man puts a contract on another man, he really signs one on the whole community, because that's who his new enemies are. I had been caught putting a price on Isidro, and now the shoe was on the other foot. There were bounty hunters looking for me, and the bounty was community commendation. The only real factor was proof. That and my closeness with Spade kept the noose from around my neck. Anything that happened would be traced by him.

‘I got to make it, man,’ I told the Puerto Rican.

‘You take it easy,’ he said.

‘I got to.’

There was nobody there when I got to John's house. It was about nine-fifteen, and I had stalled as long as I could. Debbie Clark answered the door and let me in. John was in the back filling the bathtub with beer. It appeared that since John's folks were taking a little vacation, John was setting up a real domestic thing. I lit up a cigarette and parked near the record player, shuffling through the sides and putting what I wanted on the turntable.

Already the fan was losing its battle with the heat. The breeze I had detected earlier had evidently thought better of it.

There was a heavy accent on atmosphere. Incense was burning in every corner. The only light in the front of the house was a table lamp with a red bulb, and that was nearly nothing. For a minute I thought we were going to have a psychedelic thing with filtered light and Jimi Hendrix.
Anybody who walks into one of those things, high or not, gets his mind blown.

At about ten-thirty the party was together. All the names in the neighborhood had shown about ten or so. Spade, Afro, I.Q., Websta, and everybody else had a corner or a seat. They had all brought taste, and for a minute I wished I had brought a bottle to contribute.

Evidently I had done something wrong with my head. Either I had no business mixing rum and wine and beer, or I had no business smoking half a pack of cigarettes in three hours. I had stumbled through the back of the group trying to make it to the john. There were very few people present now who were not partying. At first there had been some standing around and rapping, but that had disintegrated with a few drinks. Spade had disappeared altogether with his girl. I figured if I was going to get myself together to dance once or twice, best I not feel like the last chapter of what's the use. A couple of the younger girls had been giving me that look. I reached the edge of the dance floor and ran head on into Debbie Clark. She was leaning at an odd angle against the bathroom door and smelled like she had just bathed in a bottle of overproof rum. Her eyes lit up when I nudged her.

‘Junior,’ she slurred. She looked at me wide-eyed and giggled.

‘Hi, Debbie,’ I said slowly.

‘C'mere, Juney. C'mere, baby,’ she said.

‘I want to get by.’

‘Not now, baby, c'mere.’

I was already close enough to take a bite out of her shoulder, but evidently she was having trouble focusing. She was wearing something black and flimsy, the kind of thing with the two straps over the shoulders. Her breasts were half hanging out, and her lipstick was smeared and messy. The
eye makeup was mixing with her sweat and running down her chin.

She reached for me, and before I could react, she had pulled my head down to hers, and the smell of her breath was hot as well as foul. Then her lips were on mine, and her tongue was pushing my lips away. I was so surprised that I lurched backward and shoved her against the wall. Her eyes were at first wide with surprise, and then she slid down the wall pointing at me and laughing. I couldn't help but throw my hands to my ears. Her laugh was loud, piercing, hysterically accusing. She kept pointing at me and stammering drunkenly.

‘Juney ain’ never been kissed,’ she shrieked. The thought of that seemed to be more than her mind was ready for.

I dived at the open bathroom door and locked it behind me. The light sparkling off the soaking beer cans in the tub seemed to cool my burning face. I looked in the mirror and saw someone else. All that I could really distinguish through the tears seemed to be a painting of me when I was five and afraid of thunder. The salt from my eyes trickled down my cheeks and into my mouth. The mixture on my tongue was a combination of sweat, beer, rum, wine, and embarrassment. I fell on my knees and vomited into the bowl, while still more tears streaked my face and dried my mind.

I watched Cooly disappear around the corner and lit a cigarette. I could still feel the cold shivers that came every time I remembered the unpleasant party thing. When I came out of the bathroom Debbie was already stretched out on the bed in the bedroom, but even as I managed to smile my way through the crowd and mumble about what a great sense of humor she had, there were some people who looked at me rather oddly. I hadn't done anything wrong, the eyes seemed to admit, but what a hell of an embarrassment.

August 29, 1968

The summer just seemed to fade away. It always seems as though the things you enjoy last no time at all. I widened the gap between myself and the gang. I still went around to get high every now and then, but there was no more to it than that. I didn't feel up to the lies or the highs anymore. Once we had all sat out in the park and told tales about fantastically built chicks that wanted no more from life than to get screwed over and over by us live and in living color. I was no longer able to put myself in those lies, because I had been blown away. I had had a chance with Debbie Clark, one of the finest little asses in the neighborhood, and just because she was high, I pushed her away. I couldn't understand why people got girls high on purpose to screw them, and when my opportunity came, Debbie disgusted me. None of the people at the party had paid any attention to Debbie, because she was drunk, and none of the gang knew about it, because they hadn't been there, but I had been there and I still had my memory.

‘Junior, is that you?’

‘Yeah. It's me. What'choo doin’ up?’

‘Just having some coffee. Come in here.’

I walked into the kitchen. My mother sat in her bathrobe at the dinner table. Her hair was in rollers, and there was cream on her face and forehead.

‘It's almost two o'clock. Now I told you to come in earlier this evening because you have to start getting back into that routine. There will be school next week, as far as we know. There's no use in you counting on this teacherstrike thing for keeping you up until all hours of the night. Remember, Bobby will be going to school this time.’

I sat down opposite her and lit a cigarette.

‘I guess you jus’ ain't gonna listen to nothing that I say, is that it?’ She got up and went over to the cupboard and found two cups. She placed one in front of me and then poured both cups full.

‘How come you can't say anything?’ she asked.

‘I'm tired.’

‘I guess so. Runnin’ the streets until all hours of the night like I don't tell you different. Don't half eat the food that's fixed for you. Livin’ off beer, and cigarette-smokin’ like you grown. Wouldn't do no good for me to tell you to do this or that. You so grown. I done tol’ you, though. Don't have the Man knockin’ on my door when you get picked up, ‘cause I will swear that I never heard of you, you hear?’

‘I hear you.’ I sipped the steaming coffee. I heard her, and the people in the next block probably heard her. I had heard her before, too. She had no real time or energy to worry about where I was or what I was doing. She didn't know what she would have me do if I told her I would do anything that she wanted.

All she really knew was what she didn't want. She didn't want me in the Navy like Matt. Each day she secretly expected a letter from Uncle Sam so that she could cry some more. The letter would be headed ‘We regret to inform you . . .’ and she would burst into tears and run across the hall for consolation. I knew that Mrs Boone, our neighbor, must hate to see her coming. Always another tale of woe. My mother was a one-woman soap opera. She cried and cried, always on the brink of tears, but no matter what happened, she would always fall back on that same weak story about God testing her.

She couldn't tell me what to do, because she wasn't doing anything for her own peace of mind. She didn't want me to be like my father, who died when his kidneys and liver rejected his style of life. His heavy drinking had been the cause of his death and had led to a nervous breakdown for my mother. At
sixteen, I had been fatherless for almost eight years. The sign on the tombstone said that my father had been forty-three when he died. I remembered a man of sixty, complete with wrinkles and white hair. Alcohol had turned big patches of his skin to a bluish-purple. What the sign in the graveyard did not say was that when my father died he left behind a woman with a third son in her belly, and two older sons who had no reason to respect anything at all. It did not say that my father had been driven to his death by my mother. Matt realized all this and ran away to the Navy. Her whining and complaining had become as much a part of my life as breakfast. I inherited the position of whipping boy. From the day that my brother left, anything that went wrong with her world was my fault. I started to ask to go out more often, and whereas I hadn't cared for the neighborhood when we first moved from Brooklyn, I really started to enjoy leading my own group. I began to return later than I said I would, and instead of correcting me, she seemed to get more and more into her ‘Patience of Job’ thing. By the time I was fourteen, Matt had been gone for almost a year. I was riding the corner horses every night of the week. By then I didn't even bother to ask to go out; I just went. That was another source of screaming. She had raised me and loved me and given me all that I had in the world, and I had no respect for her. That was her side of the story, and it was always consistent.