Legacy of Untold Stories ... Part 2

We met up Sunday night with Beau at the car dealerships on Broadway about six blocks from my building.  I knew as soon as we got there what he needed.  

The dealership was in a warehouse of a building with all the new cars locked away upstairs. John and I had to shimmy up the drain pipe on the side of the building about four stories up then jump about five feet over to a small window.  It was easy enough like the games we played when we were stupid ass kids.

Once we were inside there seemed to be a thousand new cars. We picked ones that fit Beau's description and just like he said the keys were under the mats of the driver's side.  John and I both could drive pretty good.  My dad was a truck driver and he had me sitting in his lap to steer my way through Manhattan since I could remember. 

Once we got the cars down the garage ramp from the fourth floor to the first we hit the door locks just the way Beau had told us so we wouldn't trip the alarms.  Then he and his cousin Juny took over.  

John and I walked home. 

A few days later Beau caught me and John after school.  

"Here ya go," like he was slapping us five but he was really slipping us fifty dollars each from the palm of his hand.  

"Y'all wanna make some more money?"

Before John could answer for me, I said, "Naw, can't.  My moms whipped my ass for sneaking out the other night and I'm on punishment." 

Beau shrugged, "Cool papi.  Whenever you're ready."

The next morning after my mother left for work I snuck out.  I told my sister to wait until I got back before going to school.  

Downstairs I was sifting through a garbage can in the back when this fiend crept up on me.

"Hey young blood, what you lookin' fo'?"

"Nothing," and with that single word I had slipped out my screwdriver and it was down by my side so he could see it.  I didn't look him in the eyes.  I had my head cocked so he knew I was looking at my target.  His gut, and his balls.

He sniffed, grumbled,  "Fuck you lil' nigga" - and split.

I finally found what I was looking for, a Mountain Dew can, Ricky's favorite.  

I made my way over to his building and up to his apartment.  I put the fifty dollars in the mouth of the can and let it lie on it's side.  I knocked on the door and once I heard footsteps nearing the door I booked for the staircase.  I stayed just long enough to hear his mother screaming and crying.  

I ran down the stairs and out the back, then walked. Slow.


(Writer's note: Reading  "Down These Mean Streets" by Piri Thomas when I was 13 years old was pivotal in defining who I was and who I wanted to be growing up in Harlem (New York City)  in the 1970s.  The attached essay is a consolidation of events that happened in the lives of my friends and I as we navigated Harlem's streets where heroin flowed like water.)   

Written for the Lost Scene challenge hosted by Atakti