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jack_babalonSmokes lit. Nines & .45's on the kitchen counter. Sealed bags of premium grade weed weighed and seperated on the dining room table. The lights are out. Jail bait honeys stare vacant at the TV on mute, their boyfriends try and look tough- fresh inks and pierced baby faces, scratched CD's skipping late 80's punk/hardcore. December nine years ago and I'm alone in a different kind of crowd. We're waiting for the package to be picked up. Some 'Tech freshman who couldn't pay his coke tab and pissed off the wrong wiggers- the wrong wiggers don't get their hands dirty, they outsource so to speak, they let the punks do it. Punks at this time are a good cheap source of thuggery. A modicum of cash, some walking around crank and of course the important part-the promise of a whiff of violence. Not a bad price to rent a full scale ManiacSquad for the night. I'm not really part of said squad. I work for one of my few remaining friends in this city. I do the math work for him and his monsters, and they in turn give me a place to sleep and some walking around money. The monsters feed me and in return I spot the numbers that would slip by them normally. So they're holding this kid in the bathtub. Handcuffed and tasered, gagged and beaten. Fresh blood on a porcelain tub- I usually avoid these scenes but right now I have to take a massive shit and this is the only toliet we got. So i'm sitting there on the bowl with this kid whimpering and trying to plead with me. I look dead ahead at the cracks in the tile on the wall, I pretend it's a map out of here. I wanna feel guilty but I don't. I don't feel shit lately. Love walked out of my life for a better hope on the west coast. Love walked out the day I found out I was a father and that she aborted the child. "Euthanasia" she called it. I drop two and the water splashes. I look over at the kid and I can see him plead with me through his swelling eyes.
"I can't help you. I can't help anyone." I zip up and walk out without flushing.
My boss looks at me worried. He knows I'm not like them. I'm not one of the wolves of the world. Neither hunted or hunter. The others don't say much to me,i'm not cool or tough, no, but what I am at this time is the whisper in the bosses ear. I'm the guy who counts up the stacks and wads of bills and God help you if you come up short, because I sure won't.
"Your crying." He says
"What?" I keep seeing her. I keep seeing a life I let slip. I keep feeling the weight of her in my arms, I can still smell the vanilla soaked with sweat, I can still hear her promise to never leave me, to never let go.
"I'll be alright. I just need some air. You need me around here for anything?"
He looks around. Mohicans playing cowboys with their toyguns that will one day kill someone or themselves. Moans of the kid in the tub behind me.
"SHUT THE FUCK UP OR I'LL COME IN THERE AND GIVE YOU SOMETHING TO REALLY CRY ABOUT!!!" he barks over my shoulder. He looks over at me
"We'll be fine dawg." I hate it when they call me dog or nigga or whatever term of affection they picked up from Deathrow records. "Go get some air Ok?" He sounds gentle now, A father concerned for his son. He pulls out a few crumbled 20's and presses them into my hand.
I don't refuse. I nod and walk out. Silent stares follow me as I pass. The others don't know me. Besides the boss only his woman talks to me. She don't care for me much. She can smell the Fuck-Up artist behind the vocabulary. Most woman can. I hit the night air and I can't hold it back. I start sobbing under a starless sky. A train roars and looking up I can see a plastic Santa Clause sitting on someones porch. He's lit up from the inside and waving joyfully to the world.Then it hits. The flood opens and the river pours. Ever cry so hard you can't breathe? Nostrils clogged with snot. Blurry vision as the tears sting your eyes. Hyperventilating and there's this little whimper that can't escape fully from your lungs.
And I don't know how long I stood there on Seaborn Ave. Weeping in front of the steps to the Innman Park station. The gang bangers and Nation of Islam cats and piss bums watching me without a word. Eventually I picked myself up. It was the first time I cried for her and cried for our child.
I got up and without a home, and without a real job, without any skills and with no love I walked into the night and from there took a long trip to here.
"I can't help you. I can't help anyone." I zip up and walk out without flushing.
My boss looks at me worried. He knows I'm not like them. I'm not one of the wolves of the world. Neither hunted or hunter. The others don't say much to me,i'm not cool or tough, no, but what I am at this time is the whisper in the bosses ear. I'm the guy who counts up the stacks and wads of bills and God help you if you come up short, because I sure won't.
"Your crying." He says
"What?" I keep seeing her. I keep seeing a life I let slip. I keep feeling the weight of her in my arms, I can still smell the vanilla soaked with sweat, I can still hear her promise to never leave me, to never let go.
"I'll be alright. I just need some air. You need me around here for anything?"
He looks around. Mohicans playing cowboys with their toyguns that will one day kill someone or themselves. Moans of the kid in the tub behind me.
"SHUT THE FUCK UP OR I'LL COME IN THERE AND GIVE YOU SOMETHING TO REALLY CRY ABOUT!!!" he barks over my shoulder. He looks over at me
"We'll be fine dawg." I hate it when they call me dog or nigga or whatever term of affection they picked up from Deathrow records. "Go get some air Ok?" He sounds gentle now, A father concerned for his son. He pulls out a few crumbled 20's and presses them into my hand.
I don't refuse. I nod and walk out. Silent stares follow me as I pass. The others don't know me. Besides the boss only his woman talks to me. She don't care for me much. She can smell the Fuck-Up artist behind the vocabulary. Most woman can. I hit the night air and I can't hold it back. I start sobbing under a starless sky. A train roars and looking up I can see a plastic Santa Clause sitting on someones porch. He's lit up from the inside and waving joyfully to the world.Then it hits. The flood opens and the river pours. Ever cry so hard you can't breathe? Nostrils clogged with snot. Blurry vision as the tears sting your eyes. Hyperventilating and there's this little whimper that can't escape fully from your lungs.
And I don't know how long I stood there on Seaborn Ave. Weeping in front of the steps to the Innman Park station. The gang bangers and Nation of Islam cats and piss bums watching me without a word. Eventually I picked myself up. It was the first time I cried for her and cried for our child.
I got up and without a home, and without a real job, without any skills and with no love I walked into the night and from there took a long trip to here.