The Streets

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Published in the United States by Streets Creations.

  Copyright © 2018 Tom Sheridan

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 1-7321758-0-2

  ISBN-13: 978-1-7321758-0-8

  FOR TNZ

  With love from coast to coast

  FOR MDKS

  Made in Woodbridge

  Table of Contents

  TRACK 1. INTRO

  TRACK 2. THE FIGHTER

  TRACK 3. THE KID

  TRACK 4. DOCKED

  TRACK 5. FROGGER

  TRACK 6. BUNNS PAIN

  TRACK 7. RAY DAY

  TRACK 8. YOGI

  TRACK 9. DON’T CALL IT A COMEBACK

  TRACK 10. (W)RAPPED UP

  TRACK 11. CORRECTIONS

  TRACK 12. WARNINGS

  TRACK 13. WOODBRIDGE

  TRACK 14. BATTLE OF NEWARK

  TRACK 15. EVERYTHING I’M NOT

  TRACK 16. LIFE AFTER DEATH

  BONUS TRACK. THE STREETS

  THE NUTSHELL

  NOTES

  TRACK 1. INTRO

  BACK IN THE DAY, Franco told T they were gonna take this trip. Hop the Turnpike straight outta Jersey. Fill up on Philly cheesesteaks. Run the Rocky stairs. Blaze through the dirty dirty. Push a hunid thirty thirty. Refuel at a bodega in Talladega. See the city serenade that is a Nawlins jazz parade. Next to West Texas. Watch them Friday night lights burn bright. Rent a Stang, a ’66, on Route 66. Eat enchiladas in East LA. Cruise Crenshaw with Dre. Catch a Little Tokyo drift and coast up the coast. Raid a Raider game. Mosh in a Wash mosh pit. Hit a rodeo in Colorado. See the Cubs in Chicago. Walk eight miles on 8 Mile. Believe in Cleveland and steal through Steel City. Ship up to Boston. Stomp through them mean towns of Beantown. Then catch the Bombers in the Bronx. A Chappelle show at the Apollo. And cross the Hudson River line. In a Jersey state of mind.

  Breeze back to their own blue-collar melting pot that was a little like all of the above but exactly like none. Exit 11 along that oil tank Turnpike stretch of Jersey. The one Tony Soprano leaves in his rearview as his Escalade escalates to greener pastures. A place too small to be a city. Too broke to be a burb. Too rough to be rural. Just a town. A tough little Turnpike town. The last of a line of them tucked underneath Newark. Elizabeth. Linden. Carteret aka Carteruff. Rahway. Where the inmates get it the raw way. And the town where the iconic prison actually resides. Woodbridge. Aka Hoodbridge. The Wood. The Hood. By any name, a town. Surrounded by a steel cage of bridges and refineries, warehouses and highways, rail yards and jail yards.

  A town set in the eastern pinch of the state. Where the North Jersey head, the South Jersey body, the NYC shoulder, and the Long Island arm all meet. The armpit. Where the Turnpike (aka I-95), the Parkway, (I-)287, and US Routes 440, 9, and 1—the nation’s longest north-south highway—all converge. When Franco would sail his Stang over the Driscoll Bridge at night, he and little T would have a bird’s-eye view of the whole thing. A town laced with hundred-year-old highways hauling cars anywhere but there. Taillights on the Turnpike North to New York. Taillights on the Parkway South to Sea Bright. Taillights on 287 to suburban heaven. Taillights hightailin it on Highway 9. Taillights on highways headed anywhere but there. Woodbridge. The strained heart of Jersey. Pushing taillights along aging arteries.

  Franco was one of the exceptions. Mainlining his blue Mustang into whichever vein brought him back to his hometown. The one full of cramped cottages, brick boxes, aging apartments. A bi-level if you were ballin. Occupied by residents who mowed their own lawns. Painted their own places. Helped friends move for a six-pack and a pizza. Boys from the hood rocking hoodies. Girls from around the way wearing stunner shades. All playing spades. Little tykes on their bikes. Cutting through old-timers. Immigrants. And everyone in between.

  Franco saw the whole world in Woodbridge. A township of nine baby boroughs. Firefighters affording houses in Fords. Indians integrating Iselin. Hispanics hooping in Hopelawn. Hippies n homies smokin Ls in Avenel. All kinds of crazies in Keasbey. The classy in the colonials of Colonia. Backyard weddings in Port Reading. Double-shifted longshoremen snorin in Sewaren.

  All that and more in the primogenitor. The borough of the township’s namesake. Woodbridge. To distinguish Woodbridge borough, one of nine pups in the litter that was Woodbridge Township, people referred to it as “Proper.” To Franco, it was anything but.

  It was a town older than America that had grown as motley as today’s America. The crossroads of the state that was the crossroads of the colonies that was, as Franco figured, the crossroads of the country. Connecting north to south. Red to blue. Old to new. Either a perfect alchemy. Or an insane stew.

  In March of ’08, it was looking like the latter. One that would swallow up Franco and T both.

  TRACK 2. THE FIGHTER

  FRANCO AND T walked the streets of Woodbridge that mad March day. Albeit in separate ways. As it was these days. Franco gettin ready for a fight. T hoping to avoid one.

  Franco broke into a jog despite the weather hitting the northeast trifecta—cold, rainy, windy. His dark hair damp. A single curl defied the downpour. His soaked black thermal barely trapped his traps. Ran along his ripped arms as he ran along the ripped-up roads. Getting to the matter at hand. The matter that had him up at six in the morning. Training for the last fight of his contract. His last, period, if he didn’t come correct. Six in the morning. Joggin in jacked-up weather while Snoop and Dre were drinkin gin n juice.

  Franco must’ve ran Main Street a million times. But he’d still get nostalgic. He breezed by St. John’s. His favorite building. The Catholic church looked like somethin outta the Renaissance. The peak. The spire. The bell tower. The stained glass and statues giving it a pizzazz the two Protestant churches lacked. A real work of art. Ah. Who was he kiddin? It was his favorite building because he married Julie there. Coulda looked like the three-story brick box of a school they had across the street and it still woulda been his favorite building. The school him1 and Joey Yo would go to once a week as kids. The CCD lessons going in one ear and out the other. Kinda like how they’d walk in the bathroom door at one end and hop out the window at the other. Then hit up the karate supply store Franco jogged past next. The Martial Fist. Ten years old and they were buyin Chinese stars, chuckin em into trees. Franco bobbed past The Barber Shop. The barbers in the plain-named place saved all their creativity for their ill cuts. Fades, brooks, hawks. Sketches that garnered gawks.

  Franco breezed down the remaining block. As a boy, Main was a grand old ave with every place he could imagine. As a man, it was two blocks of shoddy shops. Could cover it in a minute. Even with the hitch. Fucking up the otherwise lean machine. That ailing fuckin ankle. That one slip in the octagon that led to seven years bad luck. But. He had come full circle. In the same position at 33 as he was at 26. That’s why when he beat feet past Palermo’s, he could glance in the plate-glass pane and carry on without wanting the baked ravioli too badly. Soon as Franco won his next fight, he’d order em times two. Or would he roll next door? Get Tito’s tacos al pastor. Yeah, he’d hit both places. Followed by the chicken n waffle joint Brazil was always braggin about. And the Thai place Taz’s family owned. Knock down some curry like he was Dell Curry. Oh, and how the hellal could he forget the Halal? That lunch when Lama signed him. Not to mention Demitri’s and the Iberian. He had to show them love. It would be all of the above. Yeah, he was gonna buffet for days. Make up for all the days of training. All the days of stale cut oatmeal and browni
ng bananas for breakfast. Canned tuna and turnips for lunch. Chicken breast and broccoli for dinner. All for a couple cauliflower ears.

  Franco worked his way past the Woodbridge train station. A brick throwback with a classic clock tower. Like that one in Back to the Future. If only Franco had a DeLorean. Of all the dates he’d fly back to fix, and there were plenty, he’d fly right to that fuckin fight in ’01. The Split Decision. The one that split his ankle. Split his family. Split his whole existence in two. The Life He Was Supposed To Have. And. The life he did have. But the clock’s hands were only moving forward. Fast.

  Franco kept his feet going likewise. He pressed past Parker’s Printing Press. The landmarked cottage still standing since the 1700s. The fighter still standing seven years later. Two weeks from his first Pay-Per-View. They slotted the local fan favorite as the first fight of the Newark card. And pitted him against an undefeated up-and-comer. The 24-year-old number-four fighter. With a win, they’d have to give Franco a new contract. He’d be able to hang up his side hustle once and for all. And maybe down the road, a title shot with the champ headlining the card. A loss, meanwhile, and Franco would slip out of the rankings and into oblivion. A fall too far for a fighter far too old.

  Franco picked up the pace along Amboy Ave. He jogged toward G-Dub, his old teammate. Joey Yo may have been Franco’s best bro, but every high school soccer season, Franco, G-Dub, and Young (aka Youngin) were as thick as thieves among the fall leaves. Three wrong side of the track kids on a team of college-track kids. They got real tight as they balled all fall. But now? Now it was winter.

  G-Dub rested outside a historic colonial. Against the base of a memorial sign offering little shelter from the storm. Sipping from a Dunkin’ Donuts cup. Something colored toffee and other than coffee. Franco fist bumped G-Dub and patted the memorial. Franco had the Cross Keys Tavern sign committed to memory:

  On April 22, 1789, George Washington stayed the night at this Tavern on his way from Mount Vernon, Virginia to New York City, for his inauguration as the first President of the United States.

  The situation was so familiar, Franco would breeze by and almost forget that G-Dub shared much more than the memorial with the Father of Our Country. He also shared his name.

  The more Franco pondered America then and now, Woodbridge then and now, his own ancestry then and now, the more his legs pumped. As if he was trying to outrun a growing monster. Franco wrapped up his run with a sprint down the middle of Bunns Lane. The project bricks of his past breezed by on his right. The cramped cottages of his present unpacked on his left. Tricked-out rides and burned-out beaters to his right. Work vans and dogs barking to his left. Hail hammering it all. Franco sucked wind. His cut quads cut into his sweats. Pounding harder than the hail. Until he touched his beat-up blue Mustang. Parked in the driveway of the last house on the left. The claustro Cape with the chintzy chain link fence. With the off-white vinyl siding turned off-off-white over the years. Franco doubled over. Huffed and puffed.

  There was an even greater wheezing across the street. Coming from a burgundy Astro Van. With the work van on the project side of the street and Franco’s beater on the house side, he lost his bearings for a beat.

  The burgundy Astro Van wheezed again, but the engine wouldn’t turn. Six Hispanic laborers were packed into it. Two more inspected the situation under the hood. One looked over to Franco. Said something in Spanish. Franco couldn’t understand the words, but the guy’s weathered face and bloodshot eyes said it all.

  It wasn’t the first time Franco was taken for Hispanic. He was taken for everything. Joey Yo said he looked like Prince. Ya know, pumped up n without the pumps. The Frog called him a young Sly Stallone. T had him for a mean street Mario Lopez. Taz messed with some Messi-Pacquiao-Master Blaster, and he even got The Rock when he rocked a shaved head. In support of Julie’s mother’s lung cancer. Two more who had an answer. Julie thought him Black Irish while Julie’s mom thought him half-black half-Irish. Just last week, Franco was buying an iced tea and got Ice-T. It was at a 7-Eleven. This shit happened 24-7. Shit, Ice-T was born in Newark, too. For all little orphan Frannie knew, they were fuckin brothers. Maybe he’d change his name to Lemonade.

  Then again, Franco couldn’t blame people for guessing. The orphan’s identity was on his own mind, too. Even the national pastime couldn’t pass the time. Other than Mattingly, his favorite players were the Francos. The paisan John and the cocoa Julio. One in the batter’s box with the unorthodox stance while Franco pondered his life’s unorthodox stance. The other a relief pitcher offering no relief.

  Whatever Franco was, he knew what the guys before him were. The half as big, work twice as hard kind. The get half the pay, give twice the thanks kind. Mexicans, some would say. Even though they coulda been anything from Mexican to Manautian. Even though Franco saw light-skinned six-foot Mexicans mixing it up at the World Cup. And even bigger ones on their ball team. The guys before him were maybe Mexican, but they were definitely, what was that word from The Motorcycle Diaries? Oh yeah. Mestizo.

  Franco asked in his best Spanglish, “Necesitas un…jump?”

  The laborers nodded. Mucho sís and thank yous.

  Franco finished giving the guys a jump a few minutes later. Their thank yous resumed as Franco’s hot rod rumbled away. Hail pelted the Mustang’s heavy metal mold. Rat a tat tat. A chirping brake pad soon joined the band. An unrelenting duo known as Father Time & Mother Nature.

  Franco usually tuned this looming act out with the radio. Rock or rap. Some in Woodbridge would only listen to one or the other. But Franco was always torn. As if the gods wrestling for control of his soul were Bruce Springsteen and Biggie Smalls. As if he were simultaneously born to run and ready to die. The guys with the initials BS. Who spit nothing but Truth. Like Ice Cube, Creedence, Cash. Dylan, DMC. Joel, Jay, Dre. Marley, Meth, Mellencamp. From Thorogood to Nas, so thoroughly good. Petty, Pac. Santana, Seger. Sublime, Slim. From Eric Church to It’s Dark and Hell is Hot. From “Who Shot Ya” all the way to Frank Sinatra. To Franco, they were all singin songs from the streets.

  But Franco was running behind. No time to turn the dial. Couldn’t be late for Nelly. Coach Nelson. Wrestling coach turned athletic director. Woodbridge royalty. By way of a currency more powerful than position or paycheck. Blood. Thomas Nelson the Ninth. Numbers One through Eight all buried right behind Woodbridge’s first church. Or was it the second of those two prehistoric Protestant jobs? Franco could never remember. What he did remember was that Nelly’s was the one that, upon in its founding in the 1600s, had accepted all faiths. Sure, back then that just meant different denominations of Protestants. Still, unlike the Wu who said as much, the church brought together the English and the Dutch.

  Franco had been in the fight game for a few years before he got going with Nelly. Had been hittin the mats with Youngin. His soccer homie whose best sport was wrestling. Youngin beat everyone in the county. Save for his own demons. Died of a heroin overdose the first time he tried it. Worked up the moxy after a year on Oxy. When they filled Youngin’s grave, Franco filled his shoes. The red Asics Aggressors Youngin’s mother handed to him. He could still feel Mrs. Young’s cold fingers clutching his wrists. While Robert’s up there— You give em h—. She broke down in tears, but Franco got the message. It was the same day Franco crossed paths with Coach Nelson. Outside the funeral home. Coach asked the up-and-coming Woodbridge fighter who he’d wrestle with now.

  Franco was 25 in 2000 when he ran in those Aggressors to his first session with Coach Nelson. Franco was running behind that day too but sprinted across campus and hopped a construction fence to make it to the mat on time. Still, Coach Nelson told him he was late. Before Franco could rebut— Ten years too late, gnawed Nelly. Where was Franco at 15? When the rookie coach could’ve used the frisky freshman. In the very same spot they were then. Sans mat.

  Balling. Five-nine with no future as a hooper. But Young Franco was balling. Balling because his foster father signed
him up for basketball. Balling because his foster father loved the game so much, he’d drink brown-bagged Bud Heavys and shout at little Franco to shoot the fuckin ball. Balling because there was a basketball court on Bunns Lane. Balling because the Iowa-Ohio State wrestling match didn’t make it to the ten channels of Franco’s ten-inch TV. Balling because the UFC wasn’t founded until just after his high school graduation.

  So here Franco was in ’08. Fifteen years from graduation. Still trying to make up for the mistake of his first fifteen years of life. Here Franco was trying to scratch a few bucks together at the bottom of the MMA barrel. The only difference between him and the top guys being time. The top guys having all grown up in one discipline or another while Franco was balling. Perfecting their craft while Franco was at Pearl Street playing pickup games. Balling. The top guys crossing over into boxing, Jiu-Jitsu, Muay Thai. While Franco was crossing up Joey Yo for lazy layups. Balling. Not that Franco thought about it that much. He wasn’t much for bawling.

  Despite the slick roads, the bald tires, and the lack of front wheel drive on that winter day in ’08, Franco sped over the speed limit. Navigated potholes like a pro. Knew the ave like the back of his Don Mattingly rookie card. Both of which had seen better days.

  The high school had also seen better days. A behemoth brick job with rusted window frames. Franco parked in front of the tennis courts where he used to give Julie a hand with her game. The ones now rendered unfit for varsity play. A home court of cracks and weeds. Now used to smoke crack n weed. Franco hustled past a busted-out brick wall on the forever-under-construction ass end of the school. He yanked open a dented metal door that banged against brick as he jogged over to the gym.

  Franco was soon feeling high as he crouched low. The highlight of his day was getting his mat work in. And if he was lucky, he’d just so happen to bump into T on his way out. Julie couldn’t complain about a coincidence.