The Streets Page 4
They’d sail away from Seaside, hit the Parkway to the Turnpike, and head back to The Bricks. To TJ’s third image from his memory: the cloud maker. A mass of vats and pipes on the edge of town. Dad would park the Mustang in an abandoned lot. Franco and Julie would sit in lawn chairs and tailgate. A stemmed plastic cup of pinaht griggeo for her. (Pinot Grigio wasn’t on Julie’s high school vocab lists.) For Dad, it used to be a Bud Light. Then H2Only when he started to fight. Readying for his own plane to take off as they looked up at the underbellies of those landing in Newark. Like a couple of deep-sea divers admiring great whites. TJ meanwhile would sit “Indian style,” as he learned it back then, on the hood of Franco’s Mustang. And watch those pipes pump brand-new clouds into the clear blue sky.
Days so clear Franco, Julie, and TJ could make out the Twin Towers. They’d gaze at the beacons of the far-off land. Like the Scarecrow, Dorothy, and the Tin Man staring upon Oz. Only Franco, Julie, and TJ had no intention to go. They already had it all.
TJ would follow his parents across the lot for a better look. He’d look up at Franco and Julie in front of him. Two side-by-side silhouettes in the sun. So big. So strong. So indestructible. His very own Twin Towers.
TJ now walked toward another tower altogether. Worst fuckin part about it, he didn’t even know why Ray had it in for him. Did TJ say the wrong thing? Do the wrong thing? Was Ray jealous? Of TJ’s raps? His good grades? Maybe Ray was just fuckin bored. Whatever which way, the worst part of it all was that TJ was rolling up alone.
Five-year-old TJ could’ve sworn he’d be walking to high school one day with Lance, Blanco, and Alp. The old Oak Ave Army—TJ having joined as the Bunns Lane Boy from around the block. An army whose mission was to play football at the park. Ride bikes until dark. Hit the candy store on a lark. The little Yankees would then head back to the barracks and watch the Yankees. Or the G-Men. Hell, they were so indiscriminate, they’d also root for the Mets and chant for those J-E-T-S. Cooling since kindergarten. Four precocious kids blessed with book and street smarts. The witty kids in class who knew it all. Then concluded it was all a fuckin joke. The kind of kids who, in kindergarten, were inspired to name themselves the Oak Ave Army after hearing the self-proclaimed name of a clan of kids on one of Franco’s CDs. From the black nylon case forever between his Stang’s bucket seats. The CD about a clan of kids from right across the river. In Staten Island. Or as the precocious kids on the CD called it, and thus the precocious kids in kindergarten called it, Shaolin. The good old Oak Ave Army. The kind of kids capable of great success. Or great failure.
But nah, Mom had to flunk Franco and take TJ across town. Worse, TJ couldn’t even fuckin hang out with his old Oak Ave friends when he got to school.
Lance was the first one to bail. After eighth grade, he signed up for St. Joe’s. Home to Jay Williams and other hoop pros. TJ figured it was to play basketball. When he found out over slices at the mall. Lance was the best baller in their rec league—the best league around considering their middle school had no athletic teams whatsoever. But nah, Lance told TJ he was gonna play lacrosse. Then explained to TJ what the fuck lacrosse was. Some sorta soccer meets hockey ultimate white boy shit. Lance was gonna cross over into it like he was the next Serena Williams. The next Tiger Woods. Lance’s dad, a local insurance broker, which made him Warren fuckin Buffet in TJ’s mind, had masterminded it all. He was going to be the next Richard Williams. The next Earl Woods. He led Lance to the light. Explained that Lance wasn’t gonna be just another B-level baller when he could be an A-plus Ivy League lacrosse recruit. Only problem was, the local high school lacked lax. So Lance was off to St. Joe’s. TJ was down the first of his bros.
Alp meanwhile was at the same high school but over in honors classes. Though these classes existed somewhere in the halls of the high school, for all TJ knew, a “BLB” (Bunns Lane Boy) as he once overheard his middle school counselor refer to him as, the honors classes might as well have been on Mars. Alp was always all stressed out with assignments out the ass anyway. TJ would try to talk to him in the hall but Alp would just go on about how his parents were on his ass and how he had to get going. And his parents had set a high bar for Alp right from birth. They named him Abraham Lincoln Patel.
Then there was Blanco. Busy with Diverse Horizons. And its SAT tutors. Guest speakers. Intern opportunities. Him3 and TJ would still say hi in the halls. Then TJ’s white-as-a-ghost friend would ghost. Off to haunt his next meeting. TJ had tagged along recently and tried to join. But he got bounced on the account of his (unverifiable) color. Or lack thereof. Either way, TJ could care less. One less hassle.
Mom wasn’t so smiley about the whole thing. Julie unshackled from her desk for her exactly thirty-minute unpaid lunch break which would give her exactly ten minutes to get over to the high school, exactly one minute to park, exactly eight minutes to talk to the principal, exactly one minute to leave, and exactly ten minutes to get back. She breezed into the office waiting area, dragged her son into Mr. Mulligan’s office, and wondered aloud why the school wouldn’t offer such good things to all of its students. When Mulligan gave her some jazz about white privilege, Julie cut him short. TJ’s not exactly the son of Daddy Warbucks. Furthermore, his father is diverse anyway. But that was docked due to little orphan Frannie’s lack of documentation.
Julie then jested about how it was marvelous that Marvin Miller’s kid from the mansion on Maple gets to be in the program. Marvin Miller who turned his minimal time on the Minnesota Vikings into making a mint as a mutual fund marketer for Metuchen millionaires. Yeah, his kid really needed a break. Give me one, Julie jeered. When Mulligan gave a final go about white guilt, Julie went on about how the whites in Woodbridge weren’t exactly the ones you saw on TV. Unless you were talking about Roseanne. Julie, the student Mulligan once gave the creative writing award on senior night for a poem she wrote, hit him with the words of another poet. About the poor whites in “Only a Pawn in Their Game.” The poor white then concluded that white guilt must mean she was guilty of being white. With a sentence to be carried out by her son.
The warden could only shrug.
Frozen out from Lance, Blanco, and Alp, TJ walked in a freeze as cold as the Alps. The four kids with heritages from five continents, once brought together like Pangaea, were now broken apart. And there was no panacea.
As TJ rolled across the quad, he clutched the English paper rolled up in his hoodie pocket. He had bailed on a backpack after getting jacked for his Jansport. He had stayed late one day. To complete his tarea for Mrs. Barea. Then headed home alone. Hood rats who hung around school until one of their grandmoms picked them all up decided to kill time and live a little. They lifted the backpack off the little guy with one punch to the eye.
TJ learned his lesson. Less cargo, less of a target. It was all good, though. He’d always finish all his homework in study hall anyway. Except for those English papers from Miss Lane. Had to finish hammering those out at home. Still, balancing books and the streets was all no sweat. He was a double kid. Like Costigan in his favorite movie. The Departed.
TJ reached the hordes of high schoolers cooling in the cold. The latest ingredient to be dropped into a melting pot hot with hormones, homeboys, haters. Bookworms, athletes, skaters. White, black, Dominicun. Every race under the sun. One ethnicity blending into the next. The part-Irish kid looked like the part-Polish kid looked like the claims-to-be-all-Italian kid looked like the half-Greek kid looked like the Iranian-Indian kid looked like the majority-Mexican kid looked like the three-fourths-Filipino kid looked like the Chinese kid looked like the Turkish kid looked like the 100 percent Dominican kid (who was 100 percent part African, part European, and part New Worldean) looked like the “African-American” kid from Georgia looked like the neither African nor American kid from Georgia (the country) looked like the Puerto Rican kid looked like the ethnically Arabian religiously Christian mistakenly Jewish kid looked like the who-knows-who-cares kid looked like the aforementioned part
-Irish kid and on and on and on and. However much time they spent making that Michael Jackson “Black or White” video, they could’ve shot it outside TJ’s high school and been done before the morning bell.
Ill Co, a cohort of about twenty street kids, claimed the concrete by the auditorium entrance. Metro and rugged as all hell. “Wood Zoo” and other ill shit shaved in their heads. Ice in ears, grills in teeth, shaved lines in eyebrows. Hoodies and flat brim caps. Girls with teased-up hair, tiny jackets, exposed midriffs. Straight-up gangsta gals, too. Hoodies and haggard teeth. Dudes slap-boxing, breaking, skating. Girls gossiping, flirting, spading.
Ray and TJ belonged to opposite ends of the Ill Co spectrum. Ray and his big dog bite. Always down to fight. TJ and his little dog bark. Those raps he’d spark.
TJ figured he had three allies in Ill Co. The first was UN, whose heritage rivaled that of the entire Oak Ave Army. His IQ not so much. His sword-tipped sideburns were hella, doe. TJ could only manage a fist bump with his beefy boy who was busy running a high-stakes spades hand of his own. A doughboy focused on dough, boy.
TJ’s second ally was an ally by proxy. A friend of UN’s who therefore fucked with T. Screws. A 19-year-old fifth-year who once drank a fifth before fifth period. His Elmer’s skin stood in stark contrast to his coarse black hair. His hairline so low, it turned his forehead into a threehead. Always a day unshaven, too. Looking like someone threw a pocket full of pepper at his paste face. TJ tried to make eye contact with Screws, but Screws was busy sneaking drags from the lit cigarette cupped in his hand. He was the fuckin man.
Dragon, the third of TJ’s allies, swooped in. “You got that rhyme ready?” said Dragon with hopeful hickory eyes. Set below the illest haircut TJ had ever seen. A frohawk dyed red and shaped into triangles. Dragon’s mane.
“I don’t know…” T mumbled before his bro. “Should work on it some more.”
“Work it out then,” snarled Dragon.
TJ snuck a glance at Ray. The big dog was already doggin him. The A-Rod fan’s flat brim Yankee hat and chinstrap facial hair merged into one. The headbreaker’s helmet. His beef busting out of his T as he grilled T. Fuck the cold. And the kid before him.
There was Dragon. Nodding for his boy to bust a rhyme. There was Ray. Grilling T like he was George Foreman. Torn by each guy, T had to break the tie. He looked to Lenore. Five four. Poofed hair and hoop earrings. A cheek mole so endearing. And that caboose crammed into white capris. T could drop to his knees. Then a wind swell. The smell of her Chanel. Mmm. Fuck Ray. T’s about to slay.
“Yo.”
Dragon cut the music on the breakers’ boom box.
“Yo.”
All eyes on T. His own bronzes narrowed. In search of silver and gold. Below spikes tilted forward like a million bayonets. But there was no army. Just a lone wolf. Ready to howl. “Yo. Listen up.
This town’ll
Knock ya socks off
Blow ya hair back
Like ya did two-twenty in a Maybach
Exited on
Amboy Avenue
Seen shit you never knew
Existed
Asian Marines enlisted
White dudes digging ditches
Homies double-shifting
Buncha punch the clockers
Take they pain
Stuff it in hurt lockers
Dogs with no dish
All barkin
Tryin to roll ten
Land on Free Parkin
This New York overflowed sloppily
Welcome to Wood Zoo
The purple monopoly.”
Everybody OHHHHHED over T’s verse. Errrbody. Save for Ray.
Dragon handshake-hugged T. Hopped on the verse. “Uh—
Landin on Boardwalk the best
Ho rentin out her community chest
But we in jail not a guest
Bunch of Woodbretians
A new breed
Fuck the Phoenicians—”
Then. The sting of the bell ring. For that moment, for that single fuckin moment, TJ had it made. Was sharing smiles with Lenore. Rhymes with Dragon. Now? Everyone bailed from the yard as the sleet came back hard.
Like a gentleman, Ray held the door open for Ms. Wayfe. “After you.” Then turned to the last kid trying to creep in. “Bumpin into me, son?” Boom. Ray backed TJ up with punch to the chest.
T’s adrenaline jumped—bladder almost pumped. The last of four friends from five continents. Concerned with incontinence.
“What’s your hoodie say? Zoo York? Corny-ass bitch.”
“Sorry Ray, gotta bump.” TJ winced. He’s the one that’s gotta apologize.
“Shirt’s too big for a little bitch.” Ray wrangled TJ by the hood of his sweatshirt. Ripped it off.
“Come on, R—”
Ray jabbed TJ in the throat. Settled the collar of TJ’s hoodie around his own throat. And Ray had to say. He looked good in gray. He felt the paper in the pocket. “The fuck is this doing in my hoodie?” The ripped fella ripped it up. Made sure to toss it in recycling. Because he was a gentleman like that. Although on his way in, he did forget to leave the door open for TJ.
The late bell rang as TJ pulled on the door. Fuckin automatic locks. He beat feet through the sleet.
TJ flew through the main entrance of the old school, down its cinder-blocked halls, and up its plastic-coated stairs. TJ turned the rusted knob of a classroom door that creaked open. Interrupted Miss Lane’s lecture from the overhead projector. TJ once again garnered ohhhhhs.
Miss Lane lowered her glasses. Gave T and his soaked T a long look. Hood rat, she thought but dare didn’t say in these teacher-must-pamper-the-pupil times. If only it was the ’70s and she could put the little punk in his place. Poke a finger in his face. Berate him before everybody. Or at least the early ’90s. When she could pull a kid in the hall and let him know he’s no good. Like she did with TJ’s father. But even that was a no-no these days. Instead, she had to settle for, “A little light for the winter weather.”
TJ would’ve loved to question Lane’s own look. Her hair dyed blonde despite going gray years ago. Her reading glasses with the designer name noted on each side. Subtly noted, but you better believe it was there. Her frumpy dress that made her look like a character out of Hamlet or some shit. Like she was too good for The Wood or some shit. But the pupil could only sit. On the linoleum floor. Despite open seats. Reserved for special ed aides. As the cold wall of concrete. Received T’s shoulder blades.
Miss Lane fired a-gain. “Do you have your essay?”
TJ’s throat throbbed. He tried to talk—had to settle for a shake of his head. His line of vision toggled between charcoal chalkboards and washed-out windows. The universally accepted symbol for no.
Universally accepted save for Miss Lane. “I can’t hear you.”
TJ took a breath. Eked a hoarse, “No.”
“Where is it?”
“Ho-home,” submitted TJ.
“Oh snap! TJ just said, ‘Ho, home!’” noted his dear friend UN.
“Well.” Miss Lane paused. Waited for all eyes on her. Like she was 2Pac dropping his fourth album. “I’ll just call your mother.”
More ohhhhs.
Miss Lane and her fuckin rough drafts. To be done in pen to improve penmanship. If it was a final draft, TJ’s mom could print out a new copy and bring it in.
“Actually…” TJ debated telling the truth. Lane was not only his English teacher but also the advisor for Future Problem Solvers. A club that was invitation only. A club that Julie was on TJ’s ass to join. Especially after the Diverse Horizons fail. TJ looked to his homies, Dragon and UN. Considered mustering the courage to put it all out there. Then. He looked to Lenore’s elbow partner. The one with his arm around her seat back. Her partner not only in the class but apparently elsewhere, too. The one with the gray hoodie. And that grilling look. I fuckin dare you.
“I didn’t do it,” admi
tted TJ.
TRACK 4. DOCKED
AS TJ ARRIVED at school wanting to be anywhere but there, Franco approached planes leaving Newark headed anywhere but there. Wiseguys around town would joke that the opening of The Sopranos follows Tony getting the fuck away from Woodbridge. Take the Turnpike North from Woodbridge, you’ll do exactly what he does. Drive past the oil tanks. Past planes taking off from Newark. Past the toll booth and off to greener pastures. The made man who made it, man.
Only Franco took a different exit. Into the swamps of Jersey swamped with infrastructure. Exit 13. (Of course it was 13, Franco figured long ago.) He headed for the expansive harbor area known as The Port.
The conglomerate added up to one of the largest on the Atlantic with annual containers numbering in the millions. Cargo valued in the billions. As Franco’s car slipped toward his slip, he imagined The Port as the mouth of America. The harbor lips opened to the ocean. Let in freighters like an endless supply of supper. The cranes then carved up cargo like incisors mincing meat. Meat that was packed into eighteen-wheelers and stuffed down asphalt esophagi. Off to feed and fatten all of Uncle Sam.
When Franco pulled in past the checkpoint, he was still holding out hope that it was for a day of dock work. The average longshoreman would tell you machine operators had it made. Whether working a crane, a truck, or a forklift, the machine was the muscle. The run-of-the-mill runners had it okay. Tie up a ship. Uncover some cargo. Gauge some gauges. Then there were the backbreakers. The truck loaders. The hull hosers. The mess moppers. Franco was a backbreaker. A temp backbreaker without a pension or benefits to boot.
Fourteen years and Franco was still filling in. Fourteen years of taking every and any shit shift while everyone else called out and went on paid vacation. Fourteen years of midnights. Zero-degree days. Hundred-degree days. (Which were even worse. Any longshoreman will take zero over a hundred hands down.) Downpours. Sunpours. Christmases. Fourth of Julys. Emergency shifts of sorting through maggot-infested meat. Raking up rat shit. Working next to guys getting double the time and half the supervision. All by choice. All for the fight game. So he could take his leaves without losing his job.