Orb Publishing     

 The next three years saw my gradual induction into a world of violence, getting high and petty crimes. Fat Stevie and I grew closer, but were never equals. As other kids were drawn to the block, or drawn to ‘Fat Stevie’, our numbers swell to include: ‘Goose’, Jerald ‘Wreck’ Johnny Page, ‘Stoogy’, ‘Joe Bud’, Mikey and Butch Styli, ‘Bat’, Cockeyed Louie, Mickey, Durant a.k.a. ‘Rudy Gazoodie’, ‘Country Ricky’,  Sidney aka Crazy Red, Po John, Nate Dog, and the Blake boys.

 This was the nucleus of the Convent Avenue Blackjacks, my new family.

What started as youthful exuberance and innocent rites of passage lead us down a path of self-destruction, one marred by tear stained and chalk outlined sidewalks. Pickup softball games in back of the school, sneaking into High Bridge Pool after dark, and Saturday matinees forged a loose network of street associates.          

 It was the first Saturday in July and I was up and out the house unusually early. From the corner, I spotted ‘Fat Stevie’ coming out of the building flanked by his mother.

  “Morning, Mimi, you look nice.”

    “Thank you, Junie,” she said, her tone indifferent. “How’s your mother doing,” she asked.

   “She’s fine. Yo, Steve, where you going,” I asked.

  “I gotta go somewhere with my mother.  Don’t go nowhere, I’ll be right back,” said Stevie.

    When he left, I headed up 129^th Street to ‘Fat Paul’s’ Candy Store across from the Terrance Park. The park was empty except for a couple of winos passed out on the benches near the basket ball court.  

  Back on the block, bag of candy cherries in hand, I spotted ‘Daddy Green’, superintendant of a row of tenements down the block. He was performing his morning ritual of returning empty garbage cans to the alley, four at a time. Rumor had it that he had killed a kid and buried the body in one of his basements. His using a baseball bat or section of pipe to chase us off his stoops made the story all the more believable.

  I said it was early, but not too early for ‘Beforethewar’ to be directing traffic. He was where he was most mornings, in the middle of the street and ranting in fluent gibberish. He was a man boyish in size and outfitted in a cheap gray suit, dingy dress shirt and a food stained tie.  The old folks said that he used to be normal before the war, hence the name.  

 A fully orbed sun rose overhead, setting the block on a slow boil. Mr. Miller was out front of his grocery store rolling down the store awning. Mr. Andy, who ran the butcher shop for the white owner, was hanging meats in the window while fussing out a new deliveryman.  

 And, there was Sam the Junkman making his rounds, his tired old nag straining against the pull of the hill and the burden of a clinking, clanking mound of swaying scrap iron behind him. Bored with waiting around, I headed back upstairs. After a couple hours of cartoons, my father shut off the TV.

  “Boy, why don’t you go downstairs and play,” my father ordered. That’s the way it was back then. Lying on your deathbed was the only way to avoid going out to play on a Saturday. If the sun was out, so was I.  

   “Daddy, I want to play baseball with some of the kids later.”

      “Your mother and I don’t want you going off with kids we don’t know. Who all will be going with you,” he asked.

  “’Fat Stevie’ and some of the other kids,” I replied, being as vague as possible.

  “What other kids?” my father demanded to know.

   “Butch, Mikey’s older brother is going, and Johnny Page, Gregory’s older brother will be there too.” I had chosen those names because they were older. To tell the truth, I didn’t really know who was going, but I couldn’t tell him that. Mikey Styli’s brother, Butch, had to agree to look after me before I could go.

   Butch and Goose chose sides because they were the oldest. That’s how the game always started, choosing teams as we strolled up Convent Avenue. Convent Avenue snaked through the heart of New York City College. The campus was quiet as a cemetery on Saturday’s. We ditty-bopped (swaggered) up the street, jiving and cool-hand fiving. ‘Bat’ led the tribe in a booming call and response of Sardines and Pork and Beans.  

    Durant, the joker of the crew, was always ‘Sounding’ (launching a personal attack using humor) on somebody. And today was no different. I don’t think he had any particular dislike for me. But, as one of the youngest, I was simply an easy target.

     “Junie, your mother’s rich, right? She owns them beauty parlors and always going on trips.” All eyes turned to me. “Why don’t you tell your mother to give me some of that money?” I didn’t know how to respond. I didn’t mine that we were thought of as being rich, but I resented his tone.

  “I’ll tell my father,” was the only thing that came to mind.

    “Tell yo fucking father, nigga. Stevie, you ever seen Mr. Hall.  Don’t Junie’s father look like a fuckin’ go-rilla? A black ass go-rilla!”

  Stevie’s smirk cut deeper than Durant’s taunts. Durant hunched his back, and proceeded to leap up and down in place while flailing his arms and imitating the sounds of an ape. Durant’s attack was cut short when Butch rode to my rescue.

  “You want to pick on somebody, pick on me, nigga,” Butch said, stepping to Durant.

   “You ain’t said nothin’, nigga. Come wit it!” Durant fired back, crouching into a fighting stance. As Butch continued to come forward, Durant circled away, flicking a weak jab in Butch’s general direction.

  “Boy,” Butch warned him, “you ain’t ready for me yet,” seeming to ignore Durant’s weak threats. Then without warning, Butch pounced, launching a lightning fast punch, a ‘sucker punch’. Durant, the artful dodger, danced away from the blow while laughing and waving his finger at his much larger opponent.

   Before you knew it, there was a scatter of sparring erupting between boys of similar size. I was even allowed to get in a few playful licks on Durant while Butch held him in a full nelson. Durant’s voice took on a menacing tone as he struggled to free himself.

 “June Bug, I’m gonna kick your lil’ ass when I get loose. Nevertheless, he took the exaggerated taps in good sport.

                                                 Chapter Twenty-One: A Pecking Order

 It all came down to one’s street ‘rep’ (reputation). There were three ways to earn one. One way was by mastering the art of ‘Sounding’, some call it ‘playing the dozens’. Mastery required a sardonic wit combined with verbal dexterity and self-control. ‘Sounding’ was a challenge, forcing the recipient to come back with his best insult. It often paid to have a tailored insult locked and loaded.

   Targeting someone’s dingy clothes, physical defects, or filthy house was par for the course. But, when it came to family, things could get dicey. You know, “yo sista is so skinny she can see through a keyhole with both eyes at the same time”, or “yo momma’s so black she leaves fingerprints on charcoal.”

      But, as I said, ‘Sounding’ on someone’s family could get complicated. If done clumsily, you could end up with a fight on your hands. However, kids like Durant could say almost anything and get away with it. You just couldn’t get mad at them. And, if you did, it only amped him up even more.

   To be on the safe side, it was best to harass those you could beat, or stick to the least volatile members of the crew.  In that case, a fight rarely resulted. But the potential was always there. No doubt, with emotions on the line, things could get physical in a heartbeat.

    Reversely, the war of words actually helped to limit the number of altercations. Over all, it was a way of settling disputes without going to blows. Sometimes outsiders tried to agitate a fight by saying something like: “Oh, shit, you gonna let um talk about yo mother like that?” And, instigators were never in short supply.

Another way to earn a “rep” was with your hands. If you could fight, you were known to be ‘nice with the hands’. This was perhaps the most assured but perilous road to glory. You could also coattail a family member who had a heavy ‘rep’. Whole families were sometimes feared because of the sociopathic behavior of a single member.

 The whole of the neighborhood was one big pecking order, though it often changed from month to month. Every kid earned a place somewhere between the summit of supreme physical prowess and the lowly valley of the perpetually picked on. Being the youngest and with no older siblings to fight my battles, my place was at the bottom.

A third means of earning a ‘rep’ was by having a lot of loot. Needless to say, that group included precious few. ‘Fat Stevie’ stood alone in this category. When we went somewhere, he always had money to burn. When we went to the movies, he made a point of buying more than he could eat. He liked offering up the leftovers just to see kids fight over it, sometimes leaping over seats for a half eaten hotdog.

  Ah, but there were times when not even his deep pockets could shelter him from humiliation. You see, while he may have had money, boyish good looks, and a reputed family, he was fat.

                                          Chapter Twenty-Two: The Convent Blackjacks


 Going to the public pool, as with most city kids, was a summer ritual. Once there, we had to change in front of each other.  Durant was ready to rip into someone, when he caught sight of ‘Fat Stevie’ standing naked.

 “Yo, look at Stevie’s dick.” All eyes shifted to Steve’s lower anatomy. Stevie tried to pull up his trucks but they meet a temporary impasse at his jumbo thighs. His face turned a rosy red as he struggled unsuccessfully. 

  “Check it out; Stevie’s got a little baby dick.”  I can still see Durant firing off joke after joke, and then there was his hyena-like laugh.

   Durant used the tip of his forefinger to replicate Stevie’s meager endowment. Even the kids trying to stay in the good graces of the humiliated fat boy were hard-pressed to hide their laughter. 

  “He got one of dem’ Chinese dicks” More laughs. “No…no…no, he’s got a Jackie Gleason dick,” Durant blurted out, leaving the locker room buckled over with laughter.

 

Johnny Page was constantly drawing a comparison between ‘Fat Stevie’ and Jackie Gleason. He did look like a young black version of the ‘Great One’.  Stevie wasn’t use to being the butt of anyone’s jokes and his piteous plight registered profoundly on his chubby face. Oddly, I felt sorry for him, yet reveled in his profound shame at the same time.

 On another occasion Marvin Blake and Stevie were exchanging words, when Marvin issued a challenge. Marvin goaded him in to the fight was more like it. Until then, Stevie had only a couple of fights, but no real test. And, this was going to be a real test. Terrance Park was chosen as the venue for the match.

  Stevie had just turned ten. The one or two fights that he did have were against nobodies with ‘Bat’ and ‘Country Ricky’ standing by if things got out of hand, which surely had an effect on his opponent’s efforts. After his hyped victories, Stevie was hailed as the next Joe Louis. It is easy to see how his ego may have been inflated.

 Word of the fight caught the grapevine and spread like a wildfire. Johnny Page and his brother Greg acted as town criers. Before long, there was Mikey, ‘Stoogy’, ‘Bat’, and his brothers Reggie and ‘Cockeyed’ Louie.

But, it didn’t go down right away. No, this was too big. It rated a title fight audience. When a sizeable crowd had gathered, we headed for the park and beyond any adult meddling. We stormed up the long hill leading to Terrance Park. Stevie drew most of the attention, boosting his already swelled confidence. Marvin outpaced the group, and was waiting in the center of the court when we arrived.

    

  ‘Bat’ was always Mr. Cool.  His ‘rep’ came from his silky coolness under fire, his laid back manner, and his popularity with the ladies. ‘Bat’, while years older, was close with Stevie. With his arm draped over Stevie’s shoulder, he whispered a few last minute instructions to his fighter.

  Waiting for the gang to gather, Stevie had gone upstairs to fetch Bum, his Boxer Terrier. We arrived at the park, about thirty strong. The combatants squared off, prepared to do battle. As the calls for fireworks mounted, so did the tension. Marvin looked superbly confident while ‘Fat Stevie tried in vain to mask his sudden doubts.

  From round one, Marvin came out launching haymakers. It was apparent from the start that Marvin was too strong, too quick, and too game for his chubby challenger. To his credit, ‘Fat Stevie’ gave it a go. But after being on the wrong end of two jawbreakers, he decided that retreating was the better part of valor.

  Stevie scanned the surrounding faces for help. No one dared jump in partly because they would have to deal with Marvin’s two crazy ass brothers, and partly because ‘Fat Stevie’ had it coming. Finally, Stevie grabbed Bum and commanded him to sick’em. But, Marvin attacked the terrier with the same savage fury he used against the dog’s master, yielding the same results.

  Stevie and Bum bolted for the gate with Marvin in attack mode. The rest of us laughed hysterically while struggling to keep pace. But, when Bum scampered right pass his owner, running nearly sideways to avoid its chain, we lost it. As ‘Fat Stevie’ rambled for home, none of us were in any condition to follow.

 The next day Stevie’s trouncing was all anyone was talking about. The mortified fat boy wasn’t seen for several days. That moonlit night in the park exposed the chink in his armor. Wisely, he would never make the mistake of fighting his own battles (at least not without a gun in hand) again, a policy that would later serve him well as he climbed to the top of Harlem’s drug world.