Moose, obsidian black, heavyweight,
master street fighter, who had been
looking at the floor all the time, but
was really watching the hip movements
of everybody in the joint, raised his
head in genuine amazement. In seconds,
the rage that clouded his face scared
me. He wanted to do Larry right there.
He looked at Larry a long time, then
looked at me, his jaws tightening.
He cradled his left fist with his huge
right hand in front of his genitals.
That was the signal. It was time to get
this over with. I was still shaking. I was
still scared. But I had to do something
to save face, to let my group and
Larry know I was going all the way.
BRN-SPRING-2015.indb 9
“Why’d you beat him up Larry? He’s just
a kid. He didn’t do anything to you. He
doesn’t even know you,” I said calmly.
Larry’s face exploded in anger and he
started to point his finger in my face as
he screamed, “Fuck you, nigga. I fucked
him up because I fucked him up. That’s
all there is to it. He shouldn’t have been
there. I don’t have to tell you shit.”
Larry was in a bind. The beating was
senseless. I had been told that by Shorty
who was with my brother when he
was beaten (and didn’t raise a hand to
protect him). After I smacked Shorty
and bounced him off the wall a few
times, he blurted out that Larry and
some of his boys had wandered
downstairs from the house party the
night before and decided to bully
three Puerto Rican men coming home
late from work. The teens were drunk.
The older men were sober and they
fought well, fending off the gang attack
and beating the kids with their fists,
fair and square. Shorty told me the
‘Ricans simply walked away, no cops
were called, no weapons drawn.
But the humiliation lingered and the
young toughs burst into the house
party looking for Puerto Ricans,
knowing that the only one there was,
was my fourteen-year-old brother
Pablo, who then paid the price for
their loss of pride.
BLACK RENAISSANCE NOIRE
“Why’d you…uhmm…why’d you
beat up my brother?” I said squeakily.
His crowd in the poolroom laughed
at my cracking voice. My guys glowered
at me, their eyes burning into mine.
But they didn’t intervene. I had to
do this on my own — that was the
code. They’d back me up, but I had to
challenge and follow through.
Quickly stepping forward, I pushed my
hand down hard into the middle of the
pool cue and said softly, “There’s gonna
be no game today, Larry. We gonna
talk.” Larry, angry, confused, spat the
word “Motherfucka” out and tried to
pull the pool cue up. It didn’t move.
Somehow, my right forearm, sinewy
but strong, didn’t give out. Letting
go of the cue, he backed up a bit and
started to come toward me. I expected
him to swing and I just waited
deadlocked in time and space, looking
straight at him. Out of nowhere it
seemed the manager of the joint — a
short, semi-balding, middle-aged
brown-skinned man with moles all
over his face — jumped in between us,
grabbed the cue I had my hand on and
yelled, “Y’all take this shit downstairs.
I don’t want no shit up in heah.
Y’all deal with it downstairs, ya hear?”
Larry and I stared at each other for a
few seconds. He was trying to figure
out where the fuck I got the sudden
burst of courage. I was simply holding
on to my mission of asking him why
he beat my brother, possibly fighting
him, hopefully eking out a draw and
never having him mess with me or my
family again.
9
Slowly, I walked over to Larry’s pool
table. He didn’t move, didn’t speak,
and continued to cue up his next shot.
I made the mistake of approaching him
from his right side where he could’ve
easily swung the thin part of the pool
cue into my face; eyes, ears, nose, or
throat, all potential targets. I sensed I
had blown the approach so I closed the
gap between us. On the streets, this
kind of proximity meant war. For real.
Then, it seemed that the entire pool
hall clambered down the stairs, by the
sound of the rumbling feet on that
sunny spring day, sober and serious.
The crowd surrounded us on the
corner — my guys in the inner circle,
his people on the outer. It wasn’t lost
on me that none of his folks tried to
muscle in for a better look or listen.
There was a gut-churning silence. And
then I spoke, a little firmer, a little
louder, but still trembling. I was really
scared of this guy and hoping, beyond
hope, that a miracle would occur to
end this confrontation; maybe he could
say he was sorry or something to that
effect. I could call him a bunch of
motherfuckas, threaten him with murder
if he touched my family again, and leave.
He would save his life, I would save face,
and our mediocre lives would continue
unabated. It wasn’t to be.
3/29/15 11:41 AM