i had a friend growing up, Tuti, who had a fucked up home life. We went from 1st to 8th grade together and he was "the kid who pissed himself" all the way to 2nd grade. His mom started as kind of just the local floozy to full blown crack whore. His dad was basically a straight laced guy who was trying his best to just keep his family afloat. He and his wife naturally separated and, of course, in classical NYC family court wisdom, the courts gave the mother custody. So Tuti's dad moved around the corner and would routinely drop by to keep tabs on his kids as best he could. Tuti had a little sister who was about 8 and retarded. Tuti's mom basically kept her locked up in the apartment and we barely saw her.

There was a local bum named Popcorn. Popcorn was a homeless guy who always wore hawaiian shirts and was kind of a jeff lebowski figure in the neighborhood. he set up basically a shack in an empty lot and would do bonfires in a huge oil can and set up an old fridge after having hacked a lightpost for electricity. real bum shit.

anyways it's summer and we're on Tuti's block. And we're standing around not doing much of anything. We see Tuti's dad coming down the street, say hi and he chats with Tuti for a little while and goes "I'm going home real quick to see Stacy (his daughter)".

fine.

ffwd 4 minutes later.

we hear screaming from one of the windows of the building and we hear things being thrown and a ruckus. out of Tuti's window comes out Popcorn and he's going down the fire escape as Tuti's dad is chasing him.

Popcorn is naked.

The block is full of people.

Popcorn runs into his shack down the block. About 90 seconds later we see Tuti's dad. He runs INTO Popcorn's shack, drags him out and beats the ever loving shit out of him.

The whole time Tuti is watching this and never said a word. It all settled and we carried on like nothing ever happened. Tuti, at last report, was in jail in New Hampshire. He never had a chance.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=3603909&forum_id=2#33225362)

do you know what happened to popcorn and tuti's sister? and tuti's mom and dad?

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=3603909&forum_id=2#33225417)

that era was a crazy time. most of the people i went to catholic school with ended up pretty successful considering their circumstances. Eddie and Tuti were more the exception than the norm for that little schoolhouse.

OTOH, the rate of fuck up for everyone else in the neighborhood was super high.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=3603909&forum_id=2#33225591)

I'm with my bf Eddie who lives on Tuti's block. He goes "let's scoop Tuti real quick". OK. As I mentioned above, Tuti's mom was the local crack whore who had custody of both Tuti and his sister, Stacy. Stacy had several disabilities and was barely seen outside of the apartment. We go into the building and go to the third floor and Eddie bangs on the door like he's the police. I had never been to Tuti's house before.

"WHO THE FUCK IS IT?!", Virginia screams. Tuti's mom's name was Virginia.

"Eddie, open up, we here to pick up Tuti". I hear the creaking of what sounds like storm gates. After a series of bangs and clangs, the door opens. Virginia had set up a sliding steel gate behind her door like you would find on a freight elevator. I walk into what can only be described like a nightmare.

There are flies. Old furniture. The sink is piled with dishes. The tv is on some old cartoon like Tom and Jerry or Woody Woodpecker. The volume is on FULL BLAST. and in the middle of the living room is Stacy. She is in a diaper and babbling. She is nude except for the diaper. She is about 8. She is in an extra large baby crib. She's dirty. She motions to the kitchen table and says "sit, lemme go get Tuti". She waddles to the back in like a teddy style robe "Tuti, Eddie is here!" she yells into his room. She waddles back to the common area in a bit of a fog. She plops down in the other chair at the table. It's me, eddie and virginia.

She looks around and asks "you want anything to drink?" 'No, no, we're good'. "Okay".

She gets up goes to the sink. I think she is about to start washing dishes. No.

Not at all.

She picks up a crack pipe, lights up and takes a hit. She sits down back at the table and says nothing.

Tuti comes out, sees the smoke, sees us and goes "Ma, you couldn't wait?"

Virginia says nothing.

He seems me, not having expected me and goes "wassup man?" 'Nothing, just bullshitting' . "word?"

We leave.

That was over 20 years ago and I could probably draw the inside of that apartment from memory.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=3603909&forum_id=2#33225522)

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=3603909&forum_id=2#33225602)

to be clear, my parents were functionally agnostic. i started going to church by myself and eventually my parents started going to church because i went to church. my wife asked my mother about how we grew up in the south bronx and why she let me to run the streets doing whatever i wanted and my mom said something to the effect of:

"beckersted always had like a coat. he was born with a coat that protected him. he could walk right through hell and nothing would happen to him. and i always knew that. we always did."

I am not here really to question their wisdom, because they were teenagers. they didn't know their elbow from their eye socket.

i was pretty devout on my own and actually went to seminary.

and then i fell away for years and years. then i got sick, nearly died, and had a "reversion" experience. and i went to regular church and it was fine and i remember hearing somewhere that there were places where they still did "the old mass". I asked on facebook if anyone knew of any of these places. lo and behold, a guy i trained with did. and that was that. i went once. and the moment it started i knew. i knew this was it. it was like my soul was on fire.

i add the bit about my mom to say that i don't question providence. it is what it is. and we all experience it in some way. for me, and maybe this is me coping with PTSD, i was supposed to see everything and not have it touch me so i could report on it later. i dont know really.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=3603909&forum_id=2#33225644)

much more ornate ceremony.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=3603909&forum_id=2#33225921)

and that's it. we keep walking. about 20 feet ahead my cousin in a fit of courage or a massive T dump turns around "what nigga, what you gonna do?!" delayed as fuck. everything was cool. i look at him and go "yo, what the fuck are you doing?"

WORD?!

*shots fired*

we run and run, stop at least 5 blocks away nearly about to have a heart attack.

we get back to the block. cousin has a hole in his jacket where a bullet went in and out.

i should have beaten the dog shit out of my cousin that day. he is a now a pool hustler for a living.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=3603909&forum_id=2#33225745)

we walk and casually discuss why i am being kidnapped. long story short--his nephew got jumped by a bunch of puerto ricans from bainbridge he had a beef with and he's gonna check if i was one of the guys. We get about 2 blocks out and make a left, crossing the grand concourse onto a side street. he screams up to a window "tyrell, come down here". Head pops out the window and the kid comes down. I see the kid and i can see that someone REALLY roughed this kid the fuck up. "is this one of the guys?" he eyeballs me "nah, this aint him...yo...my uncle just stole you?" 'yup, here i am. he pulled a piece on me, what i was gonna do, run?" 'yo, i'm so sorry...listen uncle this aint that dude' . "You ABSOLUTELY sure?" 'absolutely' . "go upstairs".

he apologizes and walks me back to right in front of beat street.

what i remember about it was how calm i was like "oh well, guess im getting kidnapped today."

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=3603909&forum_id=2#33225753)

but an elderly dominican lady running a laundromat? of course they picked her as a target.

it was like a scene out of a movie.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=3603909&forum_id=2#33225763)

so i'm with another older cousin who was always in the middle of some hustle. he dealt drugs and did all types of other shit trying to get rich. you know guys like this--always try to reinvent an existing scam to make more profitable forgetting that if you think of it, someone already did and the chances are nearly zero you are going to improve the game. anyways, one part of his drug dealing schtick i did think was inventive. he worked at a dr. jays clothing store on fordham road and he would arrange various drop offs at the sneaker department where he worked. the other guy would come--see him--and say like "yo, let me see those in a 12" and he would get them and the guy would do the drop into the shoe box that had only 1 shoe. etc. actually not a bad idea. anyways, my cousin always had fly cars and he loved bringing me around even though i was like 6 years younger. i realized later he basically said "well, beckersted was live. i knew that if shit got crazy he could keep his head straight and would fight anybody so you can't buy that shit while still being calm." anyways...he takes me in like his pathfinder to his stash house spot on kingsbridge in the bronx. he double parks and goes "you stay in the car in the drivers seat with the blinkers on. if the cops come, just honk." 'yo, i don't know how to drive' . "don't worry about it, i will be quick." the stash house was run by the woman who would become his mother in law. so he goes in and he's taking just like...a little too long. again, warm sunny day. it always seems to be days like this where banana shit would happen. i'm playing with the radio trying to look cool and there is a bodega on the corner. i see two rather shifty dudes walking into the bodega and i noticed it like "they got plans" so i keep my eyes open. i start to hear gun fire, guy runs out, pulls out and starts shooting into the door of the bodega. i jump from the drivers seat into the back seat and shoehorn myself into the floor of the backseat. eventually there is silence. my cousin jumps in the car "where the fuck is he?!?!?" i yell out "im on the floor in the back let's BOUNCE NOW!". we speed off and i sit up and look at the corner...just 3 dead bodies on the sidewalk and the sounds of summer. like a bird chirping. like nothing. as if 3 guys hadn't just killed each other.

two:

guys on the block have an ersatz drug dealing business going. I'm about 12...whatever age you are in 8th grade. and i go to catholic school so i have a catholic school uniform i wear. the older guys on the block get the idea "get beckersted to make the deliveries. no one is going to stop a kid with a full bookbag and a catholic school uniform." me, not one to avoid adventure, am game. they agree to pay me 50 dollars a drop circa 1990-1991. that was, easy, a nintendo game or two. or as we called them "nintendo tapes". i would go to the spot, empty my bag, and fill it with crack, get directions to where to go and who to speak to. the assumption was i give them the bag, they fill it with money and i go. i had no responsibility beyond going back and forth. this worked well for months. then they had a new customer--a "bunch of jamaicans" on morris. i go and follow directions. i ring the bell and they are on like the 5th floor. "who is it?!" 'beckersted, jason sent me' . "okay, come up". i get on the elevator and go up. i go up to the door and ring the bell. i hear someone look through the peep hole. the door flies open and i see 2 guys. 1 is grabbing my by tie and dragging me into the apartment and the other has a double barrel. I get violently dragged into the living room and slammed on the floor. the guy with the double barrel is glaring at me and the other guy is super roughhousing me to rip off my book bag. he takes it and throws it to a third guy i didn't see. they go through it and check the product. i'm on the floor with my hands up kinda like a stick up. the guy with the double barrel says "open your mouth" and put the barrel in my mouth. after what felt like an eternity and really was like 30 seconds the 3rd guy goes "it's fine, all there". and ALL OF A SUDDEN the guy takes the barrel out and offers me a hand "i'm so sorry my friend, are you okay?" and i go "yeah yeah, i'm fine". what i remember was the metallic taste in my mouth. i go "can i sit down though, i'm shook". 'of course, of course' and they all glad hand me and pat me on the back and we chat about how we're new customers so you never know, you know how it is, no big deal, do you want rum? 'yeah, yeah...i will take some rum'. and i drink down a glass of rum--at age 12--right down the hatch. we bullshit a little and that was that. they throw me a 20 for the trouble on top of the 50 i already got for the delivery. i went and bought a nintendo tape. super pitfall. i remember everything about that day very vividly because i think i was more actively scared knowing i had a couple of thousand dollars in my bookbag than i was during the incident and i didn't want to get robbed on the way from the video game spot back to the block. i made the hand off, said nothing about it, went home, sat down, did my homework and played super pitfall and was disappointed at how shitty a game it was considering what i had went through to buy it.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=3603909&forum_id=2#33225764)

I remember being pissed my mom spend like $5.99 or whatever it cost for a 3 day rental from the local video store. Kinda crazy how different an experience growing up in the suburbs can be. (Though I have lived in the hood.)

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=3603909&forum_id=2#33225874)

i'm in my late teens chilling in front of the building and it's bunch of us just bullshitting. we watch a youngish black guy coming up the street with a girl just shitting all over this guy and he's basically ignoring her. every once in while she mushes his face or pushes him and all his saying is "you really need to chill". but she keeps on following him. she pushes him onto this stop sign on the corner about 20 feet from us just BITCHING in his face. imagine a worldstar video. he's looking away like "you gotta chill...chill...stop...why you doing this?" and she spits at him and keeps going.he walks to about the middle of the block--the block is on a hill at a steep decline, one way, this is a pivotal piece of information--we're laughing like "this is the most chill dude ever taking all of this". at a certain point a crowd of girls come around the corner towards the fracas...they obviously know her and are like "girl, like how she doing him lol" *high fives* etc. he gets into his car and gets the car to the middle of the street. this girl is outside FULL BANSHEE. Punching him through the window, calling him every name she knows. he comes out, car in park in the middle of the street and says pretty damn clearly "you need to stop this shit right now". 'Nigga I aint doing shit you faggot assed bitch ass' yadda yadda. he gets back into the car and she wont let him close the door. he hits the gas for like 5 feet. she doesn't let go. Does it again. Same thing. Doesn't let go.

HE FUCKING FLOORS IT. he drags this chick a solid half block with her NOT LETTING GO as she bounces up and down off of the asphalt. he friends FREAK THE FUCK OUT he goes all the way down the block downs towards the next and her body lets go and goes limp. her friends rush around her. We bailed like "fuck this, i didn't see anything". as her friends are crying and screaming.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=3603909&forum_id=2#33225770)

fucking guy had ice in his veins.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=3603909&forum_id=2#33225772)

Your stories remind me of this though:

https://www.reddit.com/r/Drugs/comments/64yo3g/coke_parties/

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=3603909&forum_id=2#33225785)

I remember being in basically a three month daze because I realized how much I loved where I grew up (not hood, are country) and how oddly unique it is

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=3603909&forum_id=2#33225846)

i am on "the block" which wasn't my block, but the one i hung out on. it's a nice day---always in the summer ffs--and my cousin and i are playing slugs. slugs is like an old man's version of handball with a bouncy blue ball against the wall on the sidewalk. it was more of a finesse game where you hit the ball and made it bounce once and the other player would do the same until someone missed, hit the wall on no bounce or too many bounces.

we were about 16.

and this older guy i knew was standing on the corner by a stop sign. i assume he was selling. his name was Thomas. He was a quiet and tough dude. muscular...i would say he was about 19 or 20. Anyways, a yellow car comes down the block and sprays him in a drive by. He crumples to the floor. We both dodge between parked cars until the gun fire settles. I get up and see Thomas back to the ground looking up and mumbling. I run to him, put my arms under him and sit him up. He was wearing like a white fruit of loom t-shirt. he has a small hole in his chest...holes? He's covered in blood. And then i felt like a prick in my finger and i remember going "ow" and then looking at my finger and i see i have a relatively deep cut on my index finger. I look at his back and see that he has like a shard of bone sticking out of his back and it was sharp enough that it cut me. He died right there. Shit he may have already been dead. the rest of the day was a whirlwind with cops, questions, etc, the ambulance. everyone standing around. it was nuts.

I never told my parents what happened. they never found out. thinking about it now...that's kinda the craziest part.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=3603909&forum_id=2#33225884)

i went to a small catholic school that went from K-8 in a classical schoolhouse set up. you had one teacher who taught all the subjects, you drilled your math tables, first addition/substraction then multiplication and division. punishments normally were writing lines and lines how you see in the beginning of the simpsons out on paper in longhand. "i will not call rosalie a bad name ever again" 100 times and then the teacher would take and throw it in the trash in front of you. unless one of your teachers was the nun, in that case, you got your knuckles wrapped with the yard stick. and if you really fucked up, they would call the principal, Sr. Ann, and she would come, drag you around the hallways by your ear and yell at you.

my mother is basically made out of granite. a big, country strong woman with man hands from working on a farm growing up. she was 6' tall, about 160 or more i guess. she was terrifying and was the strict disciplinarian. my dad was the happy go lucky guy who made everything better. my mom beat me pretty good for many many years. the kind of beatings that get child services called on you now. she routinely slapped me in the face and, every once in awhile, would punch me.

most of my beatings revolved around not cleaning up my room. she was, to be honest, somewhat sadistic in retrospect. she once threw my toys in the trash because "obviously, you don't want them because if you did, you would take care of them". one particular event sticks out---actually there are a bunch, but this one fits this thread.

one day i came home and i had a B in something. i don't remember what, my mother is yelling at me and i said something back. who knows what, but she snapped out a left jab and knocked me down. now she was wearing her wedding ring so it split me open and gave me a black eye.

whatever happens the rest of the night happens. i do remember my father coming home, seeing it, and calmly asking to talk to my mother. he closes the bedroom door and i hear him saying something to the effect of "if i ever find him like that again, i'm going to hit you like a man just like you did to him". he didn't yell. he just made it clear.

i don't think this registered all that well with her.

fast forward the next morning. i wake up, but i am not getting dressed for school. i remember that i must have been in 2nd grade because it was Miss Small who was my teacher. my mother comes in and barks, "why aren't you dressed for school?" i tell her "i can't go to school like this, they will get us in trouble". i remember seeing people being dragged into foster care for shit like this so i knew no matter what was happening at home, i had a clean house, food was never an issue and dad was the man. i wasn't trading that because my mom was a little off kilter. she looks me in the face and says "if they ask you what happened, you tell them my mother punched me in the face for talking back." ok...no problem.

i go to school and my mother goes to work in queens. no sooner than i sit down after the pledge of allegiance and our morning prayers that miss small asks "beckersted, what happened to you?". i ask to go talk to her at her desk and i tell her "my mother told me to tell you that she punched me in the face for talking back." miss small says "ok, go to sr. ann's office and tell her what you just told me."

i'm terrified.

i make the short walk to the principal's office and i see mrs. jackson, the older black lady who lived on my block and was the secretary. "mrs. jackson, miss small sent me to see sr. ann." mrs. jackson goes "beckersted, what happened to you?". 'miss small told me to speak to sr. ann', deflecting her question. i remember her face. i remember how she always dressed. she was a big black woman who had a warm voice and always had a smile on her face and wore different patterns of floral dresses that went to her ankles. it's funny what you remember. she goes "sr. ann is inside, just go and talk to her'. i realize now, some 30 plus years later how worried they all were for me. at that time, all i felt was fear.

i knock on the door frame and her sr. ann yell "come in!". she was an outrageously tough white woman who i thought was 40 or so. but in reality, she was one of those people who aged to 41 and stayed there for 40 years. she is still the principal there. she was outrageously smart and, in another life, i'm sure would have been one of the first CEOs of something important. she routinely makes the news whenever the knicks make a run in the playoffs because the post and daily news run a special interest story on the nuns in the bronx who are knicks season ticket holders. she was a huge knicks fan. the shit you remember.

i go "it's me sr. ann". she looks at me and stands up erect and goes "come here, beckersted". she grabs my face and looks. "what happened to you?". 'miss small sent me here and told me to tell you what i told her.' "what did you tell her?" 'my mom told me to tell anyone who asked that she punched in the face for talking back.'

sr. ann looks and goes 'we're going to call your mom and have her come here so we can talk.' I go "no no no, please, no, imma get in BIG TROUBLE if she has to leave work to come here!" i'm terrified. and realize that sr. ann saw that. i may have even run to grab the phone to stop her. she yells from her office "mrs. jackson, give me beckersted's mom's phone number at work...go outside and sit in the hallway." i do what i was told. i'm trying not to cry. mrs. jackson walks across the hall with one of those pieces of stock paper you pull out from an old school rolodex. you don't really see those anymore. i hear sr. ann dial the number on the old rotary phone. that sound, the whizz of the rotor. and then i hear sr. ann speak to someone who goes to get my mom. and it's fuzzy, but my mother agrees to come.

sr. ann tells me to go back to class. i go. what feels like an eternity passes and mrs. jackson's head is behind the glass of the door to the classroom. she knocks, comes in and whispers to miss small. "beckersted, your mom is here."

i get up and go. i want to die.

i get to the office and my mother is sitting there. i take a seat next to my mother. sr. ann starts...and this is where i get fuzzy because what happens next crowds everything else out. like its all too loud and crowds the rest of the memory out.

i'm sure it's sr. ann saying you can't have him sent here like this and we should call the police but we will not because we know the family and the like.

my mother gets up. she picks me up from my chair and she starts to raise her voice. she says something to the effect of "you're a nun. just because you run a school here doesn't mean you understand what it's like to raise a little boy in this place. he needs to be tough or he won't listen. beckersted, *she turns me to face her*, i love you." she then slaps me hard right in my face. my mother knew my pain threshold and how a slap, even by then, was no big deal to me. she slaps me and just take it. sr. ann is staring in shock. i can only imagine the look i gave her. my mother says "i know you care, but i can do whatever the hell i want to my son to make sure he's right...let's go home, we're getting ice cream."

and we got ice cream. and it was never mentioned again.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=3603909&forum_id=2#33233240)

stories about the old couple in the building and their grandkids.

the wanda webo story.

ozzie & jaucinto.

"he got the monster"...the early days of AIDS in the hood.

the crack whores on 176.

a bottle over the head.

throwing eddie white boy into the garbage can.

stripping cars.

"papa, the jamaican bum with the heart of gold".

what happens when a business gives up, the story of loew's paradise.

what orchard beach was like in its heyday.

sometimes, you just throw roaches at each other.

elevator surfing in the projects.

running the tracks and other dumb feats of hormone induced lunacy.

alice got shot.

running into big ear steve at the cage.

how cotchie died.

when richie lost his leg.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=3603909&forum_id=2#33233431)

lazaro called the cops.

they threw that nigga robocop off the roof.

hood justice...you don't rape chicks from the block...only the pedophiles on our block can do that.

schneider and what happens when a drug dealer takes over a building.

fight club, it aint just a book.

"they threw him off the major deegan...we have to bury him."

"you going to jail? i always thought you were a good kid."

you'd be surprised how hard the human head is when it's bouncing off of a pay phone.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=3603909&forum_id=2#33233513)

I went to a small catholic school in that used the classical method. One school room all day and the same teacher. I started there young, 1st grade and went all the way through 8th grade. We basically all grew up together, knew each others families and parents. To say that we hyperbonded would be an understatement. We're all 40 or just about 40 and we still all keep up and hang out occasionally in the bronx for drinks at city island, bowling, etc. And the school and the church were inexorably linked. They fed each other so sometimes we saw each other every day since social life also centered around the church, be it open basketball on saturdays and sundays, boy scouts, community service and seeing each other at church. noon mass on sunday was a social event.

I remember showing up to church on March 25th 1990 and walking to church and seeing that there were news vans all over the front entrance and seeing reporters on the scene doing live spots in front of the church and in the parking lot. i was confused and asked what happened.

the night before 87 people were burned alive at the Happy Land Social Club just off of Southern Boulevard. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Happy_Land_fire Happy Land was basically a Garifuna spot where young people and adults would get together, drink and chill. A lot of parishoners died in that fire. The whole scene was very surreal. Mass was just basically overpowered by people wailing. My parents found out at mass that some of their friends died in that fire.

And through it all, I didn't feel much until monday morning. I get to school, get in line outside and then our teacher comes to get us outside and process us in. We notice that 3 of our classmates are not in school but think nothing of it. People sometimes are absent.

We get to class and the teacher hits us with the news. Two of my classmates lost a parent in the fire and another lost both. They eventually came back to school the next week, but, needless to say they were never the same.

that's it. that's the story. some times life is just fucked up.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=3603909&forum_id=2#33254383)

i am walking by and she goes "you wanna a grape?" "yes, i would, would you believe i've never had a grape before" "GET OUT!" yeah

we chat for 5 minutes and i am about to go and i ask here what she was doing outside at 7am. "oh i woke up early with nothing to do". 'you wanna go on a hike?' "what?" I explain what i want to do. I tell her to bring a swimsuit since part of the trail goes through orchard beach.

she runs inside, throws a bag together and we go on an 8 mile hike. it's a trail that traces hessian forces as they chase washington's troops with some other sites along the way. i explain everything. we go to orchard to swim and i actually teach her how to REALLY swim...at least a little. i took her for like our version of dinner later. and we kiss at the end when we get back to the block in her hallway for no one to know and she goes "i want to get to know you better. i haven't had such a good time ever".

she was killed a month later by a stray bullet in claremont park. mayor guiliani came to visit the family. i like to think she was telling the truth when she said she never had a better time in her life. because it really was very sweet even 20 years later.

alice got shot.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=3603909&forum_id=2#33345809)

i remember that day really well and think on it very fondly.

copying this from another thread...i think it fit here.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=3603909&forum_id=2#33345902)

that's what you did. you broke night and then started over because you can't really dwell. so...breaking night was to give me the time i needed to get over it. but it was only one night. after that, you keep trucking.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=3603909&forum_id=2#33345994)

it's been a long time i thought about exactly what she looked like.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=3603909&forum_id=2#33346009)

anyways, it was near the tail end of senior year and i go to my boy scout meeting. at that point i was a junior assistant scoutmaster and we had a huge troop. about 75 strong went to summer camp and every meeting had about 40 kids. i go, basically manage things as the adult leader basically and walk home. it's about 9:30 pm. i go home and friday was a night my mom didn't cook. normally, i would go to the chinese take out spot and get french fries and chicken wings and crash so i could get up early and go play ball at the park on saturday morning. for reasons that i couldn't tell you now, i got home and changed out of my boy scout uniform just to go to the chino spot.

i walk to the chino spot and order my french fries and chicken wings. "ketchup on the wings and the fries". interesting side note, the young asian guy who worked and lived in the chino spot growing up and had to deal with every type of bullshit. i can't imagine how many times they were robbed even with the thick ass glass at the counter and how many times that poor fucking kid was called a chink or gook. truth is, he was probably never called a gook, no one in the neighborhood had the cultural currency to even know that word. he probably got called a ching chong a lot. anyways, i remember always going there and feeling a pang of guilt as he dealt with bullshit because he was always doing his homework between orders. we were the same age and by chance once before i left for college i saw him...and we knew each other vaguely in that i always treated him well and we had ordered food from there for over 15 years...i saw him wearing a cornell sweatshirt and i asked "are you going to cornell?" 'yeah, you going to college too?' "yeah, HYP." he stared for a second, smiled widely and said 'you were always cool'.

anyways.

i am in the restaurant, quickly make my order and i am not in the restaurant 30 seconds when i see a white sedan, like a cutlass caprice, speed and screech to a halt in front of the spot. i look and out of the drivers' side comes out a white man, youngish, couldn't have been 30 in a leather jacket. he goes around the car to the passengers' side and opens the door and behind him comes a short mexicanish man--think quiet day laborer type. he bolts into the restaurant with a gun out.

"hands up fucking now"

i put my hands up.

"hands against the wall"

i put my hands against the wall.

there was another guy in the restaurant and he is doing the same thing and he cooly asks 'who are you?' guy reaches into his jacket and flashes a badge. nypd.

cop asks the mexican meekly behind him. "is this the guy?" not really even referring to the black guy, but me. the mexican guy squints, looks me up and down "yeah, this is the guy".

the rest of the night is a bit of a blur, but it involves me going to the 46th, they're packed, they take me to another holding facility on 161st. also packed. i go to rikers for the weekend until i can see a judge on monday morning.

i don't know that there is much to add to it. it was a terrifying weekend knowing i was gonna just deal. i don't know what happens now, but 20+ years ago when this went down, rikers had like a spot just for holding for people in my predicament. the shittiest part, besides the fighting, was that you actually never changed clothes. you were in your regular clothes, just without a belt and laces. this one guy and i made a team sitting back to back on the steel benches and watching each others backs. not that either of us could really defend ourselves against a very different kind of animal than "the guy from the block".

the story is a lot more boring than people would think. i got in front of a judge on monday, told him i was in boy scouts and i did't rob a mexican man of 500 dollars (btw, that's what he claimed...a puerto rican guy who was like 18 and 6 feet tall strong armed him...congrats, you named most of the neighborhood).

one last thing you don't forget other than raving lunatics, fighting, having to shit in front of everybody...the smell. there is no smell like it. i can't even describe it. imagine the subway on the hottest day and then multiple that with body odor.

and that was that.

i think may be my last story. i don't think i have the emotional energy to write these anymore.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=3603909&forum_id=2#33411582)

it's important to distinguish between a wino and bum since they are sometimes conflated. a wino is just a drunk who, somehow, manages to keep a roof over his head that is relatively stable, clean clothes and just walks around in a relative buzz and a brown bagged bottle around at all times. a bum should require no description i would hope. and yes while bums and winos tended to get along and even collaborate on certain construction projects such as hotwiring the street lights to power the fridge they set up in the empty lot or in keeping the warm gentle flame of the fire they had going in the steel drum, they are still different species of person.

my dad, being a truck driver, sometimes required a helper for certain deliveries that were "inside jobs". these jobs were indicated on the packing slip in big letters on the bottom "INSIDE JOB". these required the driver take apart the load by hand and deliver into the destination. in many cases, these were office buildings in the city where the person in "receiving" was just some secretary who was not going to touch a box let alone 50 boxes. early in your career as a truck driver for a middle outfit, you got all of the inside jobs. you gotta pay dues and senior drivers don't a) touch frieght and b) do city routes. they got the cushy routes from the bronx to south jersey and back. one full trailer to a professional dock with a receiving team and an actual dock. the young guys had to maneuver either a box truck or a short trailer around the city. double park. NOT get a ticket. and make the delivery.

my dad took to hiring a local wino whose name i don't remember. he was like a jamaican guy called Maxwell. Maxwell was a wino. my dad would pick him up in front of the liquor store, buy him breakfast and give him like 20 bucks which--in the 80s--was a fair enough wage. My father got friendly enough with Maxwell that he even came to the house for thanksgiving and cleaned up and kept a relatively clear head about him at thanksgiving.

this went on for over 2 years at least. my dad would scoop him, do the deliveries and hand him 20 and drop him off to the wino crew. rinse. repeat.

dad goes one day to pick up Maxwell and he isn't there. some of the other winos are there and tell him "maaaan, they threw maxwell off the major deegan last night." wait, what happened? "he dead. maxwell is dead."

my dad goes home, tells us and waits a day. he's at dinner and says plainly, the way someone would say "it's gonna rain tomorrow" or "the yankees lost last night"--

"Maxwell was killed the other day. they threw off the major deegan...we have to bury him." my mom asked "how do expect to do that?"

"well, have to find out where his body is and then we're going to bury it. he has no family here. they're all in jamaica. somebody has to do it. we're gonna put him in a box. give him a funeral. get him a stone. and bury him."

and my dad, through whatever calls and maneuvers did just that. we had a showing at the local ortiz funeral home. he collected the winos and got them to the funeral parlor. he then had a funeral mass no one attended but us and then we buried him in woodlawn cemetary alone. and he paid for all of it.

and that is that.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=3603909&forum_id=2#33847282)

new york city was a bugged out place not too long ago.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=3603909&forum_id=2#33847599)

Basically what dad believes and does is what matters; in a "both go" household the dad could just be going to keep mom happy, but if he's the only one going he definitely gives a shit. The kids see that and imitate.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=3603909&forum_id=2#33847875)

I grew up in highland park and I have some dece stories too

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=3603909&forum_id=2#33847835)

ffwd to end of the night. it's 1 am and it's eddie and another guy from then who was a marine and now a beat cop in the bronx. i ask about trauma of the work etc. cop goes "there are times where you see so much that you just want to curl up and die or not go to work and just lie in bed. i wish the nypd did more for us. like they just cover their ass when you really need help." and goes on a bit in detail. eddie is sitting silently. he eventually goes "you know, like they don't really rehabilitate you and like you go to your PO and you're like wanting to be like PO I'm struggling and i could use some help but you can't ask or you fuck your shit up. mostly though in prison you just find your crew, chill and bug out. being a cop sounds fucking worse than being locked up."

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=3603909&forum_id=2#35943732)

every neighborhood has a pretty boy alpha dude who used to cop all the broads. in our neighborhood, this guy was named Ritchie.

Ritchie was about 6 or 7 years older than me--maybe even more--and he used to just chill on the block and be pretty. fuck it, can't be mad at that. anyways, by the time i was in 7th grade or so, some of the older dudes start up a drug business selling crack. i don't know the particulars of how it started but i'm willing to bet it started in some dumb nigga's living room "yo, son, we can get mad dough, son!" with wild gesticulations as a blunt get passed. anyways, over time they got themselves a nice little set up with Ritchie, Thomas, and Lazaro running shit. All of whom were about...eh...from 5 to 10 or so years older than my wave of guys.

Around 7th or 8th grade the older guys start recruiting us into the team. Everyone had various jobs. My job was to deliver crack and make money drops. That's a longer story for another day (actually I already did it).

But this kinda job entails a certain level of risk. Ritchie, wisely assessing the risk and attempting to cover his bases did what any reasonable street level drug dealer who doesn't know what the fuck he's doing would do--he buys a gun. correction. he buys a huge fucking shotgun. which, of course, he has no clue how to handle. he does what every reasonable new gun owner in a high risk trade would do...he carries it in his pants. this of course means he had a huge wood fucking handle against his stomach and he had to stand at all times since you really can't walk with a fucking shotgun against your belt.

niggas be stupid sometimes. handsome and smart sometimes don't go together.

one day--and i wasn't there for this--ritchie sees what he thinks is an enemy coming across the way. he panics. he fumbles in attempting to pull out his shotgun from his pants...in his panic, he pulls the trigger and shoots his leg. long story short, they end amputating his leg from the knee down and it's a miracle he survived.

after a couple of months of mourning, he came out and in due time, he became the butt of jokes. once you crippled in the hood. it's over. no amount of nice hair cuts or fly gear gets over the fact that "hopping the train" takes a literal meaning in your life. niggas was all over this dude. stealing the single display sneaker from stores in the plastic to be like "yo, i got you something. left, right? you got the left."

not a great story. but i want to remember it for posterity.

when richie lost his leg.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=3603909&forum_id=2#36156289)

i can't imagine having to bury your daughter. life really isn't fair, man.

i know most of you aint with it, but keep my boy Eddie in your prayers or at least positive thoughts, it would be greatly appreciated.

i know many of you like the stories, they wouldn't have happen in large part without Eddie.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=3603909&forum_id=2#40130407)

so i'm at a friend's house in brooklyn, ricky. he's having like drinks/game night. he invites a bunch of people and we're having a good time. a girl comes, let's call her rebecca. it's her and her boyfriend. she gets hammered. she is weird and confrontational. her sheepish black boyfriend seems to spend the latter half of the party apologizing to everyone she's offending. eventually, the host kicks her out for disrespecting and basically it's party over. specifically, a bunch of people are playing a board game and she just turned the whole thing over.

for reasons i can't exactly explain now (its been damn near 10 years), i offer to take her, her bf, a gay dude and chick i know to their homes across uptown manhattan. the chick is in the back seat behind me, her bf is riding bitch appalled at her behavior, and regular chick is riding behind passenger. the gay dude is shotgun. i've known the gay dude and the chick for 20 years. i really don't know rebecca at all and her man even less so.

we're driving and he decides fuck it and just falls asleep. she starts talking shit to me while driving. i'm just patient about the whole shit. the gay dude is like "rebecca, you need to stop. you're acting crazy."

this bitch, while i'm on the FDR smacks the back of the head. i go "yo what the fuck are you doing?!" she slurs "you ain't gonna do shit. you're a bitch just like ricky"

'word?'

i floor it. i get to willis avenue bridge. i'm flying. she's laughing like it's nbd. i get to like 135 and willis DEEP in the south bronx. it's like 1am on a saturday. i drag into a gas station, stop, get out, open the driver's rear door "GET THE FUCK OUT!" she's frozen. then she's pissed "fuck you i ain't doing shit!" i go full silvio dante dragging like bitch out of my car like she's adriana. i get her out and throw her like 6 of 7 feet out of the car on her ass. her bf at this point is awake and deer in highlights. "you too, GET THE FUCK OUT." he just is frozen. i grab this guy across the seat and throw his ass another 7 feet or so also directly on his ass. i get back in the car and peel out.

the chick who was left in the back is eyes open frozen in stunned silence. the gay dude in the front is silent. we're leaving. he just starts shaking his head and says "i told her to chill. i told her to chill."

i drive them home and then cross the bridge to go home.

i get home and my phone is blowing up. first, a guy who wasn't even at the party to tell me rebecca called him MAF saying that me and the host conspired to do this to her and left her in the middle of nowhere south bronx. i tell him to fuck off, why are you calling me. then i get a call from ricky who tells me the same simp called him bitching. we laugh our asses off about the whole thing. come to find out it was rebecca's first time bringing her bf out. this was his first interaction with her friends.

i find out later it became a big scandal "in the community" and that i became persona non grata to a lot of people for my actions. because, in their minds, i was in the wrong. idgaf and lmao.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=3603909&forum_id=2#44923576)

if my wife was there, she probably would have smacked this bitch.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=3603909&forum_id=2#44923606)