Lawrence sat there on his cold perch, both hands pulled up into the sleeves of his green army coat. The coat was stained and had a nasty stench from years of use and limited washings. His messy, gnarled Afro was stuffed into an equally gnarled black knit hat that more than suggested he needed a larger one. Puffs of Lawrence’s dry ratty hair stuck out randomly along the edge of the hat; it wasn’t easy to tell what was hair and what was unraveling hat yarn. “Come on, Mo, first spark up a little of your stuff . . . hhssssp. I’m a little light right now. Get it? A little light? Hhssssp. That’s what we need.”
As he talked, Lawrence had this habit of sucking air into his mouth through a gap made by two missing teeth. Not his two front teeth, but the first two immediately off-center on the top right side. About two years ago, Lawrence “found” a pretty fat wallet in a coat hanging in a coffee shop down on International. Later that night he bonged a boatload of kick-ass hashish while guzzling a quart of cheap tequila—eventually he passed out and keeled over, smashing his face on some steps. Those two teeth had taken the brunt of his fall. When Lawrence awoke, sleeping in a small pool of his own congealed blood, he had his own permanent mouth instrument to keep him amused.
Lawrence had been living on the streets longer than either of the other two. An orphan, he had never known his mother or father, living in a multitude of foster homes in the East Bay as a child, a vagabond in a woebegone government system that neither budgeted enough money to monitor what was really happening out there in Foster Kid World, or cared enough to even give a rat’s ass. Maybe government folks figured as long as you were in a home and had a place to eat and sleep, well then, you damn well must be happy. After his millionth beating from the last of a series of foster parents who used his stipend money to buy booze and drugs, Lawrence had simply said, Screw this, run off, and permanently escaped. He was eleven years old then, and no one was going to know what Lawrence had had to do sometimes to survive all this time. He’d take that crap to his grave. No one. Hhssssp.
The last guy on the other end, that was Champ, who chimed in, “Yeah, Mo, you know that dirty old dude coulda been rollin’ anything, man, you know like he had no cash to get nothing rich either, right, know what I’m sayin’?”
Maurice chuckled low. “Yeah, I hear you, Champ. Come on, man, I already had a couple early tokes. Stuff’s for reals, I’m tellin’ ya. Fo’. Reals.” He smiled and winked at the others, teasing them with his fluttering joint bag. “Wutchoo idiots get? More to share? Cuz you know, two fatties ain’t much to pass around, you know, mostly good for me, maybe a free toke or so for you, maybe not.”
“Dang, Mo, you jumped the gun on us, man,” Champ replied. “You know, shoulda waited on us, man.”
His real name was Champion DeLeon Cromarté. He told everyone he was named Champion by his proud father, who was once the Este Región Guantes de Oro Peso Welter Campeón. In English: the East Region Welterweight Golden Gloves Champion—in the Dominican Republic. His father moved to the States in ’91, fell in with some bad gamblers, and didn’t make it in boxing. Finally, fifty pounds over his fighting weight and sporting an obnoxious cauliflower ear, Señor Cromarté got hired as a thug for some nobody drug pusher. As was usually the case in that line of work, Señor Cromarté was paid in drugs, booze, and a place to crash, and even then some woman loved him enough to marry him and bear his only child.
Champ told everyone, “Yeah, man, you know, my father held me up in the county clinic, right, and shouted at the top of his lungs, He’s gonna be a champion, a champion like me! That was just a week before he and my mother both OD’d on some shit smack, you know. So you can call me Champ—more like Chump—but don’t call me Champion, cuz it ain’t so, know what I mean?”
Child Protective Services took custody of baby Champ and eventually found some long-disconnected uncle and aunt and, bless them, they at least consented, raising Champ as best they could. But they were barely making it themselves and never really knew his father, who was only some very, very distant third cousin or something, and they knew Champ’s mother not at all. So forgive them if they didn’t lavish much attention or support on the kid. Hijo de punto, he wasn’t their kid anyway. Champ understood that, even at age nine when he ran away for the first of many times, and definitely at fourteen when he ran all the way away once and for all.
Champ sat there, outfitted like the others that evening, in layers of smelly, dirty clothes, anything to keep warm at night: two or three hoodies, the requisite knit hat, khaki pants over sweats; indiscriminate colors, since colors don’t matter when the clothes you’re wearing are torn, filthy, reeking rags. Champ did sport a greasy red, white, and blue do-rag tied around his head, crammed under his knit hat—not for the good old US of A, but proudly for the colors of the Dominican Republic national flag. Champ looked tired, like the others, dark bags beneath sunken brown eyes. He had unruly facial hair growing in uneven patterns on his mocha-colored face, dirty and mucky from being on the street without a shower or shave for over ten days now. Champ was thin, medium height, but his frazzled appearance made him look twenty years older than he was. His frazzled life made him feel forty years older.
Earlier that day Champ had made a couple of bucks and some change sweeping out King’s Gym alongside the disgusted glances of the sweaty regulars working out. Mr. Gordon, or just Gordon as he was called, was the head janitor and had worked for the Kings for many years, had even known Champion’s padre years before. Gordon felt badly for Champ, so occasionally the old janitor would let the kid sweep or pick up garbage and towels in the gym for a few dollars and loose change, anything to help him out. But the handouts came less and less frequently, especially as Gordon saw that Champ was more and more often just hanging out with the other alley bums, not even trying to help himself. And Champ smelled flawed somehow, like all the bums did, slipping further and further into that gory morass of wasted human lives. Gordon saw it too often and it pained him to no end. He knew for certain that if Champ’s father were still alive, he would never have let this happen, no way. He would have knocked some sense into his only son, literally.
“Self-pride is another long-lost art, like the art of boxing,” Gordon often tried to explain when he thought he had Champ’s attention. “You gotta learn to take care of yourself. You can train and train and work out all you want, but once you’re in that ring it’s only you.”
Gordon even tried to get Champ to go back to school—a program at Laney College for dropouts and homeless kids he had read about in the Tribune. Gordon went so far as to contact the school’s director, someone named Tom Gelman. Coach Gelman told him all Champ had to do was call and Gelman promised he’d take care of the rest. Seemed like a good guy. But when Gordon invited Champ into his messy, cramped supply office to explain about the school and have Champ make the call, he saw immediately in the kid’s eyes that he didn’t give a crap. Gordon realized he had just been wasting his own time, and why should he do that? Hell, he was no Mother Teresa, he had a job to take care of. Too lazy to get off the streets? Welcome to the streets, kid! But every once in a while, Gordon still felt badly and he’d help Champ out, for old times and for Champ’s padre, Señor Cromarté, the last real champion of anything from around there.
“Dudes,” Champ was now telling his street buddies, “you won’t believe what happened today, you know. Ol’ Gordon gave me two-fifty for sweeping up his ratty ol’ boxing gym. What an idiot, you know what I mean? So I bought me some sweet old boots from the Salvation Army, perfect size and everything, no holes, and warm too, like new!”
“That old fart is always giving you handouts, man, what’s up with that?” Maurice said. “A little sumpin-sumpin cooking there?”
“Yeah, Champ . . . hhssssp,” Lawrence added, “he must, like, like you or something, dude. You better . . . hhssssp . . . watch out for them old geezers like that.”
“Come, on, holmes,” Champ replied, “it ain’t nothing like that. Old dude just knew my papá once, tries to help me out some
times. It’s cool, it’s cool.”
“Yeah, okay, but really, what the hell are you talking about, Champ . . . hhssssp?” Lawrence scoffed. “Look at your raggedy ol’ shoes . . . hhssssp . . . they’re filthy and they’re leaking oil, dude!” He laughed, pointing at Champ’s black sneakers that were caked with dirt and mud, one shoestring tied in numerous knots to hold together, the rubber sole on the other just a paper-thin strip.
Maurice laughed too. “Yikes! You crazy Mexican, if you bought those shoes for two-fitty you must be back in Mexico and smokin’ some donkey-piss weed on the tequila farm or something! Them shoes are messed up!”
Champ eyed them with disgust. “Not these shoes, you a-holes. You idiots don’t have a clue, man. Some other shoes, bro, some other boots, right? Dude at the Army sold me a cool pair for my two dollars and fifty cents, a bargain, know what I’m sayin’? Winter boots and the tag said six-fifty, man, no bull! And I told you, I ain’t Mexican, you know, how many times I gotta tell you I’m Dominican, man. Dominican Republic represent!”
Lawrence looked at Champ like he was from outer space. “Well, you talk Mexican and you buy shoes like some dumb-ass Mexican too . . . hhssssp. But you wasted your money on those crap no-Cons right there . . . hhsssp!”
Maurice added, “And whatever you are, homeboy, those dirty kicks you’re wearing are definitely representing the facts, loud and clear, that you’re a crazy Mexican, or Dominican, or whatever, and your dang feet are gonna freeze tonight, know what I’m tellin’ you?”
“You’re both screwed, dudes, fubar, you hear me?” Champ said. “I sold those other boots to Raymond. His feet and mine are the same size, like a coincidence, you know. Well, you know, really, I actually swapped those boots with Raymond, man, no moolah changed hands.”
“Well, lay it on me, brother man,” Maurice responded. “What did you and Raymond barter for those amazing boots, which I ain’t ever seen? I’m just sayin’, why the hell did you trade those amazing boots to the sorriest drug dealer on the West Side, Raymond Donahue, who you know mixes dried-up old herbs and real grass with his ragweed to sell to crazy-ass rich-douche reefer-heads who wouldn’t know great smoke from the kind blowin’ up and through their booties, you know what I mean?”
“Damn, Mo.” Lawrence peered at Maurice with pure awe, and in the moment forgot all about playing his toothless mouth instrument. “You shoulda been a poet or politician or something, boy. Your rap is greatness as anything I ever hear on TV at the Y.”
“Both of you are wigging me out, really spazzin’,” Champ said. “Come on, now, I’m gonna show you what I got from Raymond for those boots. Ray-Ray told me he mixed in some extra-special dust into this one here. You know it’s good, homeys, Ray-Ray ain’t shit but he don’t lie to me.”
Champion reached the fingers of his dirty right hand up and under his cap and into a fold in his Dominican do-rag, pulling out a dark-brown joint, not even half as thick as a No. 2 pencil. Champ displayed it proudly with his thumb and forefinger. “We gonna get high tonight, boys, you know what I’m sayin’?” he declared in a reverential tone.
To which both Maurice and Lawrence exploded with laughter.
“What the hell’s that?!” Maurice guffawed. “A doobie for a dwarfie? A baby phattie for baby rattie?”
“Aw, hell no!” Lawrence joined in. “It’s a toothpick joint, in case our dinner steaks and lobsters get stuck in our teeth . . . hhssssp . . . well, you-all’s teeth, anyway!” Which set him off laughing hysterically, so much so that he choked on his own final, “Hhssssp . . . hack-ack!”
“Quick!” Maurice faked a shout, holding his hands megaphone-like over his mouth. “Call in the troops, call in the FBI, call in the FDA, the NSA, NIA, CIA, and all them other IAs—Champ’s got hisself a major drug deal going down tonight, lemme tell you, boy!”
“And mind that special dust from Mr. Donahue!” Lawrence called out as well. “Special dust in da house!”
“Yeah, yeah,” Mo added. “Keep them vacuums cleaners away, beautiful ladies and gentlemens, cuz we got us some special dust in this here special joint . . . the Champion Joint Smoke is what it is, Champ’s Champion Joint Smoke!”
“Funny, fellas, funny for real,” Champ said. “Well, you know, if that’s how y’all feel about it, guess I havta enjoy this little toke all on myself, you know, all on myself.” He waved the joint at the others. “Say bye-bye to the spliff, jokesters. This little baby’s all mines.”
That stopped Lawrence. He still hadn’t shown his own stash, didn’t want to show his stash, and no way wanted to share his stash with anyone, even his homeys. “Man, come on, Champ dude . . . hhssssp,” he said, stifling his giggles. “You know we playing. Right, Mo? Just . . . hhssssp . . . playing.”
“Yeah, Champ, chill.” Maurice had his own two joints, but the more high the merrier, he always said, especially if he didn’t have to work for it. “We gotta have us a laugh once in a while, right, man? Street homies need to get some laughs any time we can. Otherwise, what are we, dudes? We just like them folks working nine to five, know what I’m saying? One foot in the grave, one foot in the poor house, man, and another foot up our asses. Day after dang-dog day. Come on, we gotta chill and laugh with each other, at each other, whatever. Just chill and laugh.”
“Dude’s right on, Champ. Hhssssp. Speaking the truth as always, Maurice,” Lawrence agreed.
“Yeah, dudes, I hear you, all right,” Champ relented. “Okay, maybe I share a little bit, as long as we all are. Just don’t laugh at me no more . . . AND QUIT CALLIN’ ME A MEXICAN!”
“That’s what I’m talking about,” Maurice said, a baby-blue BIC lighter magically appearing in his hands. He flicked the BIC and held the small flame to the already burnt end of the joint now clasped gently between his yellowed teeth. “Light ’em if you got ’em, boys.”
Maurice squinted his eyes as he gently inhaled, long and steady, holding the marijuana smoke deep in his lungs. When he finally stopped, a third of the blunt had burned away. Still squinting, he then held the joint’s red ember tip to his mouth and with his last spare lung-space sucked in the wispy smoke trail.
“Gettin’ high like ching chong, Mo, massive hit, bro.” Lawrence smiled, reaching out nonchalantly for Maurice to pass him the Mary Jane. They had done this many times over the last month or two—they didn’t always share, but if they had enough to go around they usually did, no questions asked either way. Tonight Mo passed Lawrence the lit joint.
Lawrence raised his eyebrows with a quick “Thanks, dude.” He sucked on the jay in three rapid inhalations, filling his lungs with the thick and pungent reefer smoke. Lawrence smiled at Maurice, exposing the gap in his teeth, then cocked his head slightly in Champ’s direction; Maurice responded with a simple nod of his head—Lawrence understood it was okay to pass Mo’s joint over to Champ for a toke. About an inch of the original joint was left.
“Thanks, fellas,” Champ said, accepting the offering and placing the smoldering jay between his tightly squeezed thumb and index finger. “High Mo-amigo,” Champ also said in his personal thank you, then took a long drag on the small butt. By the time he finished, only a tiny portion of the joint remained, an eighth of an inch or so. Champ’s lungs, like the others’, were used to taking long, full drags and holding the smoke deeply to allow the drug to fully work its magic. A doobie never lasted very long when the three of them shared it. And Maurice was right on too—the pot was damn good stuff.
Maurice expelled the reefer smoke he’d been holding in his lungs and reached into the front zipper pocket of his grimy Adidas backpack. From there he pulled out a small silver medical clamp, now serving its pharmaceutical duty as a roach clip. “I’ll take that roach, dude,” he said, reaching across Lawrence, deftly accepting the joint from Champ, and locking the clip’s teeth-lined jaws along the slightest edge of the butt. Pulling back, Maurice held the roach clip up as closely as possible to his lips without touching the sparked end of the roach, and, once again squinting his eyes, ten
derly smoked the rest of the joint. Finally, with nothing left but a tiny scrap of rolling paper, he opened the roach clip and released the particle.
“All right, all right,” Champ said. “That was some good puff, Mo, good start, know what I’m saying? What’s next? Lawrence, what you got, bro?”
“Yeah, mo-fo Lo-Ro, whatchoo got, man?” Maurice asked, his eyes beginning to redden, his eyelids drooping slightly. “You got us a treat, High Lo?”
“Aw, man, you know how it is, fellas . . . hhssssp,” Lawrence began. He held his up his hands, palms facing out, wiggling his fingers. “Ain’t got no smoke, dudes . . . hhssssp.” Lawrence was lying; he was holding out on an eighth-ounce of Grade-A skunk weed, and felt no qualms about doing so.
“Aw, brother man,” Maurice cried out, “you messing with us or something, dude? Hell, you just smoked my ganja and now you tell us you buddels?”
“What the hell, Lawrence, you gotta be more weedsponsible than that, homeboy,” Champ chimed in. “We oughtta kick your butt up and down the creek for pulling that crap, you know.”
“Well, you guys are my street buds, right?” Lawrence replied. “I told you I was light earlier, remember . . . hhssssp?” But then, smiling, he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a full pint of booze. “All righty then . . . hhssssp . . . tell you all what, you can kick my butt after we drink this here bottle of José Gold. Sí, sí, amigos?”
“Aw, man, thass cool!” Champ laughed. “I knew you wouldn’t hold out on us, Lawrence! Nothing goes better with getting stoned than getting drunk!”
“Hell, I’ll drink to that!” Maurice said, and when Lawrence passed him the bottle that’s exactly what he did.
The pint didn’t last too long, enough for just two rounds of glugs and guzzles.
Maurice finished the last sip, then tossed the empty bottle into the tangle of bushes on his right. “You crazy, drunk, high idiots, let’s quit BS’ing around and spark up my other joint.”
Oakland Noir Page 11
