He felt good all over. He wished he could stay in that moment forever, just freeze his emotions in a Ziploc and keep them in his heart, forever. Xenia had a smile in her eyes as she spoke to Latrice, fully engaged and animated. If someone had told him when he was sixteen that one day he’d be married to someone like her, have three children, be a successful businessman and help people all over the world, he would’ve never believed it. At that time, his visions and dreams were no farther than three feet ahead. He didn’t plan for the future; he planned for right then and there. His life was living day to day, and all he wanted was some weed and pussy and a roof over his head. Nothing else mattered. Now, his sons sat next to two pretty young girls, Raphael’s daughters, and Raphael Jr. sat wedged between these young bucks, feeling like a king amongst tiny folk, no doubt. It was good, it was great, it was gravy. In less than a couple of hours though, he’d have to go back to Bomb and then after that, he’d still be here in the city, dealing with the man while Xenia and their children flew back to L.A. He wanted to keep everyone in New York with him, huddled close. He started daydreaming about the Rainbeaus being in New York and he and his family living somewhere nice and his children attending good schools like Is 187, or PS 35 Lenox.
He’d told Xenia he didn’t want the kids in private schools unless it was necessary. He felt public schools would prepare them better for the real world, but he’d have them at good ones, the ones that gave a damn about the children, and sometimes those were hard to find. One thing Saint couldn’t shake—the street still dwelled within him and he wanted his kids to be smart and wise. He didn’t want them to see or endure the same shit as he had, not at all, but he didn’t want them broadsided by the facts of life, either. This was why he didn’t ever want to lie to them when they came with questions, and he was still pissed at himself for not telling Hassani the truth when he asked about his mama being in the hospital. Saint had fallen into the parent trap, of hiding all that was ugly from small eyes, but small eyes were wise, and only the truth would help them stay that way…
~***~
Saint slumped outside that musty ass door, onto that musty ass floor, next to that musty ass wall as Bomb shouted at him in ways that broke his damned heart. In a couple of hours, his family would be on an airplane, and he would be still right there, dealing with trouble. Jagger remained at the hotel. He told him he could go on, escort his family back, but he insisted on staying, just in case he needed any help.
“Cágate en tu madre!” (fuck you/fuck your mother) “Te odio!” (I hate you.)
“I’m sorry you feel that way, Bomb,” Saint said woefully as he picked up a piece of plaster, rubbed it between his fingers and watched it disintegrate.
“déjame ir!” (Let me go.) “Pharaoh!!! After all I’ve done for you…you’ve turned psycho… déjame ir!!!”
“I can’t let you out, Bomb. I have some water if you want it. And, I brought a bucket in case you need to use the bathroom.
“Yes.” Bomb slicked the word out, welcoming the opportunity for the door to be opened. “I want the water…I want the bucket.”
Saint slowly rose to his feet and leisurely removed the bike chain. As soon as it swung open, Bomb was on him like an enraged panther, clawing and grasping, pulling flesh and leaving a slow burn. He kept right on fighting like mad, drawing blood like a lunatic on a mission. He hit Saint several times on the chest, the blows so hard and powerful, Saint was taken aback. He expected this, knew Bomb would attack him, but he was also confident he could get the situation under control. Bomb had worn his body out with drugs and excessive alcohol, and the chronic cigarette smoking left his lungs functioning at half capacity. He fought the man down to the ground, but Bomb’s strength continued to push him through as he kicked, lunged, spit and clutched a fistful of Saint’s hair. Saint didn’t want to hurt him, he fought it all he could, so he continued to withstand his big brother’s blows.
“Bomb, please stop—please stop struggling! I don’t want to hurt you!”
In the heat of it all, through all the horrid commotion, Bomb finally settled. The man stared into his face as if a light had been flicked on and in that tiny, dark, dank space, a glow filled the room.
Oh shit…
He knew what had happened; his eyes were shining, changing colors, glowing hot. He was in a heated physical battle, rolling in the man’s piss, and now this light hovered around them, seeming to have a life of its own.
“What…what is goin’ on with your face? Your eyes?” Bomb was half scared out of his mind and much to Saint’s surprise, he not only was lucid enough to notice, but called him out on it. Saint had never seen Bomb afraid, ever. But this was definitely fear. Saint offered no explanation, though he wanted to. He wanted to say, ‘Shit man, remember when you saw me levitating and thought it was only because you were high? Naw man, you didn’t imagine it.’ Saint also wanted to say, ‘Yeah, my eyes man, they change colors because I’m pissed. They are like mood rings. Whatever I feel, they show the world. Some people wear their emotions on their sleeves. I wear mine in my irises.’ But he didn’t. He didn’t offer any explanation at all. The fight was over, and Bomb scooted away from him as if he were the Boogie Man.
“You some sort of devil?” Bomb asked, slightly trembling. “That ain’t natural, man…”
“I’m not going to hurt you,” Saint said as he got to his feet then handed the bottle of water to Bomb. The terrified fellow kept his eye on Saint, clutched the plastic jug, tossed the cap and downed the entire thing.
“I gotta piss,” he said after a long silence. “I already had, but, I don’t want to do it on the floor any more. You made me sleep here.”
“I had to, and I know. I can smell it.” Saint’s nostrils flared. “You can do it in the bucket from now on.” Saint scooted the plastic red pail over into a corner.
“So, you just gonna keep me caged up in here? Your brother? I kept you safe, Saint. I took care of you and this is what you do to me?” Bomb said cautiously.
The glow in Saint’s eyes had subsided, and he probably hoped he’d just been seeing things since Saint never really acknowledged it. But Bomb knew deep down the shit was real.
“You did, and that’s why you are right here, right now. No rehab center will be able to help you, Bomb. You don’t listen, and you never get clean because people on the inside help you stay high. You’re too resourceful from all those years in Sing-Sing and everywhere else you’ve been. You’ve learned how to make drugs out of fuckin’ vegetables, for God’s sake. If it can be lit on fire, you find a way to smoke it and get high. I need you, Bomb. You are too valuable to me. Call it selfish,”—Saint looked away, feeling a bit of moisture in his eyes—“But I can’t let you kill yourself, man. I care about you, I love you. I can’t let this go on.”
Bomb ran his fingers down the wall and slumped further back against the hard, cold brick. “You can’t cure me, man,” he said, his voice deep and raspy. “Thanks for trying, but this won’t work. I’ve been everywhere trying to get off this shit so…I just gave up. The few times I’ve been clean were the worse times of my life.”
That meant that he was forced to feel, to recall dealing with the woman who’d given birth to him, but she was so out of her mind it had become futile.
Saint surmised, in hindsight, she was paranoid schizophrenic. To make matters worse, people started to take notice. Their father walked; he was barely home as it was, so it was no big loss and Bomb, being the eldest, left before word got around too much that his mother wasn’t right in the head.
Seeking to avoid him and his siblings going to foster care, he took matters into his own hands. He was out in the streets gang banging with the Savage Skulls, and they took him in—he now had a place to stay and some bread in his pocket, and his brothers and sisters weren’t afraid anymore...
“The worst times of your life…hmmm.”
Saint leaned against the wall and looked at his shoes. “You’ve got about three days. Tonight, your stomach will cramp u
p and get worse and worse. You’ll sweat so much, you’ll probably lose about ten pounds in water weight alone. You will be in so much pain that you will contemplate killing yourself by bashing your head against that wall over and over.” He pointed to the corner of the small enclosure. “You will shit and piss yourself, and you won’t feel it until it’s too late. You will vomit repeatedly. You will be unable to speak because of the pain, and then, after a bit more time, just a little bit, you will start to feel better and better, until it stops altogether. At that point, we will have a coming to Jesus moment, if you will.”
Bomb chuckled and looked out the stingy slice of window, covered in soot. “I’ve been through withdrawal a thousand times. I know what it feels like.” Saint reached around, just outside the door, and pulled in twelve bottles of water, a small bag of fresh fruit, a toilet paper roll and a large satchel of peanuts. Water, protein and Fiber.
“Not without pain medicine, you haven’t. The medicine took the edge off. It still hurt like a bitch, but wasn’t nearly as bad. No, Bomb, this is a whole new day. You’re going to be born again. You will go through labor pains.” Saint cleared his throat and got to his feet. “You will give birth to a whole new you, clean and sober, and then, we are going to talk—make some plans.”
“Don’t you leave me in here!” Bomb shouted, standing up, latching onto Saint’s sleeve, clutching the shit out of him. There was that fear again, the same fear he’d seen when his eyes turned. Bomb didn’t want to be alone with himself, with the haunted past and the pain that was soon to come. This wasn’t a man he could knock out cold; it was addiction, and he had never met an opponent so tough, who dared him to fight back. His addiction was the heavyweight champion of the world, and it told him he wasn’t shit without it.
“I’m not leaving you. I’ll be here, you just won’t see me.” And with that, Saint closed and locked the door, barely able to do so as Bomb pushed his body against it, screaming and yelling, falling to pieces. The poor man was begging, but not one damn tear fell; Bomb refused to let go like that. Saint had left him no choice but to do as instructed, and for the first time, Bomb truly hated him. The man wanted him dead and had it been 1986, that was exactly what would’ve happened. Saint slumped against the ground, the door—shaking with Bomb’s punching—at his back. While Bomb screamed and raised hell, Saint lowered his face to his knees and ran his hands wearily through his hair. He fought the sorrow that tried to creep into his heart. He was so tired and felt like the world hated him, too. Xenia was mad, Raphael was pissed that their visit was so short, Sinclair would have to be handled, and now Bomb had him doing shit he thought he’d never do, even to help someone. Buy drugs, kidnap someone and get beat up… What a terrible twenty-four hours. Saint stayed that way for a while longer until Bomb settled down. He rose to his feet and left, feeling shitty, but also optimistic…
~***~
Two and a half days later…
“Where the fuck are we?!” Jagger asked as he pulled up to the old, abandoned school at four in the morning. Saint leaned back in the passenger’s seat, staring at the place.
“I told you my friend is in there.”
“You are being too secretive…and you’re blocking.”
“Yup.” Saint opened the car door, a bag over his shoulder. “Stay right here.”
“We’re going to miss our plane if you take too long,” Jagger warned.
“It might take a few minutes, but we won’t miss our plane. Go get yourself some breakfast.”
Jagger huffed and pulled away from the curve, slowly driving off as Saint made his way inside. The school was quiet, but as he drew closer, he could definitely hear Bomb breathing. Saint set his bag on the ground and opened the door. The stench of old piss crawled out, and a man that couldn’t afford it looked now skinnier than ever. His fingers twitched, his eyes shut and his mouth cracked and parted.
“Suh…Suh…Saint?” he called out weakly.
“Yeah, man.” Saint kneeled down and turned Bomb over. Bomb smiled up at him, causing Saint to laugh a bit. “How do you feel?”
“Like dyin’, but I wouldn’t mind getting a piece of pussy.”
Saint looked at him and burst out laughing.
“Pussy on your mind after such an ordeal?”
“Yeah, it’s kinda strange. I wanna lie next to a pretty woman. I wanna fuck her so good, so long and hard it sounds like I’m mixing a bowl of macaroni and cheese.”
At this, Saint lost it and laughed so hard, his stomach ached.
“All right, I get it. You’re horny, but we’ve got more important things to discuss right now.” Saint helped him get to his feet. He looked around and saw only one full bottle of water remained, the fruit was gone and the peanuts were strewn around the room. Bomb stunk. The man was soiled in urine and funk, but Saint didn’t care; he’d deal with that later. Taking him by the waist, he helped him out the room, the school, and let him breathe in the outside air. Today, the smoggy air felt like fresh linens compared to what was just happening moments previously. They stood side by side, then both dropped down to sit on the top step of the school entrance.
“Huelebicho,” Bomb said under his breath.
“You call me a cock sniffer man, really?” Saint laughed, causing Bomb to do the same.
“I did. I taught you too much of that shit, I see. Can’t believe you remember that.”
“You know kids remember all the bad words.” Saint had begged Bomb to teach him all the Spanish profanity he knew, and of course Bomb had obliged.
They were quiet for a short while, the darkness still kissing the top of their heads.
“You can’t use any more drugs, Bomb.”
The man remained quiet, his eyes tiny slits as he looked off into the distance.
“You have to stop running. If you want to get high, find a good hobby that makes you happy, something fulfilling you want to do, you know? What do you think you’re good at?”
Bomb shrugged his shoulders. “The shit I’m good at is illegal, Saint, and I’m too old to go into boxing.”
“You might be too old to box, but you’re not too old to train and teach boxing.” Saint dug in his pocket and handed Bomb back his pack of cigarettes and a pamphlet.
“You givin’ me back my cigs?” Bomb smirked.
“Yeah.”
“Smoke one with me.” Bomb tapped it, released one and waited for a light. Saint pulled a lighter out of the bag he’d brought with him. “I can’t smoke cigarettes, man.” Saint waved his hand at the package, as if it were some nasty, poisonous insect. “I don’t like the taste they leave in my mouth. I smoke cigars sometimes though.”
“Just one. Just smoke one. I wanna feel—”
“Like you got me doin’ some shit, like we bondin’ over some shit, right...” Saint held his hand out and accepted the cigarette. He lit it and blew smoke out the side of his mouth as if he’d been doing it for years. “I haven’t smoked a cigarette since I was like fifteen. I never did like them. I think I’ve smoked three of them in my entire lifetime.” He took another inhale and blew.
“So, you went through some shit over the past few days, right?” Saint looked off to the side.
“Yeah. Had nightmares, bad dreams. My body was caving in, man. Thought I was going to die. Everything you warned about was true. And fuck yeah, it was worse without medicine. I kicked it though…but you and I both know I’ll just be doing the same old shit in a week or two. I can’t help it, man.” Bomb took another drag from his cigarette. “I gotta be high to even function out here.”
“Open that pamphlet.”
Bomb opened it up and read it. Saint sat quietly, waiting.
“You gotta be kidding me.” Bomb looked at Saint, his weary eyes dancing in astonishment then back down at the pamphlet. “What’s my name doin’ on here man, and how’d you find out my real name?!” Bomb sounded angry, but a smile was on his face.
“I have my ways, Mr. Fernando Martinez.”
“Holy Shit. So, this i
s in two days? What’s today, shit?”
“Today is the thirteenth. Yeah, this is on the fifteenth, at five o’clock PM. You are assigned to train an up and coming hardheaded guy named Hector. He has raw talent but tires out too easily, though he’s in good shape from what I’ve been told. It’s a paying gig, too. You get a check every two weeks and you can stay on the premises under the condition that you attend daily outpatient meetings for your drug abuse. They have the fights in that old warehouse on 31st. There are apartments in there, small but decent. They take your rent out automatically. This dude right here though,” Saint blew out more smoke— “is supposed to be the truth. He is the next big thing, man. I know you know how to street box as well as box like the pros, Bomb. I used to see you lookin’ in the Dorchester Gym all the time when we’d walk past. I’d see the look in your eyes. You wanted to do some shit, be in there, but you didn’t think they’d have you.”
“It was a bunch of white boys, a bunch of paddies. They didn’t want my ass in there.” Bomb chuckled, but the words came from a place of pain.
“Bomb, you might be kinda old, but you are too young to be calling an Irish guy a paddy! Man, that’s something from like the 1940s!” They both burst out laughing.
“I picked it up as a kid from some old black man. It never left me.”
“Well, about the gym. They didn’t want you in there, Bomb, because some of them couldn’t really fight and if a man like you walks in there and fucks them all up, you’d mess up some pride. Some of it was due to racism. They wanted to feel superior, you know?” Saint took another drag of the cigarette and flicked the ashes off to the side. “They were in there playing, pretending to be bad but when you have to fight for your very survival, you learn things a bit differently. I’ve never seen anyone fight like you, Bomb. Ever. You gotta show people how to do it, man. You taught yourself, but you’re a talented man and because you used to watch the professionals and no one messed with you when you were watching Muhammad Ali or Frazier or Holyfield, we knew you had the technical aspects down pat, too. You merged the two.” Saint put his fingertips together in emphasis. “And that is how you won just about every street battle you’d ever been in. You need to put that to good use.”
Saint's Sacrament - Sins of the Father Page 64
