As you can now see, things were getting bad. By now, I wasn’t giving school a second thought. But, instead of hanging out on the streets, I’d climb through the fire escape window into the house while my parents were at work. My house had become a hangout for the crew.
My parents would have never found out if my father hadn’t come home early. Upon seeing his black and white porno collection of rubenesque women spread all over the living room, he tore into me. I received the beating of my life.
When it was too cold outside for man or beast, we’d ride the trains or hold up in one of the neighborhood buildings, huddling close to the radiator for warmth. Bored with our surroundings, we would start toying with the building’s residents. We would ring doorbells and then run up onto the roof and stomp around. The tenants must have thought the sky was falling.
In fact, the rooftops were our playground, where we flew birds (homing pigeons) during the tepid months. But, not everyone was allowed up. Before you could fly (birds), you had to show heart by ‘jumping the roof’. That meant getting a running start and leaping over the gaps separating the buildings. You had to time your jumps perfectly, or risk plummeting to your death.
By planting your foot on a small wall and thrusting yourself up and out, you couldn’t help but land safely on the other side. However, for a brief second you were hanging in midair, high above the concrete backyards six stories below. There were four gaps all totaled. Needless to say, ‘jumping the roof’ limited the number of participants. Like in everything else, ‘Fat Stevie’ was the exception. He had Card Blanche in this and all things.
From the time I was in fifth grade, I was spending the summers ‘flying birds’ from the rooftops. That is, when I wasn’t away at camp. The crew would pool their nickels and dines in order to purchase homing pigeons from the pigeon shop over on the eastside.
The birds came in a wide spectrum of colors and a broad array of identifiable features. There were Tiplets, Flights, Speckle Birmingham’s, Russian High fliers, and Fantail Boodies. However, all serious flyers put a premium on tumblers. There was something phenomenal in the way they tumbled from the sky as though shot by an arrow. Then catching a raising column of warm air, they’d climb gracefully back to the circling flock. We housed our birds in a coup made from milk crates, tar and chicken wire, all of which we lifted.
Watching our flock roll out over Harlem’s rooftops, skyscrapers in the hazy distance, held a special beauty. Their wings were our wings, setting us vicariously free from our earthly shackles. An unfettered view of the sky had the same awe-inspiring effect on all of us: like the sky was the tip of the iceberg of something greater still. But, the real fun was competing with other neighborhood flyers.
We deliberately launched our birds on a collision course with other flocks. Once the two flocks collided, we’d call to our birds (by rattling coffee cans containing a handful of corn kernels) as would our competitors on distant rooftops. The winner was determined by who ended up with more of the other’s birds. It was harmless competition. But, it could escalate into hostilities, when one side tried to steal their birds back in what we called a ‘turn out’.
In my first and last ‘turn out’, I was almost thrown to my death. We snuck on the roof of Danny ‘Little Red’ Badilla and his brothers, some crazy Puerto Ricans from over on Old Broadway and 126th Street. Danny was only two grades older than I, but many blacks feared him because of his heart. Not to mention his small but equally loco gang of amigos.
We had just made it pass the top landing and was entering onto the roof when eight or so of the older Latin Kings, a powerful Puerto Rican gang, shut the door behind us, cutting off our escape.
“Mira, Como esta you pendejo,” one of the older ones said.
Within seconds, we were surrounded. If it was not for ‘Fat Stevie’ being there to give them pause, ain’t no telling what they would have done to us. Some of the might have had family or friends in the numbers business, and knew of Stevie’s family.
They decided to let us leave (live), but not before having a little fun. Johnny and I were dangled over the precipice, enough so that we could see down into the dark abyss. Dreams of falling from high places haunted my dreams for years; still does on occasion. But, let’s return to escaping the winter winds.
Chapter Forty-Four: I didn’t do Nothin’
“It’s cold down here. Let’s go sit in the laundromat where it’s warm,” Purdy begged. He was always complaining about the cold.
“Come over here, let’s turned up the heat, Greg suggested. He started shoveling coal in the boiler. Soon, we all joined him in grabbing shovels and digging into a large pile of charcoal beside the boiler. The temperature didn’t change, but the needle in the gauge started to climb toward the red zone.
What we hadn’t considered was the entire building was heating up. In fact, residents were complaining to the superintendent about the excessive steam coming up. Caught up in the moment, we gave little thought to what was taking place floors above us.
Voices coming from the backyard called us back from our obsession with the boiler. Daddy Green was gone and another super was now caretaker of the row of dreary brown tenements between
129th street
and 128th. But, he hadn’t been around in days.
Then all of a sudden, his daughter emerged from a side door, heading toward us. Her pace was almost casual, hiding the burning fuse that had been lit. All kids really knew about her was she was country. Her slow country twang and saggy overhauls were a dead giveaway. And, she was also known for dislodging kids from her father’s stoops with the end of her boot.
If I had the good sense God gave me, I would have seen the mean intentions in those smoldering eyes and hauled ass. My little gang had already scrammed up the alley. To this day, I don’t know why I just stood there. There was plenty time for me to take flight. I knew she couldn’t catch me: very few people her size could.
I’m not running. I didn’t do nothin’, I told myself. “She better not put her hands on me; that’s all I know,” I thought as she bore down on me. I think my Spartan stance surprised even her. She stormed straight for me, with molten eyes and the grace of an orangutan.
Once I was firmly in her grip, I demanded she let go of my arm. But, by now I realized I’d made a big mistake. Nonetheless, I tried with all my strength to break free. That’s when she introduced my nose to her fist. Blood gushed from my nose, flowing down over my lips onto my chin and onto my pearl-colored jacket with the tiger on back and the word Korea
The big redbone hauled me into the house like a sack of dirty laundry and tossed me down on the couch. Tenants called for the police while she stood over me. She didn’t even bother to offer me a paper towel. However, she did force me to hold my head back, perhaps a little afraid of what it would look like when the cops got there. But, I think it was out of concern for her couch being soiled by my blood.
I was almost too glad to see the two white cops walk through the door. I was taken to the Youth House, a juvy facility downtown. I arrived after supper, but just in time for sugar cookies and milk. Afterward, they gave me some sheets and a pillow and locked me down for the night. In the morning, I was brought before the judge.
“Young man, you could have resulted in an explosion, igniting the entire structure,” said the gray-haired judge, leering down from his tower of virtue. “Your foolish act could have forfeited the lives of everyone in that building.” I was beginning to comprehend his grave assessment. While he characterized me as a menace, he let my parents take me home, but only after a stern warning. “If I see you in my court again, young man, you won’t be going home, not for a long time.” Soaking up her tears with a handkerchief, my mother thanked him and led me out of the courtroom.
