Chapter 3. Playing It Smooth....

Hanging around on the block is a sort of science. You have a lot to do and a lot of nothing to do. In the winter there's dancing, pad combing, movies, and the like. But summer is really the kick. All the blocks are alive, like many-legged cats crawling with fleas. People are all over the place. Stoops are occupied like bleacher sections at a game, and beer flows like there's nothing else to drink. The block musicians pound out some gone beats on tin cans and conga drums and bongos. And kids are playing all over the place--on fire escapes, under cards, over cars, in alleys, back yards, hallways.

We rolled marbles along the gutter edge, trying to crack them against the enemy marbles, betting five and ten marbles and the other guy's. We stretched to the limit skinny fingers with dirty gutter water caked between them, completely oblivious to the islands of dog filth, people filth, and street filth that lined the gutter.

That gutter was more dangerous than we knew. There was a kid we called Dopey, a lopsided-looking kid who was always drooling at the mouth. Poor Dopey would do anything you'd tell him, and one day somebody told him to drink dirty street water. He got sick, and the ambulance from City Hospital came and took him away. The next time we saw Dopey, he was in a coffin box in his house. He didn't look dopey at all; he looked like any of us, except he was stone dead.

All of us went to Dopey's funeral. We were sweeter to him in death than we ever had been in life. I thought about death, that bogeyman we all knew as kids, which came only to the other guy, never to you. You would live forever. There in front of Dopey's very small, very cheap coffin I promised myself to live forever; that no matter what, I'd never die.

For a few days after Dopey's funeral we talked about how Dopey now was in a big hole in the ground till his bones grew rotten and how none of us was afraid of death or dying. I even described how I'd die and breathe my last. I did the whole bit, acting out every detail. I had a kid hold my head in his lap while I spoke about leaving for the last roundup in the ranch house up yonder, an idea I got from a Johnny Mack Brown cowboy flicker. It was swell acting. I ended with a long, shuddering expelling of breath, a rolling of the eyeballs, whites showing carefully, and jaws falling slack amidst cries of "Holy Jesus" and "Man, what a fuckin' actor that guy is!" Then I arose from my flat sidewalk slab of death, dusted myself off, looked around and said, "Hey, man, let's play Johnny-on-the-Pony, one-two-three."

At thirteen or fourteen we played a new game--copping girls' drawers. It became part of our street living--and sometimes a messy part. Getting yourself a chick was a rep builder. But I felt that bragging to other fellas about how many cherries I'd cracked or how many panties came down on rooftops or back yards was nobody's business but my own, and besides, I was afraid my old lady would find out and I'd get my behind wasted. And anyway it was better to play mysterious with the guys at bullshit sessions, just play it cool as to who and how you copped.

It was all part of becoming hombre, of wanting to have a beard to shave, a driver's license, a draft card, a "stoneness" which enabled you to go into a bar like a man. Nobody really digs a kid. But a man---cool. Nobody can tell you what to do---and nobody better. You'd smack him down like Whiplash does in the cowboy flick or really light him up Scarface in that gangster picture--swoon, crack, bang, bang, bang--short nose, snub-nose pistol, and a machine gun, and a poor fuckin' loud-mouth is laid out.

That was the way I felt. And sometimes what I did, although it was real enough, was only a pale shadow of what I felt. Like playing stickball....

I stood at the side of the sewer that made home plate in the middle of the street, waiting impatiently for the Spalding ball to be bounced my way, my broomstick bat swinging back and forth.

"Come on, man, pitch the ball!" I shouted.
"Take it easy, buddy," the pitcher said.

I was burning, making all kinds of promises to send that rubber ball smashing into his teeth whenever he decided to let it go.

"Come on, Piri, lose that ball--smack it clear over to Lexington Avenue."
"Yeah, yeah, watch me."

The ball finally left that hoarder's hand. It came in on one bounce, like it was supposed to, and slightly breaking into a curve. It was all mine.
"Waste it, panin," shouted my boy Waneko.
I gritted my teeth and ran in to meet the ball. I felt the broomstick bat make connection and the ball climb and climb like it was never coming back. It had "home run" all over it. One runner came in and I was right behind him. My boys pushed out their hands to congratulate me. We had twelve bolos (dollars) on the game. I slapped skin with them, playing it cool all the way. Man, that was the way to be.

It was hot, and I walked over to El Viejo's candy store for a cold soda.
"Hey, Piri," someone called.
I looked around. It was Carlito, little Carlito, who was always trying to hang around with us big guys.
"Where ya going, Piri?"
"To the candy store, shorty. Wanna soda?"
"Chevere, thanks."
Carlito was a good kid. Someday he was gonna go through hell. Carlito was gonna be a junkie, like most of us would be---but that was in the future.

I wiped the sweat from two Coke bottles and gave one to Carlito. I gulped down the coldness---so cold it hurt my throat clear around to the back of my neck. But it was stone good. I whipped off the handkerchief tied around my forehead. I wore this Apache style to keep the sweat from running into my eyes and because it was a kick---it made you feel a little different from the guy who didn't wear it.

Zero, our second baseman, popped his head into the doorway. "Come on, man, take the field," he yelled.
"Okay, okay, I'm coming," I said. I grabbed hold of a glove the other team's outfielder tossed to me and ran down the middle of the street, dodging a car that screeched to a stop a couple of inches from me.
"Hey, you goddamn kid, why don't you watch where the hell you're running?"
"Cool it, man," I said and grinned a screw-you-amigo smile. "I was here before you. This is my block, you're just riding through and we're nice enough to let you, amigo"
"What did you say, you little--?"
The door of his car swung open--and closed just as fast as both teams suddenly stopped playing ball and everybody all of a sudden had a stickball bat in his hands.
"Hey, amigo," I shouted as the car pulled away. "What you say?"
He didn't say anything, and everybody fell out with a laugh kick.
"Come on, chicos," I said. "Let's get this game going."

Later, walking home, everybody had some kind of excuse for losing.

"Damn Sam," said Waneko. "We should've won that game."
"Yeah," said Zero. "Everybody played like an old puta."
"Aw, next time we'll waste them chumps."

But we couldn't shake off the gloom of losing twelve bolos. My God, do you know what it took to hustle twelve bolos between us? Every damn bottle we could steal from one grocery store to sell to another. All our movie money. And all the change we could beat out of our girl-debs.

"Man," I said. "What a ball we could've had with all that loot."
"Aw, fuck it," said Little Louie. "Why crap over split milk?"
"You mean spilled milk, stupido," said Waneko.
"Split, spilled, what's the difference? We lost."

I got to my stoop, and made it into the dark gloomy hallway. I cut up the stairs and pushed the door on Apartment 3 and slammed it shut behind me with a blast.

"Hey, what's the matter with you?" my mother called from the kitchen. She came to see for herself. "Que muchacho! You would think you never learned how to shut a door. Listen, go outside and come in again like people."
"Aw, Moms, everything bothers you."
"You heard me."
"Okay, okay, Moms."
I walked out the door, stood outside for a moment, and then opened the door. I looked at fat little Moms standing there with a very serious look on her face. I turned and very deliberately, an inch at a time, slowly closed the door, my face all screwed up with gentle effort and my fingers curled around the doorknob. I took a long few minutes to get the door turned around and sweet Momma was shaking all over with laughter.

"What a funny morenito," she said.
I joined her and we just laughed and laughed. I kissed her and went into the back room feeling her full-of-love words floating after me.

"Hey, Moms," I called out from the back room. "How come you're so pretty, eh? How come, huh?"
"Ai, que negrito."
I felt happy. I could hear her softly laughing to herself.
"Que bueno to have a Moms like my Moms . . . umm, que eso? What's smelling so great?"
I walked out in my shorts and came into the kitchen, my face screwed up in a funny face, my nose twitching like a rabbit sniffing. I made like I was floating in the air toward the pots. Ah, I lifted the cover and rolled my eyeballs. I looked out of the corner of my eyes to dig Momma. She was holding her sides, my fat little Momma, tears rolling out of her eyes. Caramba, it was great to see Momma happy. I'd go through the rest of my life making like funnies if I was sure Momma would be happy. I stuck my finger in that sweet-smelling pot.

"Vete! Vete! Get away from that food with your dirty hands. Dios mio, you smell bad, all full of sweat and---"
"Gimme a kiss, Moms; come on, vente--a big jalumbo kiss."
"Get away, you smell bad, all full of sweat. Go, get in that bathtub and let the water and soap make you soft so the dirt has a chance to come off.
"Aw, Moms, you love me any way I am, clean or dirty, white or black, pretty or ugly."
"Si, you're right, and, my son, I have to love you because only your mother could love you, un negrito and ugly. And to make it badder, you're dirty and smelly from your sweat!"
"Aw, look at her." I made a look of disbelief. "Trying to make like I'm not your big love. Ain't I your firstborn, the oldest, the biggest, the strongest?"
"Si, si," Momma came back at me, "and the baddest. Vete, soak for a long time or no dinner."
The water in the bathtub was hot and I looked at my fourteen-year old frame, naked. I was pretty skinny. I should get fatter. Maybe weightlifting would help, like that ad in the funny book about a 97-pound weakling before and after. Man, the water felt good. I ducked under and held my breath as long as I could. It seemed like hours. I was already bursting my lungs when somebody grabbed my hair and pulled me up. "Hey, whatta ya think you're doing?" I shouted. I could make out my brother James's face through the water in my eyes.
"Whatta ya think, mopey? I thought you were drowning."
I threw some water at him. "Ah, ha," he said. "So you wanna play eh?" He ducked and turned on the cold water in the sink, filling the glass we used for gargling.
"Cool, cool, James, I was only kidding. Hold that water, man; I can catch a cold. Be nice, James." He held the freezing water over my head. "Come on, man," I added. "Don't play around. Hey, Moms, tell James to stop farting around."
A little drop of cold water hit my back. I crawled under the water and the rest of the cold water came down. Brrr, I almost left the bathtub in one jump.
"James, I'm gonna punch you in the mouth."
"Sez who?"
"Sez me, you little runt." James filled the glass again.
"Whatta ya gonna do?" he said. I couldn't help laughing.
"Nothing, brother dear, I ain't gonna do nothing."
"You cop out?"
"Yeah, I cop out."
"You cop a plea?"
"Yeah man, I cop a plea. Now will you get the fuck outta here?"
"Moms, Piri's cursing again."
"Why you stoolpigeon," I said hurt-like, "you Puerto Rican squealer."
"Piri," said Momma from the kitchen, "this is a Christian home. I don't want no bad things said inside a house that belongs to God."
"Moms, I didn't say nothing to James."
"You did so say a curse," she said.
"You heard wrong. I said buck, get the buck outta here."
"You didn't," James piped in. "I heard you say 'Will you get the fuck outta here.'"
"Hey, Moms," I yelled out, "did you heard James, huh? Did you hear him? Go on, stoolpigeon," I said to James. "Whatta ya got to say now, huh? Look in the mirror! Hey Moms," I shouted. "Ain't you gonna holler at him too?"
"What for?"
"What for, Moms? Didn't you hear him?"
"I didn't hear nothing."
"Moms, you're deaf. James said, 'Will you get the fuck outta here.'"
"Piri, if you going to keep cursing, when your father comes home you're going to get a strap across your skinny behind."
"My God, there ain't not justice!"
I started to climb out of the bathtub to belt my brother. He didn't back away an inch. He held that damn cold glass of water, and we just looked at each other and burst out laughing.
"Okay, man, we call it a draw," I said, and I eased back into the tub. James started to wash his face and hands. "Say, James," I said half-minded.

"Yeah," came a soap-flubbed answer.
"Did you ever notice how when you're in the bathtub and you lay a fart, little bubbles come up and, blueeeee, they burst, and, man, what a stink? Look, look, there's one, two, three, four, five of them coming up."
"Mowoo, whew, Piri, you're rotten, what a stinking smell, let me outta here."

I said nothing. I just looked at his retreat and smiled an I-got-even-anyhow smile. Then I heard all the kids running to meet Poppa at the door. I wanted to run to meet him too, but I couldn't somehow, and it wasn't because I was in the tub. Even when I did run to meet him, I was like a stranger, outta place, like I wasn't supposed to share in the "Poppy, Poppy" routine.

"Piri, have you finished yet?" Momma called. "Your padre's home and he has to take a bath."

Pops, I wondered, how come me and you is always on the outs? Is it something we don't know nothing about? I wonder if it's something I done, or something I am. Why do I feel so left outta things with you--like Moms is both of you to me, like if you and me was just an accident around here? I dig when you holler at the other kids for doing something wrong. How come it sounds so different when you holler at me? Why does it sound harder and meaner? Maybe I'm wrong, Pops. I know we all get the same food and clothes, anything and everything--except there's this feeling between you and me. Like it's not the same for me. How come when we all play with you, I can't really enjoy it like the rest? How come when we all get hit for doing something wrong, I feel it the hardest? Maybe 'cause I'm the biggest, huh? Or maybe it's 'cause I'm the darkest in this family. Pops, you ain't like Herby's father, are you? I mean, you love us all the same right?

My mind kept up the reverie; my fingers absent-mindedly pulling my floating pee-pee into a long string, like a toy balloon when it's empty, and let it snap back.

Pops, you're the best and greatest Pops in the whole world. It's just that I don't dig why I feel this way. Like I can't get next to you. Jesus, wouldn't it be a bitch if Poppa really didn't love me, I thought. But I doubted it. I mean, you didn't have to dig each other to love each other. Maybe that was it. We didn't dig each other so it made me think he didn't love me. But how come he called Miriam "honey" and the rest of those sweet names but me hardly ever? Miriam gets treated like a princess. I'd like to punch her in her straight nose. I don't care if Pops don't love me a lot. It just don't mean a thing . . . .

The door opened and Poppa walked in. I looked at him and he smiled at me and swooped down and scooped up a handful of water into my face.

Jesus, Pops, you really love me like all the rest, eh? Don't you? Poppa pulled the chain as he took a long, long leak.

"Look, Pops, I can stay under water a long, long time. Watch," I said. And under I went. I held my breath as long as I could. I felt my lungs bursting, like they were on fire, but I hadda show Poppa. I couldn't hold out much longer, but I hadda show Poppa. The lights in my head started to spin and I couldn't stay under any more. I exploded up out of the water, sputtering but happy.

"You see me, Pops? I gasped, screwing the water out of my eyes. "Did you see me, Pops? I musta stayed under five minutes." I looked happily, but there was no one there. The bathroom was empty. I felt like I lost something, something more, and I couldn't tell the salty tears from the bath water.

I dried myself off, put on my clean clothes, and walked out into the kitchen. Poppa was standing by the icebox. I didn't look at him as I walked toward the back room. If I wasn't there for him, he wasn't there for me.

"Hey, son," he called. I stopped and my back stayed toward him. "I heard you when you exploded out of that water, you sure got a lot of lung power. I bet you could be a great swimmer."

"You mean it, Pops?" I lit up like a bomb. Poppa had noticed my show. "You really think so, huh, Pops? I mean I got good lungs. I'm a little skinny but I'm going to lift weights."
Pops was turning away, losing interest, but who cared? I mean, he had a right to be tired; he needed some rest after working for a wife and kids. I couldn't expect him to be mushy over me all the time. Sure, it was all right for the other kids; they were small and they needed more kisses and stuff. But I was the oldest, the firstborn, and besides, I was hombre.