As I recall this advice, I notice three guys sitting at my gate dressed in sweat suits. One wears a hip pack. Are these undercovers? Are they waiting for me? Am I paranoid? They might be a group of gym equipment reps. I think they might be observing me, but if I look at them again, they might notice me looking and I might appear suspicious. My instinct is to go to the bathroom to calm down, but if they see me going there, they might construe it as suspicious behavior, especially right after seeing them.
My mind is flying in circles.
I decide to do something that will make me look like the most average passenger at the airport. I head to the airport McDonald’s and wait in line. I take my time eating to minimize the time I’ll have to wait at the gate. I am too nervous to have an appetite and feel as if I am not eating this cheeseburger and fries, but rather pushing them into my stomach. I become nauseous.
As I board the flight and head toward my seat, I hear a male voice behind me. “Sir, excuse me. Hey. You there!” I keep walking to my seat, praying to God that he is talking to someone else. “Sir!” I feel a forceful hand on my shoulder. Is this it? Am I caught? I turn around to face a flight attendant with his hand gripping my shirt. “May I please see your ticket, sir?”
I search my pockets for my ticket. Shit, where is it? He is tapping his foot. I find the ticket in my back pocket. As he examines it, I try to plan a getaway. But how? I’m on a plane on the middle of an airport runway, and there’s nowhere to go. I am trapped. I feel defeated. I mentally prepare myself to go to jail.
The flight attendant looks at the ticket, then to me. “Okay,” he says, “you’re in seat twenty-three-D. All the way towards the back.”
No shit, asswipe! You put your hands on me and yelled at me in front of everyone just to tell me that the seats are in numerical order? I am so pissed off at how he just spoke to me that I wish to God I wasn’t transporting illegal drug money, so I could scream at him for treating customers in such a poor manner. I look at him and manage to smile meagerly. “Thanks,” I reply. The fuck-face does not even say “you’re welcome.”
Once airborne, I feel a strong urge to piss, but because I want to avoid drawing attention to myself, I hold it in. For six long hours my bladder is killing me.
As the plane soars through the clouds, I view the world from this new perspective. I can almost see the curvature of the Earth. Here I am, a sponsored skater, living the dream of a million kids on the planet beneath me. How could I be such a fool, to jeopardize everything I’ve worked for since I was old enough to ride a skateboard? I wish to God I could take this all back.
I try to clear my mind as I stare into the clouds. The clouds transform, and somehow I clearly see a vision of my sweet mother’s face. Comfort. She is smiling, proud of me and my accomplishments in life. All my fear subsides. In this state of heightened emotion, I return to an experience I had forgotten, yet, I could recollect this particular day as if it were the present.
For my sixth or seventh birthday, my brother and sister had gotten me my first skateboard. I have never, before this day or since, been so excited about a gift. That was the day I realized that skateboarding was my calling. I skated until the sun had set and the moon had risen, and my mother told me it was time for bed. I remember the anticipation I felt for the next morning, so I could skate all day once again.
That night, as my mom tucked me into bed, after we said my prayers, I remember asking, “Mom, can I sleep with my skateboard tonight?”
She replied, “Sure, Brandon. Why?”
My answer was sincere. “In case I die in my sleep tonight, I want to die with my skateboard.”
My mind returns to this flight, which seems to last an eternity.
So this is where my priorities have changed.
chapter twenty-two
A Change of Priorities
I touch down at LAX.
Within twenty minutes I climb into a van with Todd Hastings, the team manager for Powell Peralta.
Todd says, “Good to see you, Brandon. How was the flight? Everything okay?”
“Yeah, it was great. Had trouble sleeping, though.” If he only knew.
“Ha ha,” he replies, glancing at his watch. I can tell that he is pressed for time. “Okay, we have this team dinner; it officially starts at six o’clock. Some of the guys are already there now, so, let’s head over there and join the rest of the team.”
What? No! I have to make the call to the rightful owners of the cash, which is still wrapped tightly around my body. I scramble for the right words to buy time…. “Whoa, whoa, Todd. Let’s slow down. I just got here, man. I need to go to the hotel, check in, and take a shower real quick.”
Todd tries to blow me off. “Oh, yeah, there will be plenty of time for that later. Right now we need to go to the team dinner.”
No way! Dwight’s connection is standing by and waiting for my call. I can’t screw this up. I call Todd out. “No, listen, the flight sucked, and I need just a minute in my room. Let’s go to the hotel, so I can get situated.”
But Todd is steadfast in his convictions. “Ah, no, right now we’re going to the company dinner, that’s where the team is. Got to.”
I consider Todd’s position as team manager, reviewing all I know about him.
His job is one of prestige, but also diplomacy. It is his duty to maintain a pleasant relationship and rapport with the team members—not only to deal with the gracious, seasoned pro athletes who set the example for the others to follow, but also to appease the pushy little prima donna skate punks who are testing the boundaries of their newfound power and sense of self-importance. I had always strived to be one of the sportsmen who are amicable and appreciative. But now, as much as I hate to be a pain in his ass, the drive for self-preservation compels me to push the issue.
I insist, “Come on, Todd! The hotel is right by the dinner! What’s the big deal?”
As Todd sighs, I realize I am victorious, although I now have a new black mark in Todd’s personal ledger.
“Okay, okay. Fine. Do you have a watch?” he asks.
Out loud I tell him, “No, I didn’t wear one.” In my head, I continue, “Because I didn’t want to set off the airport metal detector and alert security to the fact that I have a hundred thousand dollars strapped to my body!”
Todd replies, “Okay, I’ll give you twenty minutes, from the time you get to the lobby, to the time you get back downstairs. Can you do that?”
“Cool, Todd, no problem.”
Todd looks at his watch. “Remember, we’re on a schedule, and you’re holding us up!”
We arrive at the hotel. Once in my room, I am on the phone, dialing. After it rings four times, a Spanish-accented man answers. “Hello?”
“This is Brandon, Dwight’s friend. He said you would be waiting for my call.”
“How was your trip, was everything smooth?”
“Yeah, we’re all good. You want to get together?”
“We’ll be there soon.” Click. He hangs up.
We’ll be there?! Who the fuck is “we”?!
After twenty minutes, the phone rings. I pick up. “Hello?”
“Hey, it’s Todd. I’m down in the lobby waiting.”
“Oh, okay, I’ll be down in a minute.”
“Make it quick, we have to get going, now!”
“Okay, just one minute.” I hang up.
I sit on the bed, my head in my hands, unable to think clearly.
Five more minutes go by. Man. Skateboarding is my career. I mean, really, what am I doing, risking it all? What is this urge inside me that is so influenced by the sense of danger and risk?
Knock! Knock! Knock! My heart is pounding so hard, it feels as if it is going to burst out of my chest. I feel like I’m about to have a nervous breakdown.
I walk to the door, wrap my hand around the doorknob, and inhale.
I open the door and find myself face to face with two characters: a seventy-year-old Hispanic hunchback woman and what appears to be her
fourteen-year-old grandson. Of all the drug-dealing stereotypes I had expected to see at this moment, these two were not on the list. What the fuck have I gotten myself into?
The young boy grabs my hand and shakes.
“Are you Brandon?” he asks.
“Yes.”
The boy says, “I’m Javier, this is my grandmother, Esmeralda.”
Esmeralda says not a word. I invite them in and shut the door.
Esmeralda grabs Javier’s shirt and pulls him closer, whispering Spanish into his ear. The boy does not take his eyes off me. My mind is spinning. Am I safe? Who are these people? Are they wired? Is this a setup? Are the police going to break in and arrest us? Is someone else going to come in and kill me? Why did I think this was a good idea?
Javier asks, “My grandmother wants to know how you know Dwight.”
I begin to feel a great sense of urgency to complete this transaction. “Dwight is my boss. Javier, do you want what I brought for you?”
“Yeah,” he says.
As I turn and start to step into the bathroom, Esmeralda yells something in Spanish. Javier rushes across the room and blocks my path.
“Where are you going?” Javier asks.
“To get the money,” I tell him.
“Where is it?”
“It’s on me. Strapped to my body,” I say.
Javier, speaking Spanish, interprets my words to Esmeralda, who barks a series of orders. It is clear that she is in charge, and I wonder what kind of gun she is hiding in her purse—which is unzipped right next to her hand.
Javier says, “My grandmother prefers that you stay in the room. We should all stay together.”
I reply, “Fine. If that’s what you prefer.”
I strip down to my boxers, and as I unwrap and untape each bundle, I hand them to Javier, who passes them to his grandmother. She counts them with speed and efficiency, three times per bundle. During this process I develop a great respect for these two and their operation. This comforts me because dealers who practice smooth business transactions rarely do anything to foul things up.
Javier opens up his book bag and places the money in a school project binder. He closes the bag and extends his hand for me to shake. His grandmother turns and walks out the door. Javier follows, leaving me standing alone in my boxers. Done.
Two minutes later, I’m in the elevator, staring at the illuminated floor numbers.
In the lobby, there is no sign of Todd. I run to the parking lot and find him in the van, pulling away. He sees me and stops for me to climb in. There was no need to tell me that he was leaving without me.
“Todd, I’m real sorry. Me and my girlfriend are going through some rough shit right now, and we got into a major bitch match on the phone. So, which skate shop is sponsoring tomorrow’s demo?” I change the subject and keep the conversation going, feeling smug that I had beaten the odds.
At this point, my patterns are starting to change. When I used to fly into a Powell tour, the first thing I’d do is call up my homeboys and go skate. Now my priority was a drug-money transaction. What’s happening to me? I am, for some reason, going against all better judgment, defeating my lifelong aspirations, reversing all the hard work I’ve put into my career. But inside, I felt invincible. In my distorted mind I could conquer skating, as well as become an entrepreneur in the drug trade.
Guy chimes in, “So, you got away scot-free?”
“No I didn’t get away with it scot-free. Not at all.”
That single event had an effect on my lifestyle and would forever alter my relationships, my attitude, my life.
chapter twenty-three
The Calm Before the Storm
In the next few months I made several more cash runs for Dwight, usually by bus, successfully smuggling several hundred thousand dollars throughout the country and delivering it where requested.
Dwight and I are cruising in his Mercedes, discussing our business relationship. Dwight drives, keeping his eyes on the road ahead. “You know, I like you, Brandon. Not once have you skimmed, not even so much as one thin dollar. I put my trust in you, and you pulled through for me. You’re loyal. And in our business, that’s rare, man. Very rare. I think it’s time to take things to the next level.”
“What do you have in mind?”
“Future prospects.”
We go to Dwight’s apartment. On the wall is a numerical security panel. Dwight types in a code, then four beeps ring out and the door unlocks. The door is painted to look like wood, but I notice it is cool to the touch: metal, burglarproof, fireproof. Dwight leads me through the doorway, flips on the light.
Inside, past several paintings and pieces of antique furniture, against the far wall, sit several large rectangular objects, covered in tan cloths. Dwight pulls off one of the covers, revealing a large footlocker fastened with a sturdy combination lock.
He opens the footlocker. Its contents: four twenty-five-pound bricks of marijuana, compressed and vacuum sealed in several plastic layers. Between each layer is a thick coating of petroleum jelly, which is used to contain the pungent scent of the weed during transport. Also inside is a triple beam scale, the kind used in high school science classes to measure exact weight down to the gram.
As Dwight’s eyes give a keen and speculative look, I know that the conversation to come will seal my fate as the distributor of large amounts of this product.
That night, we dine in a five-star restaurant. I have become quite accustomed to this ritual. In front of me sits an enormous white plate; its rim meticulously decorated with an intricate design painted by hand in sauce and accented with green leaves. In the center of the plate an immense shrimp tail is surrounded by lump crab meat. Next to the plate rests three different forks, which I suppose are to be used for specific courses. A glass of freshly opened Perrier, slightly chilled, is in my hand.
Four of us are seated at the table. I take a moment to analyze Dwight, the man to whom everyone present pays full attention. Dwight is the least respectable looking person in the group. He is overweight, out of shape, and to an outsider might appear low class—until they glance at his wrist and see the Presidential Rolex.
Dwight does not need to position himself at the head of the table in order to impose his authority. His status in the drug game grants him the right to speak whenever he wishes. The first word of his every sentence commands silence from anyone who might be in mid-conversation.
Next to Dwight is the most beautiful woman in the restaurant, his girlfriend. She represents class and elegance, resembling a woman in a famous painting in which the technique and time period become secondary to the striking beauty of the subject.
Last at the table is a six-foot, two-hundred-fifty-pound guy named Leo. He has the biggest fucking ears I’ve ever seen, and he wears a black baseball cap in which he tucks the upper third of each. Unfortunately, the lower two-thirds are so large that it makes no difference if the upper ears are tucked or not. In an attempt to hide his fat, he wears large, baggy clothes that draw attention to his obesity rather than obscure it.
This is the first time I have met Leo, but I am starting to figure out the role he plays in Dwight’s organization. Dwight has a few of these kinds of guys working for him, as does every drug dealer with any clout. He is what is referred to on the streets as Dwight’s bitch boy. He takes all the big risks Dwight refuses to take and probably does not receive nearly the amount of money that he deserves to compensate him for the consequences of getting caught.
Leo is involved in this game, not for the cash, but for the sake of his reputation. He was picked on in high school and developed a poor self-esteem. Although he is intelligent and got good grades, he lacks something that meant much more to him than a good report card. He needs to belong, and the drug trade is always taking job résumés for those who want to be paid off in social acceptance. So, for him, the risk of the job is worth it.
Until this point I felt superior to Leo, but now, I realize that we are really the same.
He could make great money as a businessman, and I could do just as well as a pro skateboarder. But, in the end, we both need something more to satisfy us: love and acceptance. All the positive morals, values, family, and friendship my mother had given me fade into the shadow of this desire. I sip my Perrier, choosing not to consider the matter any further.
The waiter visits our table. Dwight gives him a slight nod and the waiter presents him with the check. Dwight glances at it, reaches his hand in his raggedy pants pocket, and produces a big wad of cash. All hundreds. He flips out four of them, throws them on the table, and stands.
Dwight looks at me. “Are you ready, young’un?”
I say, “Sure, but don’t you need to wait for your change?”
He chuckles. “You have a lot to learn, don’t you, kid? That’s all right, we got time. We got plenty of time. Come on, let’s go.”
Dwight pulls me into his web, and I don’t mind. Like Leo, I’m now in Dwight’s pocketful of bitch boys. He’s got me.
chapter twenty-four
The Cage
There is a logical and natural progression of substance abuse that leads users down the road of addiction. In my early high school years, I began to fulfill this stereotype. First, it was drinking beer and liquor at parties. Next I was smoking pot on weekends. Soon, I was smoking after school, then before school. Then I graduated to hash, acid, mushrooms, whatever was available.
My life was going downhill, ironically, because I had respect. I was more popular than the high school jocks: the football and basketball players who were lucky if they got a quarter scholarship for their hard work. I was a skateboarder on the Powell Peralta team; I had already made it! Everyone wanted to talk to me in school and invite me to their parties. I did as I pleased, and could do no wrong. I was perfect. No one dared to tell me I was messing up my life.