I reply, “What are you talking about?”
“Don’t gimme that bullshit! Get out! Get out of the car, you little fucker! I’m gonna teach you a lesson, right here, right now!”
His buddies cheer, inciting his temper. “Get him! Fuck him up!”
Alexia’s father reaches through the open window and grabs hold of the only part of my body he could reach: my wounded head. As he tries to yank me from the car, I experience what I can honestly say is the worst pain I have ever felt in my life. My head, which is literally held together by staples and throbs with every breath, is now being pulled hard enough to separate from my neck!
My mom begins screaming and nails the gas, causing Alexia’s father to fall to the ground. He springs to his feet, and as he sprints alongside the car, he manages to punch me in the face. Finally, as my mom drives away at top speed, his voice booms over the suburb, echoing, “You little piece of shit! If I catch you again I’ll kill you! I’ll fucking kill you!”
Now, when a memory such as this is shared, it is usually either prefaced or concluded with a quote such as, “This is the worst it ever got.” But, this was not the worst it ever got. It gets worse. Way worse.
chapter six
Deceit and Betrayal
It is approximately one year later. By this time, I have gotten kicked out of high school, been arrested several times, and forgotten my lifelong dream of skateboarding. I have quit the Powell Peralta team for which I once skated. Alexia has taken up waitressing. My current occupation is full-time Heroin addiction.
On this particular afternoon, I am in my bedroom at my mom’s house, staring out the window, awaiting the arrival of Alexia’s car.
Questions
Where the hell is she?
Why is she late?
If she knew she was going to be late, why didn’t she call?
How could she do this to me?!
These questions are typically asked by a male in contemplation that his girlfriend may have been unfaithful. But, of course, the reason I am upset is because I am sick, and she has our Dope! The lack of consideration she is demonstrating is unacceptable! Alexia has now forced me to break a taboo of the restaurant business, to call a waitress who has already started her shift.
“Fine! If that’s the way she wants to play it, I’ll play that way, too, and if she gets in trouble with the manager, it’s her own fucking fault!” I say as I grab the phone and furiously dial, striking out at each button with my index finger.
“Good afternoon, how may I help you?” the female on the other line asks.
“May I speak with Alexia please?”
The hostess replies with an air of arrogance, “Alexia? She’s on the floor. She’s working.”
No shit, bitch! I insist, “It’s a personal emergency, no one’s dead or anything. But I do need to speak to her.”
“One moment please.” I can tell the hostess is annoyed. Good! I tap my foot as I wait.
Alexia picks up. “Hello?”
I start in on her. “Are you fuckin’ kidding me?! I’m sick as hell and you didn’t even call to let me know what’s going on?! What the fuck?!” I am as resentful as a husband who is on the hallway side of a bedroom door, listening to his wife with her lover as she screams with a lustful intensity that he has never heard before.
“We took a loss,” she says.
“What are you talking about?” I shout.
“Kaitlin set me up!”
Kaitlin was a junkie, a black girl from Park Heights who would sometimes cop Heroin for us when we were in need. She would, as per our agreement, provide these services in exchange for a small cut of Heroin, which she would extract from each bag she scored for us. Fair enough: she gets dope for us, and she gets a cut.
However, it soon came to our attention that Kaitlin was taking not one cut, but instead, two cuts. First, Kaitlin would take a cut or “pinch” from our bag when it was scored in our absence. Then, in our presence, she would extract a second cut, acting as if it were her first and only. The fact that Kaitlin was double-dipping became known to us one day when we arrived at her apartment sooner than expected, before she had a chance to pinch. The amount in our bag was far more than had been in prior scores, and Alexia and I concluded that Kaitlin had been stealing from us all along.
To avoid a confrontation with Kaitlin (because one, given the opportunity, we would have done the same to her, and two, we needed her for future scores), Alexia and I made it a point to be present at each and every future score, thus ending the problem.
One day Kaitlin told me she could score pounds of weed if I ever needed it. I was not a smoker, but I did require money to support what I then referred to as a habit. Kaitlin said that a pound of weed went for eighteen hundred, and she wanted an additional two hundred for setting up the deal. “Fair enough,” I said, calculating that a pound of compressed brick weed, broken up and divided into quarter ounces and sold to college kids, minus the two hundred dollars given to Kaitlin, would almost double my investment. But, my trust for Kaitlin was at a minimal level for the above stated reason, so I told her I would be interested in buying one pound of the weed and would wait at her place until it came. She agreed, made a call, and sure enough, within the hour there was a knock on the door.
This was the first time I ever set eyes on a man named “Jah,” and it was clear why he had been nicknamed after the Rastafarian Jehovah. Jah was a six-foot-five, two-hundred-forty-pound, thirty-five-year-old, broad-shouldered, slender-waisted, thick-dreaded Jamaican, whose presence filled me with awe. His eyes could, if his emotions rose, fill any room with uncomfortable intensity, like the blast of heat from an open furnace. His patois accent was so thick that neither whites nor blacks could quite understand his every exact word and had to rely on the thread of the conversation to grasp his meaning. However, Jah had managed to overcome this language barrier effectively enough to have a hand in every kind of racket imaginable: used car lots, horses, and real estate, to name a few. Jah ran a small Maryland empire, and considered himself just another drug-dealing entrepreneur living the great American dream.
Jah’s weed was very high quality, and the deal went down without a hassle. Every week I continued to go to Kaitlin’s apartment to buy quantities. This setup was perfect, because Alexia worked at a restaurant, and almost all waiters get high; therefore her coworkers became her clients. In time, Alexia accompanied me to Kaitlin’s house for pick-ups. But this morning, she went alone for the first time. The plan, in my mind, was simple: Alexia was to go to Kaitlin’s house, buy a pound of weed from Jah, drop it off to a waiter friend, and use the profits to score Dope, at which time she was to come back home and shoot up with me before she went to work. To me, this highly illegal drug trafficking was a simple morning errand, much like going shopping and picking up a suit from the dry cleaner. The fact that something could go wrong was unfathomable.
I unload my frustrations onto Alexia. “What do you mean, Kaitlin set you up? Where the fuck is the two grand? Did you steal my money?” I demand.
“Fuck you, Brandon! I didn’t steal from you, and if you speak to me like that again, I’m gonna hang up!”
“Well, how could you be so goddamn dumb? You know damn right well that Kaitlin is a Dope fiend and will rip you off the first chance she gets! What the fuck?!”
“Brandon, calm down!” she insists, quietly, to keep her customers and coworkers from overhearing. “Listen! I went to Kaitlin’s apartment, she called Jah, and just as soon as she did, two black boys burst in her apartment with guns and ski masks and demanded my money. At first I hesitated, but the longer I stalled them, the more violent they got. They started pushing me and pulling my hair, and slapping me. And they were about to start punching me in the face! I had to give them the money!”
By the time Jah arrived with the weed, Alexia was crying. Jah, in the matters of human personality, was wise. He knew Kaitlin’s ways and that something was not quite right. He ordered Kaitlin to wait in her bedroom behind
a closed door, separating the two women. Then, alone with Alexia, wiping her tears, Jah asked to hear her side of the story:
“Well, we were waiting for you when two thugs with guns and ski masks kicked the door in and demanded my two thousand dollars…”
Jah stopped her. “Whait ah seh-cond, ’ow did dey know ’ow much money you ’ad, ghirl? Or dat ya ’ad money ha-tall?”
“I don’t know how they even knew, but somehow they did know I had two thousand dollars. They knew the exact amount,” she said.
Jah understood. “You been sed up, ghirl. Mah ’eart ghoes oud to ya. Ere, take dis, dis is ahn da house, ghirl.” Jah gave her half a pound of weed for free, which would help us recoup our losses. He also gave her his pager number. “From now ahn, use dis number to call me, and don’ come roun’ ere noh-more. You go now, ghirl. You leave ol’ Kaitlin to me to deal wit. I’ll maka sure she never messes wit people like she did you aghain.”
Holding the phone, preparing for my next outburst, I consider that, for some odd reason, Jah had felt responsible for what had happened to Alexia…. This tough Jamaican gangster, who is so intimidating, who stands six-foot-five, is capable of feeling sympathy and extending compassion.
Rather than thanking God that Alexia was not seriously hurt, and sighing with relief that the situation might very easily have been so much worse, I am bitter and resentful because I do not have my fix.
I completely overreact, repeating, “Are you fucking serious? Are you fucking serious?”
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Please don’t be mad…” The conversation continues in this manner until she is in tears, because to my demented junkie logic, if I was miserable, she should feel worse.
“Fuck this, just give me Jah’s number!” As I take down the number, I sum up the situation from my selfish viewpoint. “I’m here at home, sick as shit, and all I know is, I don’t have a fucking fix because you fucked up! You hear?! You fucked up, you little bitch! What about me?”
She yells back, in a shaky voice, “Why is this my fault?! What, is it my job to take care of you like a little baby? What am I, your mother?” In a final gesture intended to deny me closure, she slams down the phone. I pace, considering that I just might call her back to continue the argument.
Something said by Alexia, “What am I, your mother?” reverberates in my head. This gives me an idea: I am going to run a scam on them both, Alexia and my mother! I squint, my field of vision narrows…The three of us, Alexia, my mother, and I, are now interwound in my game. Now I make the rules. And I am going to come out the winner.
Slowly, tactfully, I walk downstairs. Mom is in the kitchen. Cooking. Off guard. Perfect. At this point, Mom is still naïve, in denial of my addiction, the ideal candidate for my scheme. I stroll in. The treacherousness of my fake smile generates within me a sense of satisfaction, rendering it genuine. “Hey, Mom. What’s you making? It smells great.”
“Hi, Brandon. I didn’t know you were home. What are you doing? Just hiding out in your room? I haven’t seen you in days.” She kisses me on the cheek, and I sit on the chair beside her purse. Unzipped. Foolish woman! This is going to be easier than I had thought.
“I’m just making some soup. Are you hungry?” she asks.
“Oh, yeah, soup sounds great…Hey, Mom, you know what I like with my soup that you always used to make when I was little?”
“What’s that, Brandon?”
“Toast with butter and grape jelly.”
She laughs. A pleasant memory of childhood is the most powerful weapon in existence against a mother. This ploy always works when I want to divert her attention. Any statement that invokes the feeling of maternity will somehow allow Mom to forget the current state of my life, littered with arrests and rehab visits, and render her susceptible to my ploys.
“Okay, Brandon,” she says.
She turns, opens the refrigerator, and peers in. I calculate. The process of grabbing the items required to make the jelly toast will only take a moment, but a moment is all I need. My hand twitches, preparing itself.
The soup boils. A jet of liquid spits out, falling onto the burner, sizzling, tssssss! This masks the sound produced by my hand as it reaches into her purse, drops to her wallet, and discerns the feel of paper bills.
Okay, now I have to time this perfectly. I know that just as she places her hand on the bread, the plastic wrapper will make a crinkling sound. I wait for it, and as soon as it is audible, I swiftly pull out a few bills and slide them under my sweatshirt. Ha ha! Got you!
As Mom stands up with the bread in one hand and jelly in the other, she looks at me. She senses that something is not right, although she cannot quite determine what it is. Did she see a swift movement from the corner of her eye? Did the shadows in the room change? I deliver a distraction. “So, what kind of soup is it?”
Five minutes later.
I have never eaten a meal so fast in my life. As soon as I am finished, I compliment her and hurry into the bathroom to check out my score. I examine the handful of bills. “Oh, no! Ones!” I thumb through four ones and sigh with comfort as I spot a ten and two twenties on the bottom. I am so relieved that it takes a few seconds to recover my breath.
I rush out the front door and jump into the first cab I see. By the time I arrive at the restaurant where Alexia works, the cab fare is just shy of fourteen dollars. I pay the driver and explain, “Okay, I’m going to run into the restaurant. All you have to do is wait here, in front of the restaurant for three minutes until I come out. If you wait, I’ll give you ten bucks. Got it?” The cab driver agrees.
Now to prepare for part two of my scam. Before I go into the restaurant, I unlatch my watch, which I always wear. This watch is very special because my grandfather left it to me, and Alexia knows this. I hide the watch in my pocket and run in.
Inside the restaurant, Alexia is serving drinks to a family. It is five thirty, or as it is referred to by casual-dining restaurant employees, the “Dinner Rush,” a time when the dining room fills with customers in a matter of thirty minutes. In this short amount of time, drinks must be served, orders taken, and the first wave of appetizers, soups, and salads delivered all at once. For a junkie like me, this is an ideal time to pull a hustle on a girlfriend whose mind is concentrating on every detail of waitressing. Chaos can help reinforce any scam. To apply the element of surprise, I wait for Alexia to notice me. When she finally does, she stops dead in her tracks. Hah! She is staring at me, not knowing how to react, waiting for me to react, asking herself, “Is Brandon still angry? Did he come here to have an argument? Is this going to get ugly in the middle of my work?” This could not be going any better. I refrain from saying anything until finally, she asks, “Brandon, what are you doing here?”
Here we go, time to sell the scam: “Hi, baby. Listen, I need to make this quick. I took a cab here and I didn’t have any money to pay the driver, so I gave him my grandfather’s watch as collateral. I need to get out there and pay him before he leaves with it. See?” I point out the window to the waiting cab. Proof. Then, in rapid-fire, point-by-point delivery, I continue. “But, also, baby, I’m gonna need to use your car. I shouldn’t be long at all. I need to see Jah.”
“Jah? Why?”
“I called him with the number you gave me, and he says he feels bad about what happened to you, and told me he has an opportunity for me to make my money back. He says he has something special for me and I’ll regret it later if I pass it up.”
I can tell she’s skeptical. She knows my tricks, so I continue to add more pressure. “Look, I have to go right now, because the cab driver is gonna ride away with my grandfather’s watch if I don’t get out there and pay him!”
“Here,” she says nervously as she tosses me her car keys. “Brandon, you better not be long!”
As soon as I have the keys to Alexia’s gray Toyota Tercel in my pocket, I hit her up for the money. “I also need thirty bucks to pay the cab driver. I have to go pay him right now!” She hesitantly reaches
into her waitress till and hands me thirty bucks. Hah! I kiss her good-bye. As I turn to leave, I hear Alexia call out, “Come back soon, Brandon. I mean it!”
Once outside, knowing that Alexia is watching me through the window, I pay the waiting cab driver the ten bucks, as promised, making sure that the amount of money I am handing him is obscured from her sight (after all, she thinks I am paying him thirty dollars). I then underhandedly slip my grandfather’s watch out of my pocket and go through the motions as if the cab driver had just handed it back to me. I then turn to the window, hold up my watch for Alexia to see, and blow her a kiss. Alexia waves with uncertainty.
Now I have sixty dollars and a car! Less than a minute later I nail the gas and speed into town to find a Dope shop. I am driving along, looking into alleys, on the sidewalks…. As I glance at the road ahead of me, I realize I am about to run full speed into the car ahead, which is stopped at a red light. I slam on my brakes, screeching and skidding for about seven seconds. Whew! Just missed nailing it by an inch. I look around, and pedestrians are staring. I’d better watch it, I think to myself. I have no driver’s license, no insurance, and to top it off, several outstanding warrants.
I spot a Dope shop that is serving in an alley. As soon as I park the car, I pull my sweatshirt hood over my head and place my hands in my front pockets. If a cop spots my white skin in this neighborhood, I will get hauled off to Central Booking and Alexia’s car will be towed. I run down the alley, full speed, to the dealer. “Let me get six.” This will leave me with no money for a cab ride home from the restaurant after I return Alexia’s’ car, but Alexia will cover that. Ha! I hand over the sixty dollars and grab my bags. As I walk back toward Alexia’s car, I realize my addiction is on par with an abusive relationship. No matter how bad it beats me, physically or mentally, I will always return.