Suddenly, I remembered how John had
gracefully let me scream and punch
until I let up for a second, out of sheer
exhaustion. That’s when he got a piece
of him. And that’s when it all came
together. The soft arc of John’s arm
going into Larry’s chest and his back,
just two times. That’s all it took.
I let the body drop. I heard nothing
after that. I was in my own head. I
remember thinking what a beautiful
day it was and how, maybe, it was
just a hint of what the summer of ’64
would be like. Balmy wind, pearl-like
sky. Damn! What a way to spend a
beautiful spring-like afternoon.
BRN-SPRING-2015.indb 7
John was in the aftermath of bloodlust;
a state of shock after one has killed or
seriously hurt someone. It was as if he
was possessed.
Immediately after an orgy of anger,
vengeance, jealousy, or self-defense,
there’s a stillness, an unreplicable kind
of quiet. The truth of the moment
begins to seep in. The person lying in
front of you is dead. He will never walk
again. The reasons for putting your
perceived enemy in that permanent
state, once clear and compelling, are
now fuzzy, but…there lies the body.
I have seen too many people — cops,
paramedics, neighbors, even family —
approach the weapon-wielder too soon.
There are times when the shock is so
great, it immobilizes the perpetrator,
and one can remove the weapon from
the person’s grip. However, if not
handled delicately, sensitively, leaving
time and space for the person to walk
into the culpability, the weight, the
seriousness of the moment, the person
trying to retrieve the weapon may very
well be the next victim. It’s nothing
personal. It’s just that the Good
Samaritan has moved too soon while
the weapon-user is still in a state of
bloodlust.
Larry’s eyes were almost shut, his
mouth half closed. It was that semicircle
of light that bounced off his iris that
shattered any veneer of vengeance or
victory I might have harbored; it was
the grotesque way his mouth looked,
lips locked frozen around a black hole
as if he were in freeze-frame, caught in
the middle of something he was about
to say, or snarl.
Throughout the entire beating he had
not uttered a word, only grunts. It was
as if his pride, his manhood, his ego
would not let him give us the pleasure
of hearing the scream of fear or the
possibility, the very real possibility, of
his losing this one.
Minutes before, in the stank, empty
wine bottle smelling, smoke-filled
second floor poolroom, he ruled the
floor. Wouldn’t even turn his fuckin’
head to validate my lightweight
status on the block or the Canarsie
warriors who had just invaded his turf.
I anticipated he would try to chump
me, ignore me. I knew I was not a
tough guy. I loved being loved and,
in those days, and sometimes now,
I would do anything, be anything, to
be loved, to be touched, to be hugged
bear-like, in the arms of anyone who
saw the possibility in me, an iota
of goodness, maybe even a sliver of
greatness, because, well, I couldn’t.
But, to blithely ignore the black,
battle-toughened young men I came
in with was a big mistake. Their scowls
permeated the casual banter and
raucous laughter that filtered through
to us as we walked quietly up the
narrow stairway to the wide, semi-lit
poolroom. Cigarette casually tucked
behind his ear, he focused on his
shot, oblivious to the lack of noise
and the changed, suddenly quiet,
atmosphere in the joint.
BLACK RENAISSANCE NOIRE
I grabbed Larry’s shirt, near the open
collar, to pull him up and punch him
again when I saw John with a knife,
standing, almost trancelike, staring
strangely at the body. His shoulders
were stooped, his back was bent, his
legs were trembling. He looked like
Dracula with a long, black leather coat
draped over his boney shoulders, the
belt and buckle coiled on the concrete
sidewalk, like a serpent. He looked like
an undertaker, like the spirit of death
on Halsey and Broadway in Bushwick,
Brooklyn. The bloody knife was in his
hand. His mouth was open, but no
sounds were coming out. I knew, he
knew, that he had killed Larry.
The cops 6