My Private Life

So where were we? ah yes, 1982 South Central Los Angeles. Like I said in part 1, my dad Moose was prideful to an extent, he insisted I go to private school. So I did , from kindergarten until ninth grade, I was a good old "Catholic School Kid." I won't mention the name.

I was a pretty good student until about 8th grade, I never ran straight A's, but I wasn't Forrest Gump either. I was always considered to be a problem child simply because I was a critical thinker. I didn't like doing things the standard way, I was an outside the box kind of thinker. I realize now that the American school system whether it be public, or private punishes children for this skill. School teaches a child to program, to follow orders, to do as they're told. From there college is the same way, although critical thinking isn't punished as harshly depending upon ones choice of major. From college , a person enters the workforce and much as they did in elementary school, they get to work before (the bell in school) being late and marked absent or tardy. Your morning break at work is a students

recess break, usually 15 - 17 minutes in duration. Then back to your office (classroom) for another 2 hours until noon, lunchtime for children, lunch break for the adults. After 30 minutes, a child or hourly employee, which most of us turn out to be, returns back to their classroom or desk and finishes out the day, to return home; to wash, rinse and repeat, from kindergarten until a person retires at age 65. We're programed in America to do as we are told, but we are given the illusion of freedom.(MESSAGE)

They call it the school to prison pipeline now, I guess it took someone awhile to figure that shit out. I had no major incidents in elementary school, nor Jr. High school / middle school for you southerners.

Things started to get very interesting for me in 8th grade. I was working at that age, about 13. I walked home from school everyday, roughly 8 blocks, so about a 30 minute walk. School let out back then at 2:35 p.m. I'd usually make it in the door by 3:00 - 3:10, my mom and dad would be at work, so I had my own key. Had that key and was walking home by myself since 2nd grade. Anyways I'd come in the house and sit my books down, grab the trash and run it out to the backyard. Feed the dog and give him fresh water. Then I'd run back in and make myself a snack if I was hungry, and run out to the bus stop, to go to work. I'd catch the 107 bus line on Western Ave and 89th street, ride it down to Vernon Ave., I believe it was. Then I'd walk back about 4 blocks to 43rd street. All at 12-13 years old, I worked for an old black man that had a bicycle shop. His name was Mr. Denton, owner and operator of Denton's Cycle Shop, on 43rd and Western Ave. I'd sweep up in front of the shop, keep the sidewalk really clean. I'd sweep the shop every evening, mop the floor and bring in the display bikes from outside.

Mr. Denton paid me, $5.00 a day cash, under the table. One day Mr. Denton had a shipment of boxes, he said he needed help unloading them. This was before UPS and FedEx, so you had to do it yourself if you wanted anything done. I asked him what was in the boxes, and he told me, bicycles what else boy? I had a bike but it was an old orange Huffy with a banana seat on it. I had never seen real BMX bikes in a box. I thought Santa did all that shit, someone needed to have a meeting with the elves, they weren't working, and I knew about work!

But a bike is a bike, frame, seat, gooseneck, crank, rims and tires. Not too complicated at all...I told him, "Mr. Denton I can put them bikes together if you want?" He said "Boy how you know to put bikes together?" he was truly amazed at my claim, "I take mine apart about once a month and lube it, clean it and degrease it."

Right then old Mr. Denton knew I wasn't just whistling Dixie, he knew I knew what I was talking about or I was running a smooth con job on him. "Grab that box boy and drag it over here, lemme see what you can do" I was as eager as a virgin in a whorehouse, I wanted to prove I could really do man work. The bike came completely disassembled, about 45 minutes later I was looking at a bright red GT BMX bike, the kind white kids had on TV. At that time in 1983 that bike was almost$300.00, a kings ransom. That would be easily over $1,000.00 in todays money. I had to have one, I'd be the coolest kid in the hood for sure.

That was my last year working for Mr. Denton, 1983. In the 2 years I worked for him, I had saved well over the $300.00 for the bike I had dreamed of. Christmas of 1983, my mom asked me what I wanted for Christmas, I said a bike. I mean I wanted a real bike, a trick bike, one I could go really fast on, and jump really high, pop wheelies and stuff. Mom said "How much is this jump bike you want boy?" I hesitated, I knew how much $300.00 bucks was, I was a kid, not stupid. I was scared to tell her. So I said, "They're about $300.00 bucks mom, but wait!!, I got money saved up, from my job."

What could she say? I can't remember where I got the bike, but it was by University of Southern California, U.S.C. for you college folks. I walked in the store and saw her, A brand new CHROME (not baby shit orange) MONGOOSE CALIFORNIAN, she was absolutely immaculate. Royal Blue tires, grips, and pads. A real sweet ride indeed. I had to borrow about $13.00 from my mom to cover taxes and shit but, I rode out the store with the bike. I've never been so proud, not even when I bought cars and homes later in life. That bike is kind of a catalyst in turning me into the person I would soon become.

Mom told me good, "Boy that bike is nice, don't ride it to school, and don't let anyone at all ride your bike." Yeah, yeah yeah, whatever, I'm gone out the door and in the wind.

I rode that bike to school one day, and no it didn't get stolen for all you negative folks out there. Something slightly different transpired that day that would change the course of my life forever.

The "public school" kids would come by my school and harass the private school kids, everyday! Some kids got beat up, some got robbed, the following year my home boy got shot in the ass, in front of that school.

I came riding out the fence after school, and to my knowledge no black or Mexican kids even knew what a Mongoose Californian was, not to mention this half assed white boy riding through the hood on one.

"Fuzzy?,.. what's up cuzz?" (What Crip Gang members refer to other Crips as) I kept riding I didn't want anything to do with those guys, I knew what they did. They were bad kids, really bad kids. Just when I thought I would get away, (I wasn't scared of getting beat up or anything, I knew these kids, I knew where they lived.) one dude jumped in front of my bike and grabbed the handle bars almost jerking me off of it and onto the ground. It was the infamous Little Stone Face, Stone for short. I will not say his real name, but this individual came to an awful end years later in a drive-by shooting, murdered by Hoover Crips, that's all I'll say on that, he was my friend, dead at 20. His older brother which we will get to shortly, was murdered by 83rd street Crips in 1985, he was friend also, terribly missed to this day.

Anyways, Stone says "Cuzz, that's a sweet bike let me ride it Fuzzy." I knew what not to do at this moment, so I took the brave route and said " Naw cuzz, ain't nobody riding this bitch." Then there was Baby E-Loc, Little Squeak Box, (Squeaky) for short, and lastly Little Chico. The four musketeers of the neighborhood. After a little back and forth, no blows were thrown, no bikes were stolen, and I was not a Crip Gang Member, not that day anyway.

I never rode that bike to school again, but I would ride it to the store every Saturday morning and get my dad a weekend edition of The Los Angeles Time, The Herald Examiner and a carton of Pall Mall Red None Filter cigarettes. Believe it or not, in 1983 I could buy cigarettes with no problem at the age of 12. Holiday Liquors (google it) on 92nd and Western Ave. was the store I rode my bike to every Saturday morning for my dad. In that same shopping square, there was a dry cleaning business, Flemings Dry Cleaning, come to find out Squeaks mom and dad owned that cleaners...fuck me!

Well, as the story goes; I was on my route to get the weekend supply of essentials for my pop, when out the blue comes Squeak.."Hey Fuzzy...what's up cuzz? What you doing?" Squeak was a average sized 15 year old, kind of short actually thinking about it now, but he had the heart of a lion, and a temper to match, my friend. I was like "Squeak the freak...what's up cuzz?" We both laughed but I knew he didn't like being called that, so I didn't want to rub it in and embellish it. "Hey ni@@a, you better look out! Chico wants that bike." Remember Chico boys and girls? "He can't have it , fuck that." I wanted to sound brave in front of Squeak, but inside I knew what these boys did when the sun went down, and it wasn't evening service at the local Catholic Church, these boys were killers, actual real life murderers, they're all dead now coincidentally...life's a trip huh?

My attempt to sound brave worked, I couldn't believe it, I actually stood up for myself. Squeak just looked long and hard, and said "Alright white boy, you're getting some heart to yourself, that's good. It would be fucked up to gain heart and loose bike in same day. Think about that Fuzzy, you go to private school, you're smart right?"

"Alright Squeak what the fuck then cuzz, what I got to do to keep my bike?" I asked with a certain amount of respect, that shit goes along way on the streets in the hood, knowing when to show some that is. Squeak said "I thought you were smart, shit you just as stupid as the rest of us, just light skinned. Fuzzy, do what you want, one day you're going to loose that bike or join the thieves, your decision killer. I'll holler back at you, can't stand out here like this I might get shot, that'll piss my mom off for real, we're supposed to go somewhere later today." With that, Squeak strolled up the Avenue (Western Ave.) and disappeared across the street and into the projects.

I was at a critical point in my life, the first real decision I would have to make in my life. I didn't go outside for awhile, not that I was scared or anything, but i was weighing out the pros and cons of it all.

Pros: Respect, Backup, Girls, Guns, Lowriders, Connections and Money.

Cons: I might shot and die.

That was about it, I may have made a list I can't remember, as you can see it wasn't a long list by any means. So upon careful consideration I decided to join, I loved that bike so much I would risk dying to keep it, fuck man I worked for that motherfucker.

It took about a month to make that decision, and one Saturday morning after my essentials run for my pop, I went around the corner, where the bad kids lived. The OGs ( Original Gangsters) hung out around the corner, there was Big Snake, Big Webb, Big Witch Doctor, Big Pop Gunn, Big Demon, Big Jelly Roll and some others I can't recall at this moment in time. They all hung out drinking beer, selling dope and smoking pot over Big Rolls house. That house got shot up almost 3 times a year, crazy man.

I go up and knock on the door, guess who answers? Fucking Stone!! The dude that wanted to steal my bike, small world after all. "The fuck you want white boy,? Where that bike at?" I said "Fuck you ni@@a, where's Jelly Roll at?" To my amazement this dude said "What you want with my brother?" Remember I told you all about Stones older brother that got murdered in 1985? Well this was about a year and a half prior to his death.

I said eagerly "I'm here to talk to him, not you..." silence passes, he said " Hold on cuzz " he closed the door mumbling something under his breath I have yet to understand.

A couple minutes pass like a loved one with cancer, slow and agonizing. Then the big iron door swung open and there he was, Big Jelly Roll. Twenty-Four years old, owned 2 homes, a Mercedes and a BMW, a 1961 Chevy Impala Convertible (show car) and God knows what else. He was awe inspiring, for I was just 13, he stood about tall as my dad, but weighed well over 350 pounds I would estimate.

He was smoking a joint, there were no blunts and shit these kids do now.

"What you want little ni@@a? I'm cooking." He was not enthusiastic about my presence. So I decided to make it quick and not bother him more than I already had. So with a little hesitation I said "They told me to come see you if I want to join the neighborhood." He laughed at me which sent me in to an inward emotional spiral, and said "We ain't hiring motherfucker!" and slammed the door in my face.

That was my first attempt to join a Crip Gang, just that simple back then, back when there was a code and principles to the shit. I was devastated, for the second time in my life I felt truly unwanted, like Anne made me feel at birth twelve years previous.

About two weeks passed and we are well in to mid summer of 1983, shortly before Independence Day I recall, I did my essential run for pop and took off around the corner again to join. Now remember too, I told you all I was an out the box thinker, so in case I got turned down again, I had a plan.

I ran around the corner shortly before 10:00 AM, and in seconds it seems, I was on the porch of Jelly Roll again waiting for him to come to the door.

"Ni@@a....this is becoming an issue, I told you we ain't hiring." I knew he would say some shit like that so I was prepared to outwit this grown man, at 13 years old. Worse case scenario, he calls my bluff, I get killed, no big deal, right?

"Alright then you fat ass motherfucker,...I got something for all y'all!, I'll go 2 blocks over and join the enemies gang, come back and shoot all y'all. Knowing I would do no such thing, I'm Catholic remember? Jelly Roll just looked at me long and hard. "Humph...is that right little man? We can't have that now can we?" I didn't know what to say, he was actually asking me what I thought about something. So I came back at him with the only thing I knew to say, (Mom said my mouth would be my ruin) "There's only one way to know for sure." I was shaking in my no name brand "play shoes" which were worse looking than my no name brand "school shoes." Here I was at 13 talking cash shit to a certified killer, everyone knew it in the neighborhood, what's known doesn't have to be verified, as they say.

"Come back later, I'm cooking, so come back this afternoon when the homies come over." He shut the door in my face and that was that. I had a call back, so I went from a definite not hiring to a call back, a second interview if you will. Fast forward all the pulp and getting to the juice, I'm sitting on the porch with Jelly Roll, he says some words to me I should've listened to in retrospect.

"Cuzz, you're smart, Squeak and them, they talk about you sometimes. You go to the Catholic school right?" he asked but already knew the answer. "Yeah, I go to the Catholic school, that don't matter though." I exclaimed like a hood lawyer, and I was interjecting for my client. "Yeah it kind of does fool," he continued to drop knowledge on me, what I was signing up for. "You got options cuzz, you got parents that work, they take care of you. Cuzz they PAY for you to go to school, school is free motherfucker don't you know that?"

"They buy you shit, bikes and shit, I bet you get Christmas trees and shit, gifts and shit, Easter Egg hunts and shit, birthday cakes and shit, I wished a motherfucker would've stuck some stupid racetrack under a fucked up tree for me and my little brother. You don't know how good you got it." I was perplexed, this dude talked like a human being. At that moment I realized, everybody didn't get racetracks, and star wars men, birthday cakes and trips to Disneyland. Well damn, that's fucked up.

The yard was full of dudes, some girls too. A couple were kind of pretty, I didn't know how to act around girls at that time though. There must have been 40 guys there, music blasting in the backyard and Jelly Roll and I were sitting on the front porch, where he could be heard clearly. He pulled out small bag of weed, and a pack of Zig Zags and began to roll a joint.

"You know cuzz, if I was you; I'd go to college or some shit, do something else with your life, while you can. Once you do this shit, you're committed. Do as you're told and learn as you go; no ones going to ask you to do nothing crazy if that's what you're thinking. Certain rules apply that cannot be violated, do you understand what I mean?" I said "Yeah...like I'll get beat up if I break a rule." He responded with 5 words that said everything I needed to hear. "Everybody don't get beat up." I understood exactly what that meant; sometimes people die.

"You sure you wanna do this then? "I took a deep breath and said, "Fuck it, I'm ready." He had smoked about half the joint by now, eyes low and red. He stood up and said, "Go home Fuzzy, you're my little now. I'll see you tomorrow I'm going to lay down, I'm fucked up cuzz." Once that was all said and done, I was in; that's it. I know you all were expecting some made for TV fight scene and shit but things were different then. Although Stone or somebody let it out that I "walked on" the neighborhood, others decided that, that just wasn't going to be the case. So yes, I did have to fight a few guys like you see on some movies or whatever but that's not relevant to the grand scheme of things here.

Long story short, I kept my bicycle for quite awhile afterwards, even got another one I left to my cousin when I joined the Marine Corps. I was going to tell some stories about gang life and shit I've seen, done or heard...but that kind of goes against the whole thing I swore too that summer of 1983, so long ago. Everything isn't violence guys, drugs, shoot outs and shit, that's TV for the most part.

Fast forward to April 18, 1985; my moms birthday (J my adopted mom passed away 4 years ago) and it got hot early that spring. My best buddy buddy, Little Slim Capone and I were up to no good as usual. I can't remember what we were doing before, I just now what happened next would forever change what happened after. My neighborhood was in the middle of a gang war that sparked off two months earlier, over a killing at the corner gas station between two OGs from our respected factions. Since that shooting the two neighborhoods called a cease fire, no shooting each other; but what that really means is, no running anyone over, no molotov cocktail through bedroom windows, no stabbing, no beatings, basically no one from their neighborhood should have an "accident" that couldn't be explained. Cool, no problem; moving on then. As I said before, Slim and I were out and about and ended up on Western Ave. between 92nd street and 94th street, 93rd stops at Manhattan Place and doesn't intersect Western Ave.