Friday, August 28, 2015
Monday April 19th, 1991 This biggest day of the year in Madison, MA hands down was Patriot’s Day. A Monday morning in which Madison kids got up earlier than even Christmas, for just as long a residential birthright. The towns fabled “Battle Green” had long been a symbolic landmark for politicians, protests and of course the 1775 re-enactment. As children we’d set our clocks to 4AM and race atop Belfrey Hill for a chance to pull the rope, ring the old bell inside the old wooden protective barn that legend said sounded in warning rather than sermon reminder in the early dawn of April 19th, 1775. The original tower had been destroyed and moved over the years its latest reproduction sat atop its original site and was still a hundred years old, ancient in American dog years of earth history. The hill itself held sight lines served for joint smoking teenage high ground with a wholly American view of old Madison Hills and the overpaid police to protect it. The Bell’s pointed, steel, protective gate was a somewhat tricky climb. And inside its wooden womb the yearbook of Madison’s teenage past was carved clandestinely, the sons of these sons of this thing called liberty etched at the very least inside one fucking dope teenage spot to carefully light some weed. As kids we’d rung the bell and then headed to the Pancake Breakfast a few of the many cobble stoned, Protestant churches provided. There were no less than a dozen places to worship of all religions and appetites inside Madison’s borders. From there you’d jock for position amongst the TV vans and ten thousand people on hand to watch the re-enactment and witness the shot heard round the world every year at 4:45AM. Porsche and Mercedes father was a Minuteman. The local news was always there. The Big Guy was always there. It was like watching the Washington generals playing the globetrotters, every year we lost. The lobster backs slaughtering our townsmen. The empire we were the militia. The right to bear arms sadly lost in translation through the oft neglected lenses of the inner city we saw clearly via the METCO program. We stood up to a bully. The star wars of it all somehow welded into my subconscious. It was American for me to break stuff here. A Red Sox game, town parade, Boston marathon and the holy April vacation followed. The day itself was a statewide work holiday. The centers movie theatre played 25 cents, Disney cartoon flicks with a revolutionary twist all day. And all of it was so different from where my brothers in the city commuted hours from every day for almost of their lives. There were no parades on their streets. Only neglect. Patriot’s day, in closing was utter delight of a day here in Madison, I want to ruin it. Now that we were in high school there were a few things a teenager could do. The first, attend the parade and meet some friends like Halloween the reenactment had become silly outside of the diehards whose early rise was an inconvenience. There was homework to do, colleges to attend, sleep had a premium and I was offseason. The more daring play for the courageous, teenage, looser screw was Grey Nuns. The Grey Nuns old brick mansion sat atop of ten sprawling acres a refuge from police on Patriot’s day. The childhood house of a former commodities trader whose son would soon come into our lives, there was a museum of some sorts on the grounds as well as this immunity inside the namesake from police this real estate provided on Patriot’s day. It had become ground zero of the Hell’s Angel’s for years. And the true white zilla of Madison, the teenage crazy had feasted along with this gang for years. It was the very last place I’d ever want to go. No one had a beeper there. Jimmy White held court setting up a personal Keg before the first shot, secluded, protected, a legend with the best plans, girls, drugs, navigational abilities within this one day cult partying with a national biker gang. Those were in the in’s, the days, Patriot’s day, the 4th, Friday night, Wed AM, Jimmy White the latest, #1 legend presiding over a town fought for amongst the elite was actually his, this year, and the adults willfully blind never knew the darker corners of this majestic town. Parker and Porsche, neighbors, sisters in some respects had been excited about this for months, year two for them so far from the docks of normal. You could never find a college party as wild as this besides acid freaked me out and there were no black kids there, fuck that. The party would end permanently the next year with two heroin overdoses / deaths more blood on the original dirt roads of American liberty. I guess it made sense, America. I couldn’t wait to die. I hated my life my sister did too confused what made us so horrible. I’d sacrifice everything now, win a state championship or die trying exposing everything and everyone in my destructive path. And then there were our plans. I woke up at 1:30 AM sneaking out of my window holding my breath, praying to Jesus dressed in my sister’s black figure skating spandex the goal was not to get caught. My Boy C picked me up at the head of my street on his BMX and standing up peddled us both to the rendezvous. “Dice, let’s, what the fuck are we doing anyway?” My Boy C had purchased a football card from me every week they had been offered. I was saddened more people didn’t play the Madison game. I had a dream to bring back big time high school gambling on its own events. I was a hypocrite. On one hand basketball was holy and on the other I wanted to fix a high school football game. I’d imagine myself starting at corner, taking the action, making the points work, getting other’s involved. “Hanging out, I love being up this early, you gotta get me that fifty before.” “I know, I know, Friday, I’ll buy the beers for Thursday.” My Boy C was part of my early test market this spring for NBA spot bets. My early impression was more lucrative than NFL. It was every night, impossible to handicap but since we were all shit heads kid none of that mattered sans collections. “Dude I had to pay the guy whose name we can’t mention or this whole thing stops.” “I know dude, relax” “Just bike” We’d met DOG and Skeetah both demonstrative in their demerits growing up with parental alcoholism were there on time anxious to break windows. Dog was in jeans and a polo shirt. Skeetah uniformed the all black I’d requested. “Dude, I’m gonna fuck air out this dump, my freakazoid, u undastand dude?” Skeet’s voice cracked a laugh off the first syllable.” Hearing him call Madison Hills a dump alone warranted a chuckle. Dog carried a clearer composition of the classic powder keg. Silent until he went blank in the eyes. Pos and Hank showed next, all black spandex ready to cause damage. Freddy our adopted Jewish, Korean was there with his neighbor Monster. The shortest kids in the crew, we’d call Freddy, Gonzo. We were fairly certain his father had molested him for years in his younger years. After all no one was that weird. Soon the Madison Hill preppies, Fitz, Santo, Sully, and Tick would arrive. “Let’s bring it in.” To hear our cry, to act malicious our mission was so simple, so stupid, parochial, yes, but such a rush, and together it cemented everything. There were twelve of us and we’d run the Victorian Hills breaking windows for an hour before seeking an outfit change in hiding heading towards our strong alibi. 1:00PM: Tossed from party, a gathering of Madison Hill’s curtains, break house windows. 1:03PM: BREAK WINDOWS of entire street, run. 1:15PM: I shoved the older brother down for absolutely no reason what so ever. Admirably his younger brother took a swing at me, dawgs swarm, gang leader, Kicking his kidneys thinking of spray paint I was laughing uncontrollably with Monster, Herby, Goldie, Sully, my boy C and Skeetah until my sneaker got scratched. “This is a brand new insert for my Sky Jackers dumb ass! Watch what your doen.” Tuesday: Day drinking, first time, fabulous, Bud Light cans. 6PM: Liz’s, class president’s freshmen party. 10PM: Santo eats cat food our power forward. 10:15PM, “Get it out of my hair Sully!” We fall into the door in laughter eavesdropping. 12PM: The house was leveled 1AM: Santo’s dad is on roof. 2AM: Police arrive. Hold our ground 3AM: White kids in dirty clothes watch the Wall, take acid. Stories were the benchmark as to how classic and parties undoubtedly I figured could take the legend into a movie. Wed, 10AM: Wiffle ball, break windows. 2PM: Hayden Thursday: 2AM: Gonzo sleeps on public bench with me. 4PM: Fitz Party, purple passion guzzle, joy riding, Fitz’s party, too much Purple Passion, mat5ched my shoes. 9PM: Violently sick, Fitzy pissed, vomit everywhere. His house. Parker’s boyfriend called to retrieve my corpse By the time it was Friday I wanted April vacation to end, almost. After my puke fest in Fitz’s younger brothers Lego buckets we fielded our own “fire” in the woods. Tick and I planned it all even driving for the first time ever in Gonzo’s parents car completely out to lunch never noticed. Gonzo was my man solely based on the fact he joined me sleeping on a center bench Wed evening. We both just couldn’t go home. I remember the joy TR and I had watching everyone enjoy the fire. We threw a fire. It was empowering our self-containment, twenty-two people showed. My boy C manned it, lit his smoke off the fire and we had hot dogs on sticks as my boy C’s older brothers brought the bud cases. “This is awesome.” Tick brought marshmallows and I like everyone present was in love. It felt like a family these guys, finally. “Beer, fire, hot dogs dude, all we need kid” Skeetah was overheard after taking credit for the entire event. “And girls buddy,” Monster shouted loudly listening keenly to Skeetah’s mythical recreations. “All we need, their here” I state the obvious “Not for me dude, I’m mush, I’ll never get laid unless I pay, look at me” “True dude.”” We’d never be bullied. Self-sufficient, needing nothing but our loyalty. Back in school was refreshing and I was ready for the feature length to begin filming once again. Mon: Back to school was a vacation. I enjoyed the structure. Our week fueled chat. I denied everything. And it never stopped. The ball was in motion. How long could you stay? Tuesday: Window breaking at school during hours. Wed: I quickly concluded I couldn’t be caught, not in Madison not me. And even though I’d just been barred from my record sixth restaurant, that was different Wed: Systematically myself Santo and Jelly were called out of last class summoned to the ACE Program to see the Big Guy. For Jelly it was an honors class. Panic struck, the Big Guy? I was trying to think which law-breaking item from last week this could be about. The wide spread panic amongst us that existed proved once again that not one of us was impervious to his imperious ways. As we head down the long shadowed hallway known as the ACE program neither of us had a clue. “Yo, just deny everything, yo.” I break the silence. The Big Guy ran a program called ACE (alternative choice education) it’s a program for kids facing issues with issues that prevented them from being around the main stream of regular students. “Kids that suck at life” is what Monster used to say. Madison never had a varsity basketball player that was actually in the ACE program. The path itself to ACE was scary. Stepping into the Big Guy’s office down the long dark insulated corridor we were all nervous and I wished I had a Zanex. This wasn’t summer camp and we weren’t eight years old. The Big Guy, a Bobby Knight clone sat down and said, “take a seat drunks.” Santo snapped his head towards me as Jell’s simply stared at the floor. My jaw dropped, drunks. Looking around his office at the bright orange couches, the colored TV and empty doughnut boxes I became frightened. “A yo I’m hearing rumors about you guys pounding the booze already, partying, I talk to the cops, they say you guys think your big shots.” A shattering thing to hear from him as a moment of silence was needed to calm him own anger sprouted from our presence. He took another deep breath and then started laughing. All lay silent as morning’s battlefield when Santo and I begin fighting back tears. Jells, holding onto his ivy league mental strength was trying to control our emotions. Finally the Big Guy has seen enough and the serious moment true to our nature becomes a bit less dense. “Jesus Christ, Gibbsy look at this guy?” Instantly I rally and cover up what was in one fast second a horrible moment. I dry up and jolt a quick look at Santo and Jelly who were looking at me pungently. Looking back at the floor like a captive marine I had to check the crew and let em know shit was in control. All of this surreal behavior caused the Big Guy to pop a quick whoopey cushion out of his mouth and say, “everybody’s right these guys are jokes!” And feeling the tide roll into heaven I break a game show host smile, “That’s not funny, that’s not funny,” Yo be like Tom Scott, be like Tom Scott, Toms a big man on campus, act like him” I hoped him didn’t see my eyes roll asking me to mirror a SAC mainstay, “I think you guys can help us next year.” My eyes enlarged. I was never shocked. “But if you guys are big shots, partying, getting into trouble you’re not going to ever play for me.” I raise my hand. “Shut-up Charlie, you think I want to listen to anything you have to say?” “Sorry” “Get out of here, if you have a problem own up to it. Have a nice day.” I was elated walking out of his chambers all of us were. Forget the party the Big Guy just told us, in not so many words, that we would play varsity next year. Back to school on Monday and no phone calls meant all in all we escaped April vacation without a scratch only some barfing. I’ve Been Thinking About You April 26th, 1991 “Do you know what this is going to cost this town!?” Marco Tuesday morning I awoke to my dad’s hands around my neck screaming as my mother stood at a safe distance unable to deal with whatever this might be on her own.. “Damn, what yo, what you!” I try to muster up a response, I can’t breathe familiar scene nonetheless. “Keep your hands off him!” My mother’s deafening volume obviously lacks the resolve in my father’s eyes to reverse the thumb pressure he was applying to the center of my Adam’s apple. “Charlie!” a bursting scream that reeked years of fuck’s sake. “Charlie Peter!” “Dad!” “What the hell did you do last Monday morning?” In his pupil I could see the yellow stain on his eye caused by the harrowing pain that intrudes his life via me every now and then. This for me was the scary of the scary from jump. Cause when it came down to it whatever little highlight we might have danced with it was still a great house in Madison and my fly ass room was headquarters for team me. Seeing the seriousness in my father’s face who I swear to god is a mellow guy ignites the worst possible panic attack. “I went to the parade like I told you. I was home for suppa.” I’m nervous and now all of the coolness of living a life straight outta Compton wasn’t evident. Before he could reply I said a quick prayer to Jesus, lawns, mom massages, grades, classical musical, whatever, help! “That’s it smart guy? That’s all you have to tell me Mr. Gang leader know it all. This one isn’t funny bucko! Not this time this one is not funny.” Once conscious long enough without being bombarded physically I again pondered to precisely recall which one of the many injustices of that past week this could be in reference to. After all some were more serious than others and I couldn’t figure it out. I plainly asked with folded out hands, “who called?” “A detective called Charlie. Not a cop, a detective Charlie, tinted windows Bunkie, not a good sign. The detective is a guy I went to high school with for Christ sakes.” Shaking his head, oozing disbelief, he softly repeated. “He’s a detective which tells me your worse than ever. Congratulations, you’ve hit the big leagues!” “What the hell are they blaming me for now?” I’m baffled but my dad doesn’t buy it. “Charlie they wouldn’t even go into it over the phone. Let’s go bunk. He wants to see us now. Back to the god dam police station, again, Jesus!” In the car I’m reviewing in my head the variety of odd things that occurred this past week. I bet this has to do with the window breaking Patriots day? No way, I was in all black no one’s crazy enough to give me up. I wonder if it’s the betting? Or maybe the knife Herby put to that kids neck last week at the mall for a dollar on a dare, jeez. I really felt like a gang member that night. The gang’s motto was appropriately “deny, deny, and deny.” I believe I coined it one afternoon high on pink milk after Yo MTV Raps. We had to always be there for each other when it counted and simply remember one thing collectively, deny, deny, deny and freeze means run. All of that being said this was as stressful as it got. Sunday Night Police Station eight o’clock being uprooted from the cozy confides of a Celtics game, I had interest. Who sold me out? How will I come back on dude? Why am I retarded? Why am I retarded? Coach Farias just told us to stay out of trouble As I entered the police station I read a recent posted bulletin that stated they’d recently made the stations windows bulletproof. Good-idea seeing all the bullets racing past us I bugged. The lobby read like a “who’s who?” of Madison’s most wanted. Usually I was always the headlining act in any school line up but not tonight. Seeing my company for this latest “incident” frays my father’s last nerve. I move to motion and feel it necessary to remind him, “in this country dad you’re innocent until your proven guilty” “Zip it mouth!” He rifled back. Going on purely facial expressions it appears a decent percentage of police present were amused to see the “punk” in the middle of yet another horrible situation. I was summoned and followed as if sleepwalking this tyrannical procession up two flights of stairs and into my biggest moment of this recent strange twist of events, interrogation. Grabbing my arm as if it’s some sort of grip test for a traveling carnival strong man he doesn’t usher me into the usual questioning room. I’m taken to the top floor of the station into what appears to be an attic. In the far top right corner there’s a cobweb a midnight setting, a hot, bright, flickering light and this one recently pledged mahogany wooden chair. The light had no shade and definitely hurts young eyes that were forced to remain clockwork open. The room with the exception of the light was dark. “Hey Charlie good to see you it’s been a while.” The detective was dressed in a navy blue suit. I was concerned the police could be framing me. Madison in all of its glory ran on gossip and tabloids and labels and they labeled kids they framed. It was a set up. This setting was out of a comic book. “Listen kid just tell me what you did. I went to high school with your father. I can help, but I need you” I stopped listening same shit. Playing captain smooth made me nervous. “I went to the parade with some friends. I was home for dinner.” “Parade what about a Leslie Berg party, hmm? You there with your terrorists.” ”What?” “What?” “It wasn’t me?” “What wasn’t you?” I won’t fall for that, “Whatever your accusing me of.” There was a deep long breath from the detective who changed posture and demeanor. “You were saying that I was at some party at Leslie’s house. I would never go over there. She’s a nerd yo.” “Yeah well OK then maybe this rings a bell wise guy. Patriots day before the battle, you played a game with a little red paint.” Taking a few seconds to let it sink before his blast, “and you have no idea the trouble your in.” My dad shoots me a sideways look. “What?” I screamed this like Princess Leia when she learns it’s her planet that’s getting blown up in episode IV. “Charlie I’m sure you know because you did, but you and your friends through red paint all over captain John Parker, you did it but we know you didn’t act alone, listen Charlie I’m here to help you, I know you weren’t even the ring leader look we know Skeetah Lee was there.” Seemed from his pitch that this was just a formality and seeing my life as such a trivialization life fight emergency alerts sound off inside my head. I turn to my last remaining life raft, “dad I swear to god I didn’t do anything like that. This is crazy yo and this guy is so sure of it! It’s nuts!” The officer interrupts a conversation between me and my dad. “an American national landmark had its entire body draped in red paint. It’s not coming off. Do you know what this little stunt is going to cost this town! And all the yellow ribbons, we know you had help.” My dad and me after already devastating charges both quickly charge up and shoot off a sideways look at each other. Yellow Ribbons were on every single telephone pole in Madison and come to think about it on Patriots day I did notice they all had some red paint on them. Fuck I’m on probation. The officer was getting a little loud a little ahead of himself he claimed there were eye witnesses accounts of us out and about. “Make a deal now son, we can put in a good word if you cooperate.” “What! Dad!” My dad also thinking this guy needs to settle down pipes up, “OK officer enough thank you I got it from here. Settle down Charlie this isn’t funny. OK I’ll take him home and see what he knows. Have a nice night.” “Call us in the morning Charlie.” “will do” Walking out of the police station I love my father. Being attuned to my dad’s unwavering respect for the law, ethics especially as a standing example before them I felt closer to him just witnessing what I’ve been screaming. There is an Madison conspiracy against me. A quick break from the moors that molded the old man turns violent as soon as we exit the front door of fuzz central. Out of the police station, whack, whack, whack, whack! “Did you do it, did you do it did you do it?” Finally I snap seconds outside of the station and scream and nuclear I want to die right here vocals, “FUCKING NO JESUS FUCKING CHRIST FUCK FUCK I DIDN’T!” My dad sensing volatility, “OK, hey would you just relax. Jesus Christ, why are you screaming like that, why? Give me a headache!” “Dad a witness isn’t a witness anyway if they don’t fucking come out.” Before the next syllable can escape the cherry of my lip I’m upended across the head with another warning shot. “OK, A-GHT, dam.” “just ZIP IT MOUTH!” Now he’s raised his voice and I know for some reason I’ve just kicked him off the cliff. At the end of the day he could still beat the shit out of me. I feel good because I swore to god that it was crazy that I didn’t do anything to break (cross toes) the law that day. It felt good for three reasons, 1) I knew I was right 2) My dad believed me, 3) I knew I didn’t throw Red Paint on my man Captain John! My mother sits at the table shaking alone smoking her token Carlton 120 available in 4 only four stores across the country. Her life has been one bombshell after the next. For her panic was warranted and when re-enforced ninety percent of your moments over the course of the life time everything was a time bomb. As my dad and I entered the front patio that led to our front door and the kitchen we both instinctively looked at each and understood the silent plan. Door opens. “Hi mom.” “hi mom.” We both have the same opening statements. Our calm countenance does nothing to promote a casual environment for this discussion. She puts her cigarette and butts it in the ashtray placing her diet coke on the table, “Well what the hell happened?” A serious look directed at both of us. Fuck this is what I’m thinking before I’m sidetracked. Looking at our kitchen table I think only about the volume of times my dad had made me sit at the table, look at healthy food I’d never eat for hours. I couldn’t leave the table unless I ate and once he realized I’d sit there all night the bargains came out. “OK Bunkie – I’ll give you a quarter, a game of Pac-man if you take one bight. Just one bite.” I was just grossed out by everything that wasn’t Fruity Pebbles so the bribes came. “I just can’t, I just can’t do it.” “Come on bunky why are you such a baby?” ”Why are you such a dumbass”? WHACK – time and time again trying to get me to try vegetables for years when I was carrying the candy monkey on my back. Now being in our current minefield I had jurisdiction he had to honor at that moment. He couldn’t pass this one off to me. Of course fire creates fire and voice tones just like they teach you in sales reflect one another. Just my mother’s volume has tacked decimals into his opening diatribe. “Relax Lilly OK he’s not in trouble they thought he did something he didn’t do that’s it, OK?” Nice job I thought the old man did until my mom drops back into her seat at the kitchen table and her face has gone psycho shower. Her now albino hands cover a frosted face as she says in sheer terror, “Oh my god it’s not the red paint is it?” we look at each other and her direct hit left us befuddled. “Oh my god I just heard about it on the news, I told you dad this kid is a lunatic!” Expanding his checks and hastily blowing his wind is symbolic of everything he’s been holding in. “This one’s serious. He says He didn’t do it I believed him but now I have no idea.” My mother picking up her lighter picks up her butt and relights what’s left of her last cigarette. “I hope he’s telling the truth because the detective thinks if it is him and he doesn’t cooperate then he’ll probably get sent to the department of youth services.” “Oh Charlie you better get down there and cooperate. “Ma it wasn’t me these people are crazy! I told you ma that they want to pin shit on me! My mother goes Young & The Restless whaling at a never heard hitherto volume sings her smash hit, “NOOOOOOOOOOOO!” Falling to her knees balling and screamed “what the hell is wrong with you, sociopath!” I snap back a disgusted “word up.” “Get the hell out of here.” My father’s shoving me in the back means I’ve be ejected from every place in the world except my bedroom. Moments later I walk up to my room and softly cry before falling asleep. Awaking hours later I think myself to be in a distant place. Although I soon realize that I’m in my house, I have school tomorrow and again facing federal charge. Not a great string of thoughts, my mother was of course situated in the kitchen, which made a Zanex smuggle impossible. I was in a real tight jam so I said a prayer to Jesus. I asked him to help me. Jesus was always my last resort. I tell him I’m all alone and confused. I also tell him that if he exists than he must know that I’m in a tough spot because tough spots is the only time, well. My prayer begins with my hands folded together in a manner that I fancy a good Christian boy would hold them during prayer or how I like to call it ‘favor asking.’ “Jesus, I wouldn’t ask for favors if I didn’t really need them badly. I guess I’m not even worried about myself. Please just protect my friends and oh help my stomach ache. But real quickly if you can make these charges disappear I promise on the world that I’ll be good from now on. A whole new me.” My mother entered my room. She sees me crying ever so slightly, deep in prayer. It is here that she received a rare affirmation that I’m in fact a good kid. I wonder if bad people pray to Jesus? We talk like a mom and son for once and in the end she believes me. I finally admitted that I might have been out causing mischief that morning but I wasn’t the one they were blaming for red paint on the statue and yellow ribbons all over town. “They called me a communist.” My eyes swelled with tears. We hugged. After she left the room I was relaxed. I cradle both of my hands and say “thank Jesus, look dude if you do exist thanks again and congratulations on all of the attention.” By Wednesday I was still riding the high that my mother believed me for once. Strolling home out of season seems to be one thing after the other. We had just finished up a nature wedge on a younger kid that walked past us on the bike path that I used to play soccer with. As I’m strutting home thinking about whether this guy Markey Mark will really sell a million records I notice a detailed cranberry Lincoln parked in my driveway. There was a man on a stepladder in the front of my house carefully examining my shutter’s surrounding trim, performing what almost appeared like some sort of surgery on my wooded accessory. I live in a dark brown house with shutters and as my mother runs out of the house crying I’m thinking to myself, “what now?” Apparently this guy stuck to my shutter has been gathering samples of the paint for the detective. Numbers, multiple equations and life odds raced across my brain. I was unable to fathom neither comprehend the fact that I had nothing to do with this. My brain as it sometimes does when faced with such immeasurable calculations switches its concern to containing the panic attack that such thoughts inevitably provoke. Baffled I saunter up to my room to gaze over my trophies and await any breaking news. Forty-five minutes later a middle aged police officer enters my room with a hardened look, an explanation and I’m scurried back to the police station. The paint for some “tough test” reason just happened to be an exact match. “Yep my luck” and instantly I see my mother in the shadow of the arresting officer regretting the one time she believed in me. Total eclipse of the heart. “Liar, liar, liar!” She’s hitting me and screaming as I was being pulled away. “Thanks a lot Jesus. I knew you were a fraud!” As I begin to cry in the car on the way to the station the driver looks back and says “You shouldn’t have done this Charlie Paradise. Didn’t get away this time did ya? What a waste of a name. You’ve just disgraced your country your probably a communist. I’m sorry for your mother. Cry all you want. It ain’t going to help you now.” I really lose it after the communist jab and scream back through a river of red eyes and broken vocal chords “I’m a capitalist!” As I was rushed to the station the detective had a victorious look on his face. “I wish you’d given me some names. I wish you did three days ago. I knew it was you, I knew it the whole time.” I, crying the whole time jolt an exhaustive classic “I’m just a kid!” As I’m booked formally and a court date is set some twin chinned copper cops me a cop lift home. “You know once again you guys have made a fucking mistake.” He’s ignoring me, which infuriates my restless energy tenfold. “You guys, you guys are all going to be sorry. I’m going to be a famous rap star. Did you know that one sport? I’m going to make millions of dollars and buy weak-minded suckers like you? You hear me?” The cop remains silent, which was making me clinically unable to deal with my mind or find breath. I’m dropped off at home and when nobody in my kitchen makes eye contact with me I lethargically limp upstairs to pray (just in case.) Throw the Hail Mary out to you Hail Mary. My mom simply didn’t have it in them to believe me one last time and can only cry, headed back upstairs to my room, hugging my teddy bear, going back to the table with Jesus, I’m so selfish.