This is an excerpt from Chapter One of my upcoming novel How Did I Get Here.
When we moved to the neighborhood, Wolfie and Mikey were the first kids I met. Rafael “Wolfie” Santiago got his nickname because he was one hairy son of a bitch with light brown eyes. All the guys our age in the neighborhood were jealous of him because he was the first to grow facial hair.
Mike Murray loved having several nicknames. The kid looked like an off-white pipe cleaner with limbs and blue eyes, so sometimes we called him Skinny Mike, although Mikey was our go-to nickname. His other monikers were The Skinniness, and, due to his love of the band Kiss, Dr. Love. He was also a mouthy piece of work who was quick with a friendly insult.
Sometimes Trudy and our friend Ana Garcia would tag along when we weren’t out looking for trouble. We hung out in the playground on a Wednesday night in July, enjoying the warm summer air and having a good time making each other laugh. Ana’s laugh came with an unforgettable snort, which made getting her to crack up a neighborhood sport. We were in the middle of a fun debate about which music was better, rock or disco. Mikey was adamant in his defense of rock, and his exhibit A: the music of Kiss.
It was the perfect New York summer night—not too much humidity, and none of the smells New York City produced daily — what I can only describe as “hot trash soup.” The New York City radio gods acted as if they had a stake in Mikey’s Kiss argument; “Calling Dr. Love” was playing on the radio. When the song ended, the lights went out—total darkness. The DJ broke in and announced, “Ladies and gentlemen, I got a phone call from a friend of mine in Jersey City. Apparently, New York is in the middle of a citywide blackout, and we could go off the air at any minute.” Not even thirty seconds later—poof, dead air. We all sat there, wondering what to do next.
“A blackout?” Mikey asked. Those were the only two words he spoke for the next couple of minutes, and it was the longest amount of time I remembered him being quiet.
I broke the silence and started problem-solving. “We should all get home so our folks don’t freak out. Trudy, I’ll drop you off and then walk Ana home.”
“Aw, thanks, Jay,” said Ana.
We split up, everyone heading back to their own place. As soon as Trudy was inside, I did the whole big brother thing.
“Trudy, lock the doors, and don’t open up for anyone, not even the Pope,” I said.
“Got it. No to the Pontiff.”
She waved goodbye, and I walked Ana to her building on 111th.
“This is some creepy shit,” Ana said.
She wasn’t wrong. The streets I thought I could navigate blindfolded felt unfamiliar. When we got to her building, the whole neighborhood was out front—lawn chairs, lanterns, and dads swapping stories like it was some block party blackout edition.
“Hey Papi, Jay wanted to walk me from the playground to make sure I got home safe,” Ana said.
Coach Garcia was five feet seven inches on a good day, but he carried himself as if he were six feet tall. He was my baseball coach and swore I was ready to play varsity when I got to high school. Coach Garcia was my baseball sensei/rabbi/mentor. I didn’t have the heart to tell him it wasn’t a sure thing I’d be playing varsity baseball.
“Thanks, Jay. Of course, there’s no practice tomorrow, but I’ll be working you boys twice as hard on Friday.” It was more of a promise than a warning.
On my walk home, I hit the corner just in time to see the Koronet Pizza guys doing God’s work—handing out whole pies to folks on their way home in the dark. They tossed me two (bless them), and I thought, “Wow, maybe blackouts aren’t all bad.”
As I got to the corner of 112th Street, I noticed someone opening the door to Tech Hi-Fi, the high-end electronics store. I got closer and realized it was Chris Bradley, who was better known as CB, which stood for “cat burglar,” not his name. The dude could pick a lock blindfolded with his toes. He was the locksmith’s kid, so it was basically in his DNA.
He waved like everything was normal. “Yo Jay, what’s good?”
“I’m trying to get home before my pizza goes cold. What’s your deal?”
He shrugged, all casual, “Saw some guys trying to break in, chased ‘em off. Figured I’d fix the lock—these guys are one of my dad’s best clients. But damn, people really out here lootin’ and shit. No home training, bro.”
He gave me his version of the story standing next to a stack of DJ gear that somehow made its way out of the store. This shameless deed led to him becoming the official spokesmodel for the word “brazen.”
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