Westside Rodney Riots
Days after DJ’s 11th birthday, Johnnie Mae spent the morning on the phone with a few friends from the local NAACP office. She was coordinating a peaceful protest in response to the unjust acquittal of the LAPD officers who beat Rodney King on camera. She wanted to bring awareness to the abuse inimically inflicted on unarmed African-Americas by corrupt cops. Johnnie Mae gave DJ a large yellow sign, saying, “STOP POLICE BRUTALITY!” It was attached to a long wooden handle for him to hold up high, like a Hefty bag, while marching down Martin Luther King Blvd.
Little DJ and his grandma were wearing matching outfits of black jeans and charcoal-gray t-shirts. And, since they intended on walking all day, DJ brought along his GPX Walkman so he could listen to his favorite Ice-T song, New Jack Hustler.
Everything went smooth initially, and many of his friends, and their families, began to come outside and join in on the march once they saw how big the crowd was becoming. People in cars were honking their horns, everybody was waving, and it was an enjoyable experience with an ambient atmosphere for the most part.
DJ noticed that his grandma Johnnie Mae seemed to know everybody! He watched while everyone kept approaching her to say, “Hi,” like she was a celebrity! She eventually explained to DJ, how she’d been living in the front of the Cadillac Arms for forty years. And how many of the families all came from the south together during World War II, for better living conditions, in what was called, “The Great Migration.”
Once the crowd arrived downtown and tried to continue walking with the signs, the police began to harass everyone, shouting slurs and racist remarks, while forcing the people to stay behind the old racial boundaries. They were referring to the segregation lines, established under the Jim Crow laws, which were extremely disrespectful. Because those demeaning lines had been decommissioned ever since integration was implemented, and they took down all the signs, saying, “COLOREDS or NO COLOREDS, in Las Vegas.
One thing led to another, and people who peacefully protested, suddenly started clashing with cops! The congested crowd disorderly dispersed, as dozens of demonstrators were brutally beaten and barbarically bludgeoned, by the “bullies-with-badges!” Shootouts subsequently ensued at every intersection being blocked by barricades and buses. Adolescents were armed and agitated, as they unloaded AK-47s at Law Enforcement emblems and Pig-Insignias, like miniature Militia trying to murder Metro. He even saw several adults aiming upwards proudly poppin pistols at police helicopters, who were hovering above everyone’s head, causing it to zigzag across the sky like an air show. It went from hostile hovering to duckin’ for cover!
Johnnie Mae and DJ began holding hands to ensure they wouldn’t be separated as the smoke saturated the atmosphere. Ten minutes into the trek, she was troubled by the big black clouds which were billowing from buildings nearby the “Nucleus Plaza” shopping center, and home of the NAACP office. Shortly after it all began, so many structures were set ablaze, that it became an obstacle just to breathe. When they finally arrived back in the Cadillac Arms, they instantly had to light incense inside the residence to neutralize the sickening stench of burnt rubber which pungently pervaded the environment.
Tribulations of Tribalism
DJ and a couple classmates soon started skipping school and riding their bikes to a recently built Walmart. And, after enlightening his associates on the easiness of the endeavor, the trio would empty the contents of their book bags behind the building, before going inside to commence a free shopping spree. They’d then exit, with bulging backpacks containing clothes and candy.
He was astonished at the simplicity, walking out of the store completely undetected! DJ accumulating $20 to $30 on those days. He was smooth at staying under the radar with his miniature money-making schemes, but ultimately lost his most lucrative one, when he was arrested at the “Wet & Wild” water park, the day after his fifth-grade elementary graduation. DJ had been sneaking in to steal all the coins and cash from peoples’ wallets and change purses which were left unattended by their tables and lounge chairs while they were out on rides and water slides. He was 86’d and never allowed to return.
Little DJ spent most of the summer after 5th grade with grandma and was then enrolled in the Madison 6th Grade Center for the 1992-1993 school year. (The following year it was changed to a middle school.) It was located off J. Street, approximately a fifteen-minute walk from the Cadillac Arms. The school was in the center of the housing projects known as “The Coast.”
Sixth grade was crazy! It was as though everyone stepped out of elementary school and straight into adulthood! The surroundings suddenly seemed surreal, as if he entered another world, like a Twilight Zone episode. All the children transformed over night! No one even gave them any warnings that their childhood had abruptly ended…but it did.
DJ’s closest friend was, DeAndre MacEntyre, and he also lived on D Street, but a block south of the Cadillac Arms. He was tall, dark-skinned with a low fade and an athletic build – more so than other eleven-year-olds. The two friends were sitting in the back of Mrs. Green’s third period class, when a mutual associate, named Deon, asked if they wanted to see a gun. DJ’s head was enthusiastically nodding ‘yes’ before he even completed the question. Deon showed them a small silver.380 automatic and explained how it belonged to his oldest brother. DJ was captivated, as his little hands caressed the contours of the chrome cannon, it was like Smeagol’s obsessing over “his precious”. He instantly asked, “How much to get me a gun?” Deon responded that if he can come up with $70, he’d be able to get him a .25 caliber.
DJ now had one mission on his mind from this moment on: to get a fast $70! He fantasized about how much fun it’d be to have his own firearm, which he could shoot whenever he wanted to. Deon told DJ and DeAndre that they could come shoot the semi-automatic after school in the back of the Projects, which they anxiously awaited all day for.
Later that day, he got to fire a gun for the very first time! He aimed up towards a tall eucalyptus tree and started squeezing the trigger, “PAP! PAP! PAP!” Instantly, he was fond of the feeling, firmly kicking in his hand as if it were alive.
Deon and DeAndre took turns taking targeted shots, while he stood in a realm of wonderment replaying the report, while rejoicing in the resonating reverberations, and he was hooked! The kid couldn’t wait to get his own gun, and he knew soon, he’d have a new favorite toy.
A couple months into the school year, the dress code drastically changed, as he noticed everyone began wearing color-coordinated khaki suits, oversize T-shirts, Dickies pants, Converse All-Stars, fat laces and bandannas related to the new tribalism counterculture, which seemingly popped up out of nowhere.
Every day at recess, while walking his usual way to the tetherball court, on the far end of the campus’s playground, DJ would look through the fence to his right and started observing odd occurrences. A cluster of kids would be kicking and punching each other in between two buildings on a grassy knoll known as “The Portables.” He was quite confused, since it appeared that one boy would be beat up by three or four other guys, but then afterwards, they’d all shake hands, seemingly becoming friends. Then, once the final class ended, DJ would witness the same boy, who had been beat up, hanging out in front of the J Street housing Projects with dozens of dapperly dressed older adolescents.
Eventually, DeAndre described to DJ, how the boys being beaten, were actually engaging in an induction activity, known as, ‘getting jumped in,’ before proceeding to provide a quick crash-course on “Tribalism.” DeAndre’s big brother was intricately involved in the sudden subculture, swiftly sweeping through the streets and spellbinding the susceptible. The rate of homicides really started to rise, intensified by motivational murder music, mostly fictional “Gansta Rap,” which was graphically glamorizing and glorifying ghetto genocide. Fraudulent rappers were depicting a false image of what was “cool,” as being a cap-peeler, super-banger, who specializes in killing his own kind. Nationwide, this was extremely misleading to the malleable minds and mentalities of misguided and impressionable adolescents of this era.
As time progressed, DJ observed a lot of associates, being rapidly recruited into various divisions of Tribalism, but he wasn’t yet convinced of its “coolness.” However, he was immensely intrigued by this new way of life, just hesitant on making any compulsive choices. This form of Tribalism, had Los Angeles origins, therefore when it spread into Vegas like wildfire, he honestly didn’t understand why everyone wanted rivals and warfare rather than remaining friends. DJ was a people person who wasn’t in a rush, since once he chose a tribe, many of his amicable associates would instantly be eliminated and inadvertently transformed into adversaries!
He had to ensure that his next move…would be his best move.
An acquaintance of DJ’s, named Willie Culpepper, was a tall, dark-skinned, fast-talking, class clown who always seemed to have a sardonic smile. He was also one of many, who’d recently been recruited red. Early one morning, while walking to homeroom, Willie politely asked DJ if he could wear his black bomber jacket and then return it at the lunchtime recess. He accommodated his request without worry, since he was the kindhearted type, who had no problem with helping someone out in their time of need. DJ genuinely believed he was cold, especially since it was the middle of winter.
Willie didn’t arrive at the designated meet-up location at lunchtime, and he was unsuccessful in his efforts to locate him anywhere else. DJ, soon started to have bad thoughts. No one had ever stolen anything from him before, so this was a first! And, in a split-second his psyche started spiraling, (he’d later come to know this mental state as “The Matrix”) …from happy and trusting, to deeply disturbed. And by the end of the day, he was in full-fledge attack mode, activated like a wolverine on a warpath through the wilderness!
After school, little DJ was combat ready and he knew that returning home without his jacket was not an option. As DJ’s eyes swept the scenery for a sighting, he saw his friends, Luwann Comington and Benny, standing by the cafeteria as they pointed towards the basketball hoops and yelled, “Aye, DJ! Willie is on the court!” He made a beeline in that direction and sure enough, there he was. And he was still wearing the coat. Willie’s grin transitioned into a grimace upon realizing that his day would no longer be going as well as previously predicted. DJ aggressively advanced on him and commanded, “Come up out my coat!” Willie initially hesitated, but was compelled to comply, once the other tribal members sternly instructed him to return the jacket. He felt strong as he slipped the coat back on over his bones. He watched while Willie positioned his posture into a pugilistic stance, prompting DJ to swiftly swing his favorite two-piece, puissant combo, fast left, followed by swift overhand right. His strikes painfully impacted the upper sternum area of Willie’s chest, and to his surprise, the punches appeared to effectively take all the fight out of him. It was obvious that he had no intention of swinging back. He knew he’d struck him harder than he’s usually capable of, so he wondered, where the strange sense of strength came from. Samson and Goliath? DJ’s dreadlock jacket?
He felt invincible and victorious, especially upon seeing admiration all over the faces of Willie’s friends. He smoothly strolled off the school grounds with an extra pep in his step, heading home while wearing the same coat he arrived with… (three years later, DJ would hear a magnified rumor in Juvenile Hall, describing how he’d whooped Willie Cullpeper up and down the basketball court back in sixth grade at Madison)
Spirit of Stewart
For several years, Uncle Stewart had been silently suffering from the insidious,
“acquired immune deficiency syndrome”, AKA, AIDS, combined with an inexorable extreme addiction to crack cocaine. And, although OJ could’ve easily afforded the same expensive experimental treatments and medications as Magic Johnson, him and his controlling wife, Nicole, chose not to intervene. So, in February 1993, Stewart staggered out of his bedroom, smiled, and said, “Catch y’all later,” before collapsing on Johnnie Mae’s couch and passing away. DJ held Stewart’s hand and sadly saw that his fingernails had turned jet black, as he whispered, “I love you uncle…I’m going to miss you.”
Little DJ would later learn that OJ’s dad, “James Simpson,” had died seven years prior from AIDS, and since OJ frequently feuded with his father and loathed his lifestyle, it factored into his reasoning for not helping his cousin fight the disease. Months earlier, Stewart had joked about, how since OJ didn’t want to pay for the meds, then he at least could’ve hired Doctor Kevorkian, to ease him out of his existence. He’d confided in his nephew, how, since he couldn’t forestall his foredoomed fate, he was looking forward to his fatality and the freedom from being bound to a body undergoing intensely torturous pain. Stewart said, “If an afterlife does exist, then he’ll return through conjuration to communicate with DJ, so to be on alert.” He gave his uncle a big bear hug while assuring him that he’ll be watching out for all signs when the time arrives.
Johnnie Mae and her grandson were glad that Stewart no longer had to languidly live inside a lifeless body like a lobotomy, although they were going to miss his hilarious humor which he literally maintained up until the very end. Soon, his favorite friend from across the street, Ronnie Calhoun, came over to say bye. He gave him a hug and said, “Rest in peace Stewart, you’ll never be forgotten!” Then the Clark County Coroner came to carry away his corpse.
Little DJ later inherited the bedroom after the death of his uncle and immediately began having disturbing dreams – at least, he thinks they were dreams. Stewart would be sitting on the side of the bed with the same sarcastic smile he’d always have before being funny. But, when he went to speak, no words would come out. And, whenever he attempted to touch his shoulder, his hand would travel straight through him! These dreams recurred regularly over the ensuing month, but he was never able to hear Stewart say anything. However, he could always sense his spirit surrounding him.
Several weeks after Stewart’s depressing demise, DJ was arrested in a Burger King parking lot on Lake Mead Blvd. A sharp-eyed security officer saw him adjusting a chrome compact pistol in his waistband, so he snuck up and aggressively shoved a big-barreled revolver into the eleven-year-old’s face before hastily handcuffing him, and holding him on the hot pitted pavement, with a stiff knee to the neck, until the police pulled up.
Little DJ was subsequently placed on probation for “carrying a concealed weapon,” and the lingering nerve pain from the rent-a-cop’s kneecap, lasted the entire duration, as if it too, were part of the prescribed penalty.
Project Princess
Like the “outer Limits,” another world appeared to pop up once Sixth grade ended. Suddenly, everyone was stealing cars with screwdrivers and dent pullers, joyriding, and running out of stores with Cisco, cigarettes and Olde English 800. Smokin’ weed, PCP, huffing Krylon gold spray paint and house parties became the new pastimes with plenty of participants.
Most females instantly started acting promiscuous, dressing like members of the R&B group, “TLC”, and wearing LOCS, dark shades like the singer “Aaliyah”, even at night.
Once the kid’s confidence was increased about “run outs”, DJ decided to enhance his odds of optimal outcomes, by utilizing a little innovative ingenuity. So, instead of having his getaway car by the entrance like everyone else, he’d have his driver wait in the rear, behind the building, adjacent to the “Emergency Fire Exit. After, he strategically goes on a shopping spree, searching for shoes, shirts, jerseys and jackets, he’d simply push the cart to the back door, lift up his load, and slip out the store undetected. He’d hop into the awaiting vehicle and vanish like a vapor after setting off the automatic fire alarm – which was always a little embarrassing for him.
Soon, he was successfully selling stolen merchandise for discounts in dozens of different Projects. This enabled him to swiftly stack up a small savings, so he bought a chrome .22 caliber from his friend, Frog, who gave him a handful of hollow tips to go with it. DJ enjoyed the safe and secure sensation of staying strapped in Sin City’s underworld, since something was so soothing and solace inducing about possessing the power to protect himself without the assistance of anyone else.
Tesha, was a faithful friend, who lived in the Gerson Park Housing Projects, located on the northwest corner of Lake Mead and Martin Luther King Blvd. The multicolored buildings appeared to be intentionally arranged in awkward ways, as if the architect was experimenting with some misguided sense of style, since it literally looked like a large lot littered in Lego blocks.
DJ and Tesha had been flirtatious throughout the sixth grade, and she was the only one who he’d allow to secretly beat him at Tetherball, because he loved the way her eyes would light up like a sparkler every time she smiled from excitement! It was during the summer break, before seventh, when they decided to make it official by becoming boyfriend and girlfriend, and she was his “first true love.” Tesha was slightly taller than him, big-boned and beautiful. Her hazel eyes were uniquely slanted upwards on the sides, like Bambi. She had heart-shaped lips, a caramel complexion and usually wore her shoulder-length braids to the side, with a part going down the middle. Although she was only thirteen, she was wise beyond her years and appeared and acted older.
Tesha’s mother was named, Janice, and she was short, light-skinned with a humorously playful personality, which purported her popular presence. Tesha’s father had been behind bars since she was a baby, so it was just the two of them living there.
Tesha was a “Gangsta-Girl,” and DJ genuinely loved everything about her. She was sophisticated, especially in criminality, and even had her own picket-sized pistol. It was a chrome compact .25 caliber with a pearl handle, which was her pride and joy. DJ was emphatically infatuated with his “Project Princess,” and proud of that promulgation.
Shortly before the commencement of the seventh-grade school year, they both lost their virginity to one another, and it was just as sweet, special, and magical as they’d imagined. The two lovebirds had a romantic evening with candle lights, slow music by R. Kelly, and cuddled until falling asleep after engaging in an hour of intimacy. They were always affectionate and attentive with each other and since they were known for always walking around, holding hands, while having holstered handguns in their waistbands, they were soon referred to as “The Dangerous Duo.”
A common occurrence in the Projects, was when a tall, dark-complected young man named “Honcho,” would roll through in a white Glasshouse, sound system booming, and allow all the youngans’ to get a handful of weed out of his grocery bag for $5. He was like Santa Claus, causing all the kids to eagerly await his arrival and returns. It would look like children chasing after an ice cream truck whenever he rolled into the parking lot. DJ would usually save most of the marijuana, then go resell it, in small nickel sacks, in other Projects, where he’d profit profoundly. This was when DJ decided that “dealing” would be something he wanted to do full time.
Tesha was already in the “sack-slangin’” bud business and would regularly buy an ounce at a time for $60 from a guy named Clarence, who stayed down the street, in an area called “40-Block”. Tesha taught her tactics to DJ, as he analyzed how she’d empty out an ounce into fifteen different dime-bags, to double her money and smoke a few for free.
One day DJ arrived at her house before school and was shocked when she told him Clarence had been making sexual advances towards her when she’d go buy her bud. This made Tesha feel extremely uncomfortable, since he was older in his twenties. DJ struggled to suppress his surprise when she subsequently suggested that they go and rob him. But he instantly agreed, although he’d never actually jacked anyone at gunpoint before. He had to play it off as if he had previous experience at this sort of thing, like her. He was prideful, which prevented him from telling Tesha that she’d technically be taking him on his first armed robbery. He had to laugh internally at the irony of a “girl” being the person to properly show him how to hit a “lick”.
After plotting out the plan, they arrived at the one-story residence and knocked on the tan door of the beige building. Clarence answered wearing tattered blue tank-top, white shorts, and sandals. He was tall, slender, and light-skinned, with a short Afro and braided goatee. She introduced DJ as her friend, and told him that she wanted to buy an ounce of bud, before he would let them in. Once they stepped inside the living room, Clarence strolled into the kitchen to retrieve the weed, while Tesha fumbled with some money like she was counting how much she had. She softly whispered to DJ to draw down when she gives him the “nod.”
When Clarence walked out of the kitchen towards Tesha carrying the sack, she nodded, so he pulled out his pistol, as though he knew what he was doing, and said the first thing to come to mind, “Get on the mutha-fuckin ground!” The man initially looked down at little DJ, as if he was just playing, until Tesha powerfully pressed her pistol into his temple above his right ear. DJ’s eyes fixated on the love-of-his-life with a gun to Clarence’s head, and he was enchanted. It nearly pushed him over the edge, as if it were the most beautiful sight he’d ever seen in his life. He wished he could press pause on the world, walk over and hold her forever, however, he had to snap out of the spell to accomplish the task at hand.
Tesha used her villainess voice, which he loved so much, when she sinisterly stated, “Get your stupid ass on the fuckin’ floor!” The man realized that this was really happening as he crawled onto the carpet while whimpering something unintelligible. Tesha kept the muzzle to his head and menacingly maintained her same tone, as she said, “I should kill your sorry ass, huh?” Clarence started to panic, petrified while talking fast and fearfully pleading, “Please don’t, take whatever you want!” DJ glanced at Tesha and sensed that her temperament had transitioned into some type of trance, while wondering whether she was really gonna waste him. It appeared that her finger was twitching, tentatively tightening on the trigger, so he tried to distract her by stating, “Baby, let’s just get the weed and money.” She paused for a moment before blinking, then looked over at DJ, as though she just returned to reality, and replied, “Yeah, let’s get it.”
She suddenly struck him hard on the front of his face with the firearm, opening a gushing wound underneath his right eye, and asked him, “Where’s it at?” He warily responded that the weed was in the cabinet above the sink and the money was in a sock in the top drawer of the bedroom dresser. Tesha went and got the goods while DJ kept his pistol pointed at the guy, trying his best to keep that tough-guy expression on his face, as if it wasn’t his first time.
Tesha soon returned to the room with the weed and money, and DJ couldn’t wait to go enjoy the goods with his girlfriend. He was waiting for her to say what’s next, when she leaned over and stuck the gun in the guy’s face and asked DJ, “Should I kill this mutha-fucka?” Clarence instantly started sobbing and speaking shakily, as he stammered, “Please no!” Tesha was ignoring his imploring as though she was implacable, like a poltergeist, then sardonically said, “Yeah, you’re gonna tell the police on us, huh? You know what…I’m gonna smoke your ass!” DJ saw that Tesha’s tone was again transitioning into that zone, so he tried thinking of a way to intervene without looking like he was unsupportive of her position. It wasn’t that DJ cared for the man or anything, it was just that he’d never killed anyone before and didn’t know whether he was mentally prepared to see the guy’s brains blown all over the carmine-colored carpet. He simply just wanted to go somewhere to count the money, hang out with his girl, and really didn’t want to be standing in the room with a dead body. So, with a sense of slyness, he smoothly suggested, “Tesha, we already got the goods baby, let’s just go, this fool ain’t gonna tell,” while pointing at him with the pistol. DJ slowly started stepping in the direction of the door, hoping she’d follow him, as he sharply said, “this mutha-fucka ain’t shit but a pervert!”
Tesha was still tempted to terminate him, but she reluctantly removed her firearm from his forehead, and forcefully said, “You better not tell on us or I’m gonna come back here and kill your ass!” The man nervously nodded his head, obviously relieved and in full agreement with her terms. The young couple soon exited the apartment and ultimately made their way back to Tesha’s residence, where they counted out a couple hundred in cash and several ounces of weed, which they split down the middle. The mission was a success. DJ was glad that she didn’t ask him if it were his first time robbing somebody, because he definitely didn’t want to have to lie to Tesha. However, he couldn’t admit to it, after all, he was supposed to be the man of the relationship, and something seemed super-uncool about being out-thugged by his own girlfriend…right?
Little DJ felt formidable, like an official bad guy, and it was easier than he’d imagined and really rewarding. The two lovebirds spent the day smokin’ weed, listening to music by Bone, Thugs & Harmony, and eventually ended their evening in intimacy, involving an extra element of excitement and romance, because of the earlier activities.
Boyish In Blue
DJ was a Project baby and whole-heartedly hated Suburbia. The nosy neighborhood watchers would secretly spy on him with their surveillance scopes and binoculars. Paranoid people, pusillanimously peering from their purlieu, behind the Venetian blinds’ purview, examining his every move. He could sense their inspecting eyes crawling all over his skin like insects.
During occasions, in which he’d J-walk while Suburbanites were stuck at the stop light, his every step would be met with a symphony of car doors being locked, sounding like a small set of drums being played. Then, whenever he’d glace at any of the delusional drivers, they’d first flash him an award-wining smile, before averting their eyes to ensure that their thumbs were properly positioned on the number 9 of their cellphones, just in case…just a precaution.
The child would chuckle while they’d cringe, anxiously awaiting the light to turn green, causing their forced smiles to resemble an expression of someone who must ‘use the toilet’, but is ‘holding it in’. The boy was baffled by their ridiculously irrational apprehensions, and this was the reason he always opted to avoid the nicer/newer areas. DJ would usually get out of Dodge, after making money from slanging his sacks, since that atmospheric element of unwelcomeness eerily existed. It was seemingly surreal, and even the dogs being walked, would stop and stare him down when he came around.
Throughout the beginning of the school year, DJ ws receiving relentless requests regarding recruitment into the red team of tribalism. Fortunately, the Cadillac Arms was considered as a “neutral neighborhood”, where everyone from surrounding areas would come and hang out, attend parties, and show off cars with hydraulic systems in the back, on Cadillac Avenue. It was also known for high drug activity, where people could come buy and sell substances of all sorts, without worry of trespassing over territorial lines drawn out by tribal agreements. However, tribes of the red persuasion predominately pervaded the proximity of the Cadillac Arms.
DJ personally knew many of the members and considered a lot of them friends, but, the first time he ever tried on the color red, he instantly hated it and felt it made him look like a girl. He was already well aware of his unmasculine appearance, in addition to the ultra-bright complexion, so wearing red, really wasn’t within reason. At least he felt boyish in blue. Another issue DJ had with the situation, was that he absolutely believed that he was ‘mentally harder’ than everyone who’d recently been recruited red, and even though he couldn’t fight too swell, that was solely because of his size and strength. He had heart…much more than most. He also had a quintessential quality of leadership embedded in his brain, which made it somewhat awkward to sign up to be a follower. However, he had to come up with a plan, ‘cause the peer pressure was becoming bothersome.
Over time, DJ’s dad, uncles, and auntie would make comments regarding the world under the railroad tracks at the bottom of the hill, known as “North Town”. They’d often advise him not to go down there because that’s where the really bad kids hung out at, in addition to the area having the highest rate of unsolved homicides in the city.
Little DJ was readily rebellious, with uncontrollable urges to impetuously go and do whatever it is that he’s being told not to do. He always opted to do his own investigation, as opposed to just taking an adult’s word for it.
Throughout childhood, DJ had explored a majority of the inner city’s East and West sides, but never really had any reason to go down into North Town, besides eating at KFC with Grandma. Then, the day arrived when DJ decided that it was time to go and find these ‘really bad kids’ that everyone kept talking about. He slid his chrome .22 caliber into his homemade holster, he’d constructed with cardboard, duct tape and a silver money clip that Grandpa had given him. He tucked it behind his belt buckle, hopped on his Diamond Back bike, and rolled down the hill, under the freeway.
Immediately, DJ began making friends, and sure enough, a different breed of youngsters did in fact exist. He began encountering educational experiences and increasing his criminality to the fullest. These guys’ carried guns like him, but bigger and better ones. 9-milimeters, .357’s, Glocks, and the older kids who were, fifteen/sixteen, had Tech-9’s, and AK-47’s. These boys were bad, just like everyone had been saying, and he felt honored to finally have found them. They all embraced, and used words like, “Cuzz & LOC,” when referring to someone, and they favored the ‘blue color’ of tribalism, which he felt fit him perfectly. In blue, he could comfortably continue to look like a “boy”.
In due time, DJ made some spontaneous decisions concerning the connection to his new acquaintances, without taking the time to examine exactly who they were, and whether they were genuinely his “real friends”, outside of criminal activity. At age twelve and a half he was just going with the flow and got caught up in the moment, overwhelmed by adventure, excitement of having buddies, who he identified as being ‘hard’ like him, plus fulfilling his love affair with firearms.
Little DJ was ultimately instructed on how to utilize a Tech-9 assault pistol, with a thirty-round magazine, and operate an AK-47, on single-shot, three-round burst, and fully automatic. It was like a dream come true! Shortly thereafter, DJ began engaging in episodes of tribal warfare in various sections of the city and quickly acclimated to the ultra-aloof lifestyle of anti-altruism. And, as time progressed, he began bustin’ shots from the back seat of stolen cars, sometimes jumping out on foot, with a bandanna covering his face like a bandit, creating chaos and causing crowds to scatter. DJ enjoyed shooting and loved having access to arsenals which were previously unavailable, however, he didn’t have a definitive understanding, as to “why” the people he was being told, “were the enemy”, were indeed, the enemy. His friends said they were so, in the meantime, that was a good enough reason for him.
By the time his thirteenth birthday came around, he’d heard through the grapevine, that although targets had been hit during his sporadic episodes of warfare, no one had succumbed from his shots…yet. But the boy knew that the moment of murder was coming – closing in on him like an unavoidable storm. He could feel it in his bones, basically a sixth sense for the foresight for homicide. He somehow knew the day was approaching fast, and DJ didn’t know, who it’d be or why, only that it was soon scheduled to occur.
He was enamored by the nocturnal nightlife which existed after hours, hundreds of teenage hooligans with handguns and handkerchiefs, misguided misfits, hell bent and hardwired for the hazardous. Genuine gunslingers and ghetto Geronimo’s’ in gregarious group gatherings, generating symbiotic synergy, like an assembly of stars in the solar system. Adolescents with no guidance, joyriding in jalopies, drinkin’, druggin’, and thuggin’. Droves of juveniles, drilling and doing drive-bys, like deadly androids engaging in demonic missions to demolish adversaries, as graphic and dramatic as a dropped OJ glove is to the beloved. Firearms foredooming the fate of the futureless, fighting for the front of the funeral line, full-scale forsaken for an aftermath of fatalities.
Around the end of the seventh grade, DJ started seeing signs that his new teammates didn’t really revere him in the way in which he’d originally idealized. He reluctantly realized that he wouldn’t ever receive the same level of love or loyalty, as those who were born and raised in North Town inherited innately. The Cadillac Arms was technically on the “other side of the tracks”, and he soon sensed that it was always going to be an issue.
The kid’s conscience began to weigh heavily on him, every time he’d see the sadness in Stan’s eyes, since his son wasn’t representing for the “West Side”. DJ’s dad w0uld often wistfully reminisce about a history of the historical West Side, while suggesting, “Son, you gotta rep for the West!” At which time, he demonstrably retorted, “No! I’m reppin’ North Town!” He honestly felt that he was “too hard” to rep the West Side, however, little DJ had delimited alternatives, since his only other options would’ve been to take the easy route, and conform to what everyone around the Cadillac Arms wanted him to do, but then he’d be stuck wearing red for the rest of his life, lookin’ like a girl! That was completely out of the question!
It was during the summer break, before the eighth grade began, when it dawned on DJ, that he was actually in an optimal position, strategically, since he no longer needed to worry about red recruitment requests, nor did he have to dedicate too much time entangled in targeting tribalism targets and unnecessary nonsense, if he didn’t want to. And, especially since his analytical mind honestly didn’t understand what all the hype was about.
Little DJ, eventually had an altercation with some older adolescents in an area across the street from the Cadillac Arms, known as, “Byrnnes Square”, since they were flustered by the fact that he’d frequently trek through their territory to sell sacks to their customers. Their position of pugilism was predicated on principle, due to DJ refusing to take heed after he’d been previously warned about wandering over there without permission.
He was jumped by several guys, resulting in a busted lip combined with a head full of knots. Once his anger was actuated, he instantly went to the Cadillac Arms to retrieve his chrome .22 caliber, specifically to shoot the individual who instigated the situation from the start. DJ was decisive, and assumed his plan would play out perfectly, like he plotted it. He rode his bike back over there, while unaware that they were already anticipating his arrival, and as soon as he turned the corner, he shockingly saw that over twenty teenagers were standing outside! Before he had the opportunity to process his perception, or try making a U-turn, he had a shotgun barrel aiming at his eyeballs, and saw several other sizable pistols pointed at him through his periphery.
For a moment…he thought it was over…his “end” had arrived, time to go catch up with Uncle Stewart and find out if an afterlife existed, or if Earth is the end of the road. The boy bravely browsed down the barrel, bracing for the barrage of bullets, he believed were about to burst through his brain, when he suddenly heard an elderly woman’s voice, sternly shout, “Y’all better not shoot that boy! That’s Johnnie Mae’s grandson.” A tidbit of hope entered his heart upon hearing the words of her behest.
DJ’s life was spared.
The weapons readily remained trained on his head, as his bike, gun, jacket, money and weed were taken from him. He was then threateningly told, that if he ever returned to the Byrnnes Square, it’d be tantamount to a targeted termination.
Fortunate for the kid’s cleverness, he still had some savings stashed away in the light socket, so he wasn’t broke and out of business. But his initial ideas were all insidiously aimed at the ruthless level of retribution, in which he wanted. However, his grandmother soon spoke some sense into him by describing how DJ should be grateful for the fact that he was allowed to leave with his life. And since everyone knows where they lived, any retaliation would potentially lead to Johnnie Mae being precariously placed in a perilous predicament. Plus, he shouldn’t have been slangin’ his sacks in their area after they’d already asked him not to do so.
DJ determined that he’d need to find somewhere to relocate while allowing things to die down, especially since he knew it’d be way too difficult to not “shoot on sight”, once he got another gun. And, his grandma was right, under no circumstances could he ever jeopardize Johnnie Mae’s safety. The following day, DJ went and bought a black .32 revolver from his friend, Stutta Box, who stayed behind the store, “Stop & Kill”.
DJ was becoming a bud-business man, a people person and preferred to pack his pockets with profits, by being able to slang his sacks in as many areas as possible to enhance his odds of success.
This was around the time, rapper Jayo-Felony came out with a song equalizing entitled, The LOC is on His Own, and that’s how DJ was beginning to feel. Although he’d forever represent the Blue Team, he didn’t intend on going out of his way to be used as a crash-test-dummy by people who don’t have his best interest at heart. DJ discussed the intricacies of the entire situation with Johnnie Mae, and she agreed accordingly.
As time went on, DJ’s friends and associates throughout the West, recognized that he really wasn’t full-fledged functioning with his teammates in the Town, therefore, he was still welcomed in most of the many West Side housing Project’s. This enabled him to still slang his sacks and sell his stolen merchandise, essentially effectuating an increase in his income.
Johnnie Mae loved her grandson unconditionally, and had his back, regardless of whether the choices he made were right or wrong and had a way of making it clear that she was on “his” side 100%. (He didn’t know she’d also secretly called all her friends and ordered them to make sure that none of their kids shot DJ.)
It was the 4th of July 1994 when Tesha and DJ decided to experiment with the powerful hallucinogenic phencyclidine, PCP. They were both semi-seasoned bud smokers, but neither of them had ever tried any hard drugs yet beside huffing spray paint. They purchased a potent sherm stick from a friend named, Tug Wak, then went to their private place in the back of the Projects, by the brown brick wall. They lit it up, inhaled deeply and blew the smoke up towards the big blue sky. The high was intense, and instantly they loved the levitation-like floating feeling, as if they were walking on clouds. They enjoyed themselves immensely over the next few hours, and DJ knew without a doubt that this would be something the couple will incorporate into their daily itinerary.
Snoop Dogg’s, Doggystyle album had just been released and could be heard playing in every Project building and house party in the city. PCP somehow enhanced the sound quality of music making it mysteriously magical, meaningful, and memorable. It made it majestically reminiscent, making them feel like they want the songs to last forever. Since the two lovebirds stayed strong and steady as a pint-sized-power-couple for the entire duration of the seventh grade and into the eighth, everybody predicted that they’d someday get married, and they whole heartedly hoped it was true.
Little DJ eventually had an altercation with some older adolescents in an area across the street from the Cadillac Arms, known as “Byrnnes Square,” since they were flustered by the fact he’d frequently trek through their territory to sell sacks to their customers. Their position of pugilism was predicated on principle, due to DJ refusing to take heed after he’d been previously warned about wandering over there without permission.
He was jumped by several guys, resulting in a busted lip combined with a head full of knots. Once his anger was actuated, he instantly went to the Cadillac Arms to retrieve his chrome .22 caliber, specifically to shoot the individual who instigated the situation from the start. DJ was decisive, and assumed his plan would play out perfectly, like he plotted it… He rode his bike back over there, while unaware that they were already anticipating his arrival, and as soon as he turned the corner, he shockingly saw that over twenty teenagers were standing outside! Before he had the opportunity to process his perception, or try making a U-turn, he had a shotgun barrel aiming at his eyeballs, and also saw several other sizeable pistols pointed at him through his periphery…
For a moment…he thought it was over…his “end” had arrived, time to go catch up with Uncle Stewart and find out if an afterlife exists? Or if earth is the end of the road? The boy bravely browsed down the barrel, bracing for the barrage of bullets he believed were about to burst through his brain, when he suddenly heard an elderly woman’s voice sternly shout, “Y’all better not shoot that boy! That’s Johnnie Mae’s grandson!” A tidbit of hope entered his heart upon hearing the words of her behest…
DJ’s life was spared…
The weapons readily remained trained on his head, as his bike, gun, jacket, money and weed were taken from him. He was then threateningly told, that if he ever returned to the
Byrnnes Square, it’d be tantamount to a targeted termination…
Fortunately for the kid’s cleverness, he still had some savings stashed away in the light socket, so he wasn’t broke and out-of-business. But, his initial ideas were all insidiously aimed at the ruthless level of retribution, in which he wanted. However, his grandmother soon spoke some sense into him by describing how DJ should be grateful for the fact that he was allowed to leave with his “life!” And since everyone knows where they live at, any retaliation would potentially lead to Johnnie Mae being precariously placed in perilous predicament. Plus, he shouldn’t have been slangin’ his sacks in their area after they’d already asked him not to do so.
DJ determined that he’d need to find somewhere to relocate while allowing things to die down, especially since he knew it’d be way too difficult to not “shoot-on-sight” once he gets another gun. And, his grandma was right, under no circumstances could he ever jeopardize Johnnie Mae’s safety! The following day, DJ went and bought a black .32 revolver from his friend Stutta-Box, who stayed behind the store, “Stop & Kill,” in a neighborhood known as, “Valley View”. Billy the Kid was back in business!
After weighing out his options, he concluded that it’d be most convenient to reside with Robin for a while, since the bus traversed up and down Lake Mead Blvd, enabling him to easily travel back and forth to see Tesha, and continue to re-up on weed, from his friend, J-Rip, who also lived in “The View”, on Englestead.
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