Saved and SAINTified (51 page)

“I bet.”
Saint grinned as he licked his fingers. “So, what about you? I looked for you a long time ago, when I was like sixteen. Nobody knew where you were and the ones that did weren’t talking.”

“Shiiiit, man
.” Bomb took another bite of his donut. “Probably at Sing-Sing again.”

Sing-Sing
—gangbanger and drug dealer prison.

“What happened?”
It was obvious that Bomb had spent more than his fair share of time in and out of the joint. He had that
look
—and it was never one of rehabilitation; it was a revolving door of sorrow, hatred and regret.

“What the fuck
didn’t
happen, man?” Bomb laughed mirthlessly.

Saint
took a closer look at him. The once handsome, albeit rough around the edges looking man still showed a glimmer of his old self but time, heartache, and other adversities had taken their toll. The streets gave birth to him and raised him as a single parent. They had no choice. His mother was mentally ill and his father had left when he was only five. He and his three siblings went outside one day, and never returned home.

He used to always say,
“The Bronx is my mother, getting high is my father and they take good ass care of me...”
But Bomb was brilliant. If he’d been born in another space in time, with people around him that actually gave a damn, none of this would have happened. He had a photographic memory and a quick wit about him. He was charismatic and despite the devil spitting him out of his own ass, he was compassionate at times. But that brain of his, that wonderful brain ...
damn
. You could show him something one time, and he could recite it back to you, verbatim. Now, after extensive drug use, rampant death of loved ones and emotional turmoil, he probably could barely remember what day it was...

“I got a murder one charge, man. The irony of this shit is that i
t was the one I actually didn’t do!” He laughed that laugh again—one devoid of all joy. There were bullet-holes in his merriment, the odor of fermented pain and the acceptance that his life was gift-wrapped in barbwire with a grenade bow and presented to him by God as some sort of present. He tried to throw it back, but it always blew up in his face.

“I’m glad you got out
,” Bomb said in almost a whisper. His dark eyes met Saint’s hazel ones, and the two men shared a special understanding. “Some of my homeboys made it out, too. Now, they’re productive members of society ... got wives, family, jobs ’nd shit. The media never wants to talk about that though.” He winced but his frown softened upon looking at Saint closely. “You were a good kid, Saint.” Bomb tapped the sticky counter with his fingertips.

“There was something about you, man
. You were real peaceful, like. You were special, Saint. You made me smile.” Bomb went inside himself once more, turning away as he reminisced. “I was high all the time.” He fisted the counter and started to laugh again. “One time,” he doubled over laughing, “One time, man, I was so high, that I thought I saw you floating off the damn floor!” His eyes squinted and tears welled in the corners.

Saint
shifted on his seat.

“Man, you w
as asleep in our clubhouse, man,” Bomb continued with a big smile on his face. “It was like at night. I was supposed to walk you home, like I always did, but you fell asleep so,” Bomb shrugged, “I felt like, fuck it! I lay down, watchin’ a little T.V. ’nd shit and then I looked over a little while later and you were off the damn floor. I had let you lie down on my coat, man. You looked so peaceful, man...” Bomb’s eyes became glassy and the smile slowly faded from his face. Cigarette smoke swirled around him. “You was just floatin’ there.” He raised his hand in the air and waved it, as if he were flying a kite. 

“I don’t remember what I took that night. It coulda been some weed,
uppers, downers, who the fuck knows. Maybe glue and other shit. I have no idea. I think I was broke that night, didn’t have any money for dope and I wasn’t into heroine. Yeah, it had to be glue, maybe a little left over reefer, too ... little nub of a roach. Fuckin’ cheap ass high, can screw with your brain.” He rubbed the side of his face with rough hands. “So, where you stay at now, man?” Bomb looked Saint up and down, assessing him.

“I live in
L.A.”

“Whaaat?”
he exclaimed in disbelief. “L.A., huh? Movie stars ’nd shit.”

“Yeah, I got married. Have a couple kids now and another one on the way.”

“Awww man, I can dig it. Little Pharaoh gotta family now. I still see you as a little kid, man. That was a long time ago.” His eyes clouded, and Saint’s heart broke a little at the sight. “That’s what’s up. Good for you, man.”

“What about you? Ever get married?”
Saint pushed the rest of the donut across the sticky counter. He didn’t ask about children just yet. He recalled that Bomb probably had enough to repopulate a small village. His stomach started to feel as if cement were hardening inside of it as the sickeningly sweet dough began to settle.

“Naw man, I didn’t get married. I stayed in too much trouble. Had a lady
for a while though, a good woman. We were together a
long
ass time,” he reflected. “Had a couple kids with her, Sonia and Braulio. They don’t talk to me.” Bomb retreated into his world for a few moments. “I know I have other kids, too ... I don’t know where the fuck they are,” Bomb added, seeming to read Saint’s unspoken words. “I was real irresponsible back then, lost contact with a lot of people. Lotta regrets.”

A
lengthy pause followed as the sadness from Bomb became palpable in the eatery.

“What are you drinking?”
Saint asked, changing the topic.

“Somethin’ with some punch, hopefully.” Bomb smiled and winked.

“I don’t think they sell that here.” Saint grinned.

“Down the fuckin’ way they do, at the bodega. I got a little money. I can get you some
, too.”

“Let’s go
,” Saint offered as he stood from his stool.

“Yo
’ Felipe!” Bomb called out. A few moments later, the big man returned, his hands covered in flour. Saint paid him and they walked out onto the street.

“What you doin’ here, man?” Bomb asked as he shoved his hands into his faded, dark jean
s pockets.

“I came to visit my father.”

Bomb nodded. “How is he?”

“He’s hangin’ in there.”

Their steps were completely in line with one another. Saint towered over him. It was a strange feeling, especially since his last vivid memory of Bomb was quite the reverse. Instead of standing erect, Bomb was now hunched down and lurching forward as if he were suffering from a back injury. It was awkward to watch the man move about. Saint was certain it was due to some sort of ailment that caused the man’s spinal cord to sway. How it had happened, he didn’t know.

“You in some sort of trouble, man?” Bomb asked out of the blue, his dark, bushy eyebrow arched.

Saint stopped walking and stared at him as they stood right outside the bodega. “What makes you ask me that?”

“You in tha
mothafuckin’ Bronx again, wandering the streets, lookin’ rich like you’re crazy. Only a newbie or someone from here who’d come back would do that thinkin’ they’d be all right. You walk like you got some important shit to do,” Bomb teased, causing Saint to smile.

“
You just look like something is bothering you. I told you I never forget a face. You make the same face now, as you did back then, when you were upset about something.” He gave him a knowing look. “I know I ain’t your real,
blood
big brother; we both were just kids back then ... and it ain’t really none of my business,” he shrugged, “but just because I fucked up my life, doesn’t mean I don’t give good advice.” He grinned, showing that missing tooth once more.

Saint smiled and opened the bodega door and Bomb burst inside
, speaking Spanish to the shop owners as he made his way over to the ice-cold beer. Saint stood toward the front, looking around. Nothing was familiar there. Even the smell was all wrong. When he was growing up, bodegas smelled of cigar smoke, incense and cured meats—an intoxicating aroma. This environment was far too sterile. He simply felt out of place—like an episode of Sesame Street from eons ago, where the screen flashed, ‘One of these kids is doing his own thing’. Anxiety pulsed inside him.

Saint
racked his brain, asking himself repeatedly what he was doing. A part of him wished he could grab Bomb and take him home with him, like some dusty trophy found in an attic. He wanted Bomb bundled tight with his luggage, without another word, but he knew that wouldn’t ever come to fruition. Bomb would never want to leave New York, even though he had a love-hate relationship with her. She still was his mother, and he was a Mama’s boy to his Big Apple core...

Saint
also knew that Bomb had real issues that he wouldn’t address, at least not right now. He was still self-medicating with booze and pills. A lot of pain lurked underneath that tough exterior. The man had to battle practically every day of his life just to survive. There is no normalcy in that. Years of mental and emotional trauma had taken their toll. All that time fighting, prison time with hardened criminals and the gang life had taken hold of his will to live, like a live rag doll shaken to death.

Saint
felt it, smelled it—he’d been suicidal a time or two, but stayed alive, just in case his kids changed their minds about him. All he wanted was a family that gave a fuck about him. That’s all he
ever
wanted, since he was a little boy. The Savage Skulls had done that for him and at least, he knew how to protect himself in dangerous situations and he wasn’t afraid of anyone. Bomb had no fear at all, even when he should have. Saint broke out of his daydream when Bomb bustled toward him holding two ice-cold forty ounces.

Saint
smiled at him as he set them on the counter to get rang up. He contemplated offering to pay, but he knew Bomb wanted to do this—he wanted to be the ‘big brother’ just one more time, and he’d probably be insulted if Saint dared to go there. He loved the way Saint used to look up to him, it made him feel important—so he left well enough alone. Saint had hung onto his every word back then, and made Bomb feel like the smartest, wisest and coolest cat in all of New York. Saint was a one-man cheering squad, and Bomb needed that ... he needed it like the body needs blood. At the time, Saint always thought Bomb was doing him a favor by allowing him to stay close when in reality, Bomb needed Saint more than Saint ever needed Bomb.

They exited the store, each holding their beer. Bomb opened his; the brown crunching paper sack slid half way down the bottle as he expertly removed the cap. Then Bomb stood still
for a moment, and poured a little out on the sidewalk for his dead compadres.

“Mio is gone. Loco is gone. Busy is gone. Serious is gone.
Tom-Tom is gone. Xavier is gone. My man, my man Inky is gone,” Bomb whispered as he looked at the wet concrete, foamy with spent beer. “So many of the guys are dead, Little Pharaoh. I’d be naming them off for hours if I kept on it. Some are still in prison. But some ... some got out, Saint. Some made something of themselves.” He stared at his beer.

“
I’m not sayin’ this lifestyle was perfect or victimless, but my boys didn’t deserve that fate. We did good shit too, but no one wants to talk about that. All anyone talks about, when they hear about me and my homeboys, is the extortion. Yeah, I did some of that. I’ll come clean. I needed money … we needed money or we would’ve died and I was just a kid then. It was survival of the fittest.” His voice trailed away toward the end. He took a big gulp of beer.

“There was some bullshit though. The so-called rape parties and all that other bullshit. I’m not sayin’ we were angels. The media back then, man.” He pivoted on his heels and winced. “I ain’t sayin’ that no one got raped, shit, I got daughters, ya know?”

Bomb struggled for acceptance and understanding. Saint hadn’t said a word, but he could tell Bomb felt arbitrated and needed to explain himself, to prove his worth, even though he didn’t think it was much...

“But I sure as fuck didn’t rape any females. I wasn’t into that shit. I could get all the pussy I wanted, didn’t have to ask or beg for the shit, and I didn’t kill anyone unless it was in self-defense. I even helped this hooker out—john was robbing and raping her, her pimp left her ass there. Fuckin’ shame. She was somebody’s mama, you know? I beat the living shit out of a lot of mothafuckas though, and I ain’t sorry about most of the shit I did to make it, to stay alive.”

As they walked, Saint sensed Bomb wondering about how Saint was an adult now, and all that childhood adoration was in jeopardy, now that the rose colored glasses were removed. Bomb wanted to clear his name, but still remain honest.

“These mothafuckas want to judge us; they didn’t live our fucking life! You were here, you know. You at least had a mama...” Bomb’s eyes narrowed. “I know shit was fucked up at home for you wit’ your pops though. The only time I knew he cared about you was when he jumped on me, but it still didn’t stop you from bein’ around me.” He laughed. “I tried to keep my distance from you after that, but you came right back and…” He scratched his head. “I knew shit ain’t always what it seems. That was guilt; your father felt remorseful about some shit and took it out on me.”