Saved and SAINTified (52 page)

“Because I
looked up to you, and not to him.”

“Exactly, man. You were a little guy that had heart. You were hangin’ out wit’ us, but I would never let you get in too deep, you were too young, ya know? I didn’t want you hurt. That would’ve messed my head up, if something happened to you, on my watch.”

Saint nodded. “Yeah, that was a different time. A part of me misses it, even though it was a cesspool.”

“I know what you mean. It was fucking hell, but we had each other
. Now, everyone is gone, man and out for their own. Either in jail or prison, dead or went straight—but don’t live here anymore. The ones that do, shit, is riders. A lot of ’em are a part of MCs now.”

“Motorcycle Clubs?”

“Yeah, they still fly their colors though, but they’ve matured, you know? You gotta grow up eventually and look around ... wake up and see all your sisters and brothers are dyin’, man. And for what? Some fuckin’ concrete—but that was a different time. It was about endurance. Fuck this shit!” Bomb blurted loudly, pushing Saint forcefully against a wall.

Saint
looked down at him wild eyed. Bomb seem to lose himself. He cranked his neck and peered at him. He was strong—the type of strength that comes with being completely, one hundred percent crazy, emotionally stunted and fearless.

“
I’m done fuckin’ around with you, Little Pharaoh!” And yet here it was—the reason he was called ‘Bomb’ reared its maniacal head.

Saint
swallowed, gripping the neck of his beer tightly. He remained calm, but fully alert.

Bomb balled up
Saint’s coat collar in a tight grip; he bared his teeth, seething. “You think I’m gonna rob you, don’t you?!” he yelled, spit flying out of his mouth. “You think I’d rob my little bro? Huh?”

Saint
calmly shook his head.

“Well
, why are you lookin’ at me like that?! Huh?”

“I’m not looking at you any kind of way, Bomb.”
Saint spoke in a monotone voice, just as he used to with his wound up clients who’d gotten a tad bit too amped after an upsetting session on his therapy couch.

“Goddamn!”
He released Saint from the wall. “You still got heart! No fear in your eyes. You can take the boy out the projects, but not the projects out the boy! You got on those fancy threads—that was stupid by the way.” Bomb cackled. “Expensive ass coat, the fuckin’ cow is still breathing, soft like butter. Comin’ over here dressed like that. I don’t care that it’s jeans and a shirt. Your shoes are nice.” He looked down at Saint’s snow-white Nike sneakers. “Yeah, you tha same kid, same as back then. It’s still a fucked up place, but paradise compared to what you and I saw. I had to test you, see if you was still worthy of my damn time ... make sure you weren’t up to anything, actin’ all weird ’nd shit, man.”

They got back on their walk. Bomb took a big swig of beer, said
a few expletives in Spanish then glanced back at him out the corner of his eye.

“What type of trouble you in, man?” Bomb revisited the previous conversation,
clearly insisting on answers.

This time,
Saint didn’t hesitate. “I needed to get my mind straight. I always get a clear mind when I come back home. It is therapy for the therapist, so to speak.”

“I can dig it.”

“I can’t think clearly in California, but when I come here, everything starts to make sense again. If I told you the truth, Bomb, you wouldn’t believe me. So, here is what I’m going to do. I’m going to tell you something really incredible and far-fetched, but the premise will be the truth. Is that cool?”

Bomb shrugged
. “If that’s what you want to do, man. I suppose that’s fine.”

They continued to walk.

“I told you I had a baby on the way. Let’s say that baby is like the Virgin Mary, right?”

Bomb nodded.

“Well, better yet, let’s say she is like Jesus ... a female Jesus.”

“Alright.”

“And remember how in the biblical story, when Jesus was born, King Herod wanted him killed? He was a threat.”

“Yeah, I know the story. I’m Catholic.” Bomb nodded.

“Well, I have a real-life King Herod on my hands.” Saint stopped walking, opened his beer and made Bomb watch him quickly down half of it as if it held magical powers for all of his woes.

“Damn
,
hombre
!” Bomb laughed, slapping his leg. “You put it away!”

Saint
wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then finished it off. He tossed the bottle in a trashcan in front of a store they passed.

Saint
continued on, as if nothing had happened. He was certain his stomach was going to cramp up later, with now the mixture of syrupy donut sludge and malt liquor making a horrid stew in his intestines. “So, that’s what’s going on. A mothafucka wants my daughter dead and he won’t stop until he gets his wish.”

“
Okay, it’s like this.” Bomb smiled. “I don’t know what part of the story is true, and which part is fable, but there will be no killing of babies. These new gangbangers do that shit. We never did that shit. We don’t kill fuckin’ babies and if a mothafucka threatens to take your seed away, man, you gotta ice him! That’s mad disrespectful!” Bomb’s eyes narrowed and grew darker. Saint knew his response was coming from somewhere personal, a place he’d visited and never wished to go again.

“Maybe it’s not that simple.”
Saint put his hands in his pockets. “Let’s say, anything you could do to them, they could do to you, too. Let’s say they could draw a gun just as fast, if not faster than you. What then?”

“That’s easy
, man.” Bomb cleared his throat then coughed hoarsely. “You’re talking about all the things they can do the same as you, but what is it that you don’t do well, man? What is like your damn crutch, your jones? Whateva is your weakness, that’s
their
weakness, too. Use that shit. If the dude is like you, then you’d share that, too, right?”

A broad smile spread across
Saint’s face. “You are a smart mothafucka, Bomb. I have no idea why I didn’t think of that. ”

“Because you’re too close to the damn situation. Anytime our heart is involved in some bullshit, we don’t think clearly.
”

I say the same thing to women about men
...

“That’s why I can give everyone else good advice, but screwed my own life up so fuckin’ bad.” He laughed—and again, the laughter was filled with anti-climactic merriment.

Saint
pondered over what he said for a while. Bomb stopped walking and turned toward him, cocking his head to the side. “Lemme see yo’ ol’ lady and kids, man. I want to see what my little brother
really
been up to!” He smiled earnestly.

Saint
took out his cellphone, pulled up several photos of Xenia and his sons and showed him. Bomb smiled and nodded in approval.

“She’s black,” he
said, his eyebrow lifting.

“So fucking what,
” Saint bit out, attitude in his tone, though he knew Bomb really didn’t give a shit about things like that. It was just his knee jerk reaction.

“Aye, shut up, man! I’m sayin’ it as an observation
, cool out. You know I ain’t racist. You know me better than that.”

Saint nodded.

“And besides, I already know I have a half black son. It was a long time ago. Back then, the girl said he wasn’t mine. I knew better though. This was back in ’88. Her brother is a Black Spade. We had squashed some shit with them, but when it came to fuckin’ his little sister, all bets were off.”

Bomb cackled. “He tried to run up on me with a bat when he found out. A damn bat, man. She came up behind him, holdin’ him back. Good for him, I was prepared to fuck him up
... runnin’ up on me like he was fucking crazy. She told him it wasn’t mine, lying through her teeth. She told me the same thing but I knew better. She wasn’t that type of girl. We were dating for a while. She had the baby, I saw him.” He looked down at the ground. “He had my eyes ... I even told her he was mine but she still denied it. Then I got locked up and she moved on and out of the neighborhood. I ain’t seen my son since. I really liked her. We had a good thing goin’. Her name was Laura, my son’s name is David. He was born on a rainy Tuesday morning...”

He knows the exact date, but he won’t say it.

Saint felt the heaviness in Bomb’s voice. He used to admire Bomb for having such a way with women—fascinating, rough, tough, attractive, and smart and one of the best brawlers in his entire gang. No one willingly wanted to fuck with him unless they were pumped up on speed and spirits. He had a way of fighting forever, seemingly never getting tired and his blows would knock the wind out of mothafuckas.
Man ... down!

“How many children do you think you have, Bomb?”

“At least twelve. Like I said, most of ’em, I have no idea where they are. I was young, out fucking way too much, too many girls. Got burnt a few times, too.  The clinic took care of that. By the grace of God I didn’t get HIV. I have no idea how I didn’t. All I did was fight, get high, and fuck for the longest, or as we said back in the day, ‘fight, fly and fuck!’ Now, I sit back and think about all my seeds, wandering around with no daddy, because of me. It makes me sick, man. Sometimes I fuckin’ hate myself.”

And here they were. They arrived. The air was thick and the emotions were raw. There was no way to rewind the tape. It happened and was now being relived, live and in living color. Saint took note of Bomb calling his children seeds for now the second time. Though the conversation was beyond troublesome, it touched Saint somewhere deep inside. The man, though obviously neglectful and strayed by the streets, understood that those children were
him—
that his life lived in them, forever.

“Look
, Bomb.” Saint put his arm around his shoulder. “You might be able to find some of them, and more than likely, some of them know of each other now. I could—”

“Don’t.”
He waved Saint away, taking a step back. “Just drop it. They are better off without me.” Bomb looked at Saint’s phone again, obviously wishing to disconnect from the current conversation. “She’s real pretty, man. What’s her name?” His anger and sadness about the situation simmered down, ready to make the lid on the pot pop right the hell off.

“
Xenia ... that’s my Goddess.”

“Like
Xenia the warrior.” Bomb nodded, smiling at the photo as he slicked his tongue slowly across his bottom lip, apparent lust building inside of him. Normally, this would have warranted a beat-down, but Saint knew he didn’t mean any disrespect. So now, that made two men that Saint would excuse for inappropriate jokes and brief lustful exams of his wife—Raphael, who he knew had mad love for Xenia and would never do anything so abhorrent as to flirt with his wife; and Bomb, who turned toward every pretty face without a care. Bomb was still a ladies’ man, at least in his mind.

“She’s a stone cold fox
. And your sons, they look a lot like you. Nice man, you gotta nice family. Don’t you let anyone fuck your family up, man. That’s what this life is all about. Family. That’s why I wanted to be a part of the Savage Skulls, to have a family, and that’s what they were ... they
are
. You got a piece of heaven right here, man.” Bomb continued to stare down at the photos.

“I know. They are my everything. Thanks for the a
dvice, Bomb. You helped a lot.”

“Cool
.” He lit another cigarette and put it up to his lips. “Man, I gotta break out.” He grabbed Saint and gave him a hug. “I got shit to do but it was nice seeing you, man, spendin’ a little time with you.”

“Likewise. Can I give you my number? Can we keep in touch?”
Saint pleaded. He felt the tug again—he needed Bomb. Bomb was a ‘piece of home’ from the old wasteland, a golden relic.

“Yeah man.
Ain’t no use in me giving you a number though. I tend to hop around a lot.”

“Well
, here’s my card.”

Bomb took it and read it, then jammed it in his pocket. “Alright, I got it memorized now in case somethin’ happens to the damn card.”

“Bomb, please promise me that you’ll keep in touch, man.”

During a brief silence,
Bomb looked aloofly across the street, squinting as if the sun were shining in his eyes. “I will, man.”

He turned back toward Saint, then proceeded to tell him his own number from the card, making Saint smile at his quick memorization.

Bomb grinned and shook his head. “I still can’t believe it. Little Pharaoh all grown up. I figured you’d be tall like your dad. Your face ain’t changed, that’s the crazy part—still got the face of a damn ten or eleven-year-old kid. That’s about how old you were when I last saw you. That fuckin’ hair!” The grin turned into a laugh.

“What about my
hair?” Saint quipped, running his fingers through the wind-blown tresses.

“Nothing, it’s just distinguishable
… and your eyes. Yeah, that strange gold color, like the gold stars we’d get in class for good attendance. They changed colors like mood stones.” Bomb grinned. “I’m glad you made somethin’ of yourself, Lil’ Pharaoh.” A sad smile spread across his face. “You ain’t so little no more, and I’m glad I didn’t take you down the same road with me.” He looked away, regret edged on his face.