Monster: The Autobiography of an L.A. Gang Member Part 6

Her eyes grew wide when it registered that I was for real. Even when I let go of her collar she remained in my face.

"Go, now, and handle that," I told her and, as if hypnotized, she slowly rose to an erect position and strode back toward the door. I watched her through half-closed eyes, hoping they wouldn't kill both of us. She stopped in their presence and traded words with them. They were out of my earshot. I saw Eloise gesture toward the hallway to the left, turn, and do the same thing toward the right. I had no idea what she was doing. Whatever it was, it worked, and my a.s.sailants moved into the hallway and eventually out of my sight. She, too, left my sight, but only for an instant. When I saw her round the corner again and come into the room she had the telephone with her and was moving rather quickly.

"What did you tell 'em?" I asked excitedly.

Thrusting the phone at me she said, "Don't worry 'bout that, you better call your people, 'cause they comin' back."

Not knowing how much time I had before they'd be back, I hastily dialed Li'l Monster's number. It rung once, twice, three times and . . . d.a.m.n, I'd dialed the wrong number. On my second attempt I hit pay dirt.

"Bro, what's up?" I said quickly into the receiver.

"What's up?!" Bro shot back and stammered on, "Man, we been tearin' s.h.i.+t-"

"No, wait, listen. They up here!"

"Who?"

"The Sixties, man. The Sixties!"

"We on our way!"

The connection was broken. I rang for Eloise and she came right away. I explained to her the seriousness of my foes and that it was probably the same three who had originally shot me. I also turned down her offer to get the police. No, we'd handle this ourselves. She looked skeptical, but gave me her word that she wouldn't call the police. The longest twenty minutes of my life were spent waiting for Li'l Bro and reinforcements.

Finally, I saw Li'l Bro bend the corner, followed by Li'l Spike, Joker, Li'l Crazy De, Stone, China, Bam, and Spooney, the latter three being homegirls. They surrounded my bed so that nothing else was visible but them; then weapons began to materialize from under their heavy clothing. They had mostly hand weapons, a few buck knives, and Li'l Spike had a sawed-off single-shot. Li'l Monster had been out of camp for about nine months and was working in earnest toward his required second level. He displayed all the traits of promise. From under his s.h.i.+rt he produced a .25 automatic, and China came out with a box of bullets.

"This is for you, Bro," he said, handing me the strap and box of bullets.

"Righteous." I went on to explain the situation and gave a description of all three. Li'l Spike and Joker went in search of them, while the others stayed to talk. Bro said that he had come to see me while I was in ICU, but I had no recollection of him ever being there. He said he could not stand to see me in such a state. We looked at each other for a long moment, and I could see that he was hurt and wanted to communicate his emotions, but neither of us knew how to do it. So we settled for the unspoken medium of love, each hoping the other would somehow catch the vibes of sincerity.

Crazy De had been in an altercation with some Sixties in the Hall, China told me. No homies had been captured or shot since the Tet had begun, and the set was enjoying tremendous coverage by the media. Li'l Spike and Joker returned with Eloise hot on their heels.

"No sign of them fools," Li'l Spike said with frustration. "Besides," he said, pointing his thumb at Eloise, "we got sweated by homelady here."

"You d.a.m.n right you got sweated. But tell him what you was doin'. Go on, tell him," she said loudly.

Neither Joker nor Li'l Spike said a thing, so I asked them what was up.

Joker spoke up first. "Aw, cuz, she bent the corner and caught a m.u.t.h.af.u.c.ka strikin' up the 'hood."

"Gangwritin', in my hospital. Uhh-uhh, not here you don't."

"You don't own this G.o.dd.a.m.n hospital, woman, who the-"

"Stall her out, Bam, she down wit' us," I said sharply to the homegirl, who was widely known for her belligerence.

"But she-"

"Stall her out," I repeated, forcefully.

"Kody, visitin' time is 'bout over anyway." Eloise was now shooting daggers at Bam, who was returning her stares point for point.

"Awright, but let us get three mo' minutes, huh?"

"Yeah, yeah, but no mo' writin', y'all hear?" she said, looking from one hard face to another.

No one replied. She finally gave a small sigh and left the room. I began to instruct the crew about my plans once I was released. All seemed quite happy to know that I was recovering well, Li'l Bro and China especially. Not to say that there was any less affection from the others, but China and Li'l Monster knew me more intimately, so our link was stronger.

Soon thereafter the crew began to leave. The set sign was thrown in a salute by each homie, and China gave me a kiss on the cheek, promising she'd be back the following day. Bro milled around and waited for the last homie to file out. After a minute he looked at me, then dropped his head. When he raised it again we both had tears in our eyes. I had been touched-wounded-and although it was never verbally communicated, I was Li'l Bro's hero, the closest thing he had to total invincibility. Everything I did, he did. And now, with my being wounded, he knew that there was someone out there that was stronger, more determined than me. The vast weight of this fell heavy on his shoulders and it became inc.u.mbent upon him to destroy that person and "save the world"-our set. At fourteen, that's a heavy load.

"It's gonna be all right, it's gonna be all right," is all I could say.

To which Bro replied, "Yeah, 'cause I'm gonna make it right. Watch."

We hugged briefly, as much as my st.i.tches would allow, and then Bro left without looking back. It was times like this that I hated my life. Perhaps this was due to my not knowing answers to certain questions or being able to present my emotions on an intelligible level. Being ignorant is, to me, the equivalent of being dead.

I checked my strap to make sure it was loaded and put it under my pillow. If they came back now it would not be in their interest. Against my better judgment, I dozed off.

Time flew by, and daily I became stronger. China was coming to visit every day and even brought a radio, although only after I had sworn on the set-which was much more religious than swearing to G.o.d-not to destroy it like the last one. I got no more calls or unexpected visits, and on January 14th I was discharged. This was the only time my mother came to the hospital, which didn't bother me too much then. We had grown very far apart, so I'd never expected her to come, anyway. But she had to come on my discharge day because I was still sixteen and she had to sign the release form. Our mutual greetings were lukewarm. We talked little on the way out of the hospital. I was rolled out in a wheelchair pushed by Mom. Over my knees was a blanket, and underneath it the weapon, my hand fully on the grip.

In the car we both made small talk. The days were past where Mom sought to talk me out of bangin', but still she was firmly set against it. Little did I know that Mom was under as much strain as I was. This is universally true of every mother who has a child in a gang. But usually communication has long been broken with that parent, who the child looks upon as a familiar intruder trying once again to offset stability. In this light, anything proposed by the parent-whether positive or not-is rejected. The intruding parent becomes enemylike in thought, and is to be avoided. Nothing is to alter the set's existence. For a youth with no other hope in a system that excludes them, the gang becomes their corporation, college, religion, and life. It is in this reality that gang members go to the extreme with tattoos. I now have "Eight Trays" written across my neck and "Crips" on my chest. Ever see George Bush with "Republican" on his chest or "Capitalist" on his neck?

The moment I got home the phone began ringing off the hook.

"Yes, I'm all right."

"No, I didn't get my d.i.c.k blown off."

"No, I wasn't shot in the head."

The calls went on like this all day. When night fell, I hit the streets on Li'l Monster's bike. Li'l Tray Ball rode with me and carried the weapon. We weaved our way through the 'hood, stopping here and there to explain blurry details to concerned citizens of the 'hood and a few parents who were looked upon as "friendlies." When we had circ.u.mvented a good portion of the 'hood, we doubled back toward the north. It had gotten chilly, and because of my stay in the hospital I was unaccustomed to being out in such weather. My open wounds made my trek in such weather all the more dangerous. When we reached the house, Mom was standing out on the front lawn accompanied by a host of homegirls. Kesha, Judy Brown, China, Bam, Prena, and Big Lynn were all there. Before I came to a halt I knew something wasn't right. Everyone looked grief-stricken. Mom began in on me right away.

"Kody, where you been?"

"Just ridin' in the 'hood, what's up?" I asked in a nonchalant tone.

"You are not supposed to be out in such weather with those open wounds. You know what the doctor told you." Her voice was almost a whimper.

"Aw, Mom, I was just ridin' around. Anyway, I got my jacket on," I retorted.

"But honey, you could catch pneumonia out here. Please come in the house."

"Awright, but just let me kick it a minute out here," I said defiantly, not about to be talked down by Mom in front of the homies.

"No," Mom said with new force. "Come in here now."

"Mom, you trippin', I'll be in there in a minute."

"Monster," Kesha spoke up, "you should just go on in the house."

"Wait, wait, hold it, hold it," I responded with both hands up, one palm showing and a cast on the other.

"Naw, Monster, you hold it. Yo' mama only tryin' to tell you what's right." This was Big Lynn.

Knowing her prowess I eased closer toward Li'l Tray Ball, who was armed. If she made an attempt at physically persuading me into the house I was going to bust a cap in her a.s.s.

"Check this out, I'm only right here in the yard. I'm comin' in in a minute, okay?" Now I was looking for some support from the homegirls. I got none. Mom had apparently wooed them before I rode up.

"Kody, please come in the house." Mom was so overwhelming that even Li'l Tray Ball was now urging me to comply.

"Homie, you should go on in the pad."

I laid down the bike and stalked off toward the house, arguing about Mom being of another generation and not over-standing me. This, of course, was a genuine cop-out. For it was I who had lost touch with reality. I had encapsulated my block of reality into a tamper-proof world that made every other point of view absurd. This was especially so if I felt the other point of view was threatening to my livelihood.

Once in the house I went to my room, shut the door, and sat on the bed. Li'l Monster was out campaigning, so I began sorting through our "oldie" collection. Actually, the records belonged to Li'l Monster, who was, and still is, an ardent oldie fan. I dug out something fitting and placed it on the turntable. "I'm Still Here" by the Larks came screaming over the stereo, and I fell back on my bed and let the lyrics seep in. The refrain, "I'm still here," kept lifting me up. It held a special meaning to me after being shot six times. "I'm still here." I undressed and dozed off with the refrain still resounding in my ear, though the record had long been off.

I got up the following morning and pulled on some fresh Ben Davis jeans, a sweats.h.i.+rt, and croaker sacks-shoes made from burlap. I gathered up Mom's car keys to go to the store for some cereal. When I began rolling out of the driveway I found I was blocked by an unmarked police car. Two American detectives got out and approached the driver's side of the car, so I got out. One of them asked if I was Kody Scott. I replied that I was. The other then produced a piece of paper from the inner pocket of his suit coat. He explained that they had apprehended the guy who shot me. When I asked who that was, he said Pretty Boy. I knew who Pretty Boy was. He and I used to be friends, until the start of the conflict. He, like Crazy De and me, was fiercely loyal to his 'hood and had on many occasions shot or shot at our homies. This was widely known. In fact, after his involvement in Twinky's death, he was elevated to Threat Level Two and put on our Most Wanted list. I knew he hadn't shot me, but to try and explain this to these two would be futile. The paper the officer handed me was a subpoena to appear in court as a witness to Pretty Boy's shooting me. I took the paper and threw it into the car and they left.

I made my way to the store and back without further incident. When I returned, I found my mother and my niece, Tamara, in the front garden cleaning out weeds. I spoke to them briefly and then went into the house to enjoy a big bowl of cereal, as I was quite hungry. My mom's house is a moderate three-bedroom mid-sixties dwelling with two huge picture windows on either side of the front door. When the drapes are open one can see clear into the house. We had a nice front lawn and a huge rubber tree out in the yard that gave us great shade in the summer and camouflaged military launches at night. Right in front of the porch was a beautiful garden that Mom took great pride in keeping up. It was in this garden that she and Tamara now worked as Li'l Monster and I sat staring out of the picture window eating raisin bran. As I lifted a spoonful of cereal to my mouth a car drove past at a slow observer's pace. I stopped in midmotion and let the face of the staring occupant sink in. Enemy Sixty!

"Sixties!" I shouted to Li'l Bro, who had already recognized them and was heading down the hallway toward our room and the cache of weapons now stored there. Once we had seized two weapons-both long-barrel shotguns-we made it back to the front room just in time to see the vehicle turn up into a driveway and begin to come back our way. Perhaps their intent was to shoot into the house, shoot Mom, or simply undertake a reconnaissance mission. Whatever it was, we had no intention of letting them leave this block. As they began approaching us, going westbound-the driver closest to the house-we burst through the door and leapt over Mom and Tamara and ran at top speed toward the car, weapons leveled. When Mom recognized what was happening she shouted for Tamara to go in the backyard. Before the driver could mount a response we were within killing distance of them.

Leveling the barrel to the driver's head, I shouted, "This is Eighty-third Street, m.u.t.h.af.u.c.ka!" and pulled the trigger.

The gun was on safety.

If there is a G.o.d, He was between me and that driver because the driver, for sure, was dead that morning. Ducking down into the seat and swerving sharply to the right, he punched the accelerator, jumped the curb, and ran down Mrs. Bucks's fence.

Mom said nothing as we retreated past her and back into the house. We ate the rest of our cereal with guns in one hand, spoons in the other. It was this particular incident that rang the bells in Mom's head that said, "Hey, this thing is serious." No sooner had we finished our cereal, not ten minutes after the incident, than a black-and-white patrol car came to a halt in front of our house. Bending down so as not to be seen by the police, we darted down the hallway to stash the straps. We both discarded our clothes and donned bathrobes to shake a description, in case someone had seen us in action earlier. We then heard talking up front.

"Is Kody Scott your son?" one of the policemen asked my mom.

"Yes, Kody is my son, why?"

"Well, ma'am, we have a warrant for his arrest for murder and six counts of attempted murder."

"Oh," Mom began with a slight chuckle, "you must be mistaken. Kody was just released from the hospital two days ago. He could not have possibly killed anyone."

"Well, we have several eye witnesses who say it was in fact Monst-I mean Kody who they saw." His voice sounded no-nonsense.

"Well," Mom said, trying another angle, "can you call the station to make sure it's Kody you want?"

"Ma'am, we are sure who we want. Now is Kody here?"

"Yes, he's here. Kody!" Mom called out after me.

After hearing as much as I needed to I began to get dressed. Me and Li'l Bro hugged and said our good-byes. I stepped forward and allowed the police-henceforth soldier-cops-to take me in.

At the station I got the details. Some Brims had said that while they were shooting dice in their park, Harvard Park, I had stepped out of the shadows with, of all things, a double-barrel and blasted them. This was supposed to have happened the same night that I was released from the hospital.

Once again I found myself in solitary confinement at Los Padrinos Juvenile Hall. But this time I was in bad physical condition from the shooting and the operation. I also had the cast on my arm with the 'hood struck up all over it, along with the names of some homies. After my standard week in the box I was transferred to unit C-D. In Los Padrinos the housing units are designated by alphabet. I had pretty much been in them all. When I got to C-D I met up with Queek from Eight Tray Hoover. He and I were the only Crips in the entire unit. All of the New Afrikans were Bloods, and the Chicanos and the Americans were strongly supporting them.

There were approximately twenty-five people in the day-room. At least thirteen were New Afrikans and the rest Chicano or American. There were twenty plastic chairs on metal frames welded together in rows of five. These were situated in front of an old black-and-white television. Queek and I sat there, primarily because to sit any other place would be foolish. We also wanted to stipulate the distinction between us and them, Crips and Bloods. Most of the Bloods were Pirus from Compton. Every so often, as if on cue, one of the Pirus would leap to his feet and shout, "All the 'Rus in the house say ho!" at which time everyone-except Queek and me-would jump to their feet fanatically shouting "Hoooo!" This went on throughout the night at hour intervals, but no one approached Queek or me personally.

The next day while Queek and I sat on our bench-our meager territory-and talked, we drew some pretty mean stares from the chair section. Once, in the course of conversation, I said "cuz" to Queek and the whole dayroom fell abruptly silent. Even the characters on television seemed to pause and look over at us. No one moved, no one said a thing. And then, as if he were an amba.s.sador to the U.N., Bayboo from Miller Gangster Bloods cleared his throat and started walking over toward us. He was a viciously ugly person with a huge jug head, which was covered with small braids in no fixed pattern. His complexion was dark, but not that s.h.i.+ny smooth darkness like Marcus Garvey or Cicely Tyson. It was a flat darkness, broken in spots by chicken-pox marks that had become infected from scratching. His eyes held no light, no humor, no remorse. His eyes each had black rings around them and they were sunk deeply into their sockets. His lips and nose were uncut Afrikan from the continent. I would guess he weighed 170 pounds then, quite muscular with a broad chest. He stopped in front of me.

"What did you say?" he asked, looking down on me with total ugliness.

I looked at Queek for some sign of mutual liability, but my stare went unacknowledged. I stood up so he would not have the advantage of a downswing.

"I said cuz to my homeboy," I replied. Murmurs from the chair section began to grow louder.

"You must not know where you at, Blood. This is our unit and we don't allow no punk-a.s.s crabs over here. I should knock you out, boy."

Far from being a fool, I took a step backward out of his firing range.

"And what you think I'm gonna be doin' while you knock-in' me out?" I shot back, hoping I hadn't made him too mad, because for sure I was in no physical shape to fight anybody, especially him.

"Wha . . ." he started, and made a quick step in my direction. I took one step back and a brother whom I hadn't even noticed came between us, but facing Bayboo.

"Man, stall dude out. You see he all f.u.c.ked up, cast and s.h.i.+t," the brother said to Bayboo.

"f.u.c.k that fool, he don't know where he at or somethin'."

"I know where I'm at," I managed to say.

The staff was becoming suspicious, as the dayroom had grown too quiet. s.h.i.+t, everything was fine as long as there were Pirus shouts every hour, I guess. But the quiet was out of order.

"You," a Chicano staff member said, pointing at me. "Come on in here." He gestured at his office. When I went in and sat down he asked what the problem was. I told him that there was no problem, but he wasn't buying it.

"Oh, I see, you a Crip. And," he continued, turning his head to read the graffiti on my cast, "you are from ETG, Eight Tray Gangster, huh?"

"Yeah, that's where I'm from."

"Well then, that explains it. You are starting confusion in my unit," he said matter-of-factly.

"Man, I ain't startin' nothin' in yo' unit," I tried to explain.

At this, he opened a desk drawer and brought out a red marker.

"Paint your cast, 'cause the gang graffiti is a problem," he said, pus.h.i.+ng the marker toward me.

"I ain't coloring my cast dead"-a disrespectful term for red. "You must be crazy."

"Oh, well, we'll see about that."

He reached for the phone, dialed, and talked with someone. Five minutes later a New Afrikan man came in.

"What's happening?" he said.