Crazy Charlie

I’m driving to South LA to lead a writing workshop ..helping kids learn to keep a journal about events in their lives. It’s held at the rec-room of a park that gang-bangers claimed for themselves in 1989 ..and still do. However, things change. Some gang-bangers make it to middle age and get tired. Especially if they have kids whose only role-models are their gang-banger dads. It was at a juncture like this that Charlie arrived ..or more accurately .. got dumped by county psych last year. He woke up with a sawed-off shotgun in his face .. a steel-toe boot crashing into his groin and someone screaming: “Git da’fug up ya’muthafuggn piece’shit honky ..yu got rent ta pay ..or y’ain’t nevah pissin’ the same agin ..” He got up in a field of scorched earth ..felt completely disoriented ..and wondered if the clinic had been bombed. Being short of change, he kicked into survival mode. “I got pot ..!” he bellowed ..while his brain went searching for someone who did. “Yeah muthafuggah ? .. Where.” Yeah, where is a good question, he thought ..like where the fuck am I. He got on a cell-phone, stolen from a psych-tech ..dialed the number of a successful buddy of his from back in ‘Nam ..and two kilos were dropped off at the rec-room ..with a street value of over $5,000. This took the edge off things ..and Charlie made new friends. He hung around for awhile.

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Crazy Charlie

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Charlie is a scavenger by nature. He found nets to hang on the rusty hoops. He started a kitchen in a storage room ..using food he scavenged from around the ‘hood. He made gumbo out of mostly bean dip, potatoes and Doritos. He served gang members, homeless people as well as former members of the middle class who’d been jobless for so long ..they were living in their cars. He listened to stories about mothers who got killed .. kids who got abandoned .. drug-addicted fathers .. cruel and unusual punishment ..schools that offered no hope ..jobs that had disappeared ..and a place with no malls, YMCA or colleges. They needed something to hang on to so they seized the park. Probably the only sense of community they ever had. They did have incredible stories to tell about overcoming some pretty major trauma in their life. So Charlie started writing them down. Then someone suggested he put them in a grant proposal. That caught the attention of City Council women Jan Perry ..and the floodgates opened. Money began to arrive, Charlie recruited gang members to re-build the playground ..restore the gym floor ..plant grass for a football field ..and even build a concert stage for local rap acts. It was like re-hab for the old gangbangers. Now they have karate classes ..aerobic classes .. and football teams. And when they saw how much money could be made by writing ..they set up a writing workshop. Charlie has since moved on ..but I can still hear the echo of his footsteps around here.