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.
Continued here ~>[ link ]
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