The drug heroin had a devastating effect on Harlem, almost as much as the monies generated by its sale. The streets were far colder and more menacing than I ever remembered. Most of my childhood friends were now wantabe gangsters with a kill or be killed mind-set. Easy money dissolved all memories of past relationships and ended all reveries of our childhood days.
Our lives had been filled with games, but never had the stakes been so high. So, when it came to this new game. No one was to be trusted. Business associations, ones centering on the deadly trade, short-circuited all childhood friendships and any sense of community. As I said, there had always been drugs, but the wholesale distribution had grown to accommodate the skyrocketing street demand.
The scores of strung-out soldiers returning home from Vietnam seemed like a blessing to those seeking immediate escape from their impoverished existence. In no time, heroin was king and cash flowed like water. The last vestiges of innocence were the first casualty of the white plague. No longer boys, my former classmates had become armed warriors prepared to battle to their deaths over cash, territory, and product. Dope had invaded urban America, and Harlem seemed like ground zero.
One look and I could see the change in my former crew, their hearts black as night. It was in their swagger; slow and predatory. It was in the way they sprang into action when business called. And, it was in their willingness to spill blood over the smallest affront to their inflated sense of self-importance.
Harlem was now teeming with parentless and village-less children seeking refuge from their pains in the arms of a white malevolent mother and vying for the attention of the very same white society that left them scorned and abandoned.
They sprang from gypsy (freelance) cabs proudly displaying their rapacious purchases including boxes of sneakers, trendy threads, and gaudy jewelry. Latent down with bags, they strolled coolly, never missing an opportunity to smugly and proudly flash their wads of blood money. The park had become a mini-casino by mid-afternoon with small throngs engrossed in C-lo, a form of dice game.
Half court games served as warm-ups until enough real ballers arrived to run a full (court game). Ted and me chose ‘Dead Man’, a tall slow walking and slow witted kid from the Terrance, and challenged the winners of the first game. We fell behind early but came surging back and won. Teddy’s outside jumper and my inside attack made us a lethal combo. We won two more games in quick succession and with similar ease.
By late afternoon, energetic young men (boasting, jostling, and displaying their newfound riches) filtered into the concrete arena. Some looked on, sizing up players for later games. When the full court got under way, Ted and I were quickly grabbed up. Truth be told, I was a little intimidated by the fast pace and the in-your-face style of play.
A bond was formed between Teddy and me that day. Naturally, he was the first one that I called when I got my new wheels, a mango-red Mercury Monterey convertible with gold-flakes and a snow-white leather interior. I spent my last week cruising Central Harlem with Teddy as my co-pilot, top down and speakers blaring.
