White Boys In West Harlem





162 and Amsterdam

Once you were there you were somewhat safe.
It was getting there that there was a chance of being robbed.
So we usually drove
But that had it’s own problems
Usually alluding the undercover cops in the area.

We were regulars and bought weight
So we had keys to the buildings.
We would walk right by the ten year old boys trying to sell
And they were everywhere.

That’s how this shit all started.
I remember buying an eight ball
From some juvenile Columbian boy.
I handed him my money through the window
And drove around the block
As he was coming back out
And handed me a tightly wrapped foil packet
That I could smell instantly through it’s metal.

But now we were regulars buying half pieces or more
And I jumped out of the car
Walked up those brownstone steps
And put the keys into the lock of the door.

The Colombians owned this zone.
It was a lock down.
I would walk past guards with machine guns
Uzis and openly displayed Glocks.
Those same boy peddlers outside walked amongst the filth,
The fear, the depression, past these guns
How many times a day?
I wondered.

The air was thick with cigarette and cigar smoke.
As long as you were there on business
Nobody fucked with you.

Once I saw them beating the shit
Out of someone in the hallway.
No idea why.
I had to actually wait for them to finish
Before I continued upstairs.
I had no idea what they were screaming at the poor fuck.
My Spanish wasn’t that great.
And as I was checked and led up to the door
My heart would race...always it did.
There was never any guarantees.
Even if I was a regular.
I just wanted to make it back outside to my friends...

If the situation was reversed
And I was the one waiting in the car
While one of them went in
I’d be nervous for them...
And time would pass so slowly
Until I saw them fall down the steps
Heading for the car.

Once inside the door
There were greetings
Like good friends
But macho,
And mountains of Cocaine.
How this shit could find it’s way
All the way from Columbia
Up to this room
In New York City
Is beyond me.
And you knew that this was just one apartment
In one building, in one block.
You knew there were hundreds more out there
Just like this one.

The sheer volume of it was breathtaking
And it was always like that.
Never once did I go there
And see just a little.
There were blocks of it stacked on a table.
There were piles of it next to the digital scale
And I’m sure there was more that I couldn’t even see.

There were stacks of cash and
Two digital bill counters.
Guns were everywhere
And other than some sparse furniture
There wasn’t much else.

The amigos played the good salespeople
Being friendly and joking
But I knew very well
That I could just as easily
Be that sucker in the hallway
Losing teeth and blood.

I could only trust them
When I had the goods
And was far away
Heading downtown
Or back to Jersey.

When we first started this gig
Surveillence was minimal.
Cops did not want to patrol this area.
It was dangerous.

Once I was held up in a small tienda
In front of several people.
Nobody did anything, of course
They knew the gig.
I was an out of place white boy.
They continued shopping
As he walked out of there
Only after insulting me
And picking me clean.

But over the years
Police presence became more noticable
Especially undercover.
You had to constantly be looking over your shoulder
And sometimes they would tip you off on the inside.

Twice we got popped.

Once when I was leaving the building.
I saw a guy walking up on the opposite side of the street.
It didn’t take me long to figure
That he was after me.

I dropped my evidence
Discretely behind some trash cans
And kept walking.
He came up behind me.

“You!” “Hey white boy! I’m talkin’ to you!” “Punk!”
“Only one reason a white boy like you would be in this neighborhood!”
“You holdin?!”

“No!”

He flashed his badge and patted me down.
He asked me to empty my pockets.
He sees I’m clean.

“What are you doing up here you crazy cracker?!”

“I’m walking to a friends house a coupla blocks from here”

“Yeah, right!” “You are SO out of place up here! Like White on Black!”
“I better not see your white ass around here anytime soon!”

I walked many blocks
And waited under the El tracks.
I knew I had to go back and pick up my drop
And when I did
It was gone.
Someone saw and scored it
Probably one of the juvie lookouts
And I had to get outta there
With nothing.
I had no cash for another draw.

The second time
One of my boys was inside doing the deal
And we were waiting outside in the car.
A cruiser came up and put his lights on.

“Shit!”

One guy got out and asked us what we were doing.
He reminded us to not even think about lying to him
As there is only one reason us white boys would be up in this neighborhood.

His partner came up to the other side of the car.

We told him that we were thinking of buying
But considering the circumstances
We were considering NOT buying.

He told us he couldn’t help but notice the Jersey tags on our car
And that we were going to drive
Directly back to Jersey
As of now
And to make sure
He was going to follow us
To the GW Bridge
To make sure that we got on.

And we did.
And he did.
We got on
And drove down through Jersey
To the Lincoln
And went to one of the clubs that we frequented.

We hated leaving our friend up there alone
But there was nothing that we could do
And eventually he hooked up with us
A little pissed
But he knew the drill
He knew the chances that we took.

We bumped the King
And danced through the night.

It was Area
Or Robots
Danceteria or the Ritz.
It was the Pyramid
The Palladium
CBGB’s or the Mudd Club.
It was Gaseteria
The Tunnel, Limelight
Or the Holiday Bar on St. Marks.

It was rooftop parties
Or the Lower East Side galleries
The Loft and others...

It was a long time ago.

We were young and fearless
White boys
Breaking through the Black city night.