Heat

  There was an English kid named Sharkey who hung around at the Holiday Cocktail Lounge on St. Marks Place. He was a skinny kid with bad skin, just out of his teens and had a crooked face. His dirty blond hair was short in the Mod style, he wore a pork pie hat and was into Reggae and 2-Tone. Sharkey chain smoked and looked unhealthy, but be had mischief in his eyes and a quick sense of humor. I kept a close eye on Sharkey because he had cool clothes, and it was through him that I discovered Doc Martens, Fred Perry and Harrington jackets.

  My crew met nightly on the stoop of an abandoned building next to the Holiday; a local Ukrainian dive that had suddenly become a gentrified hot spot. We drank quarts on the stoop because none of us had any money, but eventually we would make our way inside the bar to see who we could hustle for drinks. The stoop was usually inhabited by a mix of Mods, Rudies and sometimes Reggae or hardcore Skinheads. On the other side of the Holiday's bent, weathered red awning were stoops that were home to Hardcore Punks, Psycho Billy freaks and Goths. But the abandoned building was ours, and we claimed it on a nightly basis.

  The night that Sharkey found the choo choo I had come out early and was enjoying the entirety of a cold beer on a hot summer's night. I was alone on the stoop and it was around ten o'clock. I had been crashing at a friend's place on Thirteenth Street, and the apartment was crowded so I was out early. I was working for a messenger company on Union Square, and had just been paid the grand total of fifty bucks for the week. It was a shitty job because I didn't have a bike. But I had money in my pocket, and as I sat there I was vaguely calculating that I could buy forty three quarts of beer, if I went across First Avenue to the new Korean deli on Ninth Street.

  I was wondering where my boys were, and just then a kid named Dmitry from the neighborhood walked by. Dmitry was fast talking, diminutive and sleek looking like an otter dressed in black, and he often had good speed on him. He was holding, and since I had a few bucks I bought four black beauties for a dollar each. Wanting to get things going, I ate one immediately and took a long pull from the foamy quart, suddenly energized by the limitless night. I laughed out loud from happiness; I had money, beer, and now drugs - but where the fuck was everyone? I decided to walk back over to Ninth Street for another quart from the Korean as I anxiously awaited the chemical reaction. The anticipation was always the best part.

  Back at the stoop I saw that Sharkey was there with Bebo, who was from Queens, had sleepy brown eyes behind coke bottle glasses and shoulder length dread locks. Bebo was Sharkey's roommate, and they were fairly inseparable. He played bass in a synth band that I didn't care much for, but Bebo was a Rude Boy at heart. The two of them were both wearing rolled up Levi's with eight hole Doc Martens boots with red laces. Sharkey was wearing a maroon Fred Perry shirt and his pork pie hat. Bebo had on a Specials tee shirt that was clinging to his sweaty torso, and there was moisture fogging the inside of his thick glasses. They were smoking a spliff, looking idly in both directions as they took their hits.

  I asked Bebo if anyone was around and he said, 'Nah man, the shit is like definiteleee dead', and he snapped his fingers in conclusion. He drew the word out so that it made the emphasis much stronger on 'dead'. It was a funny tic of his, and I often mimicked it for amusement. Sharkey said there was a house party on Avenue A for girl's birthday and that sounded good to me; there was always the potential for free beer at a house party. Then he mentioned that it was Lane's girlfriend and Bebo and I both groaned. Lane was an Australian kid who passed himself off as being English, not an uncommon phenomenon in the East Village. With the rise of UK New Wave music came many opportunities for fakers and posers. You could get laid off a halfway decent British accent.

  Nobody was around and it was already pushing midnight, so we decided to walk over to Avenue A and Tenth Street, where the party was. By now the hair on the back of my neck was tingling with nervous electric energy from the speed. I gave Sharkey and Bebo each a black beauty, and as we passed Ninth Street we heard yelling and then a bottle smash. Looking up towards First Avenue we saw a crew of Puerto Rican kids running in our direction, so we stopped by the bar on the corner. There were about five of them and they were all wearing shorts, high socks and sneakers; wife beaters or bare chested. They were running fast, and once they got across Avenue A and hit the park they scattered in different directions. I figured they must have stuck somebody up, and sure enough a few seconds later we saw three guys running after them. It must have been over drugs because the guys chasing them looked like young junkies. As they ran towards us one of them, a white kid with a Brooklyn Italian look (hair parted in the middle, small mustache, Pumas) said, 'Where did those fuckin' Ricans go?' But we just shrugged. Then I heard a police siren and I noticed a black kid with them move over to a banged up garbage can in front the next building and quickly put something inside it. It was a quick little movement, but both Sharkey and I caught it. Then the other Italian guy said, 'They went in the fuckin' park!' and the three of them ran across the street.

  It was an everyday occurrence around Tompkins Square Park. Kids coming in from the boroughs or Jersey to cop drugs got beat all the time. In this case the black kid was probably brokering the deal and they decided to beat him too. They may have even known him. Anyway, the main thing was that they would be running around in Alphabet City for a while and Sharkey looked at me and we both started walking towards the garbage can. I lifted the comically battered metal lid, and Sharkey picked up a small brown paper bag, felt its weight and quickly slid it into the front of his jeans. We started walking back towards the park, but then realized the dude might be coming back for it so we turned and ran up the street towards First Avenue. When we got to the corner I asked Sharkey what was in the bag - assuming it was drugs. But then a cop car cruised past and chirped us so we quickly moved up the Avenue. Sharkey had a strange grin on his face.

  We finally circled back around and felt better once we were buzzed into the tenement building where the party was. In the back of the dingy green tiled hallway, beneath the stairs Sharkey pulled the bag out and opened it. It was a .22 caliber 'choo choo' automatic pistol. Eyes wide, we looked at each other. 'I bet we can get at least a hundred bucks for it', said Sharkey. Bebo laughed, but he didn't know either.

  'Three way split', I said, and then I realized that Sharkey had stuffed it down his pants and it was loaded. Now as he handed it to me I saw where the bullets went, and felt it's cool, compact weight in my hand. I had never held a gun before.