Right in the middle is where I crouch inside a dim warehouse. It appears I’m positioned on a stage; a tall platform with four walls and pillars supporting the bottom holds me high. We fear this place. When I say we, I speak on behalf of 15 members sitting amongst me, my crew, the ones who come from the corners surrounding the block. All of us share a common identity but look and reflect differently, like colors on a wheel.
Almost everyone in Chicago knows our identities and how we travel as a group. During a shoot-out, a member may fall before the other but no matter what, we ultimately remain together.
The wind whips at the warehouse’s metal roof. It’s cold today. The cement outside is probably glazed in ice.
This warehouse stored sheetrock and stands after being padlocked for decades but has been reduced to a hangout spot for junkies and fugitives who are scarier than prison.
In come the brothers, Lewis and Ricky, dressed like some pirates of the streets, wearing red bandannas and washed-out denim as their uniform. The older Lewis walks near the stage first, laughing for some apparent reason. His round face balloons when he speaks. “Ricky, hurry your ass up!”
A faint voice echoes back, “Coming.”
Behind Lewis enters the insolent Ricky and a cloud of marijuana smoke. Two gold chains hang off his slim neck.
The brothers loom closer — Ricky on one side of the stage and Lewis on the other. Sectional lights switch on bright and reveal the platform. There’s a green carpet lining the stage and covering the walls. These four walls surround us, like a box without a lid.
This isn’t war. It’s a boycott against the brothers. We refuse to leave them without an understanding as to why they break up our community and instate rules within our territory, such as who goes where, when, and at what time.
As the brothers approach, we quiver in place and have recollections of being slammed into the walls.
“Here me out, brothers,” I say. “We’re here to make amends with you, not to fight back. Tell us what you want from us, and if it is reasonable, we can work out a deal.”
The brothers say nothing.
Lewis hauls his belly closer my way and casts a shadow. “You’re dead-set on taking this beating today, for whatever reason.”
Ricky stares in my vicinity without blinking, contours his ribs together inhaling smoke, then guffaws and spews vapors everywhere. He reaches for something affixed to his side. It’s his lethal weapon, equipped for massdestruction but used to strike us down.
The madness doesn’t stop there. Ricky orders us in rows — five of us in the fifth row, four in the fourth, three in the third, two in the second, and a member in his own row.
I yell out to the group, “Stand fast and don’t move! Whatever you do, please don’t fall for their tricks!”
I presume it’s best the others remain quiet with their guards up, of course, because I’ll minimize the error of inciting war.
Ricky grabs the weakest member of the crew, holds him hostage, letting him face the group. We call him Cue, who, in layman’s terms, keeps a chip on his shoulder. I believe the brothers have a prejudice against him because he’s white, and I’m the Black commander. On the contrary, Cue isn’t tough enough, and from the start, everyone he comes in contact with pushes him around.
Cue looks defeated, like all hope’s lost, with an eternal disgust tattooed on his soul. To him, destruction means an escape to a world where the brothers wouldn’t exist; where he’d escape further torment.
“Just shoot me now,” says Cue. Lewis peers at us and eyes each member while humming the old gospel song, “This Little Light of Mine.” Somehow, his rendition holds a devilish edge, like he has no godly concerns about the energies the song generates.
“Please, Ricky!” I say. “Hear us out! We only want to make peace with you.” But again, there’s no response. Why can’t I get these maniacs’ attention!? It’s the same routine every time we meet. They break us apart first, then drive us into walls. They ask us to put something into their pockets, and whether we do or not, they shoot at us.
Ricky uses Cue as the scapegoat…or perhaps the sacrificial lamb that has rotted away. The moment Cue stares into the narrows of Ricky’s pupils, he gets shot.
The force pushes Cue back as he rolls into Brother Redd and Yella Sista — the quiet ones, the ones I only hear speak in response to questions. Like identical twins they cling together more often than not, now leaving us, after being shot at, darting back to the corners.
The stage transcends a battlefield, sparking a war I’ve seen coming quite too often. How can I allow this to happen? Cue, struggling to hold his ground, meets the blunt force of another shot when Ricky cocks back his weapon, letting it fire. He rolls over to Mr. Greene, our solid, most treasured member, and utters something that’s barely detectable for anyone to hear.
“Please, get it over with…I’m tired of your games.”
This defiance leads Lewis to join the action. “My turn, bro.” He aims at Cue but hits Blue Collar dead-on. He’s only ten but has earned his stripes from day one. The shot pushes him into the wall before he scales over it, falling off the stage. His body hits the floor below and I hear silence. I can’t shake the impulsive thoughts of wanting the brothers gutted.
Lewis stoops, grabs Blue Collar, and carries him back to us. Just look at him. I’m at a loss for words. I remind myself to not retaliate…to not stray from our mission and surrender our territory to the brothers. “Let’s keep the peace!” I shout as the brothers take us down one by one, like we’re nothing to them.
Our bodies soon become riddled with marks, some of our injuries turning a deadly shade of blue. We ache from the shots and colliding with the stage’s walls. Momentarily, we forget where we came from and who we are. A few of us rebound in an attempt to hold our ground, but the rest of us scatter, wanting to get away.
Although it has been a terrible day, I reminisce on the time we were a unit to be reckoned with. I remember when the brothers had a difficult time taking us down because they hadn’t figured us out then. In those bygone days, the brothers had no choice but to respect us.
Sometime later, I awake out of my reverie and see that I am the last member sitting beside Cue.
Ricky cackles again. He crouches down to my level, so close I can see his nose hairs and smell the reefer residue on his shirt. His wicked grin sends shivers through my body as he points his weapon at us for the final time. He aims, then shoots me down into a dark hole after shouting, “Eight ball! Corner pocket!”
