Thomas - Down These Mean Streets

To Daniela and
all the children of the world

Richard Leacock, godfather to my book, a man with much heart and a swinging sense of inner beauty.

The Louis M. Rabinowitz Foundation, whose grants gave me the space and time to write my book, gracias.

Angus Cameron, editor at Knopf, for his encouragement, patience, and sense of feeling for my feelings.

Harding Lemay, we both have many brothers, no es as, mi hermano?

Elaine de Kooning, a real person with a love for all creative people.

Joseph Alvarez, a sensitive man from whom I have learned a great deal.

Isabella, a long-time-ago memory that will live with me forever.

John and Grace Killens. You once told me to keep wailing. I did, baby.

Rev. Rafael Hernndez, Ta Angelita, Pascualita, Nelo y Victor, Dr. Efirn Ramrez, Professor Larry Alan Bear, Professor Gordon Jaeck, Reverend Leo Rosado, Roberta Pryor, Dr. Freed, Roy Godes, Marion Godes, Bob Drew, Jim Lipscomb, Pat Jaffee, Bob Jaffee, Peter Powell, Patricia Powell, Wes Pullen, Dave Dugan, Nancy Sens, Jerry Wiseman, Ray Abel, Michael Lawrence, Rev. Norman Eddy, Riela, Carmen, Josie, Henry, Josefa, Pampin.

And many, many others, all my boys, those who made it and those who didnt, in remembrance.

My mother, Lolita; my father, Johnny; and my brothers and my sister.

And most of all, con todo mi amor, to Nelin, my wife; my son, Ricardo; and my little girl, San-Dee.

In the publication of the thirtieth-anniversary edition of this book, thanks to Jonathan Robinson and to Anne Messitte and the crew at Vintage.

Y EE-AH!! Wanna know how many times Ive stood on a rooftop and yelled out to anybody:

Hey, Worldhere I am. Hallo, Worldthis is Piri. Thats me.

I wanna tell ya Im hereyou bunch of mother-jumpersIm here, and I want recognition, whatever that mudder-fuckin word means.

Man! How many times have I stood on the rooftop of my broken-down building at night and watched the bulb-lit world below.

Like somehow its different at night, this my Harlem.

There aint no bright sunlight to reveal the stark naked truth of garbage-lepered streets.

Gone is the drabness and hurt, covered by a friendly night.

It makes clean the dirty-faced kids.

This is a bright mundo, my streets, my barrio de noche,
With its thousands of lights, hundreds of millions of colors
Mingling with noises, swinging street
sounds of cars and curses. Sounds of joys and sobs that make music.

If anyone listens real close, he can hear its heart beat

Y EE-AH ! I feel like part of the shadows that make company for me in this warm amigo darkness.

I am My Majesty Piri Thomas, with a high on anything and like a stoned king, I gotta survey my kingdom.

Im a skinny, dark-face, curly-haired, intense Porty-Ree-canUnsatisfied, hoping, and always reaching.

I got a feeling of aloneness and a bitterness thats growing and growing

Day by day into some kind of hate without un nombre.

Yet when I look down at the streets below, I cant help thinking

Its like a great big dirty Christmas tree with lights but no fuckin presents.

And man, my head starts growing bigger than my body as it gets crammed full of hate.

And I begin to listen to the sounds inside me.

Get angry, get hating angry, and you wont be scared.

What have you got now? Nothing.

What will you ever have? Nothing

Unless you cop for yourself!

All Spanish and slang terms in the text are explained in the glossary.

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I had been walking around since 9 p.m. My thoughts were boiling. Poppa aint ever gonna hit me again. Im his kid, too, just like James, Jos, Paulie, and Sis. But Im the one that always gets the blame for everything. Im sorry Mommas gotta worry, but she gotta understand that it wasnt my fault.

Caramba, I muttered aloud, Im getting hungry.

The streets of Harlem make an unreal scene of frightened silence at 2 a.m. Like everything got a layoff from noise and hassling. Only the rumbling of a stray car passing by or the shy foraging of a cat or dog make the quietness bearableespecially to a twelve-year-old kid whose ability to make noise had got him a whipping from his poppa.

I could see Poppas face, tired and sleepy, yelling, Goddammit, cant a man get any sleep around this house? I work my ass off and cant even sleep when I get home. Whatta ya making all that racket for?

I could feel my mouth making the motions of wanting to say something in my defense. Of how it wasnt my fault that Jos had almost knocked the toaster off the table, and how I had tried to save it from falling, and in trying had finished knocking it to the floor along with a large jar of black coffee. But I just couldnt get the words out. Poppa just stood there, eyes swollen and hurting from too much work, looking at a river of black coffee. He didnt give me a chance. Even before the first burning slap of his belt awakened tears of pain, I was still trying to get words out that would make everything all right again. The second whap of the belt brought words of pain to my lips, and my blind running retreat was a mixture of tears and I hate you.

But Park AvenueHarlem Park Avenuewas scary, specially that dirty stone trestle of the New York Central that ran right down the middle of the avenue making long, gloomy tunnels at each street corner. I watched the moving shadows in the street. I listened to the crazy noisesa fire engine screaming down a side street, the clatter of a garbage-can lid knocked off by a hungry cat, a broad moaning in pain, Ohhhh, no, please dont. I wondered if it hurt all that much.

The lampposts made a big shadow on the stoops. I couldnt help wishing Id run away in the daytime. I kept walking. I saw a tall figure coming toward me about a block away. Poppa, I thought, and jumped into the nearest hallway and sat down in the darkness and watched the figure pass. I saw the gleam of a badge. Polica. I was glad I hadnt been seen.

I had run away from home but not from Harlem. I decided to sleep on the roof of the tenement across the street from my house. The staircase up to the roof creaked under quiet, careful steps. I felt like giving it a whipping for making all that noise. Up on the roof the night air was more friendly. I peeked over the ledge and saw the street below with sleepy eyes and a hungry belly.

I bet Poppas worried.

All of a sudden a sick feeling of all this being for nothing shot up inside of me. Poppa couldnt be worried, cause Poppa was working his night shift and wouldnt know about my running away till he got home from work! I felt my eyes brim with tears. I felt so fucking cheated out of whipping Poppa back with worry. I walked back to the hallway.

I shoulda waited till he got home from work. Man, what a bomba! Well, hell find out soon enough