Shane Robitaille - Rockit Crew: The Adventures of Teenage Hip-Hop Misfits

Rockit Crew

The Adventures of Teenage Hip-Hop Misfits

Shane Robitaille

Rockit Crew

The Adventures of Teenage Hip-Hop Misfits

Copyright 2020 Shane Robitaille.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-5320-9465-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5320-9466-8 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2020902313

iUniverse rev. date: 11/19/2020

Contents

For best friends everywhere and for those
who are brave enough to be different.

This is not a story about the history of hip-hop; rather its about four best friends who discovered hip-hop when it was young, the power of friendship in the face of adversity, and how hard it is to be different when the world around you wants you to be like everybody else.

Its not easy being different at any age but its especially tough for teenagers. I think at some point in our lives, especially when were young, we need to find out who we are, what were made of, and take a stand, regardless of what others think. If we dont then we leave it up to the world to do it for us.

In the summer of 1984 four teenage hip-hop misfits dared to be different.

A special thanks to Tam Fricke for her
reading, edits and thoughtful suggestions.

And to Sofie Engstrm von Alten (Instagram @
hyperkitsch) for her totally stellar illustrations.

Chapter 1

Friends

Although the volume was blasted as high as it could go, we could still hear them downstairs. Ms. OReilly, the so-called manager of the foster home I was living in and her boyfriend were at it again something fierce. The drinking and fighting was in full-force. I was in my bedroom that I shared with three other kids, punching the walls and cranking up the stereo as loud as it would go to drown out the madness. Sometimes punching walls can hurt but it still feels better than doing nothing at all.

As the violence escalated, so did my headache. I couldnt stand the yelling anymore so I tore open the bedroom door and ran downstairs to try to break things up. My friend Steve always said that Im some kind of diplomat, always trying to create peace, but I had a feeling that tonights boxing match would prove too much for a 14-year old referee.

The scene was ugly. Ms. OReilly was way past drunk. Her makeup was smeared and her eyes bloodshot. Her boyfriends face was bleeding from a fresh cut under his eye. The place smelled like somebody poured vodka into a steaming ashtray.

Normally Im pretty good at creating space between Ms. OReilly and whomever she was fighting. These scenes would usually end up with the guy leaving, sometimes on his own, sometimes by police car, but not tonight. Things had gone too far, too fast.

As I walked into the common kitchen area Ms. OReilly screamed at me to go away, threatening to kick me out of the house if I didnt go back to my room. She was on some kind of ugly mission tonight and I was in the way. Getting kicked out would have been nothing new because I was kicked out every week or two anyway, and spent half the time sleeping at my friend Steves house on the other side of town.

Youre drunk and have no clue what youre doing! I yelled at her. I have school in seven hours, so either youre leaving or I am!

She stopped for a second and just stood there, looking at me with bloodshot eyes, panting, like an exhausted boxer between rounds. Her boyfriend was sitting at the table, bleary-eyed, with one hand holding onto an empty glass, and the other wiping his cut eye with his sleeve.

You have no right talking to me that way, she muttered quietly. No right at all, you ungrateful brat.

Normally I would try to reason with them like some kind of teenage therapist but not tonight. Exhausted from several days of her funk, and not caring at all what they did to each other, I decided to leave.

I walked into the living room and called Steve to see if I could crash at his place for the night. Although he knew the seriousness of the situation, he laughed anyway and said, Ill meet you half way, punk. Well-versed in situations like these, Steve could be counted on to be there, day or night.

I ran back upstairs to tell my roommates I was leaving. Even though they were about my age, and were as used to this as I was, they never seemed as concerned as I was about Ms. OReillys drinking and fighting. Unlike me, who seemed to feel and hear everything way too loudly, and felt like I always needed to solve every damn problem in our little universe, they were born with this extraordinary power to block it all out. I know they were upset by her antics, but they always did a better job than me in hiding it.

Im outta here, fellas. You might want to keep the door blocked after I leave. I think theyre out of booze so they should cool down soon. I grabbed my jacket, Walkman and headphones, and walked downstairs into the hornets nest. Ms. OReilly was sitting on the couch in the living room, smoking and in a daze. There were no words to say so I opened the front door and walked outside into the midnight air.

Once on the street I took a deep breath, let it out slowly, put my headphones on, turned my jacket collar up, and walked into dark suburbia. I looked back to see my upstairs bedroom light on and hoped my roommates would get some sleep soon. I always felt bad about leaving them behind on nights like these, but since I couldnt handle staying there, I had no choice but to leave.

With Grand Master Flash blaring in my headphones, I stepped off the sidewalk and started walking down the middle of the road on the yellow lines, past the busy bar and liquor store across the street from the high school, oblivious to the suburbanites, warm in their cars, honking their horns as they drove around me. Over-tired, frustrated, and with a pounding headache, stupid rules didnt matter.

As a drizzle started coming down I noticed something ahead on the road but couldnt make out what it was. Another car drove by with high beams on and it illuminated the figure about a quarter mile ahead. It was Steve walking towards me, also in the middle of the street! Of course it was. Who else would be walking in the middle of the street besides me?

As I got closer I could hear his boom box echoing off of the sleeping houses. Thats just like Steve. He was always on a crusade to share his music, whether people wanted to hear it or not.

Steve discovered rap music a few months ago when his uncle sent him a new record, Electric Breakdance , for his birthday. The record had nine songs on it and came with a poster with instructions for how to breakdance. He called me the night he got it and told me to come over right away to listen. Within a few seconds of dropping the needle, we were hooked, big time. The first song on the record, Jam On It, by Newcleus, sounded so different than anything we had ever heard before. The beat, the scratching, the funky sounds, all of it was unlike anything on the radio. We played that record over and over again and memorized all the lyrics before midnight. There was even a song called Magics Wand by Whodini that gave us a little history lesson on how hip-hop started. By the end of the night we were even trying some breakdancing moves.