The Crazy Bunch Read online

  ALSO BY WILLIE PERDOMO

  The Essential Hits of Shorty Bon Bon

  Smoking Lovely

  Where a Nickel Costs a Dime

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  penguinrandomhouse.com

  Copyright © 2019 by Willie Perdomo

  Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

  This page constitutes an extension of this copyright page.

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

  Names: Perdomo, Willie, author.

  Title: The crazy bunch / Willie Perdomo.

  Description: [New York] : Penguin Books, an imprint of Penguin Random House LLC, [2019] | Series: Penguin poets |

  Identifiers: LCCN 2018047501 (print) | LCCN 2018049478 (ebook) | ISBN 9780525504627 () | ISBN 9780143132691

  Classification: LCC PS3566.E691216 (ebook) | LCC PS3566.E691216 A6 2019 (print) | DDC 811/.54—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018047501

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cover design: Jason Booher

  Version_1

  for NERUDA PERDOMO

  CONTENTS

  Also by Willie Perdomo

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  The Poetry Cops (Consolidated Poetry Systems)

  In the Face of What You Remember

  In the Face of What You Remember

  Bad Habits

  The Day of Our Founding

  Head Crack Head Crack

  The Poetry Cops

  Some Things You Might Need to Start Your Day

  We Used to Call It Puerto Rico Rain

  At the Preparación

  Juice & Butter

  Dapper Dan Meets Petey Shooting Cee-Lo

  Guiso at Florsheim’s

  The Poetry Cops

  Triple Feature

  Sucker for Love Ass Nigga

  The Poetry Cops Talk with Phat Phil

  Josephine’s Sweet 16

  At the Battle

  The Poetry Cops

  That’s My Heart Right There

  Sucker for Love Ass Nigga

  The Poetry Cops Talk with Josephine

  The Poetry Cops Talk with Nena, Cachita, Shameka, and Rosie

  Close to the River

  How It Went Down

  Not for Nothing, Honestly & Truthfully

  When Teddy-Up Rolls

  No ID

  You Lose Something Every Day

  You Lose Something Every Day

  Revival

  Where Did We Find the Laughter?

  The Poetry Cops

  Freshly Dipped

  Each One Teach One

  Forget What You Saw

  Forget What You Saw

  Forget What You Heard

  The Poetry Cops

  Forget What You Heard

  Brother Lo on the Prison Industrial Complex

  The Whole World on a Subway

  Bullshit Walks

  Drug War Confidential

  A Spot Where You Can Kiss the Dead

  Breaking Night

  On Sundays

  Trago

  The Poetry Cops

  The Poetry Cops

  Killer Diller

  To Be Down

  Bust This, Run That

  They Won’t Find Us in Books

  Ghost Face

  The Poetry Cops

  Shout-outs & Big Ups

  About the Author

  “. . . to be our own, to be electric, fresh . . .”

  —Walt Whitman

  THE POETRY COPS

  (Consolidated Poetry Systems)

  COPS: That’s you and who else in this picture?

  PAPO: That’s me, Phat Phil, Nestor, Petey, Dre, and Angel. That was a Friday night. We were lamping in front of 2026 Lexington Avenue, near Gaddafi’s all-night spin counter. The Bruja on the second floor was arranging a preparación for us. You could call it a freedom party.

  COPS: Preparations? You mean reparations?

  PAPO: You know, like protection, spirit guides, caminos, higher powers, pigeon-chasing.

  COPS: Twenty twenty-six. That’s where you found—

  PAPO: Yellow tops, back-to-life summers, “9½,” first kisses, cop chases, catch-n-kill for real. Twenty twenty-six was the beginning, the end, lingua franca, the hill & bottom.

  COPS: They called you Skinicky. Is that right?

  PAPO: They still call me Skinicky.

  COPS: Bagging up bricks and writing poems Skinicky?

  PAPO: I wrote more bricks than poems; bagged up, all together, less than a brick but came out with at least half a book.

  COPS: But it’s true you were writing poems.

  PAPO: Bro, poems were falling from the rooftops, flailing out the windows; sometimes you’d pick up the corner pay phone and a poem would be calling collect.

  COPS: Can we talk about Josephine?

  PAPO: Beginnings should come with a starter kit. Sometimes I feel like I dreamed Josephine. Like for real.

  COPS: We thought we could help you remember.

  PAPO: Man, had to be at least five presidents and a breakfast since I’ve seen Josephine.

  COPS: You were the first one, she said. To find Nestor.

  PAPO: She didn’t say that. Angel was the first one to find Nestor. But I was there when Dre decided he wanted to be an archangel. Every age requires a new lens, at least one pair of dress pants, and a dope whatever you need to witness. I’m saying, we gave Grandmaster Flash & the Furious Five their controlling symbol.

  COPS: How so?

  PAPO: You know, broken glass everywhere. Street games before the rules changed. We’d line up empty pints, fifths & quarts on a plank, walk twenty paces to a five-gallon bucket brimmed with small chunks of Manhattan schist, and we would commence to slinging them shits; testing our angry range, our winning-shot fantasies, developing a penchant for target & aim, beauty & blame.

  COPS: How long were you down with the Crazy Bunch?

  PAPO: I’m still down with the Crazy Bunch.

  COPS: Let’s start with the Bruja on that Friday night.

  PAPO: For some of us, telling a story, or hearing one on the humble, meant clearing a path, booking a cruise to self-knowledge, and for others it meant getting some ass. No passive thinking. You couldn’t be caught blinking when you told a story. Question is, who’s left for the telling and who tells about the leaving after they been left.

  COPS: So, who’s left?

  PAPO: What set us off is the same thing that set us apart, you could say. That weekend our endings were paid in full. No matter where we went, the search for a loving eye was in effect. But there’s some shit I promised to take to the grave. Y’all know how that go.

  Tell me the story

  Of all these things.

  Beginning wherever you w
ish, tell even us.

  —Theresa Hak Kyung Cha, Dictee

  “Tell it. Tell it for real.”

  —Brother Lo

  IN THE FACE OF WHAT YOU REMEMBER

  In the Face of What You Remember

  You remember, that was the summer of Up Rock, quarter water, speed knots, pillow bags, two-for-five, Jesus pieces, and Bambú. The Willie Bobo was turned up to ten, and some would’ve said that a science was dropped on our summer.

  The summer that was lit with whispers of wild style, Rock Steady battles & white party plates made all kinds of moons on the playground foam.

  The summer the Burner was used to eat & mandate, inspired Sunday sermons, became a literary influence with humming climaxes, a bribable tale, a dub tied to a string & squashing beef wasn’t an option.

  The summer of fresh shrills, and a future somersaulting off a monkey bar; a future placing bets that all us old heads, desperate to find a new cool, could not flip pure.

  That was the summer that our grills dropped to below freezing.

  Back then, Palo Viejo was thermal & therapy, bones were smoked in the cut, and you had to expect jungle gym giggle to be accompanied by buckshot.

  That was the summer Charlie Chase hijacked megawatts from Rosa’s kitchenette, found gems in a milk crate, spun his one & twos below rims that still vibrated with undocumented double-dunks.

  The same summer we became pundits & philosophers, poets & pushers; that we all tried to fly, but only one of us succeeded.

  The summer that Papu turned up to extra status. The only one in the crew who had reduced fame’s window by a fifth when the camera panned his Cazal-laced Up Rock in the Roxy scene of Beat Street.

  One could say we gave the Block gasp & gossip, body & bag, a folktale worth its morphology.

  That was the season we had reason to rock capes & wings, chains & rings, some of us flew Higher than most, and tricks were hardly ever pulled from a hat; all that, & a bag of BBQ Bon Tons was enough for at least one of us to say,

  I’m straight.

  Bad Habits

  Petey liked to twist the right end of his mustache when he was listening for updates. (Y’all remember Petey. He was always on that chuck chill-out tip, but most days he didn’t get to choose.)

  When he ignited a squabble, Chuna would slap his right thigh to get every syllable out with a violent scansion.

  Tommy Lee threw rocks at unsuspecting pigeons.

  Dwight kept his right hand tucked into the crotch of his Lees, steady stunting on some bollo.

  Angel bit his tongue when he wanted to ask a question.

  Max counted his money and his money counted him.

  Brother Lo liked to whistle “All the Things You Are” when it rained that Puerto Rico rain.

  Chee-Wa’s nose used to break out into an anxious table of contents when he was skied up.

  Papu would dance if he wanted to make a point. So, imagine him saying, Nah, nah, nah, fuck that shit, and poppin’ & lockin’ on every word.

  Nestor hated the words Stop, I was only playing.

  Loco Tommy blinked three times, convulsively, and then tapped the right side of his face against his right shoulder blade.

  Jujo spit and spit and spit and spit.

  Popeye had a villainous laugh.

  Dre loved to crash revivals.

  Chino Chan did back handsprings from sewer to sewer whenever he received good news.

  Georgie could scratch his ankle straight through a graveyard shift.

  The first thing out of Skinicky’s mouth was always a feeling.

  The Day of Our Founding

  Dwight was going to the D, the mighty

  D, where Rosie, Sonia, Debbie, Cachita,

  Shameka, her sisters, and Josephine’s

  cousin from Wagner liked to castle &

  smoke, swear & secret, share hoops &

  slap their Bostons on the chess tables.

  Slick Vic, Tyrone, Junebug & Heck Collect

  had set up a Florsheim guiso. There were

  two plans to crash Josephine’s Sweet 16.

  Nestor, Dre, and Petey got freshly dipped,

  & went to the Deuce to catch & take flicks.

  Almost twenty-five deep chillin’ on two

  masticated benches, and Nestor said:

  TCB. The Crazy Bunch.

  By that age, Nestor had groomed a full

  beard, rocked all kinds of captain, 52’d

  his way through an apache line of Down

  Brothers, & we were all there when he

  flipped a half-pike off five cake-stacked

  mattresses that shimmied with blackouts.

  Naturally. (You have to recall, that day

  was puffed & passed, and Skinicky said,

  Naturally.

  Purple City hollered, You heard this

  nigga? This nigga just said, “Naturally.”)

  The spliff was choo-choo’d, the guffaw

  lit—shit, you laughed too, so naturally

  Dre, who had a boom decisive left hook,

  only two words to say at a party minus

  two steps at a jam, who was the only

  one to draw one-on-one with Nestor,

  nodded his head, cosigned, and said:

  Word. The Crazy Bunch.

  Head Crack Head Crack

  Zoo Bang

  Auld Lang

  Brick City

  Fly Ditty

  Drug War

  Street Noir

  War Fat

  Bank That

  Sneaker Box

  Check Account

  Get Fresh

  Stay Fly

  Night Pool

  Old School

  Stash House

  Corner Store

  We Cool

  No More

  Smoked Out

  Player’s Ball

  Okey Doke

  Flat Broke

  Hang Out

  No Doubt

  Black Out

  Death Count

  Dwight Gone

  Tone Gone

  Petey Gone

  Chino Gone

  Body Shot

  Chop Shop

  Black Hole

  Myths Sold

  Break That

  Like This

  Black Cat

  Death Kiss

  Power Move

  Move That

  Krush Groove

  Dope Shit

  Step Back

  Get This

  THE POETRY COPS

  PAPO: That’s Nestor at the preparación. He didn’t like messing with saints & songs, and shit. But he went anyway, on the strength.

  COPS: What’s wrong with his eyes?

  PAPO: Nothing, he’s just in his truth.

  COPS: Did anyone else get prepared that night?

  PAPO: All of us. One by one. Starting with Angel. The Bruja told Nestor she saw something, but Nestor said, Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know. Better to unknow and find yourself in the knowing, you know what I’m saying? But look carefully at the Bruja. Look at the background. How many hands you see?

  COPS: That looks like a blur in the exposure to me.

  PAPO: You could call it a “blur,” but that same hand might be touching you right now.

  COPS: Could be the raindrops on the window too.

  PAPO: All I know is that I stomp the floor three times with my right foot whenever I take a shower.

  COPS: Who was under the bedsheet?

  PAPO: That was me. By that point, I had already left the living room. My heartbeat was big that night. Cold Crush big. You could fit thimbles in my nostrils. I still have a piece of the coconut that I threw off the roofto
p.

  COPS: C’mon, stop with that chicken blood voodoo.

  PAPO: I’m just saying, man, the Bruja wore white for a whole year. Can’t fool with someone who wears white for a whole year. Let’s say you see a trail of cigar smoke streaming down Lexington Avenue—you know where there’s smoke there must be a past. I don’t really believe in ghosts like that, but, yo, if you stand on the corner long enough there’s some shit that you can see coming.

  Some Things You Might Need to Start Your Day

  An egg yolk

  A dollop of white sugar

  A broken scissor blade

  Double palm strips

  Coconut oil

  A stick of yage

  Pull the shades up

  A fat Buddha

  Two dream crystals

  Some dirt from Utuado

  A peculiar heart

  An old movie ticket

  Yellow collares

  A crown of bananas

  Red collares

  A mini notebook

  Green collares

  A tiny pencil

  White collares

  A miniature glass clown

  Two fish bones

  A love letter from Rikers

  Four white candles

  A cut ribbon

  An old photo

  Your baby shoes

  A pineapple

  A bowl of seedless grapes

  One tangerine

  A puro

  A bowl of daisies

  Clap three times &

  Let the work

  Do its job

  We Used to Call It Puerto Rico Rain

  The rain had just finished saying, This block is mine.

  The kind of rain where you could sleep through two breakthroughs, and still have enough left to belly-sing the ambrosial hour.

  Blood pellets in the dusk & dashes of hail were perfect for finding new stashes; that is to say, visitations were never announced.

  A broken umbrella handle posed a question by the day care center.

  A good time to crush a love on a stoop, to narrate through a window, to find the heartbeat of solitude, and collect gallons for the Bruja’s next baño.