Whatever Happened To Charlie Boy

THE CONCRETE JUNGLE

Bronx River Projects

As a seven year old born and raised in the South Bronx, lying in my small secondhand bed that came from the church, surrounded by flimsy walls and cold concrete floors, I listened to the wail of sirens from police cars, fire trucks, and ambulances. The mournful screaming of babies throughout the night, angry adult voices in the hallway, the distinctive “pop, pop, pop” of a Saturday night special and the pounding of angry fists on the walls was my lullaby. Drunks roamed the long, dark hallways looking for a fight. There was the constant smell of filth in the old building, filth mixed with reefer and alcohol, and a wish that I could breathe in more fresh air. The black metal bars lining the windows prevented adequate ventilation.

From sunup to sundown, something was always going on in the Bronx River Projects. Drug dealers hovered near the front entrance at all hours, and people were always standing outside, mingling with one another. It didn’t take long to learn not to make eye contact with a dealer, because if you did they would approach you and quietly say, “Hey what’s up, my nigga? You know you want to buy.”

One of the more depressing and frightening moments in the projects was seeing a drug addict become a drug-fiend. Crack-heads running from person to person begging for money was common. In their search for drugs, they would lose control. Sick and washed-out looking, talking feverishly and shaking all over, they would approach a dealer and say, “Daddy, please give me some of that good stuff, I’ll do anything for it.” Without money to support their habit, the addict would hear the dealer say, “Get the fuck away from me, you washed up crack-head!” Drugs were a permanent fixture in the projects, and I learned quickly that drugs had no prejudice. They devastated anyone who dared to use them. I wondered if this was going to be my future.