Rise To Grace

By the time I get to Porterrock’s door, my eyes are fully adjusted to the dim shadows. I glance over my shoulder. I’m relaxed, but ready. Like always. Always being watched; always need to be ready. I take a breath and hit my fist against the door. Click. My spine stiffens. I know that sound like I know the sound of my own voice. I know. On my streets, the sound of a gun being cocked back is a sound every school boy has heard before he is eight years old. It’s part of the cityscape music of Williamsburg, like a taxi honking or a fire truck racing by with its siren wailing. That click can be reassuring. Or threatening. It depends. Everything depends on something. And a lot of the time what it depends on is the difference between living and dying. On the streets, what it usually depends on was who has your back and who has money on the table. Depends on who you can trust. Click. I feel alarms signal deep in my imagination, down at the base of my skull; alarms that run up and down my spine. But I brush them aside. Damnit, this is Porterrock’s apartment. My boy. I knock again. “Come on, chollo. Open up. It’s me, Angel.” A second later, the door opens and Porterrock stands there, lean and twitchy in a hooded sweatshirt. “Hey,” he says as he steps out through the doorway of the dark apartment and into the hallway. “Hey,” I say, extending my hand. He glowers at me and then brushes right by me. “What the fuck?” I think This is no way to treat your brother. “What’s your fucking problem?” I snap. Porterrock stops and turns to face me. His right eye twitches – another alarm goes off but another one I ignore. See, Porterrock’s eye always twitches before some serious shit is going to go down. “You’re being a fucking asshole, Angel,” he shouts suddenly. I stare at him. Even in the yellow light of the hallway I can see his eyes flashing with the fires of Hell. “What the fuck are you talking about?” I shout back, immediately tense. “What’s this shit about you movin’ Slick Stevie off from the corner I put him on?” I look at Porterrock like he’s grown a second fucking head. That’s what this is about? Some shit about moving spots where our crew sells drugs? “That’s bullshit,” I snap, moving closer and getting my face in Porterrock’s face, so close I could smell his rancid, cigarette and weed-smelling breath. Me, I’d never let my breath stink up like Porterrock’s. Not my style. But Porterrock is Porterrock. The boy’s been smoking dope probably all day but it hasn’t mellowed him a fucking bit. “Goddamnit, you know I make the calls.” Porterrock isn’t backing off. He shakes his head. “Bullshit! My man, my call! I place the crew at that corner!” So that is how it is. We go back and forth for a few minutes, our words getting more harsh and our voices getting louder. I can feel the tension building between us, feel it filling the hallway, like a cord pulled so tight it’s about to snap. I can hear the quiet behind the doors along the hallway, like everyone living there is ducking for cover. Like they know what shit is about to come down, even if I haven’t figured it all the way out just yet. “You do as you’re fucking told or I’ll take you down!” I shout at Porterrock. He doesn’t answer. Instead, he reaches for his waist. I see the movement but it’s like everything is moving in really slow motion. Like I’m watching a bad movie running that I’ve seen a million times before. But I don’t react. Even though I see everything that is happening, I am in frozen in disbelief. What the fuck? If Porterrock’s moving in slow motion then I’m a fucking Eskimo iced in place. I haven’t even reached for my gun when the next thing I know, I’m staring down the barrel of a 21 Glock 9mm. “Don’t,” Porterrock says in a rasp of a whisper, warning me that my moment has passed and that I shouldn’t even think about getting my gun now. Porterrock? My boy Porterrock? Pointing a gun at me? At me? Goddamnit, I ate dinner with him and his family yesterday! What the fuck…? He lowers the barrel so that it’s pointing straight at my chest. My eyes, instead of shifting down with the barrel, shift up to Porterrock’s face. The fire burning in his dark eyes flares with wicked evil – I know he won’t even think twice about pulling the trigger of that gun. His eyes have the Devil in them. I know. I know that fire. I’ve gotten way too familiar with that Devil Then his index finger starts to move, pulling in on the trigger. What the…? I hear the noise before I feel the pain and I feel the pain like it’s moving faster than light. Two quick shots rip through my Armani suit jacket and my custom-tailored shirt; two quick shots tear into my gut. Part of my brain is shouting, “What the fuck? What the fuck?” while another part is screaming hysterically, “Run! Run! Run, you mother fucker!”