Underground Crooklyn

I gazed at the pots and pans hanging over the stove and shook my head. My eyes darted to the right of me and I saw our cracked mirror. I saw myself: my giant red circular glasses, neon suspenders, multi-colored polo shirt and plaid pants that rode a bit high. Everytime I saw the bars on the window, heard the floorboards creak or looked across the street to see Mr.Barnes’window still broken from the robbery last month, it hurt my soul. The clock read 12:30 am as I dressed for the club. My sisters’ door was open, so I snuck into her room to give her a kiss on the forehead, then found my way to my mother’s room and smiled as I looked at her sleeping. It was the only time of any day she looked at peace. She always looked on the bright side even though she worked two jobs to support the family and had to use coupons to get most of the food we had. I only wanted the best for my family, they meant the world to me. Then I exited my house through the rotting wood door.

I swaggered down the greasy sidewalk towards a club out in the Bronx. There were two deejays at the event, Herc and Bambaataa; I hadn’t met them yet, however I’d been to a few of their showcasings back in ‘78. Both of them were cool cats from what I’d been told, Bambaataa was into the idea of forgetting negativity and enjoying yourself, while Herc was a genius on the turntables. I could see the cracks from ahead, uneven sidewalk with potholes. In front of me was the sign “The Village Underground” where the mini-venue was happening tonight.

    Ace was at the door smoking a cigarette and bobbing his head.

“Hey man, you’re here. Even though you walk like you’ve got a hanger in your shirt, glad to see you. Fresh, now uh- do me a solid and go bust some sick rhymes and show that guy Jerome what you’re made of, know what I’m saying? Also, like the bucket hat and chains.”

I replied,

“Cool beans, I’ll make sure to beat him, know what I’m saying?” The door was opened by Ace and I walked in to the sight of bright purple lights shining upon the stage, the dangling instruments by the bar and lots of people standing around, mingling about. Atop the stage was Bambaataa, the young DJ who had been dubbed the “grandfather of hip-hop”. He was a legend because he had started the Universal Zulu Nation and began the hip-hop movement. Bambaataa believed they could leave the negativity of the streets with the movement and the music associated with it. Together, he and Herc, the DJ who discovered scratching at a party, built the foundation that hip-hop stood upon. To my right was a small sign that read, “12-2 am Bambaataa, 2-4 am Herc.” Checking my watch I carry on my persons I saw the time was 1:30 am.

I looked around at the decor, the hanging lights on the ceiling, the bricks that looked like the cement was splattered onto them and the wall clock by the bar. Then the clock struck 2 am.

    “Everyone chill, this is DJ Herc here ready for some rhymes! I know it’s time for some great words by our emcees here tonight! I know we’ve got Legend, Harold, Jerome’s here and a few other rappers here! Let’s get pumped up!” Herc held the microphone out as people began to shout wanting for the rhymes to start, “right on, right on. I want to call Legend up here,” a long lanky man stepped up to the stage with a drink in his hand, “bring Harold here too,” an average young man walked up to the stage. He was wearing tons of jewelry and a few rings on his hands. “First battle: Harold v. Legend, ya’ll can start at the beginning of the scratch- Harold first.” DJ Herc scratched the disc and Harold gripped his mic tight in his left hand and began rapping. I honestly paid no attention to Legend or Harold because I was too focused on me being next; it was almost as if I could feel the chemicals flood my brain and slow time down as I stood awaiting my shot. Then, I heard the bombastic cheering from the crowd, then Herc, “Looks like you all are saying that Legend won this round. Sorry Harold. Yo, we need someone to go against my man Jerome right now! No wack rappers though, you know what I’m saying? Any takers?” I rose my hand and began to walk up the stage. “What do we call you mystery man?”

    I looked DJ Herc square in his face,

“I don’t use one.” He nodded politely then announced us both- me as a no named participant.

“Alright, Jerome, we’ll let you go first. You ready?” He nodded, then squeezed his mic, holding a firm grasp of it then waited for the beat. It dropped and Jerome began rhyming.

“I turn up the fire/ Yea, I’m up for hire/ So far out and my third eye/ Flip out; I don’t ever cry/ Can you dig it?/ You love my wit/ I don’t go get groovy/ I don’t care- yea, sue me/ Try to beat me- dream on/ Drop the mic when I’m gone.” Jerome dropped the mic after his last line, chuckling as the noise echoed throughout the club. Herc scratched the beat then everyone looked at me for my rebuttal.

“I mack on a brick house/ Nah, I don’t care for the blouse/ Maine, you just a big ‘ol chump/ These rhymes a young emcee/ Looking for a girl with Double D’s/ Looking to get out of this ghetto/ Guns blowing steam like a tea kettle/ So what you boogie/ You just a cookie/ Guess that’s why your rhymes crumble/ Eh...sorry to say I ain’t so humble.” At the moment I finished, I hear DJ Herc start announcing something but there’s a panic in the back. Five officers rushed in with a battering ram yelling aloud that they’re looking for people. I froze as I stared at the hysteria overcoming the club.

People were being yanked, pulled, dragged, stomped on and shoved as they patted down pockets looking for drugs. Terrified screams echoed, ringing through as the microphones caught the feedback. “Police, everyone remain calm! This is a raid!” Is what an officer with a megaphone kept belting out loud. “Remain calm! Brooklyn Police. We are here under the reports of suspicious and illegal activities. Remain calm!” The rest is a blur.

More officers swarmed in the club, trampling people and cuffing others as they went through, then I felt my arm get yanked back as an officer pulled me to him. “Empty your pockets!”

“What” I asked, not hearing him too well at the time. He body slammed me to the wood of the stage and began searching me. He pulled my wallet from my left pocket then looked at my I.D.

“Well, well, well, we’ve been looking for you for a long time.” The officer stated, then brought me back up, strengthening his grip on my arms as he pulled them behind my back. “You are under arrest for the possession of narcotics, rape and for the murders of the Harrison family last year, we found the bullet at the scene of the shooting and matched it to the ballistics of your gun.” I stopped listening as I was walked out of the club.

    I surveyed the shambles of the club as they escorted me. The curtains were tatters, the tables were broken or turned upside down, and people were on the ground in pain, with paramedics tending to their wounds. Walls were chipped and cracked and even the DJ equipment was battered around. DJ Herc and Bambaataa were standing up, staring at the ruins.

As they pulled me away in cuffs and through the shattered doors of the club, I asked, “Did I do that?”