the mechanical turk

the opening prologue of my magical hoodism fiction story the mechanical turk - the full story can be found here.

prologue:

The concrete jungle of Bridgeport, CT. The red brick buildings of the projects of the Hollow. I live in Building 4, on the 10th floor, in apartment number 4 – 10. The elevator works half the time and when it does work, got ya ass smellin’ that sweet cologne — Elevator Piss by Hucci. Walking through the hallways of the projects you are hit with the smells of garlic, adobo, old people, and musty concrete.

Facing my door, I turn the key left like 50 times as the deadbolts unlock. Opening the heavy-ass metal project complex door, I hear my mom’s favorite song — Rockell’s “In a Dream” blasting on the JBL’s. “Ah-Lex-Eeez! Paga la estufa y ven pa’ca” my mother yells. She’s cookin some bomb-ass low-income Puerto Rican dish — Arroz con corned beef. The whole apartment is full of excitement with a touch of sadness like this comfort food is a momentary amnesia, helping us forget the shit we living in. After turning off the burners, I make my way to my mother’s room. I pass a graveyard of paint chips. The corners of the walls have their metal insides exposed, while the memories of their former selves lay dead on the vinyl floor.

Her head was down when I walked in, you could tell some shit wasn’t right. Catching my presence within her peripherals, she tilts her head up, turns to me and says:

“Esos cabrones me robaron $300 de mis manos cuando estaba subiendo las escaleras.”

It’s different out here in the projects. Niggas living in the white world won’t understand. I’m going to sound like my man Wolfgang for a minute and say this — ya’ll trying to explain how we live is like trying to apply the regular rules of physics inside of a black hole. I once saw a man riding a dirt bike fall off and flip around 5 times all while sliding 30 feet down the street. This all happened because homie decided to pop a wheelie on wet pavement. Till this very day, every single person in the hood who saw this shit happen, blames the car on the opposite end of the street because it was turning too slow.

Always something happening out here — like when the nigga who lives on the 5th floor — Elijah Jenkins, broke up a fight holding a baby. Or Carlito the midget dressed like Juelz Santana selling product on the corner. Or when Tiberius Lopez got stalked by vampire pigeons. Or when my nigga Nico was eaten alive by white wolves from another dimension. Shit is just different. Wolfgang knew it. We all know it.