Hobby of the Falls

The joys of robbery entice us: a new story from “Chasing Crazy”

“You’re not coming if you wear that.”

Manny had ridiculed me about the effeminate bag ever since he had seen it in my closet the previous week.

“Shut up. It’s my dad’s.”

I felt embarrassed but also proud of my father. He was my hero.

I’m not sure why I had lied. It wasn’t even his bag. I had lost his in the move from Nashville.

It was a dark blue, denim “hiking waist pack”, as he put it. Fine red stitching below the zipper read: USMC.

I stood before Manny, defending my father wearing a purple nylon fanny pack with a hole on the lower bottom and threads frayed from each corner where the fabric met.

The words “Santa’s Enchanted Forest”, the S faded to a shadow, were screen printed across the middle of the hideous bag.

My father had left us when I was three. He had retired from the Marines as a captain. He drove tanks. No son could’ve been prouder of their father.

Some of the residents of the park knew him.

He had lived in this trailer park in his twenties. In fact, his trailer still sat three rows down from Ray, my mother’s on-and-off again boyfriend.

It was a tiny thing, dilapidated and sagging in the middle where the cinder blocks had eroded. It was hard to imagine my father living there. It was hard to imagine anyone living there.

The abode looked like a rotten freight container, bleeding orange streams into the park transformer, as numerous extension cords had been pulled out from under the door.

Ray often brought up my father’s previous residence. He had been drinking one night and staring at the old, lima bean-toned trailer, when he spoke into the black, starless sky.

“Your papa’s a good man, Gregorio. He’s a pinche, come se dice, he’s just a good guy, Gregorio.”

Ray got teary eyed as he pointed to the trailer my father had lived in. He raised his empty Corona bottle into the air. Tears filled his red eyes.

“To a good vato!”

He sat down in a collapse, mumbling and smiling.

Ray had never met my father.

He had spoken to him only once and it was over the phone when my mother called him to ask for an advance on the next month’s child support.

Ray ended up spending forty-five minutes sobbing into the phone, claiming that my mom was crazy but that he “couldn’t leave her”.

I overheard Ray whisper into the phone.

“She told my sister I was gay, man.”

He left no time for my dad to respond as he started into another complaint.

“She set my shirts on fire”.

Ray felt a bond with my father after that conversation, and always stuck up for him when my mom bad-mouthed him in front of me.

“That’s his papa, Terry. Don’t say those things in front of Gregorio. And Teresa, his father’s a good man.

Ray teared up again. To be fair, he had been drinking.

It was 9:00am.

The last time my father saw the trailer park was when I was seven and he had flown from Washington D.C. to see me.

He picked me up in a white convertible on the way to the Keys. Sure, it was a rental, but it was the first new car I had ever been in.

We drove out of the trailer park as people stared and turned at the first corner to start on US1.

My father slipped in a CD (also something new to me).

“Our Lips are Sealed” by the GoGo’s, blasted into the bright sky that afternoon.

We cruised down a few back streets while traveling my father’s “old shortcut” as he sang along to the very loud New Wave music.

It was apparent to me that the drug dealers and Haitian gang members we were seeing at each red light were not fans of the music.

My dad hadn’t noticed this until he made eye contact with one of them.

The large, hulking man stood motionless, like an ebony statue, draped in a Miami Heat jersey that hung down to his knees.

Cornrows lined half of his head, and the other side puffed-out in a shaggy afro (whoever braided his hair had given up halfway through).

His eyes were bloodshot, and his voice was raspy as he pantomimed something in our direction.

He waved his hand backwards as if he wanted us to reverse.

My father didn’t understand.

The man stomped one foot down and pointed his finger at my father then aimed it down. He wore no expression. He was just adamant.

Then we could hear the words he was screaming, potato chips spitting from his lips.

“Hey man, turn that shit down before I whoop yo ass.”

The convertible top couldn’t close faster as my dad turned off the stereo and locked the door in one motion.

He didn’t look over at me until we neared Homestead.

“Hey, Gregory, did you know those guys? He nodded at you. Why?”

I hadn’t realized that. I did know the man’s face though. He smoked pot on our front patio with Ray and his brother, Arthur, from time to time. I muttered, “No. That’s where the Haitians live though.”

He looked into the vanity mirror with a puzzled expression. “Hmm, used to not be such a dangerous place. It’s — ”

“Mom says all Haitians steal. And that they look “weird” when they cry.”

An awkward, heavy silence hung in the air for a few minutes until my dad spoke.

“I don’t even know how to respond to that. Don’t listen to what your mom says, okay kiddo? She’s out to lunch.”

That was a common description he used for her.

My dad slid a CD into the shiny slot on the dashboard in front of us.

Manic Monday by the Bangles began to push out the silence as we made our way to the Florida Keys.

I punched Manny in the arm as hard as I could.

“Don’t talk about my dad!”

Today, Manny and I sat on the tattered love seat my mother purchased after her divorce settlement. The material felt like corduroy, but if you ran your fingers along it, they’d be met with rough scrapes from the mosaic of cigarette burns that layered the couch.

It was over a hundred degrees outside and the humidity level made it feel like we were swimming in our clothes. I looked over at Manny’s damp face.

He was staring at me, sweat beads trembling between his eyebrows.

“Outside. I have an idea.”

A wave of heat smacked us as we opened the thin trailer door. It felt as if the sky had opened an oven. We stood sweating and squinting against the bright, aggressive Florida sun.

Manny looked excited, almost eager, like a puppy.

“KayBee just got Ninja Turtles. All of them. Movie, comics, everything. Let’s go.”

“What? Who cares? They cost like fifteen dollars each.” I rolled my eyes.

“Twenty. But I have an idea. That fanny pack is perfect. Easy access. All you have to do is wear that bag in, and we’ll stuff it with ‘em.”

I felt shocked. But intrigued. We had never shoplifted before.

Could it be that easy? I thought. I mean, could I really have new toys? Today?

I was conflicted. I knew stealing was wrong. I knew you could get arrested for it.

No. Not a chance. I’m not doing it, I affirmed myself.

I mustered out one word to Manny. “Sure!”

We walked down the center row of the trailer park. This was the widest and where most of the kids of the park lived.

Manny knew more of them than I did. I was somewhat accepted within the crowd because of my friendship with Manny and Paco, Manny’s cousin.

I doubt a pasty white kid — who was wearing a fanny pack today — would have avoided getting a severe beating, let alone been allowed into the group, had I approached them by myself.

We were on our way to Luis’s trailer. He was a high-schooler who let us hang out with him after he was stoned. Pornography littered the thin walls of the room he shared with his younger cousin.

Luis had a bicycle in his patio that he never locked up. Manny had noticed it behind some laundry the last time he was there and we needed a quick getaway if we were to pull this heist.

We agreed to take it.

Manny pushed open the flimsy aluminum screen door of the patio. The bottom panel of screening was loose, un-anchored, and dozens of claw marks speckled the silver base of the wobbly entrance.

Luis didn’t own cats but the smell of empanadas pumped a lingering aroma in the trailer (his mother sold them to the construction workers in the park every morning).

The feral cats of the park would often zero in on Luis’s trailer.

The bike sat tilted against a turned over chair. No lock. Manny was careless as he yanked at the handlebars. The chair made a loud cracking sound.

When he stood it upright it was evident that this bike had been built for a child.

He picked it up and maneuvered his way past the screen, and we were off. We started off slow, wobbling from side to side, picking up speed.

The movement of the ride was awkward as we were kicking out of unison and fighting for leverage on the bike.

We were a circus act traveling down a congested US1.

I still had no idea why Luis even owned it. I was sure he stole it. We couldn’t judge him now, though. Manny stood up peddling, and I sat on the hard plastic seat while we made our way to The Falls shopping center.

We were drenched with sweat by the time we arrived. Not just a few wet spots. Our soaked clothes felt as if we had swum through Biscayne Bay to get there.

Manny looked exhausted. His damp hair clung to his forehead like glued strands of wax paper — the bleach he had drenched a few of the locks in had given it an unexpected orange luster.

“Come on. We’ll get sodas. You hungry?”

I was conflicted.

“Yeah, of course. But I don’t have money. Wait, neither do you.”

Manny smirked, his crooked, buck teeth pushing his lips open.

“Don’t matter. It’s easy.”

The HEIST Continues…

Start the RACE from the Beginning!

CHASING CRAZY!