Out_of_the_Devil_39_s_Cauldron

victorious Reapers celebrated, standing on the street corners drinking beer and whooping. But the act
of vengeance wasn’t complete until they stripped the “colors” off the Flying Dutchmen and hung the
rival gang members’ denim jackets from every lamppost in the neighborhood, declaring the Reapers’
victory.
An eerie quiet returned to the neighborhood, the only sound coming from the flap-flap of
denim jackets hanging on the lampposts. My brothers and I crawled into bed and tried to sleep, our
hearts pumping adrenaline—a natural internal protection against the cold on winter nights.
The Proving Ground
Violence has a trickle-down effect, and not just the gangs lived by the warrior code in the
South Bronx. We kids did too. Even if you tried to avoid it, it found you. The tough kids—the thugs in
the neighborhood—always tested news kids on the block, and since we moved around so much, my
brothers and I constantly had to prove our mettle. These were the walking time bombs, the lowlifes in
the neighborhood who wanted to get their way all the time, so they beat up on the weaker kids. If you
didn’t stand up to them, or take part in whatever they demanded, your lunch money would
mysteriously disappear at school and you might not make it home without a black eye or broken
fingers.
I stood up to them but tried to play it cool, not wanting to become a thug like them.
“Hey, John! Come ’ere,” a voice called one day as I walked home from school alone. It was
Jose, the leader of a group of lowlifes that hung around the basketball court whistling and jeering at
the girls who walked by and making life miserable for any guy who wasn’t a part of their group.
“I can’t, I got to get to work,” I lied, pretending that a job other than my usual water-hauling
chores beckoned me.
“Now, you know we’re not gonna let you off that easy,” Jose said, sidling up to me with five
of his cronies hanging back, ready for action judging by the look in their eyes.
I sized up the competition. Jose I could take, and maybe one or two more—but six against one
were bad odds.
Jose felt my hesitation and smiled a slow, devious grin. “We’re gonna go down to the store
and get a snack . . . thought you could pick up a few things for us. What d’ya say, boys? Is John good
enough to be one of us?” His friends sniggered and watched for my reaction.
I knew Jose wanted me to steal some candy bars, potato chips, and maybe a few canned drinks
for them. Either I did it or I would be labeled a sucker.
Jose took his pocketknife out of his jacket and pretended to clean his fingernails, making sure I
saw the shiny silver of the blade. “I’m not hearing an answer. Yo, are you down with us or are you a
punk?” He looked up at me, his eyes glazed with hatred now. “ ’Cause if you’re a punk we’re gonna
beat your face in.” He flipped his knife in the air. “Maybe even cut you up a little.”
“I’m not scared, I just don’t wanna waste my time doing that,” I said, looking Jose straight in
the eye. The truth is I didn’t want to get caught stealing and end up with a record like all these
hoodlums did. I wanted to finish school, not go to jail with these lowlifes, but my thoughts were
saying one thing and my mouth was saying another. “Sure, I can do that, man. I just don’t want to. Why
you tryin’ to test me?”
Bartering for time never worked with guys like Jose. They kept after you till you did it. I never