I was sitting with local legend and drug dealer, Ivan Munoz. He was lying in his bed dying in the Borinquen Plaza houses ebbing in and out of sleep. His fifth wife was with us, whom he allowed to fleece him pretty dry.
Ivan had owned a couple of notorious night spots in the 70s and 80s,back when he would donate to the annual Policemen’s ball, but now he was working hard to die in bed, still tearing people up with wild stories of his time as an infantryman in Korea.
Doing blow like some fat, albino Al Sharpton lookalike with a Cheshire grin.
Eyes shaking like maracas and Rita Moreno on Sesame Street.
His youngest son was sixteen and spoke only in angry-at-the-world-forever-Spanglish-XBox 360 single-shooter dialect. Call of Duty by way of Narcos, all Doritos and brass-knuckles.
I once gave him 50 bucks at Kellogg’s diner for just for making it through Halloween Night.
Cool Hand Luke running into the ranch.
You could never see him all that well either.
A stick up grin jetting down the block under a midnight black Brooklyn Nets cap.
A man from the future sent to fight us all.