POST TRAMATIC STRESS DISORDER, a peak over my shoulder.
Ah yes another PTSD day for me eh. Nothing like waking up with a total feeling of fear and dread to start the day. At least I did not spray paint all my windows black and board up my doors, again. And since I live out in the Toolies I don’t have to mine the back yard to keep them pesky neighbors out either.
Does not seem to matter what’s going on in my life or how happy I am. When them PTSD’s hit, it’s a full meal deal and I get to enjoy total recall of tragic events I survived in the past. I could ramble on about the senseless beatings I received from the non native kids or my step-dad. I could ramble on about life on the streets and all the death I witnessed from the age of 15 on. But no, I think I will drone on and on about my daughter who died back in 1980. She died on my first attempt to go straight and leave the streets.
And boy did I try to be good. I even had an 8 to 4 job like the rest of the beepers and dingers. It was a struggle to work for only $700 a week. But I hung in there and for my efforts, my daughter died of SIDS. It just totally blew me away when she died to. The coroner was also an owner of a mortuary and he tried to hustle me into buying a grave and funeral for a mere $8,000.
Check this out eh. I told the coroner that I was not going to use his mortuary and the ole boy went ballistic. He went in the back and came out with my dead baby in his arms. Then he simply tossed her to me and that was that. When I caught her the tissue and gauze behind her head was off reveling a pie slice out of the back of her head. The coroner told me that’s where they took the brain sample out for the forensics people to examine.
So I took my baby Samantha from this pinheads office and went a Native friend of mine who also was a mortician. He was Jicarilla Apache, like Dan and Antonio by the way. He took my baby from me like she was still alive. He was ever so respectful of my child and he told me he would make all the arrangements. He prepared her and even gave me a little casket for my kid. I found a place to bury her and dug the grave myself. The prick of a coroner came up to me and measured the depth and width just to be a prick and make sure I was legal. But I got it done, placed my little girl back in Mother Earths arms and then I said good bye.
Later that day, I called my former employer as asked if I could be “active” once again. And in a few short months I was back in New York City or LA busting heads and collecting money for the boss. But this time I had major attitude since I felt that my spirit was truly gone. I was always a loner and craved excitement and danger. But this time, I went after it with a vengeance. I call it “Death by Shootout” but I’ll be damned if I was only hit two times.
I really went off the deep end this go around though fore I truly did not care anymore. After loosing my kid nothing mattered to me, nothing. I used to take risks all the time that was my specialty. But now that my attempt to walk a straight path turned to cow dung, I was king of the attitude and actually was quite insane since I took chances no one else in the organization ever took. Good thing to, it paid very well to do the impossible. And what did I have to loose? Nothing because I was already dead and I was only marking time till my sorry ass was puffed up and stinking.
In all probability I could have ended up as another torso bloated and floating around near the shore of Union City New Jersey. That was what happened to some Wiseguys that got in a pickle. The opposing gangs would lop off the head, arms and legs along with identifying marks and tattoos on the trunk of the body. Then they would dump the torso in the drink. That was standard operating procedure eh. Did I mention Sleeping bags and 55 gallon drums, I hope not. That’s another dark tale I’ll save for later.
Life and death was easy to cope with on the streets for me since death was my homeboy back in the day. But the death of my baby was a hard pill to swallow especially the vision of a pie slice out of the back of her head. I could see all the noodles in her brain cavity to.
So this is my week, PTSD Cha Cha and I’m doing the dance.
How was your week eh?
Your Devil’s Advocate