HIS-PANIC

"Ive lived the life of a rock star! I had it all, the money, women, cars and clothes, jewelry; Everything and anything you can possibly think of. People often say when you live fast, you die young. Shit, if that's the case then my life was that of a slick mother-fucking turbo charged Lamborghini, racing at the most ultimate of speeds. Problem is.........I'm still alive. Truth is......... I shouldn't be." Antonio Pintero just lay there on the bed staring up at the ceiling, hands behind his head. He had a pained look on his face. One that reflected the once glorified life he led. Things were a lot different now. His eyes were watery. He'd had epiphanies at certain points in his life, but he would never be able to change the actions he took upon himself and others. It was all catching up to him and fast. He lay there wallowing in his misery, all the while some cheap crack head hooker furiously attempted to suck on his limp cock. She finally gave up and got off the bed. "You're fucking useless" she said dejectingly as she gave him a nasty look. She then proceeded to walk into the bathroom and try and Listerize her breath of a failed quick for cash blow-job. This was the beginning of his end.
"Growing up is hard to do"

"Allow me to get the formalities out of the way. I was born in 1976. My mother's name was Mildred Cepeda. She was a heroin addict and died of AIDS when I was sixteen years old. I never knew my father. He was probably some random guy she thought she was in love with at whatever time in her life. He injected her with his share of the Y chromosome, produced me, then split. You know how that goes? Mother, baby. Father, maybe? I became a statistic for the system, stamped with a question mark on my forehead regarding dear old daddy. Fuck him! Whoever he was. My mother then met Rolando Pintero. He was one of those Cuban exiles who hopped aboard a boat at Mariel Harbor, and made his way to Miami. Rolando was considered the cream of the crop. Spent much of his life either locked up in jail, or in mental institutions for being a borderline psychotic. Once in Miami, he and a few of some relatives then journeyed to New York. I also had a brother, Miguel. He was the product of a cursed inception and even far worse birth by two people, being my mother and Rolando, that didn't deserve to have any children. He was born mentally retarded. Oh, excuse me, "developmentally disabled". I say had a brother because I don't know what became of him. At this

point in my life, I don't know if I want to know. I'll start off like this. It was 1981, and I was five years old." Rolando entered the kitchen area with a black backpack in hand. He cleared the table off and emptied the contents of the pack on it. There was three ounces of marijuana, a zip lock bag filled with a hundred packets of heroin, some odd colored pills in another bag, and a carton of Viceroy cigarettes for his personal use. The rest of the stuff was for business. Rolando was in his early forties. He stood about six feet, his right foot aided by a shoe lift to balance everything out due to a leg length discrepancy. He could easily capture anyone's attention in a room because of his gait, but no one would ever dare make fun of him. He was always about business before pleasure, therefore carried a scowl on his face which seemed like forever. "Mildred!" he screamed as he opened his carton of cigs. He pulled one out and vigorously tapped on the bottom making sure the tobacco would be nicely packed. "Mildred, what the fuck?" he screamed once more. He opened a pack, lit one up and inhaled, it calmed him. As he exhaled, he noticed Antonios cherubic face looking up at him and not saying a word. "Where the fuck is your mother?" he asked. "She's sleeping" Antonio replied. Rolando had a pissed look on his face but remained seated. "Hey, you want to help me do something?" he told the boy. Antonio nodded in agreement. He had no choice but to agree. He had seen the result of Rolando's temper. It was frequently written all over his mother's face when the two didn't see eye to eye. There was even a time when a happy gathering at the apartment turned ugly. One of Rolando's cousins had just been released from prison. The night saw tons of billowing smoke in the air from cigarettes and weed burning. There were bottles of all types of alcohol in the kitchen. One thing led to another and suddenly a fight broke out. Some friend of Rolando's cousin was getting out of line with Mildred. Without saying a word, Rolando went into the kitchen and opened a drawer, taking out a butter knife. He then walked up to this gentleman and proceeded to jam the knife in his cheek. "Get my scale from the closet" he instructed the boy. Antonio did as he was told. He ran off to a closet near the front door and opened it. There on the floor was a white colored digital scale in a box. Rolando often bragged about having a friend that gave it to him. It was lifted during a pharmacy robbery several years prior. Ro saw it as his special lucky scale. It was his money-maker as he would call it, or better yet his "mamacita". While Antonio retrieved the scale, Rolando had already begun to pour the weed into an aluminum tray and break it down. This was a tedious process which consisted of removing seeds and branches from the buds. The all too familiar smell was strong as the boy took a small whiff. At five years old, Antonio knew what it was. Early in any particular morning it would linger in the kitchen as he would fix himself a bowl of cereal or oatmeal. "Today, I'm going to give you a lesson in bagging" Rolando said. The words came out of his mouth exuberantly. It was a special bonding moment for elder and his youngling. Antonio may have well learned something. He was supposed to

be attending school but his mother was often sleeping, not home, or strung out, high on heroin. ACS would visit the apartment on occasions until Mildred's mother took the initiative and enrolled him in school herself. Mildred's mother knew she was a fuck up. She had no ambitions in life other than to sit at home and collect a fat check from welfare. The money would be spent on beer and Marlboros and little snacks the child could prepare on his own. Antonio plopped the scale on the table and grabbed a seat next to Rolando. "Here, put this on." he told the boy. He then gave him a white pair of latex gloves. "You don't want your fingers to smell, or turn green" he added. Antonio slipped them on. He watched as Rolando placed a pinch of weed on the scale, half a gram to be exact. "These are going to be nicks. They sell for five dollars, you got that?" he asked Antonio. The child nodded his head yes. "You got that yes or no, don't nod your fucking head" he screamed at him. "Yes, Ro...I mean papi" Antonio answered. For a split second he was about to call Rolando by his name. Rolando didn't like that at all. Even though he wasn't the child's biological father, he was adamant about having Antonio address him as such. This was another lesson hard pressed into Antonio. One night, Rolando came home drunk. Antonio had gotten up and went to the kitchen for something to drink. He passed by the closed bedroom door to his mother's room, the sounds of moaning and groaning filling the apartment. He grabbed a chair and placed it near the sink in order to reach for a plastic sippy cup. He opened the faucet and filled the cup with water. Antonio drank half and then poured the rest out. At this time he was enthralled at the sight of a roach trying to climb up and out of the basin. So he filled his cup again and poured it on the critter. Antonio had made a game out of this because the roach was feverishly not trying to go down the drain as easily as he thought it would. It took about ten minutes until it finally went down along with a few remaining grains of rice and beans that were in the sink. As he went to place the cup back in the dish rack, he knocked over a glass that fell to the floor and shattered into pieces. Antonio heard some rumbling noises coming from his mother's room. Suddenly the door flung open. It was Rolando, shirt-less with boxers and flip flops on. He held a gun in his hand. He ran into the kitchen excitedly, angry. "What the fuck is going on here?" he yelled at the boy. Antonio quickly jumped off the chair and nervously looked at Rolando. "I was thirsty, so I got a drink of water and the glass fell. It broke" Antonio whimpered. His wanna-be father stood in front of him, his half erect cock poking out through the boxers opening. Rolando just shook his head as if disappointed, but forgiving in what had transpired. "Boy, I thought some maricon had broken a window, trying to rob us and shit" he explained. He then added kind of sympathetically, "Go back to your room. I'll have your mother clean this mess up." Antonio took this as a huge break and was headed to his room. He trailed off with "Sorry, Rolando." Rolando quickly turned towards the boy and shouted "Hold the fuck up. What did you just say? Get back here boy! he screamed at Antonio. The boy knew he had made a huge mistake as he slowly walked back into the kitchen, scared shitless.

Rolando now looked him straight in the eye and asked "What the fuck did you just call me?" Antonio couldn't speak, his body trembled. Rolando then yanked him by the arm pulling him closer towards him and shouted, "How many times have I told you to call me papi? You think I'm playing games you little shit?" he added. Mildred ran into the kitchen to see what all the commotion was about. She wasn't going to be able to help her son, nor did she really look like she wanted to in these situations. As she opened her mouth to speak, she was cut off by Rolando. "Don't even say a fucking word bitch" he told her. Rolando then stuck the barrel of the gun in Antonio's face. It was the first time he had seen the likes of any pistol, up close and personal. "You think you're tough?" he asked him. Antonio nodded his head no. "Don't I try and give you and your mother everything?" Rolando spoke again. Tears were beginning to swell in Antonio's eyes as he stood there. He had seen this deranged look coming from Rolando on a regular basis. He tried to defend himself by saying in a whisper "I'm sorry". It wasn't enough. Rolando quickly back slapped the boy across his face. It wasn't hard, but effectively got a reaction. He then directed Antonio towards the broken glass on the floor. "Stand right there" he ordered him. Antonio always had a bad habit of walking around the apartment bare foot. "Baby, please" Mildred shouted. Rolando looked at her as if disgusted by her existence. "Didn't I tell you to mind your business?" he screamed back at her. Meanwhile, Antonio's body was frozen with fear. He tried his damndest to move his foot, make it seem like he was abiding by Rolando's wishes, but he couldn't. This only made Ro angrier. He finally grabbed the boy once again and moved him closer towards the glass. He placed the gun right to his head and said "Step on it!" Tears continuing to roll down Antonios face. "Papi, please no, I'm sorry, I mean it" he pleaded. Rolando ignored his yells. "Now you want to call me papi, right? You're fucking gonna learn the hard way" Please, Papi, no! Step on it! Rolando screamed at the top of his lungs. Antonio had no other choice. He raised his tiny left foot, ready to press down on a decent sized shard of glass. He was abruptly stopped by Rolando. Deep inside, Antonio foolishly thought Rolando had come to his senses. This tough love episode was all a way to scare him into calling this guy that was living with him and his mother, dad. Not quite. "Do it with the right one" Rolando said. It was an obvious nod towards Rolando's personal demons regarding his own handicap. "Put your right foot on it!" he shouted. Antonio raised his foot then pressed down on the glass. He still hadn't gone down all the way. Maybe Rolando would think it was and leave him alone. Rolando made sure though. He placed his flip flop right on top of the child's foot and pressed down. The crunch of the glass underneath echoed throughout the kitchen and the entire apartment. The screams of pain followed. Blood began seeping from under the boy's foot as he cried hysterically. Rolando then placed his hand around the boy's mouth and squeezed. "If you ever call me Rolando again, I swear to God, I will kill you" he said. With that, he let him go. Antonio quickly fell to the floor, his underfoot a bloody mess. Mildred ran over to him, tried to console the boy as best as she could. The damage had been done

though. This man, who she decided to bring into her home had finally turned his rage towards her son also. The two of them were forever at the mercy of his sudden outbursts. Antonio watched soaking everything in, the separation process, the weighing. His job was next. Rolando had taken out a crumpled brown bag. Inside were hundreds of little plastic bags. "I'm going to call you the bagger man" he playfully told Antonio. He then opened a little bag and said "Grab that piece and put it inside." Antonio grabbed the half gram of weed and slowly put it inside the bag. Not bad for a fist timer. One after the other, little nicks were made. That took care of one ounce. The next ounce was weighed, a little more on the scale. These were ten dollar bags. Finally the last ounce, "Twenty sacks" Rolando explained. It took about three hours on a Saturday afternoon, but Antonio was well on his way to a bright future. "It was funny to me, how adults behaved. As a child you really have no say in many things. Here I was always trying my best to refrain my tongue from pronouncing a hard roll of the letter R, as to not say Rolando. Yet, he went from calling me boy, to bagger man. I do admit, any beatings I received from that afternoon on weren't as harsh or severe as the glass incident. My mother on the other hand suffered immensely. Much of it on her own behalf. It was her addiction. They seemed to consume her life and Rolando just kept feeding it to her. My days and nights were filled with different people in the apartment, mixing and mingling. The end result would always be half of them laid out on the floor or the sofa, high out of their fucking minds. Rolando would smoke an occasional joint, but nothing more. The rest of his time was spent on observing everything. He knew the shit he had was very potent and sometimes deadly. These people in the crib and on the streets that bought it, they were hooked for real. At the age of seven, Rolando had already let me try some of his weed. Just a few pulls here and there. He taught me that I had to at least know what it felt like, whether it was strong or mild, in order to know if I was purchasing some good shit. Nice advice for a fucking seven year old. That was the marijuana. Then there was the heroin. That was a whole different ball game."