Read I'm Not High for Free Online Page A

and Queens. We didn’t have much, but there was a real disparity between what we had and what the people in Queens had. That was my first real exposure to race and to how the system plays out in America. Our side was all white. Their side was all black. On our side the road was nicely paved, and the Queens side was all potholes. We had a candy store, they had a liquor store. Racial tension was high, if somewhat incomprehensible to me at that age. I never felt like there was going to be a brawl, but a black guy crossing Ocean Avenue/Hook Creek Boulevard and walking down our block was a rare occurrence, and if one did walk down our street, it was like a wild bear was loose. When we saw a black guy on our street, we started shaking in our boots. “Oh my God, what are we going to do? He’s rampaging. He can go in our house. He can do whatever he wants. We’re helpless!” As you might imagine, we never went on their side of the street.
    But it wasn’t black people we were most terrified of. That honor belonged to the Rizzo brothers. (I’m not going to rattle their cage by giving up their real name here. You’ll soon understand why.) There must have been a half dozen of them and they were always in and out of jail. The oldest was in his early to midtwenties at that time, and the youngest was probably all of nine years old, and the kid would burn up and down the streets on a loud moped, wearing jeans and no shirt with a lit Marlboro Red dangling from his mouth.
    One summer night my dad took our little elderly miniature poodle, Duffy, out for a walk. I was probably twelve at the time, up in my room, goofing off. I heard Dad come back inside and didn’t think much of it. He fell asleep in his chair in the living room. I could hear him snoring and the sounds of the TV, and a while later I heard a heavy beating on our door. I was sure the glass was going to break; there was anger and urgency in the knocking. It sounded like the police. I raced down the stairs and to the door. I looked out the window and nearly crapped my pants. It was the five oldest Rizzo brothers. Dad was just coming to, rubbing his eyes and sitting up in his chair.
    “Get your father, we wanna talk to your father!” one of them said, dropping his cigarette and stamping out the butt on our porch. I started crying immediately. I thought I was going to see my dad get beat to death. They were there to hurt him.
    I scrambled to lock the door while trying to yell to my mom to call the police, but no sound would come out of my mouth. I felt something behind me. My dad yanked me from behind and pulled me out of his way, then went right out the front door.
    “You went after our little brother,” one of them said. “And we’re coming after you.”
    “Get in the house, Dad,” I said, whimpering. “The cops are coming.”
    “Just go inside and shut the door,” my dad said disgustedly. And he turned back to the Rizzos and asked calmly, “What do we got? One, two, three, four, five of you? Against one little old man? It’s gonna take five of you to kick my ass?”
    He paused and they didn’t respond. They just stood there looking ready to smack him. They weren’t going to leave our front steps until something happened. The whole block was dark and quiet. And I’ll never forget the look on Dad’s face. It went from incredulous to almost giddy.
    “Well, guess what?” Dad said. “One of you is gonna go down with me tonight. You may beat the shit out of me. Stomp me to death. But I’ll take at least one of you with me.”
    One by one, they sucked their teeth, sneered, and puffed out their chests.
    “Do you guys get it?” my dad asked, smiling. “I don’t care if I die tonight. All I know is if I do, I’m taking one of you with me. So, which one of you is it going to be?”
    Then he looked them all in the eyes. “Is it gonna be you? Is it gonna be you? Is it gonna be you?” Right down the line. He had a look in his eye and a sound in his voice that I