Pimp hands

I knew two pimps growing up, at least that didn't hide the fact, and they were vastly different except in one area: they were fathers and husbands.

Eastern Washington isn't known for its pimp populace, but pimps are everywhere and, usually in my experience, black. Rose was Monte's (pronounced MonTay) father and was stereo typically ghetto. He usually wore a white wife beater, jeans and tennis shoes says socks if he wore shoes at all. His wife, Barb, was white, blonde and punch drunk. I thought she was retarded in some way, but she wasn't completely stupid. She talked with a slur and wasn't pretty by any stretch, but she had johns, regardless. Rose pimped her, as well.

Monte was obviously biracial, so he didn't fit in with the Mexican kids or the black kids.

He ran around with us, the white kids. Where most houses had grass in front, the Mexicans had dirt and that's where we played marbles. Rules were contested prior to war and violation occasionally led to shoving matches, which times Monte displayed exceptional technique.

Ricardo was one of the few Mexican boys our age and he loved the word, "Nigger." At that age, I had not ever heard the word uttered in my house, and I hadn't ever said it. Not because, at ten years old, I knew what it meant, but because I had watched a few minutes of a show on TV called, "Roots." I understood that black people had been slaves and slave owners in the past, but those people were all dead, beyond salvation or punishment. I hadn't seen a real slave, but people acted like it had just happened whenever the word was voiced.

Monte set Ricardo straight one time, smashing his face into the dirt, and after that, we rarely heard "nigger," again, except from older boys and never to Monte. There was only one person who called him a nigger and that was Rose.

From the window of my bedroom, converted from the attic, I heard screaming. It was Barb, I knew her voice. I headed down stairs and onto the front lawn, where my mom stopped me. She was cursing Rose and calling the police, though they would take their time. Rose was beating Barb up in their front yard for reasons we could all hear.

Rose accused her of keeping money from him from her johns. He was calling her his worst nigger, next to, "that little nigger boy of yaws." I knew he was talking about Monte, and now had the word redefined for me. Now I knew why people reacted to it. It meant that they could be whipped, no matter what color they were. Wives and moms and best friends.

I turned, ran through the house and went out the back, up the alley and looked for Monte in the usual places. I found him, being held back by Kevin and Bruce, tears in his eyes as he watched his mom on her hands and knees spit her teeth out. All the neighbors were yelling at Rose, as well. When Rose turned to yell back, Barb backed away from him, her face swollen.

I ran up to the boys and yelled at them to let Monte go. As soon as they did, he ran into his house, yelling at his father, who grabbed Barb's arm and followed.

The police showed up later and took Rose away in a squad car. A few days later, I saw Barb driving slowly down the street, windows rolled down. I ran up to ask her where Monte was and that's when I saw Rose, his head in her lap, his bare feet out the passenger window. She seemed happy, despite her bruised and swollen face.

"He grounded, "Rose told me. I knew better. Monte was ungroundable.

I found him and his little sister, a year younger than him, sitting under a hollowed out bush. They had sliced their palms and made an oath to kill Rose in his sleep. It was obvious that there was no alternative and, as I sliced my palm, I recited a precise oath of vengeance and clasped hands with the both of them in turn.