Great American Youth: A True Saga

By Mike Scott

Based on actual events, this soul-gripping tale is an account of survival in the urban jungle of Chicago, in the 1980s. While embarked on his own street-journey, Michael Scott enters a world in which a band of brothers are locked in a desperate engagement, an Alamo-like siege of their hood. Amidst turbulent conditions, the narrator gives us all a ticket to ride next to him on this roller coaster ride, with its twist and turns of horror and frustration, suspense and humor. Following in the tradition of profound gang tales such as "The Outsiders" and "West Side Story," this must-read book goes beneath the hardcore surface to show the struggle of the human spirit.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Apr 4, 2011
• ISBN: 9781456760441

Mike Scott

Mike Scott was born in Edinburgh and has led The Waterboys since 1983, during which time he has achieved widespread success with albums including This Is The Sea, Fisherman's Blues, Room To Roam, and Modern Blues. He continues to push musical boundaries and tours regularly with new and reconfigured versions of his legendary band.

Book preview

Contents

Liberty Statued

Urban Voltage

Flickering Debris

Midgets

Painting The Hood in Red

Doves Cry

Going Loko

Slumberland

Brick It!

Cracked Liberty Bell

Creature Feature

Hostile Habitats

An Americn Past-Time

Trial Period

Maniacs

Visitations

Same Old Shit

Star Spangled Bannered

Abracadabra!

Hunting Season

My Bloody Valentine

Dead Street

Mourning and Mad Grins

When Walls Come Crumbling Down

And I, the Son of Man, feast and drink, and you say, ‘He’s a glutton and a drunkard, and a friend of the worst sort of sinners!’ But wisdom is shown to be right by what results from it."

Matthew 11:19, New Living Translation

To Joe Butera, who encouraged me to write this book and inspired me in the rougher hours of writing; a special thanks to you my friend

CHAPTER 1

Liberty Statued

Through the gracious will of God, I am glad that my lucky ass is able to recall that hot summer morning of July 5, 1984. I was statued on the dusty northeast corner of Fullerton Avenue and Ridgeway Street, surveying the entire block, before I started my journey down it. I could hear the busy traffic on Fullerton right behind me. So this is it: the place where Gaylords hung out.

That sweltering summer was a radio-active moment in my life; I was a member of a north-side Chicago gang The Gaylords. No, we were not gladiators for Gay Pride. The Gaylords’ name was created decades earlier when the word gay hadn’t a damn thing to do with homosexuals. Personally, I think the name was conjured up because it described a light-hearted spirit. Considering the beer and weed ingesting that numerous Gaylords had done throughout their American-prided history, I should say light-headed spirit instead. If the aboriginal Gaylords could have foreseen that the word gay would take on a whole new meaning futuristically, I’m sure they would have changed it from the beginning.

One gigantic gang in Chicago is the Vicelords. The Vicelords are black. I wonder what they would be thinking if their official name took on a new definition - like, White Boys with Confederate Flags. They probably would have been screaming Hell No!

The Gaylords eventually varnished their tarnished name by revamping Gay to mean Great American Youth.

The Gaylords were reputed with a heritage dating back to the 1950s. Circulating urban rumor was that they were originally a softball or baseball team, a social athletic club. Then they somehow morphed into a gang. Maybe some of their guys got disgruntled over a game loss and decided to physically beat members of the other ball team with Louisville Sluggers. Possibly then they became aware of their true calling.

In 1983, while monumental Michael Jackson was rock-boppin’ a message for individuals to Beat It from the gang lifestyle, Chicago Police Department estimates showed about 120 gangs citywide. Some of these were considerably larger than my tribe. However, the Gaylords were listed as the biggest white gang in the city. There weren’t many white gangs banging. We were sort-of a rarity and for sure the minority. You never heard much about white gangs as being Menaces to Society, although we fit the profile. Black and Spanish gangs weren’t the only ones sporting colors and banging out on those grindish streets of the Windy City.

There was a star system of white gangs on the north-side streets of Chicago up untl 1983. After that, they all just seemed to faze out. Recalling white gangs by 1984 was comparable to visiting the Chicago Academy of Sciences and doing a roll call of extinct dinosaurs that once roamed the planet: Chicago Avenue Jokers, Bel-Airs, White Knights, Ventures, Royal Capris, Thorndale Jagoffs. These particular white gangs, and others, were gone, mostly due to the rising rate of Latino immigration in Chicago. This tidal wave spawned many new Latino gangs in addition to increasing the size of elder ones. New immigration fed these Latino gangs in a rapid moving conveyor belt mode.

When I speak of Latino gangs on Chicago’s north-side, I’m speaking of Spanish-tongued. I’m not talking about already organized gangs flying over on Iberia Airlines from Spain and setting up shop in Chicago. I’m talking about localized gangs, primarily Puerto Ricans. I have no problem with persons immigrating to America. As a native-born American, I’m proud of The Statue of Liberty bearing these chiseled words, Give me your poor and tired.,, Yes; these words send a nobility-chill right through me. However, when immigration comes in like a pressing storm it forces foreign cultures and ideas upon a society that’s already comfortably settled. Heavy numbers of new immigrants tornado in all at once and scatter-mania occurs. In Chicago, at this time, many whites and other established ethnic groups had already packed up and burbs-scrambled to escape the wave of new immigration that was threateningly squeezing them out. This phenomenon was called White Flight. As more areas became crowded by the new immigrant expansion, more people packed suitcases and jetted out.

The Gaylords got a new perspective on Manifest Destiny, empathizing with how the Native Americans must have felt when they were required to tomahawk-club for their land and lives as they lost yardage. The Gaylords did go at it with white and black gangs, but ultimately Latino gangs were the monstrous opponent.

Territory was vital. Many gangs were franchised like McDonald’s fast food with crudely iconic logos. It was common to see one gang in different locations. The Gaylords had multi-locations on Chicago’s Northside. In the spring of 1984 I had joined up with the Gaylords from the factory-fortified corners of Beldon and Knox. At the time of my induction, the Gaylords from dainty Beldon and Knox hung out at a hotdog smelling-selling game room, in close proximity to the corners. Energized youth congregated at the upbeat game room, a wood-paneled romper room. In this Gaylords’ nest, there was a flirt hysteria going on with a confection of cosmetic-laced treats.

Because of all of this stimulating activity, Gaylords from another area, Sayre Park, often stopped by for a spot-check and hung out. When it came to rival gangs, the Gaylords fearlessly disposed of them. One time Ape, an animalistic Gaylord, slam-dunked a Spanish Cobras’ member through a Walgreen’s Drug Store window. Well, at least the guy didn’t have to look too far for antiseptic and gauze. The big window on Fullerton Avenue was boarded up for weeks, advertising a clear message of who ran the area.

I met a lot of righteous Gaylords at the game room. I had the most respect for Stoner, a Ted Nugent follower. Since I was just a bright-eyed rookie to the whole game, glossy-eyed Stoner coached me. Extremely impressionable, I had been firstly introduced to the Gaylords by three guys: Polock, Sarge and Buddha-pudgy Slayor while I was attending Prosser Vocational High School. Schools were great recruiting offices for gangs.

My nickname was Rocker. A nickname was either thrust upon you or you invented one. I obtained mine on my own. I was a scrawny, small, white guy with a pointy nose. Because of my skinny-minnie appearance, the Gaylords initially forged the nickname of Mouse on me. Now, nicknames are your image. I didn’t agree with the title of Mouse, like calling an obese guy Whale. I can just envision people hearing "Mouse’ and having a mental picture of a bitty guy scurrying in an alleyway for morsels of food. Fuck that.

I sat home one night trying to conceive a new nickname for myself. As I was pondering a self-label I was head-jammin’ to the radio. Then, I started thinking deeply about how music moves and soothes the soul. Instantly, I wanted a name that coincided with that concept. A Radio DJ suddenly came on the air, static-blasting out something energetic about, All the Rockers out there. From that moment, I had the rockin’ nickname that I wanted.

Since my nickname was musicly geared, I want to static-blast some of the music that I was listening to, or Rocker’s Picks: Shook Me All Night Long-by AC/DC, 99 Red Balloons-by Nena, Shout At The Devil-by Motley Crue, Cum On Feel The Noise-by Quiet Riot, Tainted Love-by Soft Cell, Every Breath You Take-by the Police, Space Age Love Song-by Flock of Seagulls, White Lines-by Grandmaster Flash And, I can’t forget Judas Priest, Def Leppard, Michael Jackson and Ozzy Osbourne hits.

Gaylords, like other Chicago gangs, advertised through crude creativity from graffiti to tattoos. They even crafted and distributed swaggerish business cards, the pushy salesmen type. Like me, some people actually collected these prizes: something awesome-rific to show off. Production of gang cards was usually done by a professional printing business. A steel-nerved Gaylord would stroll in, lay out a design, put in an order: freedom of the press at work. About a week later, Gaylords were coolly handing these calling cards out. An example of text that could be found inked on these handouts was ALMIGHTY GAYLORDS OF BELDON AND KNOX for the loud headliner. Then there might be a brag-batch of members’ names, adjoined by a stabbing-away logo.

The Gaylords’ logos are a simple cross and a Maltese Cross with flames torch-shooting out of the four corners. To all the Gaylords, Cross is Boss.

On my first Gaylords’ card, a test-trial run, I branded a Maltese cross as the centerpiece. Because the Sayre Park Gaylords were bopping around the game room by Beldon and Knox, and our brotherhood was tight, I decided to have 500 simplified cards honoring our two respective hoods printed up. Cost was around $20, not too bad to get the word out. After this little venture, I found that I was a card-crafting addict. On my next project, I wanted a gem card, a unique keepsake. After pushing ideas around in my enthusiastic head, I decided on honoring deceased Gaylords, titling it REMEMBERED ALWAYS. On this card I listed four Gaylords: Tesse, Wizard, Tiger, Chief. I never personally met any of them, but they inspired me. This particular card sparked interest.

One day I was in the game room by Beldon and Knox, flirting with some sweet laffy-taffys who were deep-seated in a plastic wrapped booth, when suddenly, all these guys erupted through the front door. One of them proudly announced that they were Gaylords from Kilbourn Park, introduced himself as Sly. Sly had dark, short hair, a pointed nose, and came off like a hard ass. Without wasting any time Sly woofed cockishly, Hey, you guys in here got any of those cards with our brother Wizard on them?

Wizard had been caught on the railroad behind Kilbourn Park by trespassers. He managed to stab two assailants before they wrestled the knife from him, stabbed him to death.

Taken aback and honored that guys came all the way from Kilbourn Park to inquire about cards, I scooped a handful of them out of my pants pocket. In excitement, I responded to Sly’s inquiry, Yeah, I do, I made them. Sly hyper-replied, That’s cool. Let me get some. I produced the handful as Sly and his craving crew grabbed them up with starving eyes and hands. After a couple minutes of small talk, the boys from Kilbourn were on their way back to their park with the tribute cards that I had made listing their deceased comrade. Way Cool!-My first time meeting any K-P Gaylords.

Had a feeling that the cards would be a cool memento with Gaylords, but I didn’t realize that guys would pilgrimage. Days later, I met two touring Gaylords from turbulent Palmer Street who also were card seeking. One seemed wolf-raised: Joker. Joker’s partner was a medium-sized stocky Native American: Lil Man. Both of them seemed rough-minded; probably generated this hardness from the very hood they inhabited. It was enthralling to be meeting all these wild characters.

I really knew that I was in the card business when a week later two more Gaylords, around 16-years-old, peddled up on bikes. Their guy Chief was card-listed. These two hood-travelers had a steady sureness as they intro’ed themselves. Toker was a thin white guy, with a short, but full crop of brown hair. He was sucking on a Newport. Sting was a little stocky, with a self-induced stuck out chest: an American-toned Spanish guy.

I traded words with Sting and Toker for a bit. Then, they were in a hurry to get back to the Gaylords’ hood of Lawndale and Altgeld. Before sunset-riding-off Sting shot me a verbal invite, You should stop by our hood, Lawndale, sometime. Toker briskly added, Go by Ridgeway though, cause we don’t really hang by Lawndale. It’s where the original Gaylords hung, but now we hang the next block over. As they rode off, I knew right away that I liked Sting and Toker; there seemed to be an ultra-cool connection between us.

One day, out of nowhere, the fun-fest of Beldon and Knox started amping down. The game room was grinding to a halt because Lee, the nerved-wrecked owner, was finished. With no place to kick back in, the Gaylords mist-vanished off elsewhere, one by one. Beldon and Knox rapidly ran out of power, eventually switched off.

My personal life outside the Gaylords was pretty hectic. My parents were divorced and I had tried to live with them both, but shit just fell apart. Now, I’m not going to start composing lyrics and singing about a mess-a-matic childhood. I was not an emotionally disturbed musician. Also, I’m not going to sit here with a saga of child abuse because there was none. I wasn’t raped, molested, starved, tortured or anything traumatic. I can’t be my own shrink and analyze myself. But, simply put my parents and I just didn’t see eye to eye, and I was out the door at 17-years-old. To sum it all up, there were no good or bad guys. We just didn’t get along.

As far as school was concerned, I was a malfunctioning, little punk bastard who couldn’t sit my hyper ass still. I got ejected from Prosser Vocational High School and landed down in a special education program at old-bricked Kelvyn Park High School. My tenure didn’t last long. I was chased out by a hydra of ill-grins belonging to different Latino gangs who were school controllers and despised Gaylords. So much for my education in the Chicago School system. Without a doubt, that school was screwed up. There wasn’t much advancing going on in there. As a matter of fact, some of the real advances that were actually being made in there were by Principal Moffat himself. Truth-be-told in 1987, he would be sentenced to 15 years in prison for pressuring five different students into performing sexual acts right in the cubical of his office.

Once I dropped out of school, I guess that I was just a mixed up kid, from a bit of a messed up home, going absolutely nowhere.

After all that craziness, I went to stay with my insane Grandma. Scruffy, black haired Grandma was a tough-skinned veteran of a rough life: even had one of her fingers half missing from a factory-mishap. She delighted in swearing, puffing Pall Malls, being Irish and romanticizing about gentleman General Robert E. Lee. Many times she would stagger around the house in her bra and didn’t care what onlookers thought. A bit bonkers. One minute she could be docile. The next you could find her exploding in a store at another woman over pettiness. I loved her, regardless.

When I moved in with good-old Grandma, I realized that her compressed apartment was located two streets away from Ridgeway where those Gaylords Sting and Toker, hung out. Within days of moving in with Grandma, I ventured out to do some surveying.

That’s how I found myself out in the summer heat of July 5, 1984, statued on the corner of Fullerton Avenue and Ridgeway Street.

Now, this exact spot where I was poised, might have seemed colorless and boring to distant outsiders; but it had been the sidewalk-stage of mega-fights between the Gaylords and their rivals. Even the pharmacy Hendrickson’s, adjacent to me, had damaged surface from bullets.

Unbeknownst to me at the time was a tale involving this actual corner. Back in February of 1976, 17-year-old Duke, a sparkly Gaylords’ inductee, was outside the pharmacy with fellow Gaylords when Puerto Rican bangers came by for target practice with a Winchester rifle. Duke took a bullet to the back as he and others frantically spilled into the pharmacy, carpeting it’s floor with blood. The bullet pierced Duke’s left lung and liver. He was pronounced dead twenty minutes later. Maybe that’s why my mom upped and moved us out years ago: she probably noticed that the area was self-destructing.

If I took a gander to the right or left of me on Fullerton Avenue, I could see small stores, bars, restaurants, a beauty salon and other commercial venues, braced tightly together. But, as I gazed straight down Ridgeway, it looked like just another boring-ass city block of row houses. It was a typical time-weathered street.

I could see a church and small school on the left hand side of the street. I was aware that the church and school were Catholic, Our Lady of Grace. I had actually been around here before as I attended this school for about six months. That was many years ago, only for kindergarten, before my mom had upped and moved us out. It was all like some distant cloudy dream. I couldn’t recall much of it at all. It was bizarre that I was finding myself being tractor-beamed back here. Was it fate?

After gawking for a while, I decided to stop bullshitting around, started strolling north up Ridgeway. I hoped Sting and Toker were around. On edge as I started edging up the street for I had heard this place was a war-zone. I didn’t know what to expect. Maybe that’s another reason I was checking this place out: I was an urban pirate looking for adventure.

Ridgeway had two basic sides, and I was on the east side. I was walking on an ordinary cement sidewalk: well-traveled, grime-coated. About a foot away on my right was the pharmacy’s side window followed up by a connected brick wall that was painted a dreary yellow. This yellow-brick-road went all the way down, about a hundred feet, until it ended at a nasty alleyway. This sidewall and the pharmacy-front were features of a larger picture: an apartment building.

Across the street to my left was a small, brown building that contained a dank Latin dance club for elder Spanish people. A spicy Cuban beat vibed out of the propped-open front door as a man broom-swept out dust particles. Like the pharmacy right across from it, the club also had a long brick wall that basically ran all the way down to the alleyway. The sides of these two worn buildings faced each other with narrow Ridgeway running between them. It felt like a blockade to a tiny fort as I passed through them.

Both sides of this city street ran into the same nasty alleyway. It interrupted Ridgeway like a railway because it ran across my path as I came up the street.

Reaching the alleyway I didn’t see a soul. I took a gander across the street at the aged Catholic Church and school. The entire parish presentation ran all the way up the entire street. Across from it, on the other side front where I was, were aligned houses and token apartment buildings that patron-faced the altar of the church and school.

My Spiderman senses started tingling. I became aware that there was a stocky stud standing in front of a small apartment building, the second structure from the alleyway. About 16 to 19 years old, he had thick, brown hair parted in the middle and a groomed mustache. As I passed on by him, I realized his blue eyes were staring at me scope-eyed. He must have been watching me the entire time as I strolled up the block in his direction. Standing there with his arms folded over, I could feel the weight of his stare. I noticed that the colors under his gray Dickies’-baggies were flash-sparklin’ Gaylords’ colors, black and light blue. These colors were weaved-up in his Converse, the Chuck Taylor style that most Chicago bangers dress-suited their feet in.

I was profiling Gaylords colors as well. As customary, I had taken my light blue Chuck Taylors and webbed black shoelaces in them. I wanted everyone to know that I was a Gaylord on sight. All the Gaylords wore either black-n-light blue together or black-n-gray. The light blue was also referred to as baby blue. As far as the difference of light blue or gray it just depended on what Gaylords’ outpost you were posted at.

Silently staring at me just seconds ago, he now was done. After checking me out, he slowly turned his head away, now looking the other direction. My colors must have been my password through his own personal security check. That moment between him and I was tense for we never said a word.

Proceeding onward up the concrete path, I spotted a slender, shapely, black haired girl. Sitting on the porch of a brick house, she was tight painted in white shorts, a white tank top and a tan. Relaxed and happy, her eyes were absorbing a book under summer’s sunlight. As I came up, she peeked up from her book and then down to the sidewalk, and she greeted me with a warm smile. What are you doing around here? she said in a soothing welcome.

I realized that we knew each other: she and I actually met weeks ago, chatted for a few seconds while I picked my friend up from Prosser school. Collected, I responded, I’m looking for some guys Sting and Toker. I was hoping she knew them.

Lynda started to come down off the cement porch to greet me cordially, face to face, as she answered back, I think they are by Ziggy’s. Thankfully she knew them, but I was a bit confused. I mean, I was familiar with a Gaylord called Ziggy, but I did‘t recall that he lived around here. So, I cooly cheeped, I don’t know where Ziggy lives. She giggled at me like I was a silly boy and said with a wide smile, No, Ziggy’s is a hotdog stand with a game room. Come on, I’ll take you there.

Lynda and I strolled up the sidewalk of Ridgeway and recollected the first day we met. Then, our chatter moved onto other people that we realized we both knew. We walked up Ridgeway, then made a right turn around the corner onto connecting Altgeld.

With exhilaration Lynda blurted out, We had a huge party last night around here. Lots of people came for the 4th of July. They had a small Rock band playing music on Ridgeway. Everyone was really drunk. It sounded like they had their own little, beer-kegged version of Firecracker 400 yesterday. I thought to myself, Shit, I missed it!

We passed an alleyway, another litter-lane. It ran across our path as we gradually made our way to Lawndale, the next block over. We, then, were at a corner where hundreds of Gaylords had trampled: Lawndale and Altgeld. These corners were rich in Gaylords history which could never be erased. It was a first-step moment for me.

The Lawndale and Altgeld Gaylords referred to their hood as L-A for short. They were spark-plugged by the Kilbourn Park Gaylords, fall 1969. At that time, Latino gangs were oncoming and the neighborhood guys needed a self-defense-system. They lab-experimented with the possibility of becoming different gangs; but, after Kilbourn Park paid them an impressive social visit one day, they made up their minds.

Lynda and I took Lawndale north up one block to Wrightwood Street. Lynda said, as we crossed this street, I hope someone is hanging out by Ziggy’s. It was a rough night.

I could see Ziggy’s now on the hood-horizon. Ziggy’s paltry name-sign was dangling from a bigger swirl-circled Pepsi sign. Ziggy’s vended Vienna hotdogs out of a blotchy, brown building; book shelved with other small businesses on the short shelf of the semi-busy street. As we got closer, my nose picked up the hotdogs and fries vapor.

Gaylords were liberty-statued in front of Ziggy’s. In this collective was a recognizable face: Toker. Surprised to see me, he aired, Hey, what’s up? What are you doing here?

I breathed easier now. I had not braved coming up here for nothing. I was relieved to see him and replied back grinningly, Just thought I’d check you guys out. Toker was over-combing his fine, brown hair with a Goody pocket comb, using a nearby parked-car window as a mirror. Under his well-groomed hair was a strong, bulldog-like face but still good looking to the females. Toker was about my height, five-eight, and thin.

Lynda went about toying around with a Gaylord who was sentried next to Ziggy’s; they were harmlessly punching each other in the arm. I watched them mindlessly for a few seconds. Then, my gaze drifted back to Toker. Toker went on to say, Man, you missed a big fuckin’ party last night by Ridgeway. There was lots of Gaylords there. Yeah, Lynda told me about it. I heard there was a bunch of you guys out there, I responded.

Out of Ziggy’s Pez-ish sized door popped a couple more Gaylords. The combined group started teasing Lynda about kissing up on some guy, Spade. I guess she got a little tipsy the night before, made a bit of a smoochy episode. Lynda enjoyingly blushed at the attention. After it died down though, she decided to take her leave. Her little mission of bringing me up here completed. Lynda walked up by me and informed me, I’ve got to get back to my house now. She purred a farewell to all and headed back.

Toker introduced me to Lil Magnum. Atop his short cavemanish build he had black curly hair and bright blue eyes on a slightly pimpled, boyish face. Sporting a few gold chains, neck-draped, he carried himself like a pimp daddy with a puffed chest. Lil Magnum hawk-eyed cars that streamed by on Wrightwood as we spoke. Then, he spat anxiously, We got to go to Ridgeway now. Do you want to come with?

I was intrigued and shot out, Sure. Lil Magnum, Toker and I were soon on our way down the same concrete path that Lynda and I had taken to the Ziggy’s earlier. We humped our way over the corners of Lawndale and Altgeld, and I found myself back on Ridgeway walking along the silent houses that were being sermonized by the church across the street.

A cluster of guys were gathering up by a dark brown building, where I had come across the guy who had scope-eyed me earlier. He was now within the cluster that was gathering up. It looked like this was all prearranged. Once Lil Magnum, Toker and I infused ourselves, I automatically recognized Sting: the guy who had shot me the invite to come up around here. Slick-grinned, he rushed over and shook my hand. What’s up?! he blurted. He looked ecstatic to see that I had come around and eased the newcomer anxiety that was festering in me a bit. From there I injected myself. I gave out my nickname, Rocker, as I shook hands with each of the all-star lineup. I expected stern looks from such a hard looking crowd, but it was all friendly smiles.

Lil Magnum’s bright-eyed older brother was here: styled out like the rest in Gaylords’ grandeur. He softly introduced himself as Spade. I recalled that was the name that they were teasing Lynda about by Ziggy’s, the guy she was supposedly smooching on last night. Shaggy black hair and a mustache adorned the face of Spade. He was cordial, with a distinctive laugh. His partner was the guy who had scope-eyed me when I first came down Ridgeway: Magician. Magician had that prince charming, above-everyone thing going on.

Another guy hanging around was Righty; brownish hair, sturdy jaw, very stocky build. Righty was jokingly throwing fake punches to those that stood around him and then blocking himself from any possible incoming rounds. A regular Rocky Balboa. Nobody was taking him up on it. Unsuitably, I had to say my nickname twice to Righty. He