Castles in the Point

By Al Bruno

The Point, produce and food distribution epicenter to New York, New Jersey, and Connecticut

The Point, prostitution, drugs, drag racing, murder

The Point, home of Jessica Melendez

Faced with personal tragedy, a younger brother with a learning disability, and an older brother mixed up with a local drug dealer, seventeen-year old Jessica struggles to maintain family values and scholastic dreams in a vortex of corruption and deceit. And just when she finds the love that has eluded her, her life is once again tossed into a tailspin as she discovers that there exists no happiness without sacrifice.

Follow the exploits of a young Hispanic female growing up in the Hunts Point section of the Bronx, New York, as she fights for survival in a ruthless world seething with vile characters at every corner. Love, hate, anger, happiness, laughter, sadness, despair, hope, Castles in the Point has it all.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Sep 30, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465371881

Al Bruno

Al Bruno has been teaching English in New York City for over fourteen years. Among his hobbies are cooking, fishing, martial arts, bowhunting, traveling, and hiking. He is currently working on his Master’s in Divinity and is an active member of United Chaplains State of New York.

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Copyright © 2011 by Al Bruno.

Library of Congress Control Number:       2011917412

ISBN:         Hardcover                               978-1-4653-7187-4

                   Softcover                                 978-1-4653-7186-7

                   Ebook                                      978-1-4653-7188-1

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

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Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Epilogue

Dedicated to:

As always, Mom and Dad;

My wife Yolanda, and wonderful son Nicholas;

Miriam, Ivelesse, Sara, Ferdinand, John, Frank, Carlos;

Christopher, Jason, Albert, and Michael;

Genesis, Abel, Matthew, and Victor El Bebo;

Relson Gracie Jiu Jitsu Academy, Bronx, New York; and

San Yama Bushi Judo Club, New Rochelle, New York.

Special thanks to:

Yaritza Diaz, whose charm and beauty are portrayed on the cover and

interior, and breathed life into the main character;

Anny Campos, who captured the essence of my vision with

eloquence and passion through her lens;

Chris Drew, my eccentric alter ego who not only tolerates my

sporadic psychosis, but also assisted with production;

Rafael Otero, the Michelangelo who finalized the cover with a

stroke of his magical pen (and mouse); and my sister Ivette for

lending me her car to travel to Queens.

We cast away priceless time in dreams,

born of imagination, fed upon

illusion, and put to death by reality.

—Judy Garland (1922-1969)

Prologue

Despite the negative stigma surrounding the Hunts Point area of the Bronx that dates back to the 1970s, there was a time when extravagant mansions, sprawling estates, rich farmland, hundreds of acres of virgin wilderness, and stretches of unadulterated sandy beaches characterized the Hunts Point peninsula in the latter part of the 1800s. It was the perfect retreat for those who sought relief from the stressful life of the city. That all changed, however, with the introduction of public transportation in the Bronx by the late nineteenth century. Antiquated horse-drawn street cars were replaced by elevated railways. Eventually, more modern subway systems linked Manhattan to the Bronx by 1904. By the end of World War I, the Bronx underwent a brisk growth as extensions to the NYC Subway system enabled thousands of people—mainly immigrants—to flood the Bronx, resulting in a major upsurge in residential construction. The once-secluded getaway was now accessible to all New Yorkers. More roads were built, communities were engulfed with heavy traffic, mansions were displaced by apartment buildings, and the elite were replaced by a new ethnically diverse contingency that wasted no time in tarnishing the once-sublime area of the Big Apple.

The area became notorious for arson, while dozens of abandoned buildings and vacant lots were turned into dumping grounds. Prostitution, drag racing, drug trafficking, and cars set afire after having been stripped were among the many festivities that took place on a nightly basis in this urban wasteland.

While the nightlife claimed a majority of the notoriety at the Point, businesses seized the opportunity to purchase and build upon vacant lots. Dilapidated warehouses were restored, gradually transforming the barren wasteland into a major distribution center for the tristate area that accounted for the parceling of up to 50 percent of the meat and 80 percent of the produce delivered. The window for drag racing diminished as a heavy influx of tractor trailers flooded the streets at all hours. Besides produce, commercial trucks delivered everything from automobile parts to gasoline.

Hunts Point was designated an In-Place-Industrial Park in 1980, restoring a degree of dignity to its name. In 1994, further accolades were obtained as it received the title of a New York State Economic Development Zone as well as a Federal Empowerment Zone; this attracted more businesses and workers.

During the latter part of the 1990s, efforts to clean up the Point were launched. Increased police activity and building renovation programs put a dent into prostitution and practically did away with racing altogether. Banks swarmed in to acquire million-dollar payrolls. Street vendors quadrupled, selling everything from alcapurrias and bacalaitos (two types of Spanish fritters) to rice and beans and barbecued-chicken sandwiches. Auto repair shops sprang up on every street corner like crabgrass. A few other businesses like the famous Valencia Bakery on Edgewater Road and the infamous strip club AL’s Mr. Wedge on Hunts Point Avenue became landmarks. Sprinkle in used-auto parts depots, diners, a couple of schools, and check-cashing places and the Point became a self-sustained microcosm of everything America has to offer from sex and drugs to employment opportunities, education, and pastries.

Today, the Point remains one of the hot spots in the city. It is in all actuality an epitome of the cliché endemic to New York: the city that never sleeps.

Many dreams are born, nurtured, talked about, but never actualized at the Point. It is an island unto itself, separated from civilization by the Bruckner Expressway, which serves as a line of demarcation. There are no bars, cell blocks, or concertina wire keeping the inhabitants at bay and prohibiting dreams from materializing, but some may say an invisible moat exists teeming with despair. Many have tried to swim across, few have actually made it. Those who succeed in escaping are worn out by the Herculean effort it takes to break free from the manacles of the Point. Thus, for every successful defection there exist hundreds of failures.

Chapter 1

It had been an unusually hot May as temperatures had remained above eighty-five degrees for several days in New York City. Summer had barged in ahead of schedule with a couple of months remaining of school, hurling already antsy students into an early frenzy. People gradually took to the streets like ants emerging from a long winter’s rest. And in the Hunts Point area of the Bronx notorious for its elaborate history of debauchery, life teemed with a surplus of energy that had accumulated over the winter months.

Children congregated around a fire hydrant, taking turns in cupping their hands together over the iron mouth, distorting the horizontal geyser, dividing it in half. Their hands bounced from the pressure as they attempted to place a muzzle on the iron-forged, water-breathing dragon. They laughed, danced, and chased one another into the street, parting only when vehicles approached. Cars slowed down, rolled up their windows, and proceeded at a crawl to get a free car wash. Water pounded the metal and every car that passed presented itself as a new target. At times a hubcap would come loose from the impact of the water, and side-view mirrors would have to be readjusted once the vehicle came into the clear. Kids would often slap the car repeatedly before once again huddling in the middle of the street, shoving each other, dragging either an already-wet victim or some other kid that had just exited the building to check out the action.

A group of four old timers—los viejos, as they are often referred to in Spanish neighborhoods—sat around a square table, fanning themselves with morning editions of the Daily News while playing dominoes. They were dressed in their usual attire: dress pants, socks, and shoes; belts; sleeveless T-shirts; guayaberas (a light, open-necked cotton shirt with four large pockets, pleats, and embroidery down the front whose origins range from Cuba, Mexico, Spain, and even Thailand, no one is sure); gold chains with or without crosses; gold bracelets; and straw hats. Two of the men had hair running down their arms like gnarly twisted rug fibers of a car floor mat, complemented by a forest of white and black hair sprouting from their chests. All of them had hair peeking from their nostrils and ears like tiny bonsai trees.

There was little talk among the four, except when a capi-ku (a Spanish term used in dominoes when the game can be won by a domino that can be placed at either end because its numbers match the numbers on the two end dominoes); or a chuchaso, in which the numberless or double-zero domino is released as the last domino to win the game.

"Chuchaso!" yelled Gustavo as he slammed the domino on the table, causing the other dominoes to jump. He high-fived his partner, Manolin, across the table.

"Karajo," Marcelo yelled as he threw his last two dominos on the table.

You buy now, compadre, Gustavo said. And make sure the beer is cold this time. He leaned back, took off his hat, wiped his forehead, and fanned himself with the hat while Marcelo pushed off the table for a beer run. "This heat esta cabron."

You think the Mets gotta chance this year? Emilio, one of the men who had lost, asked Gustavo while pointing at the back page.

Gustavo stopped fanning himself, stared at the back page, pursed his lips, and shrugged his shoulders. He turned as somebody yelled. A kid had fallen, scraped his knee, hobbled across to lean on a car, surveyed the damage, rubbed the blood off with water, tested his leg for sturdiness, and then ran back out to the middle of the street.

Damn kids is made out of rubber. Gustavo touched his own knee, stretched his leg, and nodded in the direction of the kid. That happen to me, two weeks in hospital.

Maybe they need to trade, Emilio pressed on, aware that Gustavo, a passionate Mets fan since he could remember, resented hearing any disparaging comments about his team when they were losing, which seemed to have become customary during the past years. When they won two or three games in a row, he would predict they would reach the World Series. When they lost, well, he’d rather not talk about it. But Emilio, who had grown up watching Yogi Berra and Mickey Mantle, ate, breathed, and had blue pinstripes for veins. He didn’t comment much when the Bronx Bombers struggled during the ‘80s and neither did Gustavo, except for that shining moment in ‘86 that made a hero out of Bill Buckner in New York and a scourge of God in Boston. The ‘90s, however, breathed new life into Emilio as the Yankees brought back baseball’s most-sought-after trophy back to the Bronx three times, one of which was against Gustavo’s Mets in 2000; everybody kept their distance from Gustavo for over a month. Emilio watched the kids as they tussled over who would spray the oncoming car.

Maybe. I don’t know. We’ll see. Gustavo disregarded Emilio’s questions and glanced at his watch. What’s taking this guy so long?

Emilio smiled and dropped the subject while Marcelo boxed up the dominoes. They sat in silence either from the lack of any new topics of discussion—they had probably exhausted every one during the last twenty years—or it was too damn hot to waste saliva. The beer finally arrived.

Salud, Marcelo proposed. To what, they did not say. They enjoyed their beers in silence, savoring the coolness as it raced down their throats. The sounds of whistles, honking, and catcalls interrupted their repose.

"Oye mami, tu esta buena."

"To eso es tuyo?"

Damn, baby! It’s you, me, and that ass.

Gustavo craned his head and caught a glimpse of the cause of all the commotion.

Her name was Jessica Melendez. She was seventeen with a body going on twenty-eight. Her dark brown hair swung effortlessly like a silky pendulum all the way down to her lower back. She wore a loose, purple tank top with the word Angel scribbled in black, and a white denim skirt with a slit on one side that revealed just enough thigh to cause the four-car pileup by the hydrant. Men stopped to admire the Hispanic Venus. Several homeboys in pimped out rides, each brandishing his own set of pickup lines, deafening music, and cool poses behind the steering wheel fought to get her attention; one leaned halfway out his car and stuck his tongue out like a chameleon. Jessica ignored the mating calls, moving closer to the buildings and around the back of the group of children playing at the fire hydrant. She was safe behind the sunglasses. In one hand she carried a plastic bag, and in the other a copy of The House of Mirth, which she gripped tighter while evading the caravan of pulsating testosterone. She had been working on a paper about feminism and had chosen the character of Lily Bart by which to formulate her argument. I sure hope my options will not be as limited.

Gustavo watched as the young lady crossed the street in supple strides that highlighted an exquisitely proportioned curvature accented by plenteous hips. He took another sip of beer and watched as Emilio stole one too many glances at her. He would pretend to be scratching his foot or raising his socks only to steal furtive looks at the approaching siren. Gustavo nudged him with his knee.

Hey.

Emilio turned his head.

"Respeta, hombre. That’s my granddaughter." Gustavo shot a menacing stare at Emilio.

"Que pasa, man? What you talking about?" Emilio attempted to conceal his culpability through a mild act of bravery.

Don’t gimmee that shit. You know what I’m talking about. Gustavo drained his beer, took out a handkerchief, dabbed his forehead, and wiped his mouth. The girl was about twenty feet away. He placed the newspaper on the table and leaned toward Emilio. "I know you gonna look, okay? I know that. Don’t do it in front of me, comprende?" The girl approached the table and smiled. Gustavo got up.

"Bendicion, Papa." Jessica gave Gustavo a kiss on the cheek followed by a hug.

"Dios te acompane. Hola, princesa mia. He smelled the sweet aroma of coconut in her hair before holding her at arm’s length. What are you doing here so early?"

Jessica smiled a sweet hello to the other three men. Emilio merely nodded and looked away. She turned back to Gustavo.

We had a half-a-day. She looked over Gustavo’s shoulder and down the street. "I’m going to bring Papi some food. She waved the bag. I made some pastelillos and alcapurrias. And"—she reached inside the bag and pulled out a bacalaito—for you.

Mmmm. He took a bite and closed his eyes. "Muy bien. Myrta is teaching you well. She can cook. He took another bite. Ernesto should be in. Vete, go on."

Jessica waved good-bye to the men. Manolin and Marcelo were busy comparing scores. Emilio, however, looked up inconspicuously, beginning at her hips, tracing her silhouette until he reached her face and smiled. Jessica felt his eyes probing her body. She smiled weakly and turned toward her grandfather.

I’ll see you later, Papa.

"Okay, mi hijita. Be careful. What time you gonna be home? Don’t get home too late. Necessitas dinero? You got enough money? Where you going?"

Nowhere. I’m just going to drop the food off to Papi and go home to wait for Gabriel. She started to walk then stopped and turned around. Oh, and I have to stop by the library. I’ll take Gabriel with me. Gabriel was Jessica’s little brother and Gustavo’s youngest grandson. He was five years old and had been diagnosed three years ago as being mildly autistic.

During the first year and a half, Gabriel appeared to be a normal baby until he neared the age of two. It was then that Ernesto, Jessica’s father, became concerned about his son’s limited language. Instead of compiling a working vocabulary, Gabriel seemed to regress, communicating through a combination of pantomime and grunts and groans rather than speech.

One day just before Christmas, Gabriel came down with a flu. Ernesto had Jessica leave school early to pick up her little brother from school and meet him at the hospital. After Gabriel had been examined, Ernesto told the doctor about his son’s lack of speech along with increasing temper tantrums and abnormal behavior, which included placing objects in order, fascination with spinning objects, and flapping of the hands. The doctor recommended the Kennedy Center at Jacobi Medical Center. A month later, Gabriel underwent a battery of tests that measured sensory motor and cognitive skills, problem-solving, and a host of other basic tasks that a normal two-year-old would be expected to carry out. After the last examination, Ernesto had to wait another month for the results. Jessica accompanied him to the afternoon meeting. Ernesto left half-an-hour early from work with Jessica who had been waiting outside the garage with Gabriel and concern in her eyes. You okay? she had asked. Yeah, mama, he had responded, but his smile did not fool her.

They arrived at the center and were escorted into a room filled with children’s worktables that contained an assortment of colored blocks, dolls, plastic tools, puzzles, stuffed animals, cars, and an abacus, among other things. The room was cool and deafly silent. Jessica pointed at a poster of a child reaching up at his mother. He was smiling, yet his eyes were somewhat distorted. The caption underneath read, Autism: It Affects Everybody. At the time, Jessica did not know what autism was, but she placed Gabriel in the picture. She cringed, swallowing the lump in her throat while suppressing tears. Her father had seen her fidgeting and asked if she was okay. Yes, she lied.

Ten minutes later, four doctors came in and introduced themselves. They began to explain the results of the examinations, and although Ernesto only possessed a high school diploma, he didn’t have to be familiar with all the fancy words to realize that something was wrong.

The next half-hour was comparable to having lost his wife, Gina. He remembered the anguish, hopelessness, and fear that swept over him the night the police came to his house and informed him that they had discovered his wife’s body at the pedestrian bridge on Bryant and Garrison that connects the Point to Bruckner Boulevard. His legs had failed him; the two detectives had to help him to his feet and carry him to the sofa where he collapsed a broken man. Jessica had burst from her room and joined in with her own hysteria—crying, screaming, and shouting No, no, no! at the top of her lungs. Papa Gustavo had had to restrain his granddaughter in a bear hug before she curled into a fetal position, the rug underneath her face becoming damp with tears. And it was this same trio of emotions that he was experiencing at this very moment, bracing himself on the chair and leaning back as the voices around him became garbled.

So what are you trying to say? That my son is retarded? What’s this about a learning disability? He paused momentarily to catch his breath and looked at Jessica who stared at the floor. Tears ran down her cheeks and hung on her chin for a moment before falling silently in tandem as more tears raced to take their place. He sighed and looked at the spot where the tears had formed a small puddle. Will he talk? The response he had been given began with, Studies with children suffering from this disorder… He brought up a hand and cut them off. Just tell me. The doctors stated that with the proper treatment, meaning schooling and early intervention programs, Gabriel’s chances of growing up to be a normal child—although Ernesto had already formulated in his mind that his son would never be normal—increased tremendously. By this time Jessica wept openly. The doctors attempted to soothe the situation by pointing out that many children who suffered from autism grew up to be college graduates and went on to become viable members of society, but Jessica did not seem to hear. Her mind had stopped registering anything else that was said after the word normal. The meeting had concluded with condolences, distribution of reading material along with copies of the results of the evaluation as well as business cards from all four doctors, and a list of special schools for children with learning disabilities that Ernesto should visit. He left the center with one arm around Jessica and the other holding Gabriel.

That night, neither of the two ate or said much. Papa Gustavo, Ernesto’s father, had picked up some cuchifritos on the way home. Ernesto and Jessica each took an alcapurria, nibbled on it, and left the rest.

"Que pasa aqui? he had asked while chewing. Ernesto? You okay? He turned to his granddaughter. Mamita, todo esta bien? By now he had finished eating and dabbed at the corners of his mouth with his handkerchief. Que paso? What they tell you at the meeting, eh? Ernesto recounted what the doctors had stated while Jessica cried. A ghostly silence fell upon the three as Ernesto concluded his report. Gustavo picked his teeth with his fingernail and looked toward Gabriel’s room. He lowered his eyes and asked if anybody wanted the remaining alcapurrias. Ernesto placed a hand over his brow and shut his eyes. Jessica stared at a family picture on the wall. Gustavo packed up the food and disappeared into the kitchen. When he came out he was jingling change in his pockets. He looked at his son and granddaughter then at the clock. Es tarde. You two better get some sleep." He disappeared in his room and closed the door.

That night Jessica was awakened by a nightmare. She stared into the darkness and sighed. On her way to the bathroom, she heard someone crying. She tiptoed over to her grandfather’s room and pressed an ear to the door. The muffled cries pierced her heart. She stepped back and hurried over to the bathroom where she buried her face in a towel to muffle her own cries.

Jessica walked to her father’s garage, glancing over at the graffiti murals that decorated the walls on both sides of the streets. Each one displayed a mixture of superb artistic talent wasted on walls that would eventually be painted over as neighborhoods periodically launched some sort of Operation Clean-up to beautify the surroundings. For now, they served as tombstones for those whose lives had been cut short at the Point. Much like the crosses on the banks of the border between East and West Berlin, these ghetto tombstones were becoming more and more familiar and frequent. On the far side of the street, there was a piece with four tombstones beautifully painted amidst a sea of eloquent graffiti. It seemed that every time she strolled down these streets, a new name had been added.

R.I.P. Chuito—May U Find Peace in El Todopoderoso

R.I.P. Papo—From Your Homeboys: Keep it Real

R.I.P. Felipe El Gato Nunez: Peace & Love, My Nigga

R.I.P. Tata—La Chula del Vecindario

Jessica had grown up with Chuito, Felipe El Gato Nunez, and Tata. She had gone to school with Tata. Chuito and Felipe had been gunned down at the strip on Edgewater Road after a dispute arose during a drag race. Chuito was sixteen and Felipe nineteen. Tata had been addicted to partying; it was in her blood. Wherever there was a party, so was Tata. She would have attended a bar mitzvah had she been invited. The rumor had it that over two dozen boys knew Tata.

When she became pregnant for the first time, a raffle was held to find the father. Once the child was born, she had tried to collect money from a father, any father; but after six guys came up negative on DNA tests, she called off the search. The child had ended up in a foster home after Tata’s grandmother, who at the start had assumed responsibility for the infant, suffered a massive heart attack.

Tata knew every major underground hangout in the Bronx and was so well-known that one could not walk ten paces alongside Tata without her stopping to high-five or hug one of her homeboys or homegirls. It was this ardent fervor, this obsession with wanting to out party the entire East Coast that eventually led to her demise.

While Jessica graduated from eighth grade with honors, Tata dropped out. She and Jessica would bump into each other regularly since they lived only a building apart, and she was constantly inviting Jessica to all sorts of festivities, be it a party or just to hang out in front of the building. After about a year, Jessica saw less and less of Tata. One afternoon as she was walking to the grocery store with Gabriel, she ran into her just after finishing the tenth grade.

Hey, girl? Yo, you don’t remember nobody?

Excuse me? Jessica stopped to jog her memory, looking up and down at the bloated mass with crimson red hair, black lipstick, and numerous face piercings. Tata? Oh my god. What, what happened to you?

Nothing, mama. Just chilling, you know. Tata spat on the ground before taking a drag of her cigarette. Just got up.

Are you sick? Jessica looked at her watch. It was 3:47 p.m. You didn’t go to school?

Nah girl. Tata hesitated then blurted everything out with a combination of ghetto pantomime. That shit ain’t for me. I’m taking a break, ya know. She scratched her head. I’ma go back, ya know, maybe next year. She smiled and then went into a tirade about her latest endeavors. Yo, mama, she paused to cover her