Psst! Homie!: A Novel

By Alex Garcia

My Califa’s Rehab Rangers booking number is YA-65544; I will never forget it.
This is a first-hand narration of growing in the 1980’s and 1990’s around criminally infested streets of Los Diablos County, Califas. This autobiography describes a gang initiation, drug involvement, and twenty years of arrests for various low-level non-violent crimes.
It is an adventurous entourage through police precincts and juvenile hall institutions leading to Los Diablos’ dreadful Twin Titans Corrective Facilities, including Califa’s Rehab Rangers. Eventually, we will visit the ever-controversial Immigration and Child Endowments’ holding camps tossing out legal and illegal immigrants with lifetime deportations ignoring all American-raised families. Part memoir, part inspiration—total human institutionalization and dehumanization, uncut.
In addition, we will explore human life complexities within today’s state-of-the-art prisons and we will see men coping for survival with only their essential necessities to strive. Moreover, questions will abound about our innate free will, that is, are we indeed free from Big Brother? Is the separation of migrant families legal?
This story may also serve as an academic reference to our technical legality of incarceration—and once inside, what are our constitutions protecting prisoners’ rights, or should they have any legal protections whatsoever.
Indeed, we are forever cognizant that not everything under our sun is a ray of hope for every man; therefore, our daily challenge is to withhold those glorious constitutions that grant us universal liberty of choice. At our day’s end, literature is mind’s liberty.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Apr 26, 2020
• ISBN: 9781728359885

Alex Garcia

Alex Garcia lived thirty years in the United States of North America, was a high school dropout yet is a graduate of the Art Institute of California at Santa Monica with achievements in Liberal Arts. He is currently living in Honduras, Central America; his family still reside in the USA. He loves being outdoors—our beaches, mountain outings and traveling. Freedom. Alex has an addiction to chocolate cake, flavorful hot or iced coffee and reading. His humble dream is to rejoin his family, neighbors and teachers. This book is a follow-up to his first title, “The Nuthouse: A Rehab Story”; AuthorHouse (2008). He is passionate about helping people objectively regardless of their circumstances and prays that somewhere, somehow, someone will enjoy a laugh—or two, and find his or her meaning in our turbulent world.

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Copyright © 2020 Alex Garcia. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 04/24/2020

ISBN: 978-1-7283-5989-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-7283-5988-5 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2020907375

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

CONTENTS

In The Beginning

Our Homie

Boys, Interrupted

Lil Homies; Big Wounds

Noxs-Town

Sidewalk Univer-city

Camp Snoopy

Mister Dwight

A Judicial Cave

Aquarium Dictum

Bricks International

Fishtank Fever

Fishy Tails

Juvie Jumble

Prison Art

Chucky’s Craft

The Man’s Office

C.C.A’s Ways

Galactic Whirrs

Their Big Bad If

Flight Mode

A New Way Forward

Home Alone

Analysis of a Homie

Epilogue

Conclusion

Endnotes

To our

wonderful administration

at Centinela Valley Adult

School at Lawndale, Califas. My heartfelt homies.

IN THE BEGINNING

Homie n, (hō-mee): a contemporary slang term for dude, bro or homeboy, a friend or nigga-please. A 1990’s popular hip-hop group, Lighter Shade of Brown, defined it in their song title Homies as, Little traviesos [rascals] that are always into doing something bad acting like they did nothing. This lucid memoir is part knowledge, part exam, and delving into our ever-changing penitentiary mechanism. Precisely, a cage’s steely bars and its captive. As famed anthropologist Thomas Henry Huxley teaches, It is important to remember that, in strictness, there is no such thing as an uneducated man. (A Liberal Education)

And there was light.

We will begin our discovery journey at a Los Diablos County Youth Hall, then onto an unexpected merge of miscellaneous cultures in Twin Titans Corrective Facilities’ underworld. Afterward, a two-year prison sentence inside of Califa’s Rehab Rangers countered by a brief stint in Immigration and Naturalization’s Clearway Correctional Authorities. Its aftermath, a furtive deportation to Honduras, Central America, and yet one final arrest that encircled an allusive lesson.

They say that life is routine and needs a getting used to, for example, learning to walk, jog, sleep and to ride a bicycle. However, to get used to jail? If so, what are key ingredients to survive in danger-filled maximum-security territories?

This is my biography that sprung almost thirty years of recidivism through various corrective centers and although this narrative is antique, no one denies that prison text does not get old, people do. Furthermore, these testy exploits happen continuously and unexpectedly to average citizens in countries throughout our planet. Prisons will never become extinct; they only increase in numbers and harshness. Are our old maxims once in jail—always in jail; or, some people just never learn, true?

Prayerfully, be my guest; read on; enter.

OUR HOMIE

Our homeboy knows...

Lil Homie-don’t-you-know-me, this is a brief holler at yah from your forty-six-year-old uncle on a relaxed summer sunset. What is going on with you inside of that county jail? Cool, calm, and collecting stripes— gracious ones, hopefully. It has been over seven years from our last hug. I have been gone from our family for a good chunk of time but that is how humankind evolves inside and outside of our imaginary murals. Inspirit, right now, it is not so much about me—because I am reclined in my bedroom drinking a few beers, reminiscing at a portrait of our disassociated family that includes you at five years of age. Within this photograph, clearly visible is that it took significance in a front porch of an old Clayborne Elementary Faculty, Zeon Davis; our graduate wore a white gown and mortarboard cap.

A second colorful and jubilant picture is of your mother, your younger siblings, and you, lively embraced. At that moment you had just turned sixteen years young as we celebrated your birthday while we took advantage of our free Family Night tickets we had won on a raffle to sit at Chavas Chasm’s upper-deck last empty row to enjoy a miles’ off miniature baseball game without binoculars—Go Badgers!

Anyhow, your mom and I have not spoken in more than a year; however, our latest family rumor is that she stays in the Harbour Area with your two younger sisters. She drives, although a few miles at a time, in a discolored faulty Honda Civic with its muffler exploding black smoke clouds at every ignition and intersections - but it beats the can! Luckily, she has not received any costly tickets for accrued junkyard property, smog-check failures, expired tags or reckless driving for its wobbly hind rims, fake loose seat belts and broken taillights. Besides, little homie, I need not worry you any further as you can j-u-s-t imagine its overall rusted metal carcass that resembles Los Diablos’ Wyatts Towers—remember? Her wheeled Noah’s Arc has four slippery tires that look like watermelons and a weak creaking undercarriage with our family’s heftiness dismantling it even more; you know how we do it. On a positive angle, one key note, and that is that once this embarrassed casket falls apart, our food stamps cannot purchase even a pull-push go-kart. Let us thank our resplendent angels and legislators for social assistance.

Your ecclesiastical aunt prays for your blessings as she keeps in touch with your cousins, who live in Virginia, maybe four times a year via telephone and internet and they said Hi, and to take care, —of your soap! they joked. So, where are you keeping healthy? That is, I still do my twenty sit-ups, fifteen pushups, and two or three full pull-ups every now and then, here and there, yet a practical relief is a daily Yoga practice to hold a serene soul. A major maintenance component to aid one self’s liveliness and wholesomeness is to concentrate, inside or outside of our mesh pit.

November 6, 2016 as year-end festivities are near, happy holidays. My sincere wish is for this kite to reach you before new-years-day—and have a letter to feel cheer! A quick response from you will be marvelous and appreciated as I cross my fingers, God-first.

Okay holmes, as famous rapper 2-Pac sings, Keep Ya Head Up. Life withers, my bedtime has arrived as a radiant day awaits, and as this proverb goes, our sun always shines brighter outside. Everyone in Honduras, Central America.

Good luck lil homie.

BOYS, INTERRUPTED

Some of us congregate and stand or sit in front of an old-fashioned casket-like blurry television clamped in a corner of our enclosed empty dayroom to catch our evening news, awestruck, a lone sharp derisive juvenile delinquent warns, Darn-diddy-d-a-yemm! Iz a crazy world out-there. I showw-ammh glad I’m in here. A few more kids stand nearby; they gesture and laugh at invisible objects or persons.

A sub-city in an immense sandy dune: a canteen, medical clinic, laundry, a commissary and dining hall. Annexed to it is a sports and fitness gym, heck, even an isolated jail that we tagged the SHU Box, Solitary Housing Unit. Not that we are exempt from real-time outside decisions and responsibilities; a contrary expectancy progresses. We must search and acquire a job, be on time to do our duty, rarely see a doctor, maintain a decent hygiene schedule or attend a trade shop to undertake a technical trade.

In this remote area, one cannot relent to supernatural catastrophes such as mild earthquakes, dust tornadoes, thunderstorms and ferocious fires. We manage these phenomena with a handy fist-of-its-kind First-Aid kit as its tweezer, thermometer and surgical utensils are digital. Good gracious that some of us are technology savvy. We duplicate outside society with violence and deadly boxing duels; however, we are uncritical of any media hype in search of a Mafioso in a thrilled whodunit Owe-Jay syndrome or superfluous forensic investigative follow-ups.

Undeniably, we need not necessarily be insane to intercept ourselves in a psychiatric ward, blind to ignore, guilty of a crime to sit in a prison cell or be physically dead to feel and considered as such. In here, we are on our own, same as in their real free divisions. Congrats! We made it. Welcome.

LIL HOMIES; BIG WOUNDS

The family, or as Latin actors lusciously say in films, la familia. At six this morning, off to the big homies Academy’s Resource Center—which is routine, to study in there every Saturday from seven until lights-out at noon. Its resource center is superbly quiet as our aged homie is usually alone with a couple librarians and their full service on subject matters and, in turn, they are utmost helpful.

At one p.m., already at home and awaiting a soccer match to start on their giant screen television when an unsuspected sluggishness lassoed his body, therefore, took a nap and woke up close to four o’clock and missed his event. Nevertheless, coming up at five is one more sought-after game that promises to be of interest so his meantime plan is to ride a bicycle to a nearby track and jog for about an hour. However, as he left, a nine-year-old girl entered his house in wild screams and panted so he asked her, why are you crying? Her hands trembled as she pointed to her twin brother of ten years of age who trailed.

This kid stopped his fright at the door as he sobbed and held a wrapped chunk of ice on his inflated face so his big homie asked about it. He did not answer. Hastily, out of nowhere, a neighborly child butted in, said that his dad was angry, and punched him. Blood boiled as their old homies’ anger overpassed and blanketed logic and reason as he rushed to their backyard to inquire about what really occurred and, as always, found their same druggie involved in their latest intense domestic dispute with his go-to wife, and as a result, pounded their young homie’s face.

La familia, discussed angrily again as they threw brooms, mops, and gardening tools around amidst their barbecue area and yelled across themselves—as everyone was eager to get close to their scumbag to get a wad of him. Amidst their turmoil, a neighbor dialed 9-1-1, causing on their perpetrator a cause to escape and this thought increased their desperate attempt to reconcile especially to save the sobbing kid from foster care. Within their commotions, a group of neighbors had quickly gathered and stood next to their gate as their creep started to run as he tried tackling maneuvers to get away from them but they mobbed his arms and held him tight until the cops arrived or else he would flee. Somehow, they calmed, their chaos under control, everyone taking a deep breath, and their thug broke free.

Now, one of our little homies’ family members gave chase and pulled their runaway creep by the back of his shirt collar as hatred and violence resurged like a boil of lava. Shut up! They screamed at him as they held him and listened for just one more expletive to use as an excuse to rush him full-fisted. It seemed like an overdue beating to serve their two Akitas recompense for his nightly punts at these dogs