EXCERPTS FROM BOOK "THE STREET GYPSIES" (Chicago)
Reply to: glendell_60445@yahoo.com
Date: 2008-05-08, 3:31PM CDT
CHAPTER 1
HUSTLER’S PARADISE
In 1975 on the northside of Chicago in the heart of Uptown stood the notorious Malden Arms. 4727 North Malden. It stood ominously among the two and three-flat apartment buildings near Lawrence Avenue in this adventurous neighborhood; a drab apartment-hotel that was a haven to various colorful street characters in the area such as; Big Red, Flukie, Motic, Saheeve and Patch-eye Slim who were the more notable in a society of free spirits---street hustlers extraordinaire; dope dealers, gamblers, pimps, prostitutes, thieves and con artists who lived in the “Arms” as it was called, with some of the down-trodden who were not hustlers; just poor souls trying to survive. Most all of them, the hustlers and non-hustlers alike, paid their rent with money from social security, disability or general assistance checks. These street hustlers lived for the exhilaration of high-risk hustling and getting high----the game was religion and the streets were church. They were urban nomads, living from place-to-place like gypsies----they were Street Gypsies. The life was fast and hard. The hatching of nefarious hustling schemes was the order of the day----running game. Success was paramount for survival. Jail and death were all part of the life.
Jack Rollins was an impetuous, whimsical street hustler. He was intelligent, loyal and generous. He was defiant and somewhat unconventional; even for the crazy life he was living. In spite of his recklessness and thievery, there was a good heart. Jack, for all of the cunning and savvy that he had gained in his few years on the streets, was sometimes just as naïve; perhaps, because he was not capable of the viciousness that some of his fellow hustlers were. He had seen some set up their so-called friends to be robbed just to get a hit of dope. He had seen others taken in out of the cold only to steal from those who had sheltered them. He had seen men try to steal their friend’s woman while the friend was in jail. Jack was well aware of how things went in the streets and he was no saint himself. He had committed his share of gratuitous wrongs. But, he seemed to operate out of his own set of principles and codes of decency. He could not muster up very much cruelty, even when urged on by others. Jack refused to cross the line into absolute depravity. His mission seemed more rooted in survival.
1975 was a wild year in Uptown for Jack Rollins. He had moved into the Malden Arms during the Fall, more than a year after losing his job. The apartments were small kitchenettes with a stove, bed, bathroom and closet.
At the beginning of last year, there had been many problems at the State Office of Employment Security. People’s unemployment compensation checks had been held up for months. No one was receiving them. There was a near-riot at a downtown unemployment office where Jack had gone. People were standing on top of tables. Jack remembered a man standing on top of a table and shouting “I want to get hold of a supervisor!” Jack finally began to receive his unemployment checks in the spring last year. But, after a year, it had run out without him finding another job. Soon, Jack had no money and nowhere to stay. He had lived in the streets, literally, for most of the summer this year because he had gotten evicted out of his bachelor apartment at 4848 North Winthrop; a more civilized venue suitable for family living where he had first moved into Uptown. Finally, after several trips during the late summer to the aid office, he had gotten a steady monthly check coming so he could have the apartment at the Arms. He tried to settle into the kitchenette apartment as best he could with very little money. He had gotten that first big check from the aid office and after paying the rent, went on a get-high spree that left him broke, as usual. But, this was the usual routine. It was the way Jack and all of the other street hustlers lived; from day-to-day; moment-to-moment; the future and the past meant nothing; right now was all that mattered.
Jack was able to retrieve clothes he left at his friend “Willie the Weep’s” room at the YMCA on Hermitage and Wilson and take them back to The Arms. The clothes had been there since the middle of Spring because Jack had nowhere else to keep them. Besides, The Weep was his drinking buddy and they had shared many a day hustling for drinks together. Weep even sneaked Jack in to crash in his room a few times.v
It was a sunny day in late September, 1975. Jack slept most of the day after another wild night of drinking. He finally woke up, showered and dressed. He locked his door and left his apartment at about 5:30pm. He was walking down the hall, heading for the stairwell when an elderly man with a cane passed him on his left heading in the opposite direction. Two men who seemed to be together passed him, as well, going in the same direction behind the old man. As Jack neared the stairwell, he could hear dialogue between the old man and the two men. “Hey, Marty…how ya’ doin’?” Jack could hear one of the men say to the elderly man just before he pulled the stairwell door open to walk down. Jack could hear the old man saying something just as he entered the stairwell. When Jack reached the lobby, he walked over to the public phone in the far right corner.
When the hustling was not so good and he was broke, Jack would ask Pretty Willie to front him some dope to sell. In the past, he had gotten small amounts of heroin on consignment from him. This was something that Jack preferred not to do. He did not like the haggling with the dope-fiend clientele or the risk of getting stuck-up. He only asked for small amounts of the good heroin that Pretty Willie would have so that he could sell it quickly and make a small profit by stretching it slightly. He would pay Pretty Willie back after selling out. Pretty Willie knew that Jack was a good hustler so, he fronted him. Jack knew that it took a while before the word would spread about anyone who was working alone selling dope out on the streets; and it was usually not long afterward that they would be stuck up. So, he would have sold those small amounts of heroin too quickly for the stickup artists to draw a bead on him. For these reasons, selling dope was a last resort and he did it only once in a great while.
He was calling Pretty Willie now so that he could front him again. “Hello” a male voice greeted on the phone. “Hey…who is this?” Jack asked. “This L’il Jake”...who you want?” the voice replied. “Hey, man….I need to holla’ at Pretty Willie” Jack said. “He ain’t here…he won’t be back until later on” L’il Jake replied. “How much later, man?” Jack asked, as he began to feel a little bit of frustration from what L’il Jake had said. L’il Jake began saying something on the phone to Jack when, suddenly, Jack felt a tug at the elbow of his sport jacket. It startled him somewhat and interrupted his listening to L’il Jake. “Here ya’ go, bro’” a man’s voice said. Jack turned around to see that it was one of the two men he had just seen not more than a few minutes ago in the third floor hallway. “Hey, check this, man,”...“bro-man, check this here!” the gritty looking character said to Jack while his partner stood behind him several feet away. Jack thought they wanted to buy dope from him; perhaps, sent by some of the fiends he had sold heroin to in the Arms recently. “I don’t have nothin’, man!” Jack said as he turned back around to continue his phone conversation. “Bro’…bro’….check this, man…look!” the man insisted as he tugged at Jack’s sleeve once again. “Hold it a minute, L’il Jake” Jack said into the phone as he turned around with an annoyed expression to face the man. “Hey, bro’…this yours” the man said as he nudged Jack’s elbow with his hand. Jack looked down to see a crisp twenty dollar bill half-folded in the man’s hand. “I know you seen that” the man said. Jack paused with the phone in his hand, puzzled at what was going on. Seeing that Jack was hesitating, the man grabbed his left hand and forced the twenty dollar bill into it. “You alright, bro’”…you didn’t see nothin’…okay?” The man said to Jack as he backed away and turned to his buddy. “He’s cool, man....let’s ride!” the stranger said. With that, they both walked out of the front entrance in a hurry looking wild-eyed, anxious and suspicious. Jack just stood dazed as he watched the two men disappear through the front entrance door. “I don’t know what kinda’ bullshit is goin’ on” he thought “but this shit is alright whenever you can get paid for just standin’ around” He snapped out of his daze as the voice could be heard on the phone. “Hey, guy...hey, guy” L’il Jake’s voice repeated over the phone. ”Aw…hey, L’il Jake…I’ll try to catch Pretty Willie a little later” Jack said still somewhat mystified by the incident that had just occurred while he gazed at the new twenty dollar bill in his hand.
He hung the phone up and decided he would head over to the poolroom on the corner of Lawrence and Winthrop and cop a taste at Saxony Liquors on the way there. When Jack stopped at Saxony, the owner, “Nick the Greek” was waiting on customers.
“Pint ‘o Dimitri’, Nick” Jack said, smiling as he gave the crisp new twenty a spirited slap across the palm of one hand as he held it in the other. Jack had counted his money when he woke up this morning. He had $3.27 in his pocket. He was just happy to have lucked up on the twenty dollars. He didn’t know why he received it. But, he was not going to “look a gift horse in the mouth” He really didn’t give a damn what the reason was. He would just buy the drink and forget about it. He decided that he would sit in the poolroom and nurse the drink he bought and hang around and see what was happening out in the streets. It just seemed like something good always came his way when he was high and his inhibitions were non-existent.
On an average day, he would just hang around the poolroom hanging out with any of the regulars who happened to be around. They would usually ante-up on one drink after another; a fifth of “Rose” or a half or whole pint of cheap vodka, depending on how much change they could scrape up. No one worked. Most everyone hustled. This was the life that so many of them had fallen into. Working a steady job for these Street Gypsies never even came to mind. It was so far out of the realm of how they lived; stealing, conning, lying and cheating was the rule. Most of them had a regular general assistance, social security, disability or some other check coming in steadily to keep a place to stay. The check paid the rent and they hustled for everything else. A hustler could make it as long as he had a place. If he didn’t have his own place, he had to “carry a stick” which made his life much harder because he would have to scuffle to survive in the streets with nowhere to stay. Otherwise, he would have to find someone who would let him stay with them. Then, he would have to live by their rules. A Street Gypsy’s life was not an easy one. But, was the way he or she chose to live. It was complete freedom of the mind, body and spirit. You did whatever you wanted. You kept your own hours of how late you stayed up and when you went to bed. You spoke a language that only street hustlers understood. You lived in a society of undesirables and misfits; everything centered on getting high and hustling for a living; you ran a lot of risk living this way; you had to deal with the plain clothes, plain car detectives known to Street Gypsies as “The Slick Boys” These cops were always hassling Street Gypsies on the streets with stops and searches; sooner or later a Street Gypsy made enemies in the streets; usually over money or drugs; they found themselves taking all kinds of risks trying to hustle. Street Gypsies did retail boosting; selling drugs; break-ins; conning and most anything elsethey could get away with to make money.
Good things happened sometimes when they were high. But, other times the worst things would happen, too. Sometimes, the street life was fatal; like the time the Jamaican hustler, Raul was chased by the police and died from falling on the third rail at the Wilson Street elevated train tracks. He got himself good and high and busted out a retail display window on the street and stole merchandise right out of the window. He was feeling so good from his high, until he didn’t even run---he just walked as he looked for a place to hide. But, the police started chasing him before he got there. He tried to escape by running along the L tracks and slipped and fell on the third rail where he was electrocuted.
Jack paid “Nick the Greek” for the pint of vodka and continued eastward on Lawrence Avenue toward the Aragon Poolroom He passed the entrance of the Aragon Ballroom where there was a lot of activity going on inside in preparation for the next big music concert that was advertised on the huge marquee that hung over the entranceway. “Journey Sept 24-25” it read in big letters outlined by the flashing bulbs that could be seen from far away. He passed the A&W burger joint next door to the poolroom that was owned and operated by one his fences, John and his wife Marcie. It was Friday and already the hustle and bustle of the crowd that got off work the earliest had begun to fill up the small carry-out restaurant. On Fridays, people usually had more money and most ate out or just picked up something on the way home. The sound of frying burgers and the smells of the restaurant food wafting out to the street were so familiar to Jack. He began to get that feeling of anticipation and excitement that he always got on days like this. Especially in the late-afternoon, early evenings on the weekends when the sun was going down and turning orange with its mild glare that cast over the streets; bringing a feeling of exuberance that made him feel even more
alive.
This was Jack’s paradise; this corner; this street and everything that went on around it. This was where and how he lived and hustled--his “hustler’s paradise” He walked up to the double-glass doors of the poolroom entrance and swung one of the doors open effortlessly as he had done a thousand times before and easily as he breathed the air. His eyes darted around the room as he gauged the level of activity inside and looked for familiar faces. Some of the local regulars were already unwinding from work with a spirited pool game as they traded the usual good-natured bragging and taunts mixed in with hoots and laughter. Jack was feeling low-key right now, even a little mellow.
He had settled into his crib over at the Arms and that was what really had him at ease. Because he had “carried a stick” all during the summer, he had almost lived in and around the poolroom during that time. Now, it really felt relaxing that it was no longer a struggle for him. He could go home and lay his head down and have some peace-of-mind and privacy. He could shower and wear clean clothes on a regular basis. He could do all of that and yet, he was only a few blocks away from his favorite spot, The Corner. Jack looked around the poolroom. There were a few games going but, the poolroom didn’t get full until another hour-and-a-half later at around seven-thirty. The patrons would file in over that time until the action reached a fever pitch when the place was crowded. Jack loved the crowd and the noise and the loud bragging that was a regular part of the poolroom on Friday and Saturday nights.
Like most any street hustler, Jack was always looking to make money--- to make a hustle. Jack did not shoot pool because he used most all of his money for drinking and because he did not seem to have the patience. He had hung around the poolroom over the last two years using it as an anchor for most of his hustling activities. If he had gone into a retail store on Wilson Avenue and boosted something or conned for any kind of merchandise, he would sell it to any one of the several fences he knew in the radius of two blocks from the poolroom. He had sold plenty of merchandise to John, the owner of the A&W burger joint next door and to “Nick the Greek”, the owner of Saxony Liquors; and Stan, the owner of The Green Mill and to Sharon and her husband, the owners of Sharon’s bar across the street; or to Jose, the owner of the Aragon or to his managers and workers or to any of the people in the bars or on the streets who might be interested in what he had to sell. He had sold overcoats, battery chargers or blue jeans stolen from Goldblatts a block away on Broadway; or ladies lingerie that he had stolen on several occasions from Jupiters, the five-and-dime store at the corner of Leland and Broadway; or the boom-boxes, radios, tape recorders and small TVs he got from the audio store next to the Green Mill Cocktail Lounge. Jack had become so good at this kind of hustling because of how well he dealt with the fences and the way that he gave them the utmost respect while persuading them with his style of talk. He was good at being charming and he used that skill with them; but, he maintained a degree of trust with them by dealing honestly with his hot merchandise. He would never sell them bad merchandise or make a promise about it that was not true. He knew that trust was all he had to work with when dealing with his fences and he protected it no matter what. Jack had gotten so good until other hustlers would bring their merchandise to him because of all the connections he had with his fences and the rapport he maintained with them. Nowadays, Jack could just sit in the poolroom and not have to run up and down the streets to make money. Other hustlers brought their merchandise to him because it was quicker and easier than trying to sell it themselves. When they did, Jack would feel a cheap sense of loftiness and credibility when they would come around the poolroom and reverently solicit him to sell their wares. They didn’t have the connections with fences nor the knack for selling that Jack did; and, of course, they had to give Jack a fair cut if he sold anything for them; and if they didn’t, he had gotten his off the top, anyway.
Jack sat in his favorite spot at the seat in the far left corner from the entrance door. There, he could survey everything that went on around the poolroom; who came in; who left out and when people outside passed by the stretch of the poolroom window facing Lawrence Avenue. This way, he could see people he was avoiding before they saw him. Carlos was at the poolroom counter checking in customers tonight. He was the son of Jose, the owner of the Aragon. He was rarely there during the week. He was only seen on the busier nights on the weekends when receipts were heaviest. He had come to accept Jack as a fixture around the poolroom. Jack respected Carlos because he never gave him a hard time. Carlos kind of liked Jack because of the excitement he sometimes generated around the poolroom that entertained Carlos and his workers at the poolroom counter.
Finally, some familiar faces entered the poolroom. Fuzzy and Woody. They came through the entrance door with Fuzzy’s familiar voice chattering away loudly. Jack could tell that Fuzzy was already high. He could hear the slurring in his speech. Jack knew their routine because six months after he moved into the 4848 high-rise, he met Fuzzy. They shared some drinks and hung out together for several months before Jack had become so scandalous. Since then, they had drifted apart and Jack had not visited Fuzzy’s home. He knew Fuzzy and Woody’s routine. On Friday nights, when they got paid, they would meet up at Fuzzy’s place on the fifth floor of the high-rise on the corner of Gunnison Street and Sheridan Road, a couple of blocks from the poolroom. They would have their packaged liquor that they picked up on the way. They would drink and socialize there for a couple of hours before heading for the poolroom. Fuzzy and Woody worked steady jobs. Their lifestyle was very different from Jack’s. They did not steal or do any of the kind of hustling that Jack did. They had witnessed what Jack did in the streets. They watched him selling all kinds of stolen merchandise around the poolroom. They watched him get into fights and get arrested. All of this made them not trust Jack. Jack knew this but, he didn’t care what they thought of him. He didn’t care for their square style of living, anyway. “Bunch o’ lame-ass shit” he would say of the way Fuzzy and Woody carried on. The two were the best of friends and Jack didn’t have anything against Fuzzy. But, he did have some resentment toward Woody.
A little more than a year ago, Woody somehow, wound up sharing Jack’s apartment with him on the third floor at 4848. Jack had started getting his unemployment checks back then and he needed a roommate to help with the rent. Woody stayed for three months without paying; all the while promising to pay what he owed in rent to Jack when his unemployment checks would start coming in. When the first check finally did come, Woody had them going to Fuzzy’s house while he lived at Jack’s. He left Jack’s apartment the day he got the first check and never told Jack about getting it and never paid him a dime. That pissed Jack off. He and Woody had words and nearly came to blows. But, they never fought because Fuzzy and some other mutual friends jumped between them and made them promise not to fight. Jack tried to let it go because he was going through so much at the time with trying to keep his apartment. That experience hardened Jack quite a bit. What Woody had done was low-down, he thought. Jack vowed that he would never be taken advantage of like that again. The experience seemed to serve as some kind of initiation into the Street Gypsy life.
Jack decided that it was time to get mellow so, he headed for the back of the poolroom to the men’s restroom. He went into a stall and pulled out the pint of vodka and slowly began to sip on it, pursing his lips, bracing himself for the bitter, burning taste that he had experienced so many times before. “Hummph!” he groaned as the burning vodka went down his throat. He took another good hit before returning to his seat in the corner at the front window. He sat peacefully watching the poolroom activity and listening to the buzz of bravado from the growing crowd of pool patrons; occasionally looking out of the window to see the pedestrian traffic on the streets become more lively as the night wore on. Jack had no idea what he would be getting into tonight. There was nothing planned; no business to take care of. He would just be spontaneous to what ever came his way tonight. He would take advantage of whatever situation arose to put money in his pocket. He was constantly hustling because his general assistance check was strictly for his rent and there was never anything left except the food stamps. He sometimes sold some of those within a few days of receiving them.
Almost an hour had passed since Jack entered the pool room. Since that time, a steady stream of patrons had come in with the earliest arrivals just starting to leave. Some were regular patrons that Jack really never knew who came from nearby neighborhoods. Some were from other parts of town, stopping on their way home to relax with a few games. Others were neighborhood regulars whom Jack had a nodding acquaintance with; and usually, there were the regulars from Fuzzy and Woody’s group of working friends. They all knew Jack and he was on speaking terms with all of them. But, Jack rarely carried on conversations of much length or depth with any of them. Jack knew that they thought they were more decent than he was because they worked every day and had money most of the time; unlike Jack who didn’t work; was sometimes broke and was always getting into some kind of trouble while he hustled in the streets.
Finally, one of Jack’s best friends, Coley came through the door. Jack watched him from a distance as he walked through the entrance door and continued straight ahead to the group with Woody and two other players shooting pool across the room from Jack. Coley sat down next to Fuzzy and Jack could see them meet and exchange greetings and start casual small talk; smiling broadly as they both watched the players maneuvering around the pool table in front of them. Jack couldn’t hear what they were saying above the chatter in the long, stretching room. So, he decided to walk over and talk to his friend. He felt much more comfortable with Coley because they got high together on drinking and Ts and Blues and they hung out together and occasionally plotted together on one money-making scheme or another. Coley was not only his friend but, somewhat of a mentor because he was about fourteen years older than Jack--almost forty. He was one of the few people on the streets and around the
neighborhood whose advice Jack listened to. Coley admired Jack because he was a young man who, despite his scandalous ways, had some redeeming qualities. Coley was surprised that he could trust Jack as much as he could. He always teased Jack and was amused by his wild and crazy exploits; how he was involved in one mad scheme after another. One day, while a group of the regulars were gathered up on the side of Frances’ Tavern, Coley said something to them about Jack while Jack stood there listening. “The rougher it gets, the better he likes it” Coley said. The words struck Jack in an odd way. He had never thought about himself in that way. But, he had to admit that it had a ring of truth to it. This insane street life had led him to this. He had adapted to the madness of the streets in order to survive. The more civilized part of him had gradually disappeared over time because of the brutal conditioning of the streets and the things he did to survive in them. When Coley said those words about him, Jack took them in and ruminated momentarily. But, after that moment, he accepted it as valid with the same calloused indifference as all the other truths about himself---it didn’t matter. He had to keep on doing what he had to do.
“Hey, Coley….what’s happ’nin’, brotha’!” Jack greeted Coley. “What’s goin’ on, fool!” Coley replied with a broad grin as he turned to give Jack a soul handshake. “What you up to, man?...I know you got some shit up ya’ sleeves…you might as well tell me all about it” Coley said, playfully. “Naw, brotha-man…I cain’t kill nothin’ and won’t nothin’ die!” Jack joked with
a chuckle and smile. “Damn, Jack…that’s a boss sport coat you got there, man….you tryin’ to get clean on us out here, huh?” Coley teased as he looked over and admired the navy-colored sport jacket that Jack was wearing. “Yea, Coley….now that a brotha’ got a place to lay his head, he can try to get a little sporty…you dig?” Jack replied with a slightly pursed upper lip to emphasize the pride he felt in how he was now dressing better.
“You wanna get up on a taste, Jack?” Coley asked. “Don’t worry ‘bout it, baby…got a taste right here” Jack replied. “What you got, Jack?” Coley asked “Treat me, man…treat me!” Jack replied in a lyrical tone. It was an inside joke that Coley and all the others that Jack drank with understood. It was a play on the name of the Dimitri vodka. It came about one day when Robert Lee, in his usual joking manner, asked Mae, as she returned from the liquor store to “Treat me to Dimitri” in front of a small group hanging around the front entrance of the Tower building. The whole crowd had a big laugh at the play on words and they all began to use the catchy phrase from that day on. The two men walked to the men’s restroom in the back of the poolroom to drink the vodka that Jack had stuffed in his inside sport jacket. They did not say much as they traded the bottle between themselves a couple of times; each man making his own grimacing reaction to the taste of the cheap vodka.
-----------SYNOPSIS-------------------
Just Published
*Release Source: International Wire Press
FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE
Local writer, Glen Latham Aims to Satisfy as Author of “The Street Gypsies”
Former Chicago resident writes exhilarating urban adventure.
ISBN:-13: 9780595459223 (paperback): gritty, humorous, romantic
The "Street Gypsies" as described by the author, is about the urban underclass of street characters who lived in Chicago's Uptown community during the 1970s. They were a society of free spirits. They were sometimes unsavory but, almost always, colorful characters who were street hustlers surviving on the streets by wit and whim; invariably, getting caught-up in the addictive nature of the lifestyle. The culture was probably a manifestation of the times. During those years, there was rampant unemployment and inflation in America. It was also a time of social unrest and rebellion that spawned a number of radical groups. There was an anti-establishment climate that was fueled by the drop-out drug culture that carried over with it's hippie influences from the 1960s. Add to that the elements of the sexual revolution, the civil rights and women's movements. It was the glory days of Rock and R&B. All of this was the foundation for the mind-set that prevailed within this Street Gypsy culture. Survival was made an art form by these resourceful and spirited characters.
Link to Publication*: http://www.iuniverse.com
ABOUT AUTHOR
Glen Latham is a proud graduate of Northeastern Illinois University, Chicago, Illinois. He is a talented writer is who is currently working in the real estate industry in Illinois. He is an avid writer who lived
in the Uptown community for 8 years between 1975 and 1983. His book titled “The Street Gypsies” tells of his harrowing adventures and exploits of a life and culture that very few have survived.
- Location: Chicago
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