Why do you pick fights with other boys? It's the question Ryan has been running from all his life. The answer will shock you.
For as long as Ryan can remember, he's always wanted to be someone special. Now, a promising high school wrestler and a po...
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Fifteen year old Kenny Gieselman spent his previous night hiding in a bush for several hours. Initially, the night was going well. He sold various grams and 8-balls to junkie kids, teens, and their parents in his neighborhood, netting him close to a rack. Had he discovered the power of slinging earlier, he would have started selling younger.
Through most of Kenny's life, drug dealing was like some kind of mythological escape from the reality of his life. Growing up poor, he understood the power of money. Being bullied and abused only furthered that notion.
After selling to Frankie, a homeless kid whose parents kicked him out, Kenny caught the gaze of some kid at the intersection of Alabama Street and Texas Street. It wasn't anyone he recognized in the neighborhood. From what Kenny could tell, the kid probably could have been an easy lick, but he wore a, "Goofy-ass karate uniform or something like," which made it hard to tell. Kenny figured he was probably walking home from practice from that MMA gym a few blocks down.
An easy lick. He thought. Probably has some cash.
Right before Kenny was going to make his move, a Sheriff's car picked up the kid. With several grams of crack still left on his person, Kenny hid in some bushes near his apartment complex. The process of hiding disgusted him, but Kenny knew juvie wasn't an ideal outcome. The cruiser was only around for a minute, but a police car entered the neighborhood after the Sheriff's car left.
Kenny watched several officers in the police car do their usual thing. Police activity was predictable, as they normally surveyed the area, flashed their lights around, busted a dumbass, cocky dealer or two on the street, or drove a homeless dude out of the neighborhood. Sometimes the busts were bigger; swat teams could be called in to take down someone in their home. That night the police seemed keen to find someone in particular. They sat in their car for hours, occasionally shining their flashlights at passerbyers. Whoever it was they were looking for, the cops never found them. As the cops left empty handed, Kenny wondered if it was him they were searching for.
Instead of going back to his mom's apartment, Kenny stayed with his friend, Dom Lopez. Dom lived with his grandmother in a 2-bedroom, Section 8 apartment that always smelled like the menthol cigarettes Dom's grandmother smoked. Since discovering the grandmother's cigarette stash at 9 years old, Kenny greatly preferred staying with Dom over his own mother's apartment. That wasn't saying much, though. Kenny preferred anywhere other than his own home.
The next day, Kenny, Dom and several of their friends skipped summer school for the third time that week and hung out in Sunnyland Park. The park had all the commonalities of a public recreational area; park benches, a playground, a big grassy field, and a basketball court. The area, with its relatively new infrastructure, seemed inviting for those who wanted inexpensive outdoor activities. But the several projects off Texas Street nearby deterred mostly anyone besides the nearby residents from enjoying the park. If homeless alcoholics and drug abusers didn't sway others to steer clear of the park, the juvenile delinquents, drug dealers, and gang members of Texas Street would.
