"Hey, where you from?" The question came in a soft, liquid drawl.

"The city!" He replied.

"What city?"

"THE CITY, man. New York!"

"Wach ya doing in Miami?"

"Looking. My folks died and I left."

"So, your family is in the ground?"

"Yea, I didn't want to stay in the orphans home!"

His family were deceased... again, he made them deceased. Four weeks of living under a bridge eating coconuts and thinking of how he arrived occasioned the pain of memory--a desire to "find a new family" cropped up once again. With his thoughts diving deeper and deeper into his "new" world, it would be a long time until he discovered the truth that would truly set him free. But, someone was working on him... assisting him.... making sure guilt remained imbedded deep within his mind. But, as I have stated time after time... it would be on shaky legs that he would stand, gazing at that great, portal of light, reaching out with his hands, his mind, his heart, his soul, touching HIM with his love, asking for HIS forgiveness.... until then, life would continue to teach through hardship!

The group of kids gathered round an old oak tree were fascinated by his accounts of adventure. He had become the "cause de celebrity" on his own, telling tales of New York, Alabama, Georgia and beyond. He was accepted immediately...

"Are you hungry? My mom will probably welcome you to dinner..."

Her name was Diane: her father a black sanitation worker; her mom a white motel maid. She had seven brothers and sisters--and her grandmother--living in the five rooms that made up the interior of an apartment in a housing projects. During the day--when her folks were at work--he sometimes slept in the living room, most others under a bridge in the woods bordering a canal several blocks west of Biscaine Blvd. Nights were spent roaming the streets or hanging out at a bowling alley on 79Th St.--which was close to the pastel green and pink buildings of the housing projects.

Harry, the projects were a group of one story buildings which spread out for fifteen blocks square. More in tune with a duplex rather than a town house, they were inhabited by poor folk of all nationality and race: black, white, and Latin peoples whom seemed to get along together in their shared misery. Bordered by 79Th St. to the South, I-95 to the West, 1St. Avenue to the East, and 95Th St. to the North, it was a world close to the bustling glamour of the motels and seasonal fruit and sundries businesses which lined Biscaine Blvd.--yet another world completely!

Poverty ruled the inhabitants: no great Ficus, Oaks, nor Royal Palms filled the landscape... just yellow, weedy-scrub grass and disease-tinged black olives struggling in competition for precious resources amongst the dusty, faded, vermin infested buildings. Even the air had a unique composition which altered the immediate sky-line; one could walk twenty blocks and feel as if they were leaving another dimension... or planet--let alone country! Violence, hunger, boredom, lack of love and attention, struggles at simple survival, and continuance altered the very norms of this independent society. The rules of life changed once one entered this forbidden zone: police--politicians--law and order--society--right--wrong--rules--regulations--father--mother were words which carried an alien significance to all but those whom abided by the "code of proverty". Gravity, pain, love, crime, consequences, actions, fault were all words based on reactions verses any hard facts of a Webster's Dictionary. For those embroiled in day to day, heated conflict with the emotional and physical poverty of their lives, reality became but a dream of perceived fictional accountings based on television commercials; full of happy, hamburger full children--riding in new cars--with loving moms and dads--upon pot hole free roads--to big houses in the country! NOT!!! Imitation or limitation at all costs! Yes, we were promised... LOOK! CAN YOU NOT SEE!

The American dream! For all...

But why, they asked, did so many wind up with nothing? How many truly made it... and at what cost? So, they tried and failed by the droves and did soon bequest their lives, their feelings, their experiences, their twisted by poverty facts on theirs and those...

And Joe? Well, you know Harry, he fit right in!

Within two weeks, Joe had two new items to add to his list of accomplishments: A job landscaping and a professional tattoo...

Diane's grandfather ran a tattoo booth in an arcade and carnival on 79th St. It remained open the entire tourist season. One night, they journeyed there and before he knew it, Walla!, he had her name tattooed on his biceps within a ribbon held in the mouth of a bird.

"Now I can pass for eighteen!" He thought as he viewed this "art work".

You see, Harry, one of the worse things an individual could do is get a tattoo, but Joe's life on the roads and streets required him to figure a way to "look older" then he was. For, every time he was stopped by the police and pulled out his fake ID, he would worry about passing...

"So, is it 'Mike Clark'? Where did you say you lived."

"Honest, officer, I live in the projects with... "

"It says here your eighteen? You don't look..."

Flexing his tattooed muscles, standing as tall as his five foot two inch height would allow.... "If you don't believe me then take me in and..."

"Just get the heck out of here and don't let him catch you out this late again..."

"Thank you sir", snatching his ID and racing to the safety of the projects.

The projects offered all sorts of safety. The police only came by when there was an explicit reason to... and even then, they were quick to leave! Kids were always "hanging" to all hours of the night. Once in the safety of it's borders, he did not worry...

Everything was proceeding along fine: he was proud earning fifty dollars a week "planting sod"! He had moved in with Diane's family. He was happily contributing a portion of his earnings to the household. He was having fun as a man of respect! Until the night of the bikers...

Diane and he were on their way to the bowling alley. Diane's heritage, plainly visible in her dark, creamy brown skin and curly, long and loose hair, had caused three fist fights since he had met her. It seemed there was always someone whom would overtly use racism to make her cry... out popped the fists! Though she was fantastic at hiding her feelings... Joe could see her pain--especially when covert racism reared it's head in purported secrecy. He recognized her beauty and innocence for what they were: GENUINE!--they did not...

"They" were the group of hard nose bikers who happened to chance by on their way to the Tattoo Man: South Florida Outlaws--Mean--Large--Ugly--Loud--Racial--Antagonists.

"VAROOM, CHUG-A-CHUG-A-CHUG-CHUG!", went their bikes as they approached the brightly lit Bowling Alley.

"What have we got here? A SPIC and A NIGGER!" Spouted an ugly, over-weight monster as he dismounted.

Well, let me tell you Harry, this "man" of respect never could keep his mouth shut! He was with a girl... RIGHT? They had belittled her...RIGHT? He could not back down... He had to open his trap and like his father, allow a Louisiana Bull Frog to jump and slime the Beast whom stood before him like a brick house...

"YO, WHO DO YOU THINK YOUR TALKING TO! YOU CALL MY GIRL A NAME AGAIN AND I'LL..."

"You'll what!? KICK MY BUTT? Hey, YO..." He exclaimed, calling his entire group to the attention of something big which was going to happen... something they would enjoy!

By this time Joe new he was in the worst trouble he could ever be in. He could not think of what to do...

"So your brave, Huh?"

"Listen, man. I faced worst than you.... I have battled with the mob in NY. I ripped off the GODFATHER himself. You don't frighten me. You will have to kill me before you defeat me. This young lady has nothing to do with this situation. Why don't you jerks go and terrorize someone your own size... or are you just a bunch of faggots?"

The group became totally still, all eyes staring at this profound 13 year old individual whom stood all of five foot-two and spoke as if he were eight foot tall. Joe was definitely in a bind as he awaited the outcome of this situation. Let me remind you Harry, this is truth... these are the actual events as they unfolded. Can you imagine?

Harry, let me emphasize the horror of thoughts which were moving in Joe's mind at a zillion miles an hour on that road in front of the 79th St. Bowling Lanes: 'Buried alive; Drawn and quartered between four rumbling motorcycles; Dragged down the road behind one of the larger "HOGS"... or, at the very least, grabbed and castrated.

He was desperately looking at all avenues of escape.... there were none. Not with Diane hanging tearfully upon his arm. Just at the moment the group seemed ready to pounce upon him, a voice, loud and in command, roared above the approaching storm: THUNDER preceded the lightning!

"YO! ANIMAL. YOU HEARD ME!! ANIMAL!"

He discovered the name for the beast... it fit him to a tee!

"Yea, Boss." Animal answered, his demeanor changing.

"This kid thinks he is bad! I got an idea..."

This "IDEA" told him immediately that something was to follow; something he would not necessarily be happy to oblige with...

"Let the punk show he's a man by performing a task of endeaver!" The cheers went up and he was grabbed and lofted above the crowd....

Now, a task of endeavor seemed the Knightly course of action--not that he had any great success with Knightly duels before. But, the idea of a joust or a dual! You know... like the swashbuckler movies of Errol Flynn! Yes, this seemed to be what they were talking about, he thought. And then...

"Listen, the place is busy, SEE..."

In front of The Castaway Hotel on 169th St on Miami Beach, with it's colorful decor straight out of the Orient, they stood out like a pack of barbarians at the Chinese Wall: The entire group, parked, bikes rumbling and revving, leather groaning, bandannas flowing like war banners in the salty air. And, across the street, a motorcycle rental store. It's neon lights announcing "RENT A YAMAHA 125 TILL TWELVE MIDNIGHT FOR ONLY $15.00", crowded with tourists...

"You are going to go over there and steal that bike: The red one in the front."

It was not a question, it was an order. But, with Diane safely at home and he about to be released with only a "minor" situation blocking his way, he decided the best course of action was to rid himself of this "situation"..

"How do I get a key?"

"A key?" The response was immediate: everyone began laughing loudly.

"Your the wise guy from NY whom defeats Godfathers and loud mouths Outlaws... What do you need a key for? Just flip the switch on the top like this"--showing him the approximate area the ignition would be--"Then rip these wires out"-- showing him a group of wires--"Then connect the green and red, and touch them with the yellow one! You got that?"

"Sure, I got it..."

Viewing the bike as he tries to determine whom are operators and whom are tourists he reaches over and snaps the ignition; twisting the wires together....

"Oh, how about tha red one?" ...a tourist interrupts. "I like the blue one." They depart.

He is ready to jump aboard... "Can I help you?"

The guy was standing noe four feet away and Joe knew if he came any closer he would see the wires..."I'm just looking, my parents are staying at the Hotel across the street." He pointed towards the Castaways.... not realizing he is pointing directly at the Outlaws!

"Look, he got caught! AND HE IS POINTING AT US!"

"Lets get out of here!" VAROOM!.... SCREECH!... VAROOM!...

The bikes careen down the road.