Jorge

A snapshot in time based on people worked with and events probation officers have experienced on the job.

Jorge crouched behind the black Honda. He tried to scrunch as much of his heavy frame behind the back wheel as he could. His breath was ragged and hard. The adrenaline from the hard sprint after the gunfire had long since worn off. Now his lungs burned and his legs were shaking as the realization of what he’d done began creeping through the fog in his brain.

The Big Homie had told him it wouldn’t be a problem. When Jorge had hesitated he got into his face. Asking him if he was man enough. “Don’t be a pussy,” he said. “Just step up and do it. A real man takes care of business. That scrap ain’t nothing but a scrap.”

But as the vision of the boy dropping to the ground after standing in stunned silence when the bullets tore into his chest slapped his brain, staining his thoughts with its clarity, Jorge wasn’t sure this thing he’d done didn’t matter. The look of shock and pain on the boy’s face tore at Jorge. The boy wasn’t much older than his own 15 years. What the fuck had he done?

He glanced down and realized he was still clutching the black Glock tightly in his right hand. It no longer gave him the feeling of power it did when he’d gotten it from Flaco a month earlier. All it held for him now was fear and a strange numbness. Jorge wanted to drop the gun. Throw it away from himself, afraid that it would rear up and bite him. In a way it already had.

He heard sirens coming down the street over from where he was hiding. He knew he had to move. Get as far away from where he was, but his shaking tired legs refused to move. His hands and body began to tremble as he looked down at the black gun he clutched. Panic began to constrict his chest, his breathing catching.
His head snapped up when he heard a police radio behind the apartment building he was hiding near.

“Fuck! Fuck! I gotta go,” he muttered, all other thoughts suddenly dropped and forgotten. Taking a gulping breath he stumbled upright and away from the car and the sound of the radio.

He tried to run, but his legs were cramping from the unaccustomed activity. As he stumbled forward down the street, he tried to blank his fear by staring hard at the end of the block where he’d have to turn right.

Everything had been fun up to now. Exciting, shit he’d never been so scared and unsure, but also happy. Drinking, smoking, talking shit. Hell, even girls, though they still made him nervous and he had to be drunk to really talk to them. But it was fun and he felt wanted, or at least not a bother.

The Big Homie said they were family, brothers, more than just everyone else. The life was a struggle, something important for them to do. He just had to do his part. Keep things straight, earn his right to be part of the family.

As Jorge huffed towards the corner, trying to hide along the brick fences and bushes that lined the street, he wondered if all the talk was real? Was it really worth it?

“Those fuckers better be there,” he whispered as he turned the corner, glancing behind him and seeing no movement or hearing anything except cars in the distance. Ahead was the park. He knew his ride was sitting on the other side away from where he was. He just had to get there.

He stumbled across the wide expanse of grass towards the outline of the play structure. The large plastic slide coming up in front of him. He slid into the play area underneath it, hiding behind the grey walls, crouching down to peer out the large round hole that looked back towards where he’d come from.

He ducked back when he saw a police cruiser turn down onto the street he’d just dashed across, slowly making its way down the block. The dark was lit up by the spotlight on the car as it stopped and began sweeping the darkness of the park.

Jorge slammed against the wall away from the circle, trying to make his large bulk small and invisible when the light swept over the structure. He held his breath, his mind screaming at him to go, to run away before his life came crashing to an end.

His body began shaking with adrenaline and fear. He held his breath and tried to crush himself even smaller against the cold plastic on each side of him, when he heard the door to the car open.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, he screamed in his mind, breath hissing between his teeth.

The smaller circle of a flashlight began playing back and forth against the structure to Jorge’s left. He heard heavy footsteps slowly pacing through the grass towards his hiding place. He glanced down at the gun he still clutched in his right hand. Could he do it again? Should he? What the fuck do I do? His mind blanked and his mouth dried up as the horrible decisions fought in his mind. Shaking, he grasped the gun harder and lifted it towards where he heard the officer walking. He flashed on his Nana reprimanding him as a child for hurting his smaller cousin. What was he now? Who was he now? A silent cry sounded in his head, drowning out everything around him except for the cold weight of the gun and the heavy steps.

“Gonzalez,” a deep voice sounded from out by the street. Jorge gasped, as he almost pulled the trigger in his surprise. “You see something? Code-4?”

“Not sure, thought I saw a flash of white,” the officer responded, his voice loud and close, just outside the sand of the play structure. “Probably a cat or trash.”

Jorge held his breath, frozen in place and then heard the steps move away from him, back through the grass towards the street. He could just make out the burble of conversation between the officers. The words hidden by the occasional call outs that flowed from the police radio into the dark night. A loud beep repeated itself on a regular rotation loud and jarring.

As Jorge’s legs began to cramp painfully from sitting bent and tensed underneath him, his feet numb and body shaking uncontrollably, he heard the doors close on both vehicles, one after the other. The cars then accelerated away down the street towards the main road, leaving the night silent and cold once again.

He slid down onto the sandy ground. Adrenaline flushing out of him, leaving him cold and shaking. Tears welled up in his eyes, threatening to overwhelm him. A sob caught in his throat. He angrily wiped at his eyes, cursing himself for acting soft. “Always been a pussy,” he muttered, his voice angry.

After a moment he pushed himself up, grasping at the hard plastic behind him with his free left hand, the gun in his right banging loudly against the wall next to him. He froze a moment, then seeing nothing, stumbled forward and away from his hiding place, back onto the open grass of the park. Ahead of him was the tall fence near the main road.

His vision narrowed to the small exit that broke the continuous metal line of the fence. Just past that opening, he told himself, speeding up his awkward, numb gait. Gotta go right and then left at the next street. The homies should be waiting there. Move you fat fucker.

He slammed into the chain link fence. His hands grasped the metal crisscross links, breath puffing painfully in his chest. He lurched forward and around the post of the entrance and out onto the dark sidewalk.

Realizing he was still clutching the gun in his right hand, he stuffed it awkwardly into his hoody pocket, clutching it with both hands to keep it from bouncing loose as he shuffled down the sidewalk.

Glancing backward over his shoulder, he huffed towards the shadowed street corner and his ride. Fear and panic threatened to overcome him as he kept imagining red and blue lights coming up behind him.

“Just a little more, a little more,” he puffed, his slow jog becoming a stumbling walk. The distance in front of him seemed to stretch on. He paused a moment at the sidewalk to make sure the street was clear and then stumbled across, his tired legs wobbling as he tried to navigate his way to the other side.

The street ahead was hidden behind a building that loomed over the corner, an old storefront, the paint worn and tired. Just as he was sure his lungs would give out as they burned in his chest, he rounded the building onto the street behind it. After a few steps he stumbled to a stop, frantically looking up and down the street for the gray Nissan that was supposed to be there.

“The fuck,” he said to the empty space around him. “Where are you fuckers?” He shouted, panic making his voice crack.

As he was trying to decide which direction to head in order to find his way home, someone spoke from the shadowed doorway behind him.

“What you looking for vato?”

Jorge spun towards the voice, his eyes widening as he watched five hooded figures step out of the shadows onto the sidewalk. A thrill of fear shot up his spine, setting the hairs on his arms and neck upright.

“Walking,” Jorge said, nodding his head back towards the main street. He stuck his hands into the pockets of his sweatshirt and started to step back off the curb. One of the group placed a hand under his sweatshirt, halting his move.

“Heard noise in our hood,” the speaker said. “Don’t know you ese. What you claim?”

The group tensed up as Jorge looked back forth at the them. He grasped the handle of the gun. His hand sliding on the textured grip, slick with sweat. His mind spun, fear making everything around him silent and even more dim. The sneer on the face of the young gangster in front of him seemed distorted and oversized.

Jorge's breathing quickened and he could feel his pulse pounding in his neck. You pussy! You gonna run you pussy bitch? The thoughts slammed through his fear.

I ain’t no pussy, fuck that shit. I’m a fucking gangster! Fuck these posers. Jorge gripped harder on the gun.

I’m fucking west side loco. I earned that shit tonight. Fucking pinche scraps.

He took a deep breath and jutted his chin out.

In a single movement he pulled the gun from his pocket, firing it as it cleared the cloth.

“West side motherfucker scraps,” he shouted, pulling the trigger over and over, the gun bucking in his hand. The booms of the weapon filling all the space around him.

Bodies scrambled as he began shooting. Ducking and covering their heads as they fell away form the noise and flash of Jorge’s barrage. As fast it started, silence once again fell on the dark street, except for the barking of dogs in the nearby houses.
Jorge felt the rush of the trigger pulls leave him and he was left with the numb ringing in his ears from the loud blasts.

A small smile pulled his lips upward, fuck yeah, he thought.

Just as he took a deep breath and was starting to turn to run he felt cold metal against his left temple.

“Fuck you.” A voice cut through the night, followed by a single loud blast.

Jorge’s head bucked sideways, his body thrashing backwards and off the curb onto the black street. The gun he’d been holding falling to the ground from the suddenly slack hand.

A hard kick to the side of Jorge’s body jerked him as he lay clutching and clenching on the asphalt, his eyes wide but unseeing.

“Buster fool,” the voice said, delivering another kick to the body on the ground.

Stepping over the now still boy, he ran off into the darkness of the street.