The Mambo Kings.

part one

2002. On Thursday night we'd always wear black... and our crosses. It was always our favorite night of the week as it was the night we'd hit the Latin club... on Salsa night. It was our lifeblood. At the time, it was the one night we felt completely at home. In our element. Among our kin. It was the one night, out of the five nights we'd go out clubbing, that we could dance the dances we loved, enjoy the music we grew up on, converse with the women we loved to converse with, and talk shit and laugh with our crew, which was mostly composed of Latinos. My cousin, Angel, and I lived for Thursday nights. It was OUR Friday.

I'd usually get off around 9. We'd always meet at Angel's to drink and shower and get ready for the night. It was my job to bring the booze as I was the only one with a car. On my way to Angel's after work, I'd swing by the liquor store and depending on our mood I'd either buy: Bacardi Limon to mix with Sprite, Triple Sec and Sweet and Sour for Long Island's, or a cheap-ass bottle of Tequila and some limes to simply shoot. We were deeply immersed in the club scene back then. We'd go out 5 nights a week, Monday through Saturday. We'd rest on Sunday. Even God rested on Sunday, we figured we should too. Looking back, I think if there were any clubs that were actually popping on Sunday or Monday we would have gone out. On our day's “off” we'd usually “maintain our stables.” Sunday and Monday were date nights. We'd spend these nights with our girlfriend's, or fuck-buddies, or booty calls, or whomever else. Thus the comparison to a stable. We always had 5-6 women apiece at our beck and call. We were real pieces of shit back then. In many ways, we still are.

Anyhow, as I mentioned, we'd all meet up at Angel's every night to get our drink on and prepare for the upcoming night out. We'd take turns showering, blast some rap, Merengue, or Spanish reggae at intolerably high levels, and play FIFA soccer on the old Playstation. Oh, and of course we'd drink, did I mention that? His house was a shit hole. If one were to drive by one would usually find a broken down, powder blue Dodge Dart sitting in the driveway. This beater car belonged to Angel's roommate. We called the Dart “Baby Blue.” It was always in some sort of a state of disrepair. You'd also always find about 2 or 3 motorcycles parked in the driveway... our babies. Angel had zero furniture with the exception of a hole ridden couch we found on the roadside, a mattress, and a big screen TV, and a top of the line, very "hot" (stolen) stereo system. We were broke as shit back then, but happy.

Ironically, girls didn't seem to object to our way of life. In fact, they were drawn to us even more because of it. Perhaps we offered the enticing hint of danger and intrigue. Perhaps they'd fuck us whenever they felt the urge to “slum” or spend a night on the wrong side of the tracks. Or perhaps, they could sense we really didn't give a fuck. Despite our poverty, we were secure in ourselves and our way of life, if not cocky and arrogant. Unlike the rich, pathetic bastards uptown who would kiss their asses and blow wads of cash on them in order to get laid, in stunning contrast, we'd merely fuck them, (and fuck them very well might I add) roll over, go to sleep, and instruct them to let themselves out AFTER they've scratched our backs with their well manicured fingernails. Yes, I'd definitely say we were arrogant. Hey, we were Latin-Italian kings. We loved “La Virgen,” our mothers, and each other. We watched out for each other. And we were damned good looking, all of us.