Paper Chasers by Mark Anthony Page A

Island. Everyone in the Metropolitan area knows just how expensive food is at City Island. But when most people think of City Island, they think about expensive seafood dinners. What many people sleep on is the breakfast that is served up at the many City Island restaurants. The breakfast at City Island is off the hook! And since we were rollin’, we had to splurge.
    We arrived at City Island at about ten in the morning. Once we were seated we took a look at the menu and we knew that we didn’t belong. It cost ten dollars for one scrambled egg and six dollars for seven ounces of orange juice. When it all boiled down, we really didn’t care how much the food cost. We had cash and we were there to discuss how we were gonna make more cash. We pulled out all the stops. After looking at the menu, I was estimating at least a three-hundred-dollar bill.
    All faces in the restaurant were on us. Fourth Crew always attracted attention wherever we went. We were always making noise and cracking jokes, showing no class at all. Yeah, we had class—street class. The simple way that my pants hung off of my butt, that right there was in a class by itself.
    The pretty white waitress who had taken our order amidst catcalls and propositions for sexual favors, had finally returned with our food, and we dug in right away. We attacked our food as if we were a pack of deranged lions.
    When the feverish pace of eating had slowed down, we continued talking and laughing. Our conversation was based on a recap of all of the robberies that we had committed during the past week. Randy and I, for whom an obsession with the Mafia has lingered throughout our lives, suggested that we start our own Mafia. A black Mafia, one in which all of the members would have to be African American, including the “associates” as well as the “made members,” and no Haitians or Jamaican unless they were born in the United States.
    â€œYo, we could really do it y’all!” Randy emphatically said. “All we need is a little more organization, just like the real mob.”
    I jumped in and reminded Randy that the real Mafia didn’t like to deal with narcotics.
    â€œYeah, whateva . . . we’ll still deal with drugs, because we’ll be a black Mafia. A black La Cosa Nostra, that’s what it’ll turn into!” Randy screamed, sounding as if he was auditioning for a role in the Godfather movie.
    â€œY’all gotta understand,” I said, “even doing illegal shit, black people will still never have anything. Why doesn’t the real Mafia deal with drugs? Because they know that with drugs they’ll get too much friction from the cops, and too many disputes from within the organization. The mob’s reasoning is exactly right. I mean look at black criminals. All of the big time drug dealers eventually get pinched, or their organization eventually falls apart because of the little people in the organization. The little ones get greedy and be wanting all the glory, and they cause the whole organization to crumble. Even with the legal things in life, black people won’t ever really have anything, simply because no one is willing to accept their role. Everyone wants the spotlight. Everyone wants to lead our people. If “they” are not the leader, instead of trying to help out in another way, “they” belittle the one who is trying to lead. That’s why black people in this country won’t ever have nothing. They won’t ever have nothing because on a whole, black people’s egotistical and materialistic attitudes always cause a breakdown in their intentions.”
    â€œHolz, shut the hell up!” Latiefe shouted, sounding as if he was annoyed.
    â€œI know,” Erik added. “Who do you think you are, Martin Luther King?”
    â€œNah, nah,” Dwight said while laughing. “He’s, um, a new Spike Lee or um, Malcom X. Holz, just please shut the hell up