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People often asked him why he always rapped about the past, about high school. He rarely gave a straight answer. It’s not that his life was unfulfilling. He had tons of material. His time at Yale, working his way up in the business, the 80s, the 90s, all the time on tour. He had girls from time to time, right now a girl from Flushings named Anika. They’d been together for the past 6 months, longest in years. He kept in touch with his aunt and uncle and he had a bunch of friends. And it wasn’t like there was nothing he could learn from the present. He could comment on a million things he found wrong with his world. But that time in the late 70s, when it really all began, it was sacred. His origin story, if he was being exact. But it ended there, in 1978, when it all fell apart. He wouldn’t go further. The truth of the matter was he wanted to remember them all like that. Before the epidemic, before the drugs and the jail time, before he lost them all. He wants to remember them as young and beautiful as he could.
Regina was the first actually. It had begun in December of 1980. Zeke, Ra Ra, and Tanya had been back from college, the girls were back from Hollywood, had been for months. Boo Boo had gotten out of juvie by then (they all had thanked their lucky stars he wasn’t 16 yet when he got arrested). The absence of Shao had softened with the years, but the absence of Dizzee was evident, though left unspoken of. Regina had been helping bring some plates into the kitchen when she collapsed. Just fell onto the floor, exhausted. Yolanda had screamed and the plates had shattered all over the floor. Adele had ran and called 911. Zeke had carried her to a couch, and then held a shaking Mylene in his arms. When they’d gotten her to the hospital the doctor looked worried but perplexed. When she woke up they gave her a diagnosis.
“Pneumonia, a rare strain called PCP.” He had said and Regina had laughed. Maybe it was the association with the name of that all too infamous drug or maybe it was that she was just so relieved.
“Pneumonia? Well shit only old people die of pneumonia! I’ll be fine.” And Yolanda had laughed along awkwardly and the doctor had smiled and nodded his head, saying nothing. They’d taken her home to the Upper West Side apartment the girls shared with some prescribed medication.
“I’ll be fine, really y’all are mad uptight.” Regina had said smiling as Yolanda and Mylene dotted anxiously. “I’ll be better before you even know it.”
But she didn’t get better. Soon she was sleeping on a sofa in their living room as she was sweating through the sheets at night. Some days she could barely move.
“What’s happening Ezekiel?” Mylene had asked him in a hushed voice as he said goodbye to her one day. “She ain’t getting better. This is freaky. It feels all biblical and shit.” He had kissed her and told her not to worry, that it was just her church girl upbringing.
But before February even, there came a day when they couldn’t wake Regina up. They’d called the ambulance but it was too late. Her lungs were full of fluid and she died the next day.
Mylene was shattered but Yolanda was catatonic.
“I’m not going to let her be forgotten, I’m not going to let them get away with this.” She had ranted to Zeke almost nonsensically, maybe just because he was the only one who would listen. She dropped out of the recording world altogether and enrolled in Hunter College. Began studying to be a nurse. Her, he actually still saw. Once the epidemic really hit she became engrossed in her work. Took care of thousands of the dying, especially in the Bronx. She would go on to work for ACT UP, staging Die-Ins at Foley Square. She met a Reverend named Sonya at of one of those gay churches up in the village. They moved in together in the early 90s, and last he heard Yolanda still sang in her church sometimes. She sent a Christmas card every once in awhile.
Mylene, for her part, moved back to Los Angeles and made an album in Regina’s honor.
They moved on though, putting it out of their minds. Zeke and Ra Ra were busy with college, Boo Boo was finishing up high school, Mylene becoming a star. Shao was gone for good they assumed. Little Wolf died of the same pneumonia Regina had had, though it went mostly unnoticed. They just assumed it was a freak coincidence or maybe a drug thing.
It was early in 1982, nearing the end of Zeke’s winter break. He had been at the Kiplings again, helping out at the store. Boo Boo was living at home, not having been accepted to college. Ra Ra was there too on his break and so was Yolanda. He had ducked outside the store for a quick smoke when he saw him.
Dizzee.
They hadn’t seen each other since graduation. He never knew if Dizzee had been kicked out or chosen to leave. He figured it was a bit of both. But he had never asked.
He was unconscious, his skin sweaty and grey. He looked feverish and skinny, his face gaunt. He was so small and emaciated that if Zeke hadn’t known better he would’ve said this was some starving refugee in a Red Cross ad, not a boy from the Bronx. He was held in the arms of that white boy, Thor, who didn’t look much better himself. His skin was covered in red and purple spots and his hair was greasy and matted. His lips were chapped and he looked as if he had been crying.
“Please, please.” He whispered to Zeke hoarsely. “I can’t afford to take him to the hospital.”
He hadn’t had a moment to respond as the Kiplings had looked through the window and come running out. Adele had taken Dizzee in her arms and they are all rushed inside.
“What does he have boy?!” Winston yelled at Thor who was stuttering over his words. “What do you have him on?!”
“He’s not on anything-” He began but Yolanda cut him off.
“This looks like what Regina had! We been studying patients like this at school!” She said. Thor tried to speak again but Ra was yelling then too.
“Didn’t-didn’t Little Wolf get that same thing? He must’ve given this to Dizz like Wolf gave it to Regina!” He pointed a finger at Thor who took a step back.
It was then that Dizzee, who had been laid on the table, began to wake up and speak. Zeke could barely remember what he had said, it was mostly incoherent, something about an opera, but it was enough to convince them all that he was drugged.
“What is he on?!” Adele had shrieked, clearly terrified.
“Nothing! We don’t do that shit! Not even poppers! This disease, some of my friends got it too, it makes your brain go with you, you gotta believe me he ain’t on nothing!” But his words were meaningless to the family, they wanted their son, they wanted to protect him. Zeke, couldn’t even intervene, how could he blame them?
“Last time I see my son he a perfectly healthy high school senior, he run off with you and suddenly he looks like some death camp prisoner! You gonna tell me that’s a coincidence?” Winston was menacing, hoping to blame someone. Hoping for a cure, if it had been drugs at the very least it couldn’t be fatal.
“A disease is going around, with people like us! I got it too! He just got sick faster! Please please you gotta believe me!” But the words were falling on deaf ears and by then Boo Boo had rushed to the phone and was dialing 9-11.
They took him to the hospital and kicked Thor out of the hospital room. When he refused to leave they’d called hospital security to get him out. Dizzee was too far gone to plead against it. He could only cry and moan day and night about aliens and operas and that the dogs were coming and they had to run. Zeke had stayed with him as much as he could. Called up Yale and said he needed a leave for family issues. He was ahead in classes for graduation, he’d be fine. He’d tried to get Dizzee to talk to him. Do something. He even told him he would get Shao if he talked or ate but to no avail. The Kiplings were despondent, Dizzee was never alone in that hospital room and there was not at least one person crying. His mother had been holding him the day he died. His alien eyes facing the morning sunlight. Pretty Dizzee D, Yolanda had wept.
At the funeral Zeke thought he spotted a pair of red pumas dashing amongst the rooftops above but he wasn’t sure. Mylene hadn’t been able to get there in time. Some of his old bomber friends were though. They went up to Zeke after.
“We’ll bomb the best train in his honor. Everyone in the Bronx will see it and weep.” Crash told him. He had nodded and thanked him.
He heard on the radio, that morning as he packed to return to Yale, that a young unidentified white man carrying a bag of spray paint had thrown himself in front of the D train the night earlier and died instantly.
Zeke still thinks, when he’ll ride the subway to visit Anika, that he can see a faded alien with a top hat staring back at him from the tunnel walls, though the trains themselves have been stripped clean.
After Dizzee, Boo started to get back into dealing. He was so angry, so broken, wanting to destroy the world for taking his big brother. And he didn’t want his family, he couldn’t stay at home. Zeke had tried to get him away, Ra and Tanya too, but what could they do? Winston had yelled “not under my roof!” and he had shrugged.
“Alright.” And slipped his backpack on, heading casually towards the door.
“You’re gonna end up like your brother! Do you want that?” He had screamed, trying to keep his youngest son in the house. But Boo had kept walking.
Zeke graduated with honors and went on to work at a music publishing company. Trying to get his name out there. Working his way up in nightclubs and poetry slams.
Ra Ra graduated later and married Tanya. He took over the salon and she started teaching at their old high school. Ra had always been business minded and they soon opened up three more shops. The Kiplings were so proud of him and he bought his parents a house in Riverdale to retire to. He and Zeke would spend holidays together sometimes. But he never got back into music, couldn't do it even when the salon got so lucrative that he needed to just sit back and manage it. Not without my brothers, he told Zeke.
It was in 1986, in the summer heat, when Zeke had heard a knock on his door. He was on his way to a gig and had wondered who it could be at that hour, cursing his landlord under his breath.
There he was. No red jacket, no cap, not even the ever iconic pumas. He was wearing black sweats and a ripped up tank top. His skin covered in the same purple lesions as Thor had been all those years ago. His hand like a skeleton and his eyes deep and pleading. He looked like he could barely stand.
“Shao!” Zeke had yelled and ran to him. The other man collapsed into him immediately. It had been almost ten years since they had seen each other last. “What happened to you man?” But Zeke knew. It was 1986, even President Reagan had finally made a speech on it. He knew
“Annie kicked me out when I started getting sick. I’ve got nowhere to go. I read your name on a flyer and asked around. I’ve been walking for days tryin’ a find you. Please Books, don’t be angry. I won’t take long.” The old confidence is lost from his voice and any attempt at anger Zeke might have had is gone. He feels only tenderness, only love. This is his brother, his best friend, his DJ.
“Come in. You’re still fucking family.” He touched his forehead. “You’re burning up Shao, I gotta call an ambulance.”
“No no! Let me just stay here! Don’t spend money on that shit. Just let me stay here and I’ll be fine.” Zeke said nothing in response and only helped him into the house. Not even thinking to call and cancel the gig. It didn’t matter.
He brought Shao into his bedroom, wrapped him in his sheets and brought him water and Advil.
“Tell me there’s something I can do. Please, please there’s got to be something.” He begged, clasping Shao’s hands in his. The conductor could only shake his head. Nothing to be done.
“I’m so sorry Zeke. For everything. You gotta forgive me, I didn’t know they was gonna-was gonna go for Boo like that. I tried to stop them…”
“It’s all over now. That don’t matter.” Zeke dismissed him, putting a cloth to his forehead.
“But I need you to forgive me. Please. Before…” Shao trailed off.
“Hey, hey Shao, you’re not gonna die! That’s crazy dude! Don’t even start like that! You’re Shaolin Fantastic the lady killing romantic, you’re a superhero, you’re a bad motherfucker!” Zeke told him but he shook his head again, fiercely that time.
“Forgive me.” The words had gravity Zeke never thought possible, punching him in the gut.
“I forgive you. You’re my brother forever and always. Nothing matters but that.”
Shao smiled slightly, softly, his lips upturned and his eyes distant and sad.
“I love you, you know? I have since we met maybe.” Shao whispered the words but they felt so loud they filled the room. “Maybe that explains it all. Who knows. But I love you Books. Not loved, love. Never stopped, never will.”
Zeke couldn’t speak only held his hand tighter. Any words were stuck in his throat. Oh Shao, oh Shao, was all he could think.
He climbed in next to him and held him from behind, squeezing him close. They lay there all night. Zeke’s mouth at his ear, Shao shaking and shivering. Zeke felt his body go stiff in his arms and he stayed there holding him until morning.
His voice was shaking with tears when he called the ambulance to report the death.
There wasn’t a funeral, he was cremated, which Zeke thought he would’ve wanted anyway. It’s just him Ra Ra and Tanya. Boo Boo is still completely off the grid. They spread his ashes around the temple and play records late into the night. The once mighty conductor dies without a trace.
It was almost New Years for 1989 and Zeke has just got home from his first big concert when he gets the phone call. He’d never thought it would come.
It was Mylene’s voice, tearful and broken and raspy. Begging him to come to LA. Saying she wanted him to take her home. To not tell her mother or anyone they knew. That she was off smack now, she swore, and wouldn’t hurt nobody. But take me home Ezekiel, she pleaded, take me home I’ve no one else.
He’d flown out to L.A. without a second thought and showed up at the address she said.
It was just the type of place one would think a faded disco star might live in. Grungy and cold and covered in graffiti, less of the beautiful kind of their youth but ugly and menacing. Full of slurs and gang signs. Her bags were packed, she was ready though she didn’t have much. He found her sitting on her bed, hair brushed but she looked awful. As thin as the others though without the lesions. Lips colorless and skin so pale. The light out of her eyes. Her arms floppy.
“Ezekiel,” she said, and he picked her up in his arms.
They flew home that night. Few words were said. He held her and didn’t ask what had happened. He had read the tabloids and besides, she didn’t want to talk.
They went back to his apartment and he set her up in his bed. Taking the couch for himself. He canceled all the gigs he could. If he had to truly go to one he would call Yolanda to come take care of her. They’d spend all their time together, talking or singing or watching television. He did all he could to make her happy. Buying cassettes of all her favorite albums and making her picnics of Chinese food in their bed. Kissing her temples and letting her talk and cry and scream. But medically, he knew there was nothing. A doctor advised him against AZT or any of the experimental cocktails, it was too brutal, she couldn’t take it. Better to try to keep her comfortable and alive.
“I knew it would be you and me at the end. Always said so. We’d cross the river and look where we are now.” She told him one morning when she was in better spirits and he’d sat down beside her and smiled.
“See? Then why’d you ever doubt me? I’ll always come through for my butterscotch queen. You know that.” He laughed, all teeth.
“I was stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid. Playing doll for those people in Hollywood. No more. Never again.” She shook her head and he thought she’d cry again but she pulled herself together. “I should never have left. And I never will, not now. This is perfect you know.”
“You’re so beautiful. So radiant, so lovely and warm and perfect.” He told her, wrapping his arms around her thin sweaty form.
“You talk good.” She whispered to him, recalling the old words of days on a fire escape in the South Bronx.
“It ain’t talk when it’s true.” He responded, and pressed a fluttering kiss to her soft, dry lips.
“I’m real hungry, can you go get me something from the bodega?” She had asked and he nodded and put on his coat.
When he returned with a bag of chips and hostess snacks, she was lying on the bed. Not moving not breathing. He’d dropped the bag with a start and ran to her.
He’d spent so long waiting for this but he still wasn’t ready. He had screamed and cried, his heart ground like glass shards in his chest. He had held her tightly, numbly, unknowing what even to do. What even to think. How to breathe.
He was like that until Yolanda came to check in that night and she was the one tasked with calling the ambulance and prying them apart.
He was unresponsive for months. Could barely even get of bed to go to her funeral. Just sort of went through the motions. But life went on, and soon instead of heartbroken he became angry. Furious, rage burning deep in his stomach.
The people he loved were dead or dying. The names flashed across his eyes like when he had watched the death counts of Vietnam each night as a kid. Beautiful, wonderful, faces, all full of life and possibility. And the government, the rich people, the white people, had just sat and let it happen. Smiled and sipped their tea and tut tutted. Even Mylene, a star, had been left to die on her own in the end. Her fans mourned sure, but what did that matter when the companies and everyone had abandoned her beforehand? Nothing had changed from his youth and his parents. It was just a different killer. A virus instead of a bullet. And the rage made him get up, the rage made him work.
That was the secret to his success he would tell young kids, rage. He worked and rapped and fought for revenge. For justice. For laughing, sassy Regina, for pretty, dreamy Dizzee, for brave, magical Shao, for sweet, snarky Boo, who last he heard about was doing another stint at Rikers, and for Mylene, for the church girl who he had loved so much and who had transcended it all.
It was for them that he always rapped about the past.