Earlier this week, I traveled into the future exactly three hours and landed in New York City. I was contracted by the Museum of Sex to give a lecture on the historically violent nature of intercourse entitled, The Wound and the Weapon. But I also came to find and document a personal fascination of mine: gangs.
Not that kind.
New York City is a steely monument to the American dream. For over a century it has spewed its arsenal of riches and glory up and down the island of Manhattan and out across America like the bullets of some automatic weapon. A weapon made of opportunity.
Yeah, that kind.
Yet the city also has an unsightly byproduct. Poverty and destitution sleep in doorways or pee on subway stairs, reminding everyone that they exist, and werenâÂÂt fortunate enough to be shot in the face by success's opportunity gun from my previous metaphor. Whole boroughs belong to poor communities where violence and crime is rampant and, more importantly, where the American gang incubates.
Real gangs, Cholo.
Providence shined my first day at the museum when I met Carl the janitor. He was dusting souvenir vibrators in the gift shop. A 30-year-old with a shaved head and narrow eyes, he had recently lost his night job for defecating on the desk of his boss following a heated argument. Apparently in this concrete jungle where dreams are made, there are some things you canâÂÂt do. Carl had all the telltale signs of a gang member: a toothpick in his mouth, a white tee-shirt with the sleeves rolled up, converse shoes. Also, he told me he deals drugs. We chatted for a while and played the which-girls-on-the-2-oclock-tour-we-would-pay-to-see-naked game. I slowly earned his trust and finally invited myself to stay with him in a small apartment in East Harlem. He didnâÂÂt say no. I assured him that it didnâÂÂt matter how small or dingy it was, that I wanted to immerse myself in the lives of the downtrodden working class, that I would be no trouble at all as long as he had toilet seat covers and ample space for my air purifier.