Infiltrating a Gang Based on My Knowledge of 'West Side Story'

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 weren’t 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 can’t 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 didn’t say no. I assured him that it didn’t 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.

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And it can really tie a room together.

On the way to his place he explained what it was like growing up in Hell’s Kitchen. He told me about the limited choices he had as a young man to make money, about his emotionally distant, abusive father and a hundred other equally boring stories. I don’t remember most of them because I fell asleep behind my sunglasses twice and because I started feeling sick every time I scribbled something on the train. “Did you ever kill anyone in the name of love?” I asked him. He laughed and looked at his feet. “I... I broke down my girlfriend’s door once. But I just wanted to scare her.” “Did you and your crew ever have to dance your way out of a potential scuffle?” “What?” “You don’t have to tell me now. We’ll get there.” Carl’s apartment was much bigger than I had hoped. It had track lighting and art on the walls. An unused entertainment center pouted in the corner while leather couches circled a bookshelf like sharks that had sensed blood in the water. “Books!” I laughed. “That’s funny. Nice touch.” I winked at him and ran a finger over the couch. “These items are hot, aren’t they?” I whispered. Carl shrugged and offered to turn on the AC. While he tinkered with the central air I explored briefly on my own, dipping my head into the kitchen and behind closed doors, until I stumbled upon two thieves in a bedroom. I screamed, not loud, like a man. “Sharks!” I warned Carl from where I was hiding behind the couch. “Those are my roommates. That’s Esteban and his sister, Maria.” Still wary, I dusted myself off and shook Esteban’s hand. His shorter and stockier sister sniffled and wiped at her nose before offering me the same hand. My heart soared as I shook it. She seemed like the kind of girl I could love, if I was willing to try really, really hard.