Rise & Fall Of A Don

Chapter 3

One Year Later

Tommy Pov

"Puedo ir al parque," I asked. Living with Pam is different than living with my birth mom.

Translation: Can I go to the park

She wants to know where I am and where I'm going, and how long I will be gone. And if my grades are bad or I get into trouble at school, she grounds me. It always baffled me how my mom and Pam were so different, and they were both 28 years old.

"Si, no seas guapo."

Translation: Yes, don't be long, handsome

I smirked. I kissed her on the cheek and left.

Life was good at this point. Pam was a little strict, but that showed me that she cared. My mom didn't care when I came home. The only reason she made me go to school is because if she didn't, the state workers were going to find out. Pam and I spend a lot of time together. I taught her Spanish. She taught me English. I even became popular at school. I became more outgoing. She said my smirk is to die for. So, I started using it to my advantage, especially with the ladies.

I told her I was going to the park. And I will, eventually. I want to make a stop first. I had a new revelation the year before when someone bought me a painting for my birthday. It was really cheap, but the abstract painting piqued my interest. The walk took me forever. We're in the ghetto. Most things around here are closed down. So if we wanted to go somewhere nice we had to walk a long way, take the bus or drive. But the walk was worth it. I did it twice a week for the past year.

When I arrived I stood outside the gallery. I wanted to see what new painting he acquired. He gets a new shipment every two days. When I see the paintings, I go and research the artist, the artist style, the artist history, everything about them.

I like them all. Everyone that I've researched was very creative. Michelangelo, Donatello, Albrecht Durer, Claude Monet, Paul Cezanne, and of course Van Gogh and Picasso.

I haven't told anyone about my love of art. I talked to Ma about it briefly. She looked confused before she said, "sweetie, you're almost 10 years old. Act like it." Then she went out and bought me some Legos. I smiled at the memory.

Someone tapped my shoulder. I whipped around fast.

Narration: I would soon learn to watch my surroundings and to keep my ears open to everything.

"Will you ever come in?" It was the owner of the art gallery.

I looked at him passively. Then turned back to the paintings. "Nah, I can't afford anything in there."

"You love art? I've been seeing you come here and stand outside and look."

"Yeah."

"You know about the new pieces that I've hung this week."

"Basquiat and Matisse."

"Very good. Listen. I have a proposition for you. I need a cleaner and a runner. Are you looking for a job?"

I turned to him. "I'm 10 years old."

"So."

"So child labor laws."

"I don't abide by the laws, son. I make my own laws."

Narration: I should have walked away right then because little did I know that this would open up a very large threshold and can of worms. It would throw me into a life that I was very good at living. One that I refused to give up until I was killed.