Henry " Blondie " Malavasi

Gold · January 1

The first years of my life were spent on the wrong side of the South Street Bridge in Philadelphia, in a place they called the Devil’s Pocket. That name always sounded funny to me, but I only truly understood it when my father explained why. We were sitting in the same kitchen I’d watched become more and more vacant over the years.

“Kid, you wanna know why this place is called what it’s called? A long time ago, before your ma and I were even born, a pastor lived here, just a couple houses down the street.”
I remember feeling the tension in the air; my father was always a good storyteller—God rest his soul.
“Back then, it was our people and the micks. And when they weren’t working in the factories, they were always up to something. One day at mass, this priest condemned our neighborhood, because the kids were so rough that if they had the chance, they’d steal from the Devil’s own pocket.”

That was around the time I started realizing why things were the way they were around me—why Georgie down the street was always on that same corner, outside Novelli’s, our local bar, every day and every night. And with Georgie there were others, most of them my father’s friends, who more often than not stood on that corner too, instead of being with their families. My mother—God rest her soul—was named Louise. She had a pale complexion and the most beautiful blonde hair. Back in the day, the Irish boys in the neighborhood were always after her, according to my father. I was born just like her—pale, with golden hair. People always said I looked exactly like my mother, but deep down, I knew I was more like my father. At first, that struck me as a compliment, but as time passed and I started to figure things out, that feeling changed.

It was a cold winter night, and I must have been about eight years old. I was lying in bed, tucked in and safe from the monsters kids my age feared. That’s when the hum of the streetlights echoing in the silent streets was shattered by the roar of an engine, followed by three thunderous cracks and flashes that lit up my bedroom window. Then came the screams—three of them—and the engine’s roar faded into the distance. Within seconds, half the houses had their lights on, and everybody and their mother was looking outside.
Out there in the snow, right in front of Novelli’s, lay Georgie and my father, Michael. I was barely tall enough to see out the window, but I’ll never forget the sight of them writhing on the bloody, icy ground. My eyes widened; my pupils shrank. All I could do was gasp. Georgie didn’t move—he looked frozen. My father crawled into Novelli’s, and men rushed out to help him. All I could make out was a dark pool forming under Georgie’s head, and a crimson trail behind my father as he dragged himself away from his friend’s lifeless body. That night changed the way I looked at the world forever. The monsters got to my father before they could get to me.

I never truly understood why it all happened, and no one ever gave me the chance to figure it out. My mother, Louise, did her best to protect me from the ugly truth. From that day on, the kitchen felt emptier. The food we ate never tasted the same again. I don’t blame her for anything she did after that night. As the years passed, her melancholy only grew, fueled by her inability to cope on her own. Now a single mother and a widow, she self-medicated, and her beauty faded with every swig from the bottle. Even so, I always looked out for her the best I could. From a very young age, I felt like I had the weight of the world on my shoulders, like I had to become something and provide for my mother. The tables had turned. I started stepping out in the street more, coming home later and later—sometimes not at all. My adolescence was shaped by the roughness around me. I became one of those kids the priest had talked about in my father’s story.

I had a little posse in the neighborhood. There was Jimmy Cuts—Georgie’s son and my partner in crime. We’d both gone through the same kind of loss, and our mothers grew close over the grief they shared. Then there was Arnie, the youngest of us. He was a good kid, and smart, too—always thinking light-years ahead of everyone else. We also had Big Andy. His name didn’t do him justice: he was so tall and broad that he towered like a skyscraper whenever we hung out. And then there was me, Henry. But my friends called me Blondie.
Like any dumb teenagers in the ’90s, we always found new ways to stir up trouble. Eventually, it caught up to us—but we were lucky some of my father’s old friends were still around. They were older now; some had moved out, and some wore suits and ties. I never understood how these guys from bum-fuck Devil’s Pocket ended up looking like congressmen, but they watched out for us, especially me and Jimmy. One of them stood out: Old Carm, who seemed to be in charge. Everyone listened to him.

Old Carm was a special kind of guy—like a second father to me, though he was much rougher. I can’t recall how many times he pulled us by our ears for the dumbest crap we pulled back then. By the time I was eighteen, same as Jimmy, we were constantly fighting with the neighborhood Irish kids, competing for the market at our local high school. What market? Anything we could turn a profit on. When we realized we could buy grass by the ounce from Gino down the street, we started our own little business. The money started rolling in, and soon we were counting more cash than we’d ever dreamed of. Sure, it was small-time stuff now that I look back on it—but at the time, no other kids carried that kind of money around. With the money came the girls, and every night we partied at Jimmy’s place, smoking our brains out with Black Sabbath blasting in the background. We thought we were small-town rock stars. And when we weren’t making a buck, we were partying hard. That’s also when I got introduced to other vices, and found the clientele for them too. By the time I was twenty, me and the boys were basically the kings of our little castle: grass, party pills, and the occasional stepped-on coke if we had our hands on it.

I made a living off that hustle for a couple of years. The kids grew up, some turned into addicts, and those addicts eventually became dealers themselves. We had our own little network in the heart of the neighborhood. One Thursday night, we went to pick up our weekly supply because Fridays were party days, and we had to be ready. By then, we were getting our dope from a group of Cubans who lived about half an hour away. The plan was simple: go in, grab our stuff, get out—like always. It was me and Jimmy in the car, with Jimmy driving. We got in and out just fine, but on the way home, crossing the South Street Bridge, an unmarked vehicle started tailing us and flipped on its siren. One car turned into three. Jimmy began to panic, sweat running down his face as I argued with him about what to do. He wanted to pull over, but I knew better. An unmarked car with backup wasn’t some run-of-the-mill traffic stop. Jimmy led them on a brief chase through the neighborhood, and that’s when I made the biggest mistake of my life.

When we turned a corner, I told him to stop. My plan was to bolt through the alleyways I knew by heart, maybe hide out at a friend’s place. There was no way we were outrunning them in our beat-up car. I stormed out, backpack in hand, running for my life—literally. I never ran so hard, and for a moment I thought I’d lost them. But suddenly, I was staring down the barrel of a gun. “Freeze,” they yelled, and that’s all I could do. I had so much dope on me, they probably threw a party back at the station.

Curran-Fromhold Correctional Facility became my home for eight long years. The judge really threw the book at me. I went from the Devil’s Pocket straight into the Devil’s belly. It was my alma mater, you might say—that’s where I went to “college.” I met all kinds of folks in there: drug dealers, violent criminals, truly nasty types. And now, I was one of them. I’d been locked up for about a year when I got the news: Old Carm came to visit me, which was strange, because it was usually my mother who came. He didn’t look good. I didn’t like it one bit. That’s when he told me my mother had passed. I guess she just couldn’t handle it anymore—no husband, and her son behind bars like some animal. Old Carm didn’t get specific, but he said they found her in that same old kitchen, bottles of liquor on the table. I figured she must’ve passed out and choked to death. A deep depression sank in. I loved her so much; I would have done anything to stop that. Part of me blames myself. I carry that guilt and pain with me to this day. Maybe that’s why I’m so messed up inside.

One day I got a letter from my grandmother, who lived in San Andreas. I’d visited her once before, and I loved the West Coast. She and my grandfather had moved there because he couldn’t find work in Philly. My parents stayed behind, because that was the only life my father knew, and my mother always did whatever my father wanted. In the letter, my grandmother told me I’d always have a place with her if I needed it. I thanked her and thought hard about that offer. After all, I had nothing left in Philly. Jimmy was locked up elsewhere, and Arnie had moved out of the city after our operation fell apart. So after eight years, I decided to leave too. The day I walked out of those concrete walls, I felt a gratitude I can’t even describe. I sold my childhood home and used the money to stand on my own two feet for a while. That’s when I made the move.

Los Santos. This is where I’m writing this journal right now, sitting in my grandmother’s kitchen. I like this place. I like the sun.

Edited January 1 by Gold

Gold · January 7

Gold · January 7

Gold · January 7

Edited January 7 by Gold

Gold · January 7

Trigger Gluckman · January 7

top man

tangerinekitty · January 7

👌👀👌👀👌👀👌👀👌👀 good shit go౦ԁ sHit👌 thats ✔ some good👌👌shit right👌👌there👌👌👌 right✔there ✔✔if i do ƽaү so my self 💯 i say so 💯 thats what im talking about right there right there (chorus: ʳᶦᵍʰᵗ ᵗʰᵉʳᵉ) mMMMMᎷМ💯 👌👌 👌НO0ОଠOOOOOОଠଠOoooᵒᵒᵒᵒᵒᵒᵒᵒᵒ👌 👌👌 👌 💯 👌 👀 👀 👀 👌👌Good shit

Keep it up, “Harry”.

Gold · January 8

8 hours ago, tangerinekitty said:

👌👀👌👀👌👀👌👀👌👀 good shit go౦ԁ sHit👌 thats ✔ some good👌👌shit right👌👌there👌👌👌 right✔there ✔✔if i do ƽaү so my self 💯 i say so 💯 thats what im talking about right there right there (chorus: ʳᶦᵍʰᵗ ᵗʰᵉʳᵉ) mMMMMᎷМ💯 👌👌 👌НO0ОଠOOOOOОଠଠOoooᵒᵒᵒᵒᵒᵒᵒᵒᵒ👌 👌👌 👌 💯 👌 👀 👀 👀 👌👌Good shit

Keep it up, “Harry”.