Did Robert Delano Invent Rap Music?
It was hard to tell what nationality or race Robert was. He looked Chicano but he was a pale white. He had a pronounced nose like the French. He could have been Italian. The Delano’s lived out on 50th’ street in a bad part of town, on the edge of Black Ghetto. Bob was able to cross many racial lines. He was in no way a fighter. He was small in stature. The gangs didn’t mess with him because he was of the Oakland Race, the perfect East Bay mutt. He fit in wherever he go, but, not so in Boston, not at first.
Not two days after he got to Roxbury, Bob is in deep shit, and dragging us all down with him. We had moved into a big house across from the brownstone. Our landlord and his wife were white. This was the beginning of the Gentrification of Roxbury, a black ghetto on the outskirts of Boston. Some folks were fighting back. There were dark hunters out there who saw us as fair game. We had to be on our guard.
“James. Did you tell Bob the rules?”
“No!” James said with a chuckle. “You tell him the rules, because you’re the Rule Guy.”
James had scored some big points with seventeen year old Rena when he blamed me for everything that went wrong in Winnemucca. If I had not fucked with the hip order of the universe, and had just let things flow, we would have pulled up to Rena’s grandmothers house and let our little Love Urchin out. I was the big bad wolf, dude, who did not have a cosmic bone in my body. If I had taken some No-Doz, there would not have a been a big heavy scene.
People were not sure James was hip, a cool guy, until he worked me, the Rule Guy on a Big Bummer. The fact that he only lived alone for two months out of sixty-five years of his life, should tell you there was a Rule Momma in Jame’s life. I heard evil stuff about who’s turn it was to clean out the kitty box. I shudder to recall it.
“Just tell him!”
“O.K. O.K. But, this means you don’t get to tell me what to do for a week.”
I watched – my friend – take out his little black note book, and make a notation. Mr. Imrpov kept a record of every transaction, every loan, every hamburger he might have bought you in a generous moment. In the black book was Rena’s grandmother’s phone number because he leant Rena $40 dollars to get on the greyhound, and wanted it back!
We had a tug of war over a painting I did, he grabbing it as soon as it was done. I mean, he hovered round me like a vulture, then yanked it off the easel as soon as I said;
“Finis!”
I think James made art history. He was gritting his teeth. This was on par with gabbing a man’s balls, and giving them a hard squeeze. All for $40.
“You’re not greeting this back until you pay me the money I leant Rena! She was your girlfriend. You owe me!”
Absurd fiction writers can not make surreal shit like this up. James was – surreal!
Now, I don’t have a perfect memory, but, James might have talked me into holding another Art Benefit so we can get to Boston – alas. This time we were going to take the bus.
Michael Harkins gave me an old photo of me in a white jump-suit drinking coffee at Willis Court. I have paint brushes in my hand. I have very long hair. I don’t think I had long hair when we headed East in my Dodge.
After I threw a couple of punches at James, he holding up my painting to block my blows down in the laundry room on Willis Court, I was done with this shit-head. I felt sick when I hit his fat pulpy body as he put the white washer and dryer between us. I slugged my painting of a hawk siting on pole with barbed wire. Of course this was Rena, a raptor who loves her freedom, and so far, has eluded capture.
Jon Presco
Copyright 2013
I will fly
In your eye
In your eyes
I will fly
In your head
In your ear
I will whisper
whisper
I will not be a prisoner
I will not be a prisoner
In your eye
In your sigh
In your ear
In your head
I will……..
Rosamond Press 
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