American Gangster

By AL Harlow

I followed Big Johnny through the house and out the back door to his garage. Once inside he pointed to a pile of cash on the table: "It's all there, count it."
"It looks alright to me." I reached into the bag and pulled out my gun. "What the fuck?" Then he yelled something in Spanish. It must have been a signal. I heard the back door slam shut and feet running. Standing five foot - ten inches tall and weighing every bit of 400 pounds - Big Johnny made the perfect human shield.
"Tell them to toss their guns inside and walk in slowly with their hands in the air." I held my gun to the back of his head - keeping him between me and the door. He repeated my request, half in Spanish and half in English.
"Fuck him, essa. I'm putting a bullet in his white ass," replied a voice with a thick Latino accent.
I could see the sweat starting to run down the back of Big Johnny's shaved head. I pushed the barrel harder into the base of his skull and whispered in his ear, "He may put a bullet in me – homeboy - but not before I send this one right out through the front of your face - comprende?"
With an urgent - almost pleading tone - Big Johnny said something else in Spanish. After a long moment of silence three guns skidded across the floor and in through the doorway. With their hands in the air - three Mexican gangsters came in.
Adrenaline was rushing through my veins - making me feel better than any drug I've ever done. This is what I lived for - I was in my element.
"You," I said, pointing to one of the three amigos. "Come over here, empty this bag and put the money inside." I tossed the black gym bag onto the table. "Then I want you to put those guns inside - one at a time." When he was finished I walked them out single file into the yard.
Big Johnny was the first to lie on the ground next to the brick wall separating his and his neighbor's yard. I put the three amigos on top of him and used them as stepping-stones to scale the wall. I threw the gym bag over, put my gun in my pants and followed. Landing on my feet I grabbed the bag on the run.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AL Harlow
• Release date: Nov 3, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370354610

AL Harlow

Al Harlow was born in 1963 and grew up on the streets of Norwalk California. After spending much of his younger years battling drug addiction - he finally broke free in 2002. He has been married since 2008 and has one son. He holds a Diploma and several Certifications in Psychology and continues to learn every day. Al is an artist, graphic artist, tattoo artist, writer and an addiction/life coach.Al is also co-founder of the Adapt4Life Foundation. Adapt4Life is a non-profit organization working with homeless military veterans and civilians to get them off the street by teaching them the skills they need to succeed.

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Author's Note

When I began writing this I was at a loss for the reasons why. Why would I open myself up to all those memories of being lost - broken -imprisoned and nearly killed? I'm still not sure. They really aren't the best memories and I might be better off just forgetting all about my dark past.

But I felt the need to get my story out in hopes it might help people who have problem children and are ready to throw in the towel. I want to tell you to hang in there; these kids might turn out alright so don't give up on them. Don't leave them for society to deal with. The system will only extract their pound of flesh and fill their hearts with hate.

Many people who will read my story may miss this point and instead believe they are to judge me, but judgment day for me has come and gone. It no longer matters what people think of me. I believe I'm a good person who has done some bad things. And for those of you whom I have hurt in the past please accept my apologies because they are sincere. For those of you who have lied and used the courts to punish me based on your lies, I'm only sorry to have met you.

So as I go through a mental checklist of what I should write about, I realize that if I'm to use my past as a guide for what not to do, then I need to tell the whole story, no matter how emotionally painful.

You see, when I was a kid I was always in trouble, with my family, school, even with people in my neighborhood. I was willful, hyperactive and wasn't really dealt the best hand in life to start with. As I grew to be a young man and stood at the crossroads of life on my own two feet, I could see only one way to go.

This direction always brought me to the same destination, but somehow I felt a perverse sense of pride for living my life as I wanted, no matter how twisted. My role models were gangsters, thugs, outlaws and drug dealers. As time went on I became respected and even feared by these same people.

Near-death experiences were common with my lifestyle, but one day something happened that profoundly changed my life. According to Buddhist philosophy I had seen the face of death and this changed me.

This time when I returned to my crossroads I could see there were many, many roads to choose from. They went in every direction. There was only one problem with that; I was the president of a well-known, notorious outlaw motorcycle organization. People just don't walk away from this life without paying a heavy price.

The men who once called me brother tried to kill me. They put a contract on my life. They even went as far as trying to stitch me up with the law. The plan was to get me busted so they could kill me in prison. I went to prison but I was not about to let some low-life punks kill me.

So, by this time the hole I dug for myself was so deep that changing my life would nearly be impossible. The sheer weight of past dirty deeds was soul crushing. I found comfort in consuming whatever narcotics I could get my hands on. I had been clean for a little while but my addiction welcomed me back like an old lover.

I was drawn back to my old neighborhood. No money, no job and a habit that needed to be fed. So I did what any self-respecting drug addict would do - I started robbing drug dealers.

That whole thing about taking a new road in a new direction somehow got lost in reality. The reality was I was a thug.

The events in this book have been kept as authentic as possible, but certain things had to be changed to protect those who need protecting; me. Many years have passed since I was behind bars. My debt to society has been paid for some of my crimes and yet there are a few that have gone unnoticed or at least unsolved. So, please forgive me for changing the facts ever so slightly so as not to tell on myself or anyone else. Justice may be blind, deaf and maybe even dumb, but never stupid.

Over the years I've been accused of many things but most of my actual crimes were against other criminals and social outcasts. Since my victims were predators themselves it could be said they got what they deserved; some going so far as to call it poetic justice. I wouldn't know, for me it was just survival.

But Joe Citizen had little to fear from me. I've always felt ordinary people were victims of far more sinister establishments—such as government and religion. The founding fathers of America wrote about the separation of church and state, but one only has to read our true history to see the road to freedom was painted red with the blood of those sacrificed for God and country.

I have a deep respect for those of you who truly believe in God, or Gods, though I despise organized religions. Their only purpose is to control and profit from our guilt and fear.

Of my childhood memories I have only a few. Although I could write books with second-hand information on just my pre-teen adventures, I chose to fill only a few pages with stories I personally remember. To do this I had to take a long walk down memory lane to open those doors kept closed for so long. Some of those doors were locked and could not be opened, others opened but I still lacked the courage to cross the threshold.

This personal journey was taken so you may understand me and people like me and I may have a better understanding of myself. As you read of my trials and tribulations, you are given an inside glimpse of an abused child with no help and no hope, surviving to become an abuser. As a result there are many things in my life I've done that I'm not proud of. And I could easily point my finger and say it's everybody else's fault that my life was screwed up; I'm just a product of my environment.

That's not how I roll. I believe the buck has to stop somewhere. One of the hardest lessons I had to learn was to take responsibility for my own life. There is no such thing as I had no choice. There are always choices. It may not have been the choice we would have liked - but there are always choices.

As I look back on my life I wonder why I'm still alive. It's a mystery to me and anyone who's known me. My drug abuse, like my life, has been reckless and irresponsible. I've done just about every drug known to man and some unknown. I've lost count of how many times I've overdosed just to put myself into that small space between life and death in search of the ultimate state of mind - the rush.

The amount of drugs I've consumed over the years has no doubt shortened my lifespan, but what's done is done and there's no point in getting worked up over losing those last few years where I'm wearing a diaper and don't know who I am or where I'm at.

My brushes with the law were inevitable as well as educational. It's my belief that the American criminal justice system is a criminal empire that does more harm than good. Our laws were supposedly written to protect the innocent, but in reality they serve only the wealthy. But there are those of you who still believe in the justice system, and possibly also the Tooth Fairy and Santa Claus. The truth is there is no justice - there's just us.

Another word that gets thrown around is rehabilitation. This is a politician's word used to mislead people into believing some of their hard-earned tax dollars are going towards helping criminals return to society as productive citizens.

Well people, rehabilitation might work if the justice system actually attempted to rehabilitate, but the truth is they don't and it's doubtful if they ever will. Since the War on Drugs gave birth to the Prison- Industrial Complex in the 1970s, the American criminal justice system has become big business.

There is no justice - There's just us.

- Unknown

"Be careful when you fight the monsters,

lest you become one."

- Friedrich Nietzsche

MY LIFE

Sometimes I wonder what happened to my youth

As I look in the mirror and see the truth

My heart becomes heavy as I see the grey hair

Time has marched on - it doesn't seem fair

Only yesterday I was so young and free

I had no idea what was in store for me

I was invincible and nothing could bring me down

But somehow my life got turned around

I traded my freedom for a cell of concrete and bars

Spent too many years without seeing the stars

My spirit was crushed and my heart turned to stone

Surrounded by killers and gangsters - yet still I was alone

My love for people slowly turned to hate

Patiently I waited for the day they would open the gate

That day finally came and I took my turn

But not for long - I had so much to learn

When they let me out my world had moved on

Nowhere to go - everything was gone

The system is designed for people to fall

They gave me $200 bucks and no hope at all

But I was too young to just give up and die

When I found out my freedom was all a lie

I picked up a gun and robbed gangsters and thugs

Took all their money - then took their drugs

I lived my life hard and fast

Letting my guard down was a thing of the past

I did what I had to so I could survive

Right or wrong I am still alive

Played with fire - many times burned

Life's lessons were hard - but finally learned

I left my home and traveled around

Stopped in Asia and finally settled down

Married to a lovely wife who gave me a beautiful son

When he is older I will tell him of the things I have done

So he may know what not to do

I will teach him to be smart and always

think things through

And it doesn't matter who you are or where you've been

It's not the tough guy - but the smart guy

who knows how to win.

-A.L.HARLOW

The next time you wonder how the world got so crazy

look no further than our own children.

But remember - they weren't born that way.

They learned it from us.

-o-

The religions claim to have God's ear and

to all they proclaim the end is near

while they profit from our guilt and fear.

- A.L. Harlow

What is religion?

A maid kept close so no eye may view her.

The price of her dowry baffles the wooer

Of all the doctrine I've ever heard

My heart has never accepted a single word.

-o-

The prophets, too, among us come to teach

Are one with those who from the pulpit preach;

They pray, they slay, they pass away, and yet

Our ills remain as pebbles on the beach.

Abu al-Ala al-Ma'arri

Poet (973-1058)

Chapter 1

My name is Big Al. I'm a 5' 11, 300 lbs. man of English - Irish descent. My head is shaved and my arms are covered in tattoos. The stomach tattoo reads: No Mercy". Over the years I've won many and lost a few street battles.

Scars are my trophies. The top of my head is dented and I have no front teeth. This was a direct result of being on the wrong end of a baseball bat. The left side of my neck was hewed by a meat cleaver and the front destroyed in a weight-lifting accident.

My mind is fucked from drug abuse, the streets and the American prison system. I was born on a Thursday, December 26, 1963 at Saint Francis Hospital in Lynnwood, California. I was named Albert Lee Harlow II.

My name always seemed a bit much and I was thankful my family called me Sonny. The nickname was a gift from my father's older sister Lucile.

My father was a poor farm boy from Missouri—the Show Me state, as he was so fond of saying. Born October 20, 1924 to Roy and Pearl Harlow and raised during the Great Depression. He quit school and starting working at an early age. I think he only made it to the 5th grade.

My grandfather was a hard man but my dad rarely talked about him other than to praise his father for being one tough son of a bitch.

I got the real story from my aunt Lucile. My grandmother died when the children were young and my grandfather started drinking heavily. He would come home drunk and beat the crap out of my dad.

My father joined the Navy to get away from him. The year was 1942 and since World War II was happening the Navy was glad to have him.

My dad never talked about his military service. He served in World War II and the Korean War. He left the Navy to avoid a court martial for drinking, fighting and disobeying direct orders.

I remember him as a frustrated, angry man and he had very little patience for me. It's true, I was a handful and that's putting it mildly. I made Dennis the Menace look like a normal kid and was a good argument for birth control.

My mother was 20 years younger than my father. She was born on October 10, 1943 in Miami, Florida. She was the daughter of Archie and Virginia Mayes - Irish immigrants. Her father served in the British military during the Second World War.

My mother was a big woman. At five foot nine and 200 pounds, she could scare the average Joe. There weren't many people who could make her do something she didn't want to, especially when she was mad. Once I saw her so angry she knocked my dad out with one punch, picked him up and threw him out the front door.

She had a history of psychological and emotional problems. Together with four children we had a complete family - completely dysfunctional. The early attempts at normal family life soon gave way to reality. One of my earliest childhood memories involves an incident in the kitchen. I was sitting on the floor watching my mother wash the dishes.

When she left the room I pushed a chair over and climbed on top of the kitchen counter. I sat down and put a big two-pronged meat fork into an electrical outlet. My mother returned to the kitchen to find me on the floor out cold. The wall above the outlet was blackened and the tips of the fork were melted, the fuses were blown and I had a new respect for electricity.

Around the age of four, I sat in front of the television watching Gun Smoke, a popular TV show at that time. I was wearing my cowboy hat, boots and twin six-guns. They were the heavy pot-metal cap guns popular in the 1950's and 60's. Anyway, the movie had me so worked up I went into my sister's room, pistol-whipped her, then jumped out the window for a fast getaway.

Not the smartest of young outlaws, her room was on the second floor and the window was closed. I landed on the front lawn in a shower of glass and luckily only had a few minor cuts and bruises.

Sometime later we moved to the city of Santa Fe Springs in the county of Los Angeles. My father was on the road driving trucks and that was fine by me because I was scared of him. I was scared of my mother as well but I instinctively learned to gauge her mood swings and stayed away when she was angry.

One afternoon she was mad at me about something and I escaped out back to avoid an ass whipping. Still being too little for a bicycle, the big wheel was my mode of transportation. So I rode it up and down the alley looking for whatever I could find.

There was a car with its doors open and radio playing. So I rode over for a closer look. Nobody was around. I spotted a Coca-Cola bottle in the front seat. The bottle was nearly full and I was thirsty so I grabbed it and drank about half the contents before realizing something was wrong. I fell to the ground rolling and retching, trying to vomit. I fought desperately to breathe and finally passed out.

I woke up in the hospital. The stomach pump determined the contents of the bottle to be upholstery cleaner. Had it been in its proper container I probably would've drank it anyway.

By the time I was five most of the cleaning products found under the kitchen sink had already been sampled, some of them, like bleach and Pine Sol, more than once. Black Flag was among my favorites. I could tell you the difference between the flying insect spray and the ant and roach spray by their smell and taste.

The summer of '68 my father came home from his truck-driving job, jobless. It was the Polacks this time. Some Polish guy was giving him a hard time at work so he quit.

Rather than hit the unemployment line he started painting houses with James aka Jimbo, a buddy of his he met at his favorite bar, where he now spent most of his time. He took me there a few times to play pool.

I could hear my father's voice in the background. He went on and on about this great truck-driving job he had to quit because of the Polacks. They were trying to make him look bad. I knew the story so well because he told it over and over again.

Years later he managed to turn his story into some kind of Polish conspiracy. When he really got drunk his story grew into a full-on Polish movement.

Chapter 2

My father and Jimbo soon turned their small house-painting company into a private contracting business. They spent about four hours on the job and five to six hours at the bar.

Somehow they still managed to make money and soon my father was doing well enough that we packed up and moved to a better neighborhood. This time, with the help of his veteran's loan from his stint in the navy, he was buying and not renting.

My early memories of him were not those of a loving father. I don't remember him ever giving me hugs or even telling me he loved me. He was always good to my brother and sisters, but he didn't have the patience for me. His love for me was presumably the same sort of tough love his father had shown him. Punishments were swift and sure, first with a leather belt, later with his fists and feet.

For a long time I still loved him and just wanted him to love me back. My parental love eventually turned to indifference, accompanied with a good dose of fear. Those feelings would last for many years. I'd found comfort and strength in the fact that I didn't need his love, or anybody else's for that matter.

It seemed the summer of 1969 was the time I remembered most. Maybe because so much happened at once that it was important enough to remember. My father spent his evenings in front of our new RCA television, although, (according to him) he wasn't really a big TV person.

After work and the bar he came home for the news and a new television program with country music and Hillbilly humor called Hee Haw. I don't think he missed an episode during the next 20 or so years that show aired.

Being six years old I was probably needing attention rather than seeking answers, but I was always full of questions and he was always yelling at me to shut the fuck up.

One evening the news was covering a protest over the war. My father commented something about hippies being hopped- up. I had no clue what he was talking about but I thought being hopped-up sounded like fun.

My mother was a different story. During the day she laid on the couch smoking Raleigh cigarettes and screaming for one of us to come into the house and change the channel when she was only 10 feet away.

Both of my parents were heavy smokers. They smoked the same brand so they could collect the green stamps on the pack. When they had enough they would trade them in for items from a catalog.

Everywhere we went they had a cigarette in their mouth or hand. It was really bad when we drove around in our family station wagon. As a kid I thought driving around in a car full of tobacco smoke was normal.

It was so bad I remember complaining about being short of breath and my mother telling me that all of us kids were born with asthma and we would grow out of it. I never really put the two together until years later.

Asthma or no asthma, I was a curious kid and just had to try a cigarette. I stole some of my mother's and sat in our back yard and smoked the way I had seen my parents do. This went on for a few days until my sister told on me.

My mother came home with a five-pack of plastic tipped cigars. She said if I smoked them all she would let me smoke. She lit one up and handed it to me. I puffed on it. She took it away and showed me how to do it. I had to draw in the smoke and blow it out of my nose. I had to do this again and again with no breath in between.

It became a battle of wills. I refused to give up. I smoked one and nearly half of another before losing my lunch. I was sick for a few days and I didn't smoke again for another ten years.

April 20th of '69 was the best day of that summer. It was when my brother Steven was born. I was happy about having a little brother and couldn't wait until he was old enough to hang out with.

My sister Nancy was the first of my siblings to hold him. Months later I was finally allowed to do the same. I guess they were always afraid I would drop him because I was so hyper.

1969 was also the year I did my first residential burglary. This came about as I watched as our neighbors across the street pile into their big motor-home and leave for their summer vacation. So, the next day I crossed the street and climbed their fence. I knew their dog had gone with them so I entered the house through the doggie-door at the bottom of the back door.

I was a fat kid but they had a big dog so I was sure it would be no problem. I soon realized my mistake when I became stuck. I had to wiggle around in near panic before finally squeezing through.

After scrambling to my feet I immediately headed for the refrigerator and cupboards to eat all the ice cream, cookies and anything else loaded with sugar. The sugar was like rocket fuel for my young brain.

After my feast I began rummaging through the house looking for anything of interest. I discovered a box of bullets and put them in my pocket. I remember one wall was covered with family photos. Everybody looked so happy. My house had no family photos on the wall. I wondered what it must feel like to have a happy family.