Wolf
by Steve Bernstein, 1994

It was late spring 1968. I was shooting hoops down at the PS 90 schoolyard when Karl came running in all out of breath. He said, "Gog, they're robbing your brother, man, you better get up there, NOW!" Karl was kind of like the neighborhood messenger. Whenever something was going down, he was right there.

My name was Gog. We all had a street name. I really don't remember how I got that name. It just stuck. We had gangs. Not like the gangs in cities today. Mine was a hanging out, basketball playing, girl watching kind of gang. I was a street kid. No matter what pressures were around me to stay off the street, I kept going back. I needed the gang to survive the inequalities of the street. I was the only white kid. For a long time, I wasn't really too sure of my heritage or culture.

I dropped the basketball and ran up the hill to my building where I saw this kid trying to take my brother's money. This kid was bigger and older than David. He was older than me, and he was black. I saw what was happening and jumped right in without even thinking, pushing the kid. He was standing in front of a chain fence that separated the cement sidewalk where they were standing, and the dirt that was supposed to be grass leading up to the side of my building. I pushed him a little too hard. He went over the chain backwards, did a reverse somersault and hit his head on the building. He wasn't hurt too bad. He regained his senses, realized he was bleeding, and through his tears said, "I'm gonna get my brother and my boys after you!" I looked at him, thankful that I hadn't killed him, and thankful that he didn't hurt my little brother, and said, "Go ahead, get out of here and don't ever bother my brother again!" He took off. Within a minute the adrenaline settled down and I started to realize I was scared. Dave was OK — the kid hadn't really hurt him. What if he does have a gang? What if he does have an older brother? I've got my brother to worry about and really no one I can call on to help me. I know I said I had a gang, but the reality was, I was the wrong color. The other kids were Black and Spanish. There was no way they were going to help me — the only white kid — fight a gang of Black kids. I knew that. I said very calmly to my brother, "Dave, go get Dad." Now in my heart, I knew what I was really doing. My father was either not home or sleeping off a drunk. This was the way it was at that time. When he was home, he was usually abusive, tortured with the realities of his own existence. In order to feel things in life, you need to be sober. That was seldom. Any way you sliced it, he was unavailable. That was basically my reality as a kid. What I really was doing was sending my brother away to protect him.

After Dave left, a million panicky thoughts and feelings passed through me. What am I going to do? How will I survive this? These questions and the emotions surrounding them were way too familiar to me. I could get on the subway and keep on going. That idea lasted about two seconds. The other fact of life for me was: yeah, you can always run, but you gotta' come back sooner of later. I learned early on living in the Bronx — or maybe it was just living my life in general — get it, before it gets you. I suddenly felt so all-alone.

Karl had seen and heard everything. He took off when the kid did. At this point, all up and down the street and out the windows and in front of their stoops, my neighbors were waiting for the big show. Karl the Messenger buzzed up and down the block and told everybody what was going down. I just felt that much more alone when I saw all this.

Just the week before, around the corner, an old German couple committed suicide together. They were in their 80's. The suicide note said, "We no longer want to live in a world where every day we get beaten and robbed." This was big news... a telling commentary on life in the Bronx at the time.

By sending Dave away, I gave myself some time to think. Running away was out of the question. My father was not around. People on the street just wanted a show. Cops didn't come to my neighborhood. I'm sitting on my stoop thinking and every imaginable fear races through my mind. My heart is racing, and my gut aches. I didn't have time to feel. As I was sitting there I had this amazing, or maybe even lighthearted, almost comical feeling take over. I thought about Wolf, and how crazy everyone was when they thought he was vicious.

Wolf was this big, I mean, really big, Malamute/Wolf-type dog that my sister's boyfriend, Mike, brought to my father one day. Mike was on a boat where they needed a mean watchdog. Well Wolf didn't cut it. Anyway, my father ended up with him, and used him as a mean looking deterrent to junkies breaking into his plumbing shop. On a regular basis, his shop, which he converted from a meat market, was broken into and tools and materials were stolen. The plate-glass storefront was broken and just behind it was a shelf where Wolf would lay, and I guess look scary enough, where nobody would go near the place. I thought it was funny, because in reality, Wolf was a real wimp. Right off the bat, Wolf and I hit it off. He was magnificent. Aloof, noble, and so strong and agile that you really knew he was half a step away from the wild.

A watchdog, he wasn't — he just looked scary. Not to me though. I loved him and admired him. I wrestled with him and played with him all the time. I was the only one he responded to in a fun way. Everyone else, he more or less ignored.

I must have been delirious to think Wolf could help, but the reality was I had no other choice. Wolf was unbelievably powerful, but would never bite even the fleas off his back. Except once. Up the block there was this really mean Doberman owned by a drug dealer. He let his dog go for Wolf while I was walking him once. Wolf didn't want to, but he had to. This Doberman attacked, and in an instant, Wolf bit right down on his neck and snapped it, killing him in seconds. Wolf knew his life and maybe mine, was in danger. Having no other choice, I started to talk myself into the fact that Wolf looked ferocious. To me he was a big puppy. I pulled my keychain out, walked over to the shop which was adjacent to my stoop, opened the door, put Wolf's massive choke collar and chain leash on him and said, "C'mon boy, let's go!" Wolf reluctantly got up, stretched, yawned, and came out with me. I must be nuts, I thought to myself. Wolf isn't even awake. He spent most of his day just sleeping on that shelf behind the window. I ran up and down the block with him to wake him up a little and that's all it did too. He was all I had in the world at that moment to help me survive what I was rapidly believing was my last day. I walked back to the stoop and sat down and waited. I was in agony. Today, I think what a tough reality it was for a 14-year-old kid. I had to hold tight onto Wolf's leash to look tough. If I let up he would lay back down and go to sleep. I stood up and leaned against the brick column next to the stoop. As I was standing I also was pulling with the strongest, most steady tug I could manage. This not only kept Wolf awake, but also made him look wild. His tongue and teeth were showing and the pain was making him act a little crazy. I was pulling as hard as I could to keep him looking mean. All he was was damned uncomfortable. Just then, Karl came running around the corner. He said, "They coming for you, Gog." I asked, "how many?" He said about 20 of 'em. I knew he was exaggerating, I just didn't know by how much.

That next minute seemed like an eternity. At that point I just wanted whatever was going to happen to be over with. I was keeping myself contained and together; that's what was necessary to show them that I had nothing to worry about. Wolf was all I needed. "What a laugh!" my inner mind was saying.

They came around the corner and started crossing the street to my stoop. There was one real tall, older guy in front of this pack of younger guys with sticks and chains; one dude even had an old umbrella he was going to whack me with. The older guy, maybe 19 or 20, came right up to me while the others circled around me and surrounded me. I just stood fast and tall, gripping that lead as hard as I could. I glanced down out of the corner of my eye and saw Wolf, right there, glued, frozen to my side. This was it! This was all I had. I thought, "let's get on with it man, I'm so tired of being scared."

The big guy came up to me, looked me up and down with hate in his eyes, and said, "What the f__k did you do that to my little brother for, man?" I picked my head up and looked him right in the eye and said in as controlled a voice as I could muster, "He was pushing my brother and was gonna take his money. I had to protect him." He said, "You, so much bigger and older, you shouldn't have hurt him so bad." I said, "Your brother's 16, I'm 14, I didn't mean to hurt him." All the while we were talking, my mind's eye was always alert and watching what was happening around me. The older kid was standing 3 feet in front of me, and all the rest of the kids were no closer than 3 or 4 feet, even though they surrounded me. Can it be true? Are they afraid of Wolf? He was right there, glued to my side, as he had no choice since I was almost strangling him. They didn't realize that if I let go of the leash he'd just drop down and go to sleep. Or would he? I made it look like he was chomping at the bit, vicious. It was good, real good.

The older kid said, "you a lucky motherfucker that you got your dog, man, or you'd be dead meat." Music to my ears! I showed no sign of emotion, just a kind of nod of agreement. He said, "Some day you not gonna have that mutt with you; you better look both ways at every corner, cause I'm gonna get you, man." I didn't care. That's some other day. My mind's voice was pleading, "just please, please, go away, now."

He turned around and started to walk away. His boys gathered up and followed him. When he got to the corner, he turned and looked back at me. I was still motionless standing there with Wolf at my side. I know it's weird, but being who I was I couldn't help but think that he wasn't going to get me. He needed to put up a front. After all, he, too, is a big brother. I think he understood. I never saw him again, but I did look both ways at corners for awhile.

A few minutes later, Karl came around the corner and said, "Don't worry Gog, they're gone." I waited about 3 more minutes and then let loose on the leash, and took a deep breath. Wolf sat there and looked up at me and then lay down. I sat down on the stoop, and just looked at him for a minute. I glanced up the block. The people were pulling in, going about their business as usual; the show was over.

Looking back, today I would cry if that were to happen to me now. I didn't cry, I just started petting my friend, Wolf. I thanked him and stroked his fur. He was already asleep. I gave him a real nice walk and some soup bones that night, and later let him back in the shop.

David came out after the gang was gone. He said, "I couldn't find him." I looked up at him. I was now calm, and somewhat reflective, sitting on the stoop. I asked, "Who, Dave?" He answered, "Dad. You told me to go find Dad, remember?" I said, "Oh, yeah, well that's okay. I'm all set now." My plan worked; David missed the whole thing. My father and brother never really talked to each other back then. When David was younger and diagnosed with a learning disability, my father would say, "he can't be a son of mine." When I sent Dave to look for Dad, I knew he'd never find him. When I got home that night, my father was still sleeping off a drunk from the night before. Four flights up, he was in bed all day. Funny, I didn't even think, "Wow, he was there all the time, he could have helped me!" That never even entered my mind.

During that summer, I played with Wolf all the time. I took him to the Botanical Gardens near the zoo, where he could run and go through ponds and streams, just like the country. We really connected.

I started high school that fall. Over the summer I had gotten into the habit of playing with Wolf every day. After school, after practice, and after my job, I would stop in to see him and give him a good run. Boy, did he love to run! I was so taken with him. He gave me hope that anything was possible.

One day I came home and there was this creep that my father had working for him standing outside the shop, leaning against the entryway. His name was Jimmy. He was about the biggest scumbag I ever knew, even to this day. For some crazy reasons that I could never figure out, he was someone who stole my father’s tools and trucks, badmouthed my dad and still was allowed to have his job. He was a drunk and a criminal. As much as I have never been able to bring myself to say so, I could honestly say then and now, that I truly hated this despicable excuse for a human being and he knew how I felt. I had his number, and I never let him know otherwise.

He was lazily leaning against the storefront of the shop when I passed by to look in the hole to see where Wolf was. Jimmy's presence always put me on edge. I didn't see Wolf! I said to Jimmy, "Where's Wolf?" He was too eager to answer, knowing how I loved Wolf. He said, "He's gone, man." I said, "What do you mean gone? Where the fuck is he? What did you do with him?" "I didn't do nothin'. It was your daddy," he said with a grin. "Yeah, he got good and drunk, and lost your dog in a card game last night." I felt like I was kicked in the stomach. I went upstairs. I didn't cry. I do now though.

This is a true story.