Before I tell you about the time Curtis and I pulled an all-nighter in Compton you need to know Curtis. I've mentioned him before, he went by C.W, this isn't the last time you'll hear of him. He was the only man in my life who would've killed someone for me—glad I never had to pull that card.
I met him when I was 24, he was about 50. We crossed paths on a job site in Los Angeles. Biker to a T—President, Enforcer, Sergeant Of Arms, all that stuff. Six foot five about 260 lbs, French-braided ponytail down to his waist, goatee held together by an assortment of multi-colored rubber bands and covered in prison tattoos. When he carried a conversation, he swayed slightly side to side as he shifted weight between feet and his hands were always clinched tightly in fists either directly in front of him or at his sides—biker!
See that fist? I always wanted to build a Harley. I grew up riding dirt bikes and had a few crotch rockets in my teens but a custom Harley I built myself was the dream. When I stepped foot on that job and saw Curtis, I knew I met my opportunity—C.W. He and I quickly became close friends.
His version went like this:
This punk kid wouldn't Shut Up about 'let's build a bike! Let's build a bike!' I told him for 6 months "I don't build bikes anymore—retired 20 years ago." But he wouldn't shut up! Every. Single. Day he's in my ear 'Let's build a bike! Let's build a bike!'
All I know is it worked! One day during that six month span of relentless pestering, that giant of a man flipped out on me! I remember looking up at him in my weld shop as he swayed side to side that morning, fists at his side. He was sincere and equally aggressive, I remember like it was yesterday, 'good morning!'
If you don't have 75 hundred dollars in your hand by the end of the day to order a frame and engine, I don't ever wanna hear another word about it, Do - You - Under - Stand?!?
I've been single most my life. To this day I've never sacrificed energy toward a mortgage or added responsibilities to myself possibly hindering my ability to save 75 hundred dollars. So I stopped whatever I was doing and dropped my tools, 'be back in 30!' I took off to Bank of America on the corner of 9th and Olympic—two blocks north of Skid Row.
Cash withdrawal, please
I've had men in my life much wiser than me say I learned more in that man's garage during that six month build than all of my previous life lessons and experiences combined. Well said. Six months later we were riding side by side on Highway 152 through Laurel Canyon—arguably the best time of my life. C.W taught me how to prioritize. I learned family doesn't have to share the same DNA to be family and he taught me how to build a custom Softail out of thin air. But this isn't about the build—it's about the time he and I were famous in Compton.
Hot Rod
(Within a year we put an open primary on it, changed both controls, went through about three exhaust systems, repainted it, air-ride, new seat, reupholstered the new seat, an exciting project with no end in sight. I loved that man and I know he loved me back—Harley's were just bonus)
We remained in close contact. I hadn't seen him for over a year, maybe closer to two, this is before FaceTime and all that. I was staying in Coos Bay, Oregon, he was still in LA, about a 12 hour drive. This would've been either 2009 or 2010, the Lakers won a championship that year. The downtown skyscrapers had strategically illuminated windows, Champions! We were surrounded by them when we left Compton at whatever time in the morning it was. That year. I jumped in my truck and merged onto southbound US 101.
I got there late and crashed at his place with the whole C.W clan. I ended up staying about three days, no big deal, I practically lived there during that build—know my way around the house in the dark, etc. We were eating breakfast the following morning prepared deliciously by his beautiful wife, the lovely Mrs. W. :ring: The house phone rang. He stepped out to take the call. "Eat up! We're going to Compton."
I'll go anywhere with Curtis. I've never felt safer prior to meeting him. The day he left I lost that security. I would've gone anywhere with that man and I did! Anyone dared give him a tough time, it's gonna be a bad day for that individual. I said 'he's just a big teddy bear' once on the job in front of other brothers cuz that's what he was—did.not :repeat: did.not go over well. I think this is the first time I've said "teddy bear" since. Now you know Curtis, C.W, The President. He was a husband, a father of three, and my truest friend. He held many titles.
We're southbound on 605, Compton's about a 40 minute drive from The Valley. He told me we're going to Walt's sons birthday party. Walt was a big-time Superintendent for the City of Los Angeles, I'd never met him. His son's name is Javeer, he and his wife (forgot her name) share the same birth date so they're hosting a party at their Compton home together.
I've partied countless times in Inglewood, partied in South Central LA at the Coliseum I can't tell you how many times. Up and down MLK, Hoover Street, Figueroa, etc but I'd never been to a house party in Compton. I'm with Curtis, though, no problem.
We parked on the same street as the party, sun's still out, every sixth house or so has thugs on the front porch sippin on 40's and whatever else and the five houses in between are boarded up, abandoned and/or spray painted. There's stripped down cars on either side of the road unevenly balanced on cinderblocks—Compton. Out steps me and Curtis, the only white dudes they've ever seen walk their block without a badge. Compton isn't a place cops patrol, they don't respond to distress calls in Compton unless someone's dead. You're on your own.
Different world and I'm wearing a red shirt! Write this down: Do not wear red or blue in Compton. It's the only shirt I had and it didn't dawn on me how terrible it was until I stepped out of the truck. Two white dudes, I'm 6-1 and Curtis towers over me, tattoos up and down our flesh, his ponytail's swinging side-to-side as we walk down the street and not an eyeball isn't watching us like a hawk.
At the end of the street, down on the corner, beyond all those boarded up houses and stripped down cars, sets the only house on the whole block with nice paint, gorgeous landscaping, recently updated, you name it—it was in a world of its own inside a world I'd never been to. The vehicles at that house weren't stripped. Hummers and Range Rovers are parked in the front yard, the alley behind the house is lined with BMW's and Mercedes, what a trip! Whoever this dude Javeer is refused to leave the hood and instead made his little corner of the ghetto a paradise that couldn't have been more out of place.
We walked between several six figure vehicles parked in the driveway to a backyard gate—party entrance. There's a peace keeper at the gate about twice the size of Curtis frisking people as they entered. As soon as we stepped up, he contained himself and said something to the affect "I don't know how you guys got here but you might wanna go back where you came from." Curtis, "Lemme talk to Walt." He was surprised, "you know Walt?" Wait here, I'll be right back."
As soon as Walt saw Curtis at the gate it was smiles and hugs. "These guys are with me. I'm so glad you made it, it's my sons birthday party, welcome! Come in!"
The house was so nice! As soon as we walked in the backyard we're met by a gorgeous custom swimming pool, there's a buncha women swimming and playing volleyball. The far left of the backyard has about a dozen chairs sprawled out and there's a big screen TV in the middle of the grass playing MTV type videos, the yard's a dance floor. There's a DJ playing gangster rap, it was the first thing we heard as we exited the truck. Must be about 10 monitors sitting on top of bass cabinets in every corner of the yard—loud! There's one of those big, industrial stove tops maintained by chefs in chef hats, they're flipping burgers, chicken, carne asada, etc. I could smell fried onions. Inside the main house is a fully stocked bar with a smokin hot bartender in a playmate costume. And immediately to the right of the swimming pool is another room, the door's open and it's shoulder to shoulder inside.
It's a pool table room and whoever Javeer is, he's a Laker fan!! The walls are purple, the floor's painted gold, the pool table's purple and gold, and it's packed! There's conversation, fellas are shooting pool, but a good number of people are staring at photos where the wall meets the ceiling. Lined around the interior walls, all the way up against the ceiling, is photographs of famous musicians with some sort of caption: "Thanks for all your help Seven!" "Couldn't have done it without you Seven!" They're lined around the room, I recognize most everyone: Missy Elliot, Kool Moe Dee, Run DMC, The Fatboys and about 50 others. "Who's Seven?" Curtis said that's Javeers street name.
About that time Javeer walks in the room, he's a music producer, "Curtis! I'm glad you came." They hugged briefly before introducing me, "this is Arts I was telling you about," we shook hands. "I'm Seven, nice to meet you." Javeer and I are still in contact, I'll tell you a funny story about him at Curtis's memorial—he was relieved to see me there!
We may be the only white dudes this community has seen within a three mile radius until now but we're here and it's known we're welcome. The host, the hosts dad, the hosts wife, they all welcomed us with open arms. The rest of the party wasn't concerned about us anymore and then, well, then the sun went down.
The whole atmosphere changed. I haven't seen that many thugs in one location since the Too Short concert in Las Vegas. These dudes ain't commercial or radio thugs, either, they're gangsters and they're not shy about their shiny chrome pistols tucked behind their belt at the waist. I watched some of them set their pistols on the dominoes table to throw bones. It got real intense real fast—nothing compared to what happened next.
We're back in the pool table room, Curtis is shooting pool with Walt. I'm sitting down watching the pool game, staring at pictures on the wall, trying not to make eye contact with any of these guys and what's Curtis do? He introduced himself to the biggest, gangsterest, meanest lookin dude at the whole party. He just walked in the pool table room surrounded by about eight other dudes and he's about three inches taller and three feet wider than Curtis.
Apologies in advance for the language you're about to read but this article's dedicated to his wife and kids anyway, they'd have it no other way
Curtis stuck his hand out to shake dudes hand, "wassup man, I'm C.W, nice to meet you."
Do I look like I give a fuck about you mothafucker?! You wanna shake someone's hand, go find someone who gives a fuck!
I couldn't believe it! My heart took off running for Oregon. We're trapped inside a small room with about 20 thugs, I'm less than three feet from the action, one entrance, I have no idea what's about to happen but it's gonna be bad because I know Curtis and it's gonna happen Right Now because I know Curtis. I couldn't hear music anymore or anything. Their eyes locked and Curtis still has his hand out. He smiled as big as he possibly could, such a wide smile his eyes were almost shut. He's doing his side to side sway.
"I'll give you one more chance to shake my hand motherfucker or the next time you see it I'll be pickin you up with it."
Hole-e-fuck-ing-shit!! Yeah, Curtis said that. He said "next time you see it I'll be pickin you up with it" and called him a motherfucker. Now at this point I know one of two things is about to happen—them or us and it's gonna be deadly. I'm terrified.
That big ass dude who stood taller than Curtis spotted a tattoo on Curtis's extended arm. I don't know exactly what the tattoo was, I don't think I ever noticed it until that moment. It was just above his elbow, some type of U.S.M.C. special forces type tattoo. Curtis is a US Marine, too.
Everyone's on their feet now. He's staring at Curtis's arm and I see his eyes swell up, "whatchu know about.... whatever he said ..a b-bout th-that tattoo?" He's noticeably emotional, pointing at Curtis's arm. "This one?" Curtis explains how that was his unit however many years ago. Curtis proudly declared his military service and announced that tattoo on his arm with authority, "This one?!?" Well check this out!
Serendipitous, by the grace of God, a freak of nature, or maybe it's just because I'm The Luckiest Guy I Know, call it whatever you want but everything changed—the whole atmosphere. That big ass gangster said "did you know [John Doe]?" Curtis, "oh, yeah!! Johnny!" He goes on and on about how he and 'Johnny' did this and that, x, y, z, yata yata yata and that dude cried like a baby—can hardly stand up. He's leaning against the pool table with one hand, covering his face with the other, can't talk as he gasps for air. Curtis is trying to hold the guy up, I didn't know if he was having a heart attack or what.
"Hey man you good? You good?" Curtis is holding the guy up, "you ok?" The mood shifted in that room, all those gangsters backed up and gave the man space. He gathered himself enough to wrap his arms around Curtis, now they're embracing in the middle of the pool table room and that dude shouts, "this man knew my father!!! I'm Rudy, what's up 'Big Curt!!'" Shaking Curtis's hand, wiping his eyes with the other. The rest of the night, that was Curtis's name, 'Big Curt.' The whole party knew Arts and Big Curt.
2008
I was standing on a curb
I thought we were golden when Walt met us at the gate—that's nothin! Now we got the neighborhood shot caller saying, "whatever you want, Big Curt! Arts, anything you need, you just say it" and yells as loud as he can across the whole party:
Listen up!!! Turn the music down!! Shut the fuck up and listen! I'm only gonna say this once!! If anyone has a problem with these two men, you have a problem with me and if anyone disrespects these two men you disrespected me, are we clear?!"
We went from golden to King's! Suddenly girls are talking to me, dragging me to the dance floor and stuff, they're bringing me food and drinks, I even got on the turntables a couple times. I'm throwing bones with these dudes in the back yard at $10/game on Rudy's tab while the DJ's music is so loud, you can hardly hear all the action in the pool less than 20 feet away—what a night! And I'm wearing a red shirt!!
We left that party shortly before the sun came up, drove toward the sunrise, it was probably 4am. The walk back to the truck was a lot more comfortable than the previous walk to the house. We're walking down the middle of the street and all those thugs hangin out on doorsteps weren't eyeballing us anymore. They're waving at us now, giving us head nods, we're nodding our heads back, Curtis says "you know why we can walk down the middle of this street at 4 o'clock in the morning?" "Why's that?" He stopped and did a couple 360's with his arms extended at shoulder height, "Cuz we were the first to arrive and the last to leave and they've never seen anything like it."
I didn't see Javeer again until we buried Curtis about five years later. I've never seen that many people at an outdoor venue that wasn't selling tickets at the door, the bikes just kept rolling in. There must have been two or 300 bikes. I told his daughters "look, your dad was a rockstar." I was one of three to speak at Curtis's memorial, that's a funny story, too. Mrs. C.W asked me to speak, I was honored. She told me how some hot shot biker who was ministering the event suggested against it. "Mrs. C.W, with all due respect, I don't think it's a wise choice to have a non-member speak on your husbands behalf at a club function."
She loves me too. Apparently that dude didn't know who he was dealing with, she's Mrs. C.W. Her response went something like this: "C.W is my husband and Arts isn't just speaking on my husbands behalf at a 'club function,' he's speaking LAST on my husband's behalf at a 'club function,' deal with it!"
I had everyone's attention. I put everything I had into that two-page script, you could hear a pin drop. I left the amplified podium to applause, a few old friends rushed me for hugs, I was proud of myself. And who do I see next? Javeer–waaaayyy in the back. The only black dude in a three mile radius, he was even more intimidated than as I was the day I walked up to his gate.
As soon as I delivered that speech he was on me like flies on shit, I don't blame him! I gave him a big huge hug and shook his hand, made sure all 15 hundred of those tattooed sleeve having, long pony tailed wearing bikers knew if anyone disrespected him, they disrespected me. Curtis wasn't around anymore for my ultimate protection but Brian was! Best friends—Brian calls Curtis 'Bubba.' Before I left that party Brian gave me his phone number, "anything you need, Arts, my door's always open."
Me and Brian
Almost there
Years have passed now, I haven't seen Brian since the memorial. I try to stop by the C.W house when I'm in LA—just haven't been there for awhile. A few years before we left the states, this would've been about five years ago now, I ran into Javeer at a taco truck in downtown LA—first time I saw him since the service. I still don't know how he and I ended up in the same place at the same time in a city with 20 million people.
We enjoyed lunch together, reminisced about old times and exchanged phone numbers. We talked about that night in the pool table room, he said, "oh, I knew Curtis would be fine, I was worried about the homies." I laughed, I asked about Rudy, "how's he doin? He still shot caller over there?" Get this! Rudy's Eddie Griffin's personal body guard now, he said "he walks Eddie Griffin down the red carpet 7 nights a week in Las Vegas." How funny is that? Curtis punked Eddie Griffin's personal bodyguard. Someone recently mentioned Eddie Griffin to me, can't remember who now. I hadn't heard that name since I ran into Javeer in LA, thanks for the reminder, you.
Thanks a lot for the pictures Mrs. C.W, sorry it took me so long to do this. I love you THIS MUCH. Please give Wesankel a kiss for me and come see us! Do - You - Under - Stand?
