They call me Gregory DeShawn McAllister, but out here? Everybody just know me as Big G-Mack. Born 1950 in Palm Springs, California, where the sun pressed down like it had somewhere urgent to be and the streets smelled of hot asphalt and ambition. Pops, Harold, laid bricks all day in Coachella Valley, his hands rough as desert stone, mama Ernestine held the house down like a queen guarding her throne. Life was golden, man—hot summers, Schwinn bikes with chains that smelled like oil and adventure, radios bumpin’ The Temptations, and a sky so wide you could almost lose yourself in it.
Childhood was a hoot, mostly ‘cause of my boy Benjamin. Benny was four months older, born in ‘49, straight outta Alabama. My mentor, my big brother in everything but blood. His mama, Miss Loretta, ran a single-mom empire raisin’ six kids, yet somehow let me slip under her wing too. Family dinners? Skillet fryin’ catfish we’d pull from Lake Cahuilla every week. The smell of hot fish and butter thick in the air like it owned the room. Benny and I would fish, bring it home, and the whole house licked their lips. Ain’t nothing beat that sizzle, that first bite that made your knees weak. Me and Benny dreamed of startin’ a seafood spot. Prices on lobster and shrimp kept us waitin’, but man, we believed.
Then came spring of '67… Benny shipped off to Vietnam, and after that… well, life just kept on rollin’ without him. Big G-Mack grew up, made mistakes, learned lessons, and built himself. The ’70s hit me wild—disco, the L.A. streets, hustlin’ a little, navigatin’ life the only way I knew how. But I stayed sharp, tough, and young at heart. Eventually, I met my queen, Simone. Beautiful, smart, could school me in life and keep up with my big mouth. We tied the knot in ’75, me at 25, still rough around the edges, her smiling like she knew the heart I was hidin’ under all that swagger.
Once we settled down, we had a couple kids—first Tasha in 1980, then little Darnell in ’84. Raised ‘em right, Cali style—tough but loving, sun on our backs, laughter spilling over the yard like wind through the palms. The ’90s and 2000s brought new challenges and wins. Kids grown up, careers taking them places… ol’ G-Mack still grindin’ on the side at my age, but makin’ space for family dinners, trips to Joshua Tree, and the occasional L.A. road trip to catch some music, soak in culture, just livin’. Stayed outta trouble, held down my rep as the tough, lovable Big G-Mack. Learned to balance things with heart. Turned 50 in 2000 and realized I could still be that ol’ desert cat on the streets but a soft, proud pops at home.
By the 2010s, life really settled. Simone and me? Still strong. Kids busy with their own lives. I even got to see them start families of their own. That pride? Hit harder than any fight I’d had back in the day. Big G-Mack might’ve been streetwise, but family always came first. And recently? Got a letter from Miss Loretta, Benny’s momma. Years ago, she and the kids moved back to Alabama. Now this letter comes with a check—big one. Said it was from Benny. I grinned. Back when he was doin’ basic, he met a skinny white man all about seafood too. Benny said this dude might get the dream alive. Turns out, after Benny died, that man built the business, blew it up, remembered Benny as co-owner even in death. When he sold it, he cut a check to Miss Loretta. She shared some of that love with me too. Some love, with a bunch of zeroes at the end, hahaha.
Oh yeah, and I’m sorry. I knew him as Benny, but y’all prolly know him better as “Bubba.” Big G-Mack? I’m happy, man. Happy livin’ off my “Bubba Gump” money, proud of the life I built, the family I raised, the legacy my boy left behind…
But every one of those big wins—every zero on that check, every proud moment with my kids—they trace back to little sparks, little days that felt like nothing at the time. Days when the sun burned hot on your neck, and the air smelled like asphalt, oil, and promise. Days when lessons weren’t taught with lectures but with arguments, laughter, and even silence.