by Omar Tyree
Baby G asked him, “Was it something about a month ago?”
“Yeah, that’s what it was. And I don’t like that shit. But it’s done now. But I’m a tell you what…I don’t wanna read no more shit like that. You hear me? Let me write that shit my way.”
Baby G smiled at it. He said, “I got you. Thanks for the call. It’s always good to hear from you.”
The caller responded, “Ditto,” and that was the end of the conversation.
Baby G closed his cell phone and asked his driver, “So, what’s poppin’ off tonight?”
“Anything you want. This is your world,” his bodyguard/driver told him.
“Well, we gon’ need that bigger car then.”
“The Chrysler three hundred?”
“Yeah, ’cause I wanna pick up some more girls tonight.”
“Aw’ight, let’s go get it.”
The driver started up the Mercedes engine, backed up, turned the wheel, and pulled out into the street.
As soon as they made it to the first traffic light, another phone call came in. The second call was from a regular Manhattan street phone with a 212 area code.
Baby G answered, “Hello.”
“Yo, I got news for you, B,” the caller announced.
“Is it old news?”
“Yup.”
“Well, you late already. I already got that news a month ago. So, bring me something new.”
The caller paused. “Aw’ight,” he responded dejectedly.
Baby G heard the disappointment in his voice. He said, “You did good, son. You just a little late with the info. So, you stay on your grind and keep your eyes and ears open. You don’t need no hearing aid or glasses, do you?”
The caller chuckled and said, “Nah, I’m good.”
“Well, keep up your exercise and stay healthy. That’s all you need to do,” the young general advised him.
When he ended this call, Baby G told his bodyguard/driver, “A hustler’s job never ends, B. You always on ya’ toes.”
His beefy driver nodded from behind the wheel.
He said, “Donald Trump’s job ain’t never done, either. Nor is that Martha Stewart chick’s. She even ran her shit from jail.”
Baby G got excited and said, “Yeah, she did, didn’t she? Martha Stewart went to jail, started making quilts and ponchos, came right back out on TV, and sold that shit.”
He said, “Now that’s a fuckin’ hustler, B. Word up.”
BY NINE O’CLOCK THAT NIGHT, Polo and Spoonie had scooped Shareef up from his hotel. They were more prepared to run that night.
Shareef asked them from the front passenger seat, “Where’s Trap?”
“He had some other shit to do tonight,” Polo answered, wearing an oversized blue velvet cool cap. He said, “But you know how that nigga is. He get on his own little missions and he don’t talk to nobody about it. He always been that way.”
Polo thought about it for minute. He said, “Matter of fact, you again get like that yourself sometimes, Shareef. You did that shit to us last night.”
“Yeah, but you knew where I was goin’,” Shareef responded with a grin. His friend had read his mission correctly the night before.
Polo told him, “You damn right I knew. But it wasn’t like you was trying to volunteer the information to us.”
Spoonie was in the backseat checking messages on his BlackBerry.
Shareef asked him, “Why you so quiet back there, man?”
Spoonie didn’t answer. He was that much into his messages.
Polo glanced to the back and said, “He back there on that BlackBerry.”
Spoonie continued not to respond.
Shareef said, “Modern technology is something else, ain’t it? It won’t be long before we’re talking to each other face-to-face on like, mirror phones. You just dial a number, hold the shit in front of your face, and talk right into it.”
Spoonie said, “Yeah, then I can show a broad how hard my dick is on those late-night booty calls. I’ll tell her ass, ‘Look, my dick don’t get much harder than this.’”
Polo laughed and said, “Oh, he heard that shit, hunh? Perverted ass nigga.”
“That ain’t perverted. It’s just personal porno,” Spoonie responded.
Shareef grinned and said, “Aw’ight, so where we headed to first tonight?”
“We just wanna show you all the different little spots up here now. Some of ’em you already know, but others are like new hangouts,” Polo told him.
They pulled up first outside The Lounge on Adam Clayton Powell.
“This place still open?” Shareef asked them. “I remember the old-timers used to swing up in here when we were still too young to use the bathroom.”
“Well, we the old-timers now,” Spoonie told him as they climbed out of the Bronco.
Shareef said, “Shit, we ain’t that damn old. They were listening to disco up in here.”
Polo said, “Yeah, that’s what they listened to in the seventies. But they were in their twenties and thirties back then, just like we are now.”
“Yeah, I guess your right,” Shareef conceded as they walked in.
The old establishment was lit with neon blue light and had silver wall panels. A mix of new wave jazz and funk was pumping out of the stereo system, while customers in their thirties, forties, and fifties drank at the bar, shot pool, and talked shit to one another. A few of them even utilized the small dance floor to twist hips, dip shoulders, and vibe to the music.
“If you ain’t drinkin’, you can get the hell out,” one of the bartenders snapped from behind the counter. She was a tall, heavyset woman in her early fifties, with short, honey-blond hair.
Polo chuckled and looked at Shareef. Shareef smiled back at him.
“Ain’t nobody playing up in here,” the bartender continued. “I’m at this bar ready to take your drink orders right now. So what are you drinking?”
Spoonie made it over to the counter first, “Give me a rum and Coke.”
“Now that’s what I’m talking about. I like you already,” she told him. She went right to work on his drink order.
Polo and Shareef slid up to the bar next.
“And what are you two having?”
Polo looked at Shareef and said, “Give us two Long Islands. You still drink that?”
Shareef nodded to him. “Sweet and powerful, that’s all I drink.”
They started sipping their drinks, digging the old-timer scene, and getting their early swerve on before Shareef overheard Spoonie tell someone, “Yeah, my man over here writing a book on Harlem. He from here, but he ain’t been here in a while. So he coming back to check out all the hot spots and talk to the people again about the new Harlem.”
“You mean how they try’na move us the hell out of here again,” the bold bartender spat. “They try that shit every ten years.”
An older black man dipped in Shareef and Polo’s direction and asked, “What you writing a book about, young brother? You writing about the real history of Harlem, or that young, black bullshit.”
Shareef could tell the older man was already inebriated. His thin, frail body was already leaning from an overload of alcohol.
Shareef decided to engage him anyway.
“What do you consider young black bullshit?”
The older man explained himself patiently. “Well, it seems to me that…a lot of younger guys, when they talk about Harlem, they always wanna talk about the pimps, the hustlers, prostitutes, crime…you know, shit like that.”
He said, “They never wanna talk about the honest, hardworking families, the mothers and fathers, who make up the vast majority of Harlem. No. They wanna talk about…excuse my French here, the fuckups. Basically.”
Polo started laughing, but Shareef was giving the man his full attention.
Shareef asked him, “And which book would you read; the book about the fuckups, or the book about the honest, hardworking folk?”
The older man said, “Well, when I get
a chance to read…”
One of his lady friends at the bar had heard enough already. She said, “Aw, nigga, you don’t read nothin’. Stop lyin’ and leave that man alone.”
Polo thought the whole shit was funny. Being at The Lounge on a good night was better than a comedy show.
The older man argued, “I do read. I’ve read a lot of books on Harlem. I read about the jazz. Be-bop. Poetry. The Harlem Renaissance. The civil rights movement. Marcus Moziah Garvey’s Negro Improvement Organization. The migration from the south.”
He said, “See, what a lot of people fail to understand is…a lot of the black folks living in Harlem, are actually from the south.”
His lady friend interrupted him again. “Well, that ain’t shit new,” she said. “Everybody know them damn slave ships ain’t park in Harlem. We were dropped off in South Carolina, North Carolina, Virginia. Everybody know that.”
“No they don’t,” the brother argued. “This is what they’re not teaching in these schools. Furthermore, a boat cannot park. A boat docks. See. So you need to get your facts right before you open your fat mouth in here.”
Polo was laughing his ass off. It was all hilarious.
The lady friend said, “I’ll open my fat mouth whenever the hell I please. Unless you gon’ pay for another drink to put something in it,” she told him.
The man ignored her and went back to his teaching.
He said, “Now…the original idea of Harlem, was actually created for wealthy white people. Harlem was Uptown Manhattan, a place where white folks could leave the downtown area.”
One of the other brothers at the bar said, “Well, while you in here alcohol-preaching, won’t you tell him something he didn’t know.”
“I’m trying to get to that point if y’all would just shut the hell up. That’s exactly what you did in grade school. You interrupted the class, so you ended up failing…or dropping out. And then twenty years later, when you don’t know shit, and can’t get no job, you turn around and blame the white man.”
“Aw’ight, Bill Cosby, sit ya’ ass down,” his lady friend joked from the bar.
That only fueled his fire. He said, “Bill Cosby is right. He is right! It’s up to us to change things.”
Polo was wiping fresh tears out of his eyes he was laughing so much.
Spoonie told him, “Goddamn, Polo, you only had one drink. Get yourself together, man.”
Polo shook his head and ignored him.
Shareef stayed on point. He was focused about his work again. He asked, “So, Harlem was set up for white folks?”
“Yes it was. But mostly West Harlem,” the older brother answered. “But what happened was, a lot of white folks bought property farther north and upstate New York, and then out on Long Island, and that left Harlem open. So then black folks started moving in. And once the word got out that Harlem was the place to be…well, you know how black folks are. We all wanted to raid the picnic.”
All of a sudden, the customers at The Lounge were all in agreement.
Another older brother added his two cents. He wore a tight, black cap plopped on his bush of hair.
He said, “Yeah, and once the new blacks starting moving in who couldn’t afford the real estate in West Harlem, they started building homes and the first projects in Central Harlem, and overpricing them.”
“They still doin’ that shit now,” the bartender spoke up again.
“They don’t know if they wanna keep us or get rid of us in Harlem, but we ain’t goin’ nowhere,” the man’s lady friend at the bar added. “Harlem is home now.”
The older brother got back to his point. He said, “Right, so Harlem became the new home for black people. Then you had your Spanish and West Indians moving in, and that created East Harlem.”
Someone stated, “But we still have crime here. They found a man tortured and shot to death right up the street in one of those empty storefronts today. It’s gonna be in the newspapers tomorrow, if it’s not on the news already tonight.”
“Is that why they had all those cops out there today?” the bartender asked. She softened up her tough stance behind the bar and looked concerned for her own storefront job and property.
Spoonie heard that and looked at Shareef for his response.
Shareef didn’t have one. People got killed every day, and everywhere around the world. It was no shock to him. Friends were shot and killed when he was growing up in Harlem, and he expected those who lived the fast life to continue to die.
Instead of asking about the murder, Shareef asked, “And what about what’s going on with these new condos in Harlem now? What are your views on that?”
Shareef had heard about the new Harlem condominium homes from several sources.
The older man answered, “They’re going back to their original idea now; Harlem is Uptown for Manhattan white folks. And former president Bill Clinton is leading the movement.”
He said, “The average black family around here can’t afford no million-dollar condos. So if we don’t get our act together, protect what we got, and prepare our kids to compete for the property, they’re gonna build right overtop of us, and we’ll be scrambling around on the ground while they living up in the sky. Right here in Harlem.”
Shareef said, “Well, if we can’t afford it, then how are we gonna stop it?”
The bartender answered that question. She said, “Look, we got enough rich black folks with money right now to buy up everything in Harlem, but they too busy chasing around white folks to live where they live. In the meantime, these white folks are turning right around and buying up where you used to live and making it better.”
She said, “So, in ten more years, I’m still gonna be here, and I’m gonna have them white folks buying five drinks. ’Cause see, they like to drink. We like to talk.”
The older man said, “Well, if ain’t nobody talkin’, then what kind of lounge you expect to have up in here? I come in here to hear us talk.” He said, “Without us talking that talk, walking that walk, and doin’ what we do, Harlem just wouldn’t be the same.
“That’s what makes Harlem special,” he commented. “Black people. And don’t you ever forget it.”
AFTER A COUPLE MORE DRINKS and plenty of conversation about Harlem, Shareef, Polo, and Spoonie made their way out of The Lounge.
Polo said, “You hit the jackpot in there tonight, B. You got all the Harlem history you need. I didn’t know half of the shit they were talking about.” He chuckled as he opened the doors to his Bronco.
He added, “I guess I was one of them fuckups who didn’t get what he was supposed to get out of school.”
Spoonie smiled and said, “You and me both.”
As they climbed back into the Bronco for their next destination, Shareef was deep in his thoughts again. How big of a book could he write about Harlem? And how did he feel about writing the criminal perspective instead of the historical? Could he do both?
This shit is gonna get complicated, he imagined. There’s just too much to write about in Harlem.
“What you think about that, Shareef?” Polo asked him from the driver’s seat.
“What I think about what?”
“What they had to say in there?”
Shareef said, “I’m still wondering how many of them are gonna read a book, to tell you the truth.”
“If you write about them they’ll read it,” Spoonie commented from the back. It made sense to him. Add as many people to the text as possible and let them know the book is about them specifically.
“Yeah, but how many of these people can I write about? It just seems like having one or two sources is stronger, and I’ll use all the other information as background to make sure the book stays on point.”
His idea was to use Michael Springfield as a story arc guideline, while he directed the path that he wanted the book to follow.
Polo said, “If we get more people talking to you like that, son, you’ll fuck around and have three Harlem books to write.�
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“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Shareef told him. “Then again, all I have to do is ignore the extra shit and just use what I need.”
“Dig it,” Polo agreed. “Throw the fat back to the dog.”
Spoonie said, “Sounds like the right plan to me. How do you write your other books?”
He was back there checking his BlackBerry again.
Polo noticed it and said, “Man, you using that BlackBerry shit like a high school white girl or something. Get off that shit while we rollin’. What, you checking up on the lottery or something?”
“Nah, man, this ma-fucka just keep sending me messages.”
“Who?”
Spoonie paused and said, “You don’t know him.”
“Well, I know he ain’t in the car wit’ us. That shit is rude, man. Show Shareef some more respect than that.”
“Aw, you sounding like a bitch now. Shareef ain’t thinkin’ ’bout my ass. He be in his own fuckin’ world half the time anyway, him and Trap.”
Shareef only smiled at it. He and Trap were the thinkers of the bunch. Polo and Spoonie were the idle talkers. And Spoonie had not been around them enough for Shareef to know that much else about him.
“So, where we off to next?” Shareef asked.
“The Harlem Grill, right down the street,” Polo answered.
Spoonie said, “Well, hell, we could have walked down the street then. What we get back in the car for?”
“Because we already in the car, motherfucker!” Polo snapped at him.
Sure enough, they were parking again.
Spoonie shook his head and said, “That was a waste of gas.”
Polo climbed out and responded, “What, a half a fuckin’ pint? Nigga, shut up.”
Spoonie put his BlackBerry away and faced Polo on the sidewalk, standing tall but slimmer than the man.
He said, “Don’t get out here frontin’ for your boy, man.”
Shareef leaned up against the Bronco and watched the action with an amused grin.
Polo said, “Now you know, I wouldn’t even fight you, son. All I’d do is body slam you and stomp you.” He said, “You better get ya’ heater fuckin’ wit’ me, kid. You better get ya’ heater.”
