The Last Street Novel

by Omar Tyree

  He sat back down and said, “By the way, I had this girl up in here last night who been running the pimp game since she was seventeen. She twenty-six now. That’s our next book idea, Shareef. She had some interesting shit to say, man. So I’ma keep talking to her and give you the story.”

  Shareef just stared at him. He asked himself, What the fuck am I gettin’ into with this guy? This shit is crazy! He’s ’bout to turn into a damn monster. Look how he’s trying to live already. I can just imagine what his bedroom looks like upstairs. He probably got silk sheets on a waterbed.

  He asked Jurrell, “You really want me to write a book about a whore, man? I mean, come on, that ain’t no new story.”

  Jurrell’s eyes got wide. He said, “Nah, she not a whore, B, she a young pimp; a pretty brown-skinned girl with brown eyes like maple syrup. So I told her I was getting in the street book game, and she said, ‘I got a story for you then.’ And, yo, B, I heard about this girl before. She on the one wit’ hers.”

  Shareef still couldn’t believe him. But it didn’t matter to Jurrell. He was already sold on the girl’s story. Pretty Brown Eyes.

  He said, “And I know what you thinking, Shareef. You thinking it’s another degrading story of black women, and you got a wife and daughter at home. But yo, peep this, right. The first thing that came out of pretty brown’s mouth about it, she told me ‘I can’t see why these girls want to sell themselves short like that. So once I saw that they could be turned out, I just wanted to be the one to protect them and teach them how to be smart about it.’ And after she told me that, I was like, ‘Damn! My man Shareef could do something with this.’ Because if you still look at these videos and movies out here, man, a lot of young girls still need that hard smack in the face to wake the fuck up from the bullshit. And that’s real.”

  Jurrell had so much passion in his eyes that Shareef found it hard to stare at him without believing him. It was like the tempting dance of a serpent. He was forced to look away to break the seduction. All the while, Shareef continued to think, How the hell can we get all this crazy shit to work? Maybe I need to start thinking about how I can get rid of his ass.

  HOWEVER, on 125th Street, T and three of his helpers stood over a small table full of African-American books from the urban street genre, ready to sell to anyone who walked past them.

  A group of four young girls stopped in front of the table.

  “I got this book. I got that one. I got that. Ooh, and I need to get that one,” the outspoken girlfriend stated as she pointed to the various street titles that she had already read.

  T told her, “Nah, what you need to do is get this new book right here. This the one everybody buying right now.”

  He held up To Live and Die in Harlem by The Street King.

  One of the other girls read the cover and said, “The Street King? Who he ’sposed to be?” And they began to laugh at it.

  T remained calm. He said, “That’s what it is. This guy is claiming the street book title like T.I. did with Atlanta rap music. I mean, he statin’ it, and he doin’ it.”

  Before the girls could dispute it, one of T’s helpers pushed up on the table with three, ten dollar bills out, ready to buy books as if they didn’t know each other.

  He looked at the book in the girl’s hands and said, “Yo, that’s that new one dedicated to Baby G, ain’t it? That’s just what I was looking for? Everybody reading that now. Yo, give me three of them for my squad.”

  T nodded and collected three of the books from a box under the table.

  The girls asked him, “That book about Baby G who got killed last summer? You didn’t tell us that.”

  T counted his money and said, “’Cause y’all was too busy talking out the side of y’all mouth. I told y’all the book was hot.”

  “Well, how much is it, ten dollars?”

  “If you buy at least two, it’s ten apiece. But if you only buying one, it’s twelve. I’m trying to move these things to get more out here.”

  The girls began to negotiate with each other. “Aw’ight, Shannon, well, I’ll buy one if you buy one.”

  T ignored them as if they had fake money. He went after an older sister who looked on curiously.

  “That new book is that hot?”

  T remained calm and nodded to her. He said, “They call me the Truth ’cause that all I tell.”

  The older sister frowned and said, “Now that’s a damn lie.”

  The younger girls overheard her and laughed again.

  T remained calm. He smiled and said, “It’s a good one though, just like this book is good.”

  The older sister asked him, “It’s two for twenty, and one for twelve.”

  “Yeah.”

  She said, “Aw’ight, well, give me two of ’em,” and pulled out a twenty. “My girlfriend like to read these kind of books.”

  T got out two more books, and the younger women were ready with their money.

  “Aw’ight, we’ll buy two. And it better be good or we’re coming back out here to find you.”

  T took their money, pulled out two more books, and told them, “Just make sure y’all bring more people who got money in their pocket. ’Cause I know y’all gon’ like it.”

  His understated demeanor was effective. People seemed to gravitate to him without much solicitation.

  “What’s that book you selling over here?” an older man asked him. He looked to be in his mid-fifties.

  T told him, “To Live and Die in Harlem. It’s about people who ready to live or die for theirs.” That was the simple speech Jurrell had told him to make.

  Jurrell said, “You let everybody else be your hype man. But you just sit tight, stay calm, and count the money. I notice that people respect young guys like that. It makes it look like you used to gettin’ money. That’s what you want them to think. When they think you always gettin’ money, more people want to give it to you. The shit becomes contagious.”

  He said, “That’s how G did it. Remember? Well, you up next, Truth. You next in line. Just do what I tell you to do.”

  Right before the older man was ready to turn away and walk off uninterested, T’s group of helpers returned to the table with more money out.

  “Yo, they just bought up them books we had, son. Give us three, four more of ’em.”

  T took the forty dollars and dug up four more books for his helpers. He figured they must have sold the books for real. They didn’t have that much money on them earlier. They had already given him most of their money to run their sales games for the crowd.

  T whispered. “Yo, B, y’all sold them books for real?”

  His helper told him, “Yeah. As soon as we turned the corner with them, people started asking what the book was about, and as soon as we said, Baby G, they wanted to buy ’em.”

  T nodded. “Aw’ight, that’s good. This first box ’bout to go then.”

  When he set more books on the table, the older man had his own twenty-dollar bill out. Young guys selling books inspired him.

  He said, “You know what, I need to get my two grandsons to read this book. Now are they gonna learn a valuable lesson from it?”

  T had to come up with something on his own to close the deal.

  He said, “If you can’t learn a lesson from dying too young, then I guess you don’t want to learn no lesson.”

  The older man nodded and agreed with him. “Yeah. If it takes you to die before you learn a lesson in life, then you just a damn fool. Give me two of them books.”

  Before T knew it, he had a full crowd in front of his table. He had to tell some of his helpers to stay with him.

  “Yo, get some more of them books out the box and open up that second box,” he told them.

  The crowd became real specific about which book they wanted, too.

  “That’s the book about the boy who was killed last summer in the St. Nicholas Park shoot-out?”

  T didn’t know if it was a good thing or a bad thing for them to be so specific. The b
ook was not an exact, tell-all story, it was only as much of the truth as they could get away with writing about him. But would reader curiosity lead to another investigation of the case? One thing was for sure, the cat was out of the bag. To Live and Die in Harlem was beginning to sell from that table like hot cakes. T’s helpers even had a carload of guys pull up in the middle of the street.

  The Truth didn’t like that idea. Things were getting out of hand.

  A guy in the passenger seat of a dark blue Chrysler hollered out the window, “Yo, give me five of them Baby G books.”

  T looked at him and didn’t budge. He whispered to one of his helpers, “Yo, man, go get the money first. Then when you come back with it, you get him the books.”

  “Does this book say who shot ’em?” someone asked from the crowd.

  T spoke up immediately and looked the guy in the face.

  “Nah, man.”

  He didn’t like the sound of that question. He even wondered if it was time for his crew to move on and get out of Dodge for their safety. But once he looked the kid in his face, the boy quickly looked away from his glare, and T could tell that he was only being a smart-ass.

  So the Truth told the entire crowd in front of him, “Yo, when we say To Live and Die in Harlem, this ain’t no game. Ain’t nobody coming back out here like no Xbox. That was my man who was killed. How many of y’all had friends and family who got killed in Harlem?”

  The Truth spoke it with pure heart and a grown-man’s character. He had to grow up a great deal in the last year. He didn’t need anyone to tell him how he felt about it either. And his truth only made the crowd want to buy the book with more zeal.

  His helpers pulled the remaining boxes from under the table and began to sell the books straight from the boxes.

  The comedian approached T at the side of the table and told him, “My bad, man. I ain’t mean it like that.”

  T started to ignore him, but instead of doing that, he said, “Yeah, you need to read this book, too, and get something out of it, son. Real life ain’t no damn comedy show. Comedians make jokes to get away from the pain. Ask Dave Chappelle about that.”

  The boy nodded his head in agreement and pulled out a twenty-dollar bill.

  T took it from him and said, “Matter of fact, you need to pay me twenty for this book so you’ll know how serious it is.”

  He looked the boy in the face and dared him to try and assert himself. But T already knew that he wouldn’t. The boy didn’t have the edge in him. He was nowhere near ready to die yet.

  So he told T, “Aw’ight, you can have that, man.” And he walked away with his book from The Street King, while looking back behind him to make sure he didn’t receive a kick in his ass to go along with it.

  As T’s helpers began to chuckle at it around him, the incident only reminded him of how much he missed the presence, courage, and wisdom of his idol, Baby G.

  He thought to himself, I hope you proud of me, man. I just hope you proud of me.

  What Now?

  SHAREEF TOOK A SIP of raspberry lemonade on the second floor of Friday’s restaurant in the heart of Times Square. His friend Polo sat across the table grinning with his own drink in hand, a strawberry daiquiri. It was nearing eleven o’clock at night.

  “So, they sold three boxes of books in one day?” Polo asked Shareef for clarity.

  Shareef set his tall glass of lemonade on the table and grinned.

  He said, “Jurrell wants me to order ten new boxes from the publisher tomorrow.”

  “How many books is that?” Polo asked him.

  “Four hundred, with forty in each box.”

  Polo laughed and took a sip of his drink. He said, “And you was all concerned about how he was gon’ sell ’em.”

  “I mean, selling books and drugs is two different things.”

  “Is it really though? I mean, it’s all about how bad the people want it, right?” Polo suggested. “Maybe the people want this book that bad.” He said, “I’ll tell you this though, that Michael Springfield book wouldn’t have done the same thing. Baby G was the right kid to write a book about. He was still young and on his way up, so people’ll miss him. But Michael Springfield? I mean, he been in jail a long time, man. Them young guys ain’t feeling him like that. And the young guys are what make shit hot nowadays.

  “Jurrell right about that,” Polo added. “That’s why he only dealing with them young hustlers. And a lot of these young guys wanted to be down with Baby. So now they gon’ wanna buy his book.”

  Then Polo smirked, knowing that Shareef would sweat him over his next revelation.

  He mumbled, “And umm…I mean…you did your thing on this book, man.”

  Shareef eyed him across the table and asked him, “You read it?” just as his friend knew he would.

  Polo started laughing again. He said, “I already know what you thinking, man. I didn’t read none of your other shit, but I read this one. But look, man, them other books you write just make me mad about relationships, and then they make my dick hard when you get to the sex scenes. I mean, I tried to read them books, it just wasn’t my thing.”

  He said, “But this book here, it held my interest. What you want me to say? You don’t watch no relationship movies. You watch the same crime and action movies as every other guy. So this is the kind of book you always should have written.”

  Shareef continued to grin and shook his head. He said, “And you know that young reporter I’ve been beefing with from the Amsterdam News, he even gave me a good review on this one. They’re publishing it this week. My publicists showed it to me today. It said, ‘Finally, an urban book with heart and soul to match the gritty action.’”

  Polo agreed with the review. “Yeah, man, we all know you can write. You just gotta write shit that we can read. We not women.”

  Shareef didn’t want to get into another male/female story conversation. What was the point? He would write for both audiences now.

  Polo asked him, “So, the next book is based on Jurrell. How you think that one gon’ do?”

  “I’ll let you read it once we have it in galley form. But it’s more like a mystery/thriller kind of book than this one. My editor called it the urban version of The Usual Suspects.”

  Polo’s eyes got big. He said, “Now that’s what I’m talking about, that was a good-ass movie.”

  The waitress arrived with their food, Monterey Jack, barbecue chicken, and shrimp for both.

  Before she walked off, she smiled and asked Shareef, “I hate to bother you, but…could I possibly come back and get your autograph?”

  She looked hesitant as if Shareef would turn her down.

  He smiled and said, “Of course you can. As soon as you collect the bill, just bring an extra piece of paper for me to sign for you.”

  “Oh, thank you. I’ve read several of your books, and I like them all.”

  “Well, thank you,” Shareef told her

  When the waitress walked off, Polo asked Shareef, “How are things with you and Jennifer now?”

  Polo hadn’t asked his friend about his marriage in a while. He understood that his partner was going through enough already.

  Shareef shrugged his shoulders. “I mean, so far so good, man. I just learned that you can’t get too imbalanced with a marriage. If you expect too much, you settin’ yourself up for a letdown. And if you accept too little, then the same thing goes. So I’m just trying to keep myself balanced in the middle somewhere and take care of family.”

  Polo nodded with his first bite of food.

  He mumbled, “That’s a good way of looking at it.”

  “Yeah, writing all these romance books ought’a teach me something,” Shareef commented.

  “So, what ever happened to that girl Cynthia?”

  Shareef took a bite of his own food. He finished chewing and answered, “I talked to her a few times during the whole court process, just to make sure everything was cool. But her idea was Michael Springfield’s story, so I coul
dn’t really talk to her too much about Baby G and all that.”

  Polo sized things up and began to laugh. He said, “Yeah, you couldn’t tell her that you fucked up Jurrell’s money and he was a lot more dangerous than her. I mean, you don’t have to explain it to me, man.”

  Shareef stated, “Yeah, so, that’s pretty much how it went. She gave me the whole idea to write the street book, but now she’s out of the loop with me.”

  Polo sat quietly for a minute while they enjoyed their meals, but he couldn’t help thinking about how Trap and Spoonie chose the other side and ended up dying because of it.

  Finally, Polo forced himself to mention it. He shook his head with his fork in hand. He stated, “Man, it’s just fucked up the way things went down with our people. I mean, you think you know some people better sometimes.”

  Shareef looked up from his food and nodded. He understood what Polo was getting at. He had been forced to think about it all himself.

  He swallowed his food, took another sip of his lemonade, and responded, “What can you do, man? I wasn’t giving up my life for theirs. Nor was I willing to give up your life. So, I wrote the shit down and came up with my options. And the shit may sound insensitive to some people, but that’s just how life is. Sometimes you gotta write niggas off.”

  Then he looked Polo square in his eyes. “But like you said, some of us get to that point where we become family. And you ended up having to put your neck out there for me, man. All on account of me being hardheaded,” Shareef commented.

  Polo shook it off. “Man, you dun’ put your neck out plenty of times for me. I don’t know where I would be all of these years without you. Whenever I needed something, you was there for me. And that’s love.”

  He grinned and added, “Yeah, but if you didn’t come up with what you came up with, they damn sure was coming after me next. I ain’t even gon’ front. But like always, Shareef, you found a way to handle that shit.”