Cracked Dreams

by Michael Daniel Baptiste

  After a deep breath, he came back to reality and saw Cee pull up in his navy blue Beemer. Ceelow saw Spits and jumped out so that they could exchange a pound and a hug. “What up, my nigga?” Ceelow asked. “What’s the occasion, dog? You lookin’ all snazzy and shit. Ha-ha,” he said, commenting on Spits’ attire.

  “Oh, you know,” began Spits. “We’re doing the anniversary thing tonight. I was just buggin’ out about this nigga Pop again. When I saw Mrs. Black, I had to hold myself back from approaching her, you know?”

  “Oh please,” Cee responded. “Now you know that old lady got no love for us. All she goin’ do is start that ‘you’re the devil’ shit, and about how we need Jesus and if we don’t start going to church and shit, we goin’ to hell? I told you a long time ago, that shit is a lost cause.”

  “I know, but for Pop . . .”

  “Yeah, I feel you,” Cee said, understanding what Spits was going to say before he even said it. “But mu’fuckas is only gonna let you do but so much. You can’t do for another mu’fucka what that mu’fucka won’t do for they own self, feel me?”

  “Uh-huh.” Spits wasn’t really capable of probing as to what the fuck Ceelow was talking about. “But anyway, what’s been poppin’ over here, son?”

  “Same shit, same shit,” responded Cee. “Ain’t nothin’ ever poppin’ over here, son.”

  “Oh, okay,” said Spits. “I just wanted to check up on . . .”

  “Oh shit!” Ceelow exclaimed as his attention was shifted. It seemed as though an altercation was developing amongst some younger niggas across the street in front of 666. It looked like it was about to go down between these niggas Jacob and Winston.

  Jacob was some little half-ass aspiring “pack-holder” nigga. Every once in a while Ceelow, or somebody like that, would give him a little something to make a run or to hold a gat when it was hot, and that made him think he was a hustler. Jacob was basically one of those niggas that would just sit there and stare at the older niggas getting money like that’s all he ever wanted to do. It didn’t help anything that they used to send him on runs when there was an emergency, but fuck it. When he reached the appropriate age and had some smarts with him, they could put him on, but for now he ran errands.

  Winston was another one. He was young—not as young as Jacob—but he had some maturity about his character. He also had a little bad-boy image that he’d brought with him from Jamaica where he’d grown up. He’d come to New York to stay with family members when things had gotten out of hand in Kingston. Coming from a place like Kingston, Jamaica, where there was basically an ongoing war in the streets, would make any nigga think he was hard. He had a small clientele of weed-smokers that he dealt with to get his little money for sneakers and school clothes and shit; nothing major. When niggas were too lazy to walk or drive to get better product, he was always there with his nickels and dimes for sale. He wasn’t a threat to the Block unless he started making shit hot, and as long as that didn’t happen, he could continue to sell his weed without a problem.

  Things started to get heated when Winston insisted that Jacob pay him the money he owed from the previous night when he’d “borrowed” a couple of dimes to smoke with his friends. Jacob told him that he’d get his money the next day, and when Winston came out, that was the first thing on his mind. He approached Jacob about the money he was owed, but he wasn’t used to civilized mannerisms so that may have thrown Jacob; like Winston was trying to play him. Spits and Ceelow watched from across the street.

  “Yo!” yelled Winston from the courtyard of the building. “Me want me money, ya hear?”

  “Wha?” responded Jacob as he took immediate offense to Winston’s tone.

  “Me want me blood-clod money, pussy!” he repeated in an even more disrespectful tone.

  “Man, fuck that,” replied Jacob. “I ain’t got your money right now. You goin’ have to wait until I make some paper first.” When Jacob had spoken his piece, he turned his back on Winston like the conversation was over and Winston didn’t seem to like that one bit.

  “Pussy! You want ramp with me?” he asked as he rushed Jacob from behind.

  “What, nigga?!” yelled Jacob as he turned around pushing Winston away from him. “What’s up, son? Fuck that, you wonna thump? Then throw up ya shits, duke. Let’s get it on.” He took off his sweater, revealing a scrawny chest and walked toward Winston.

  “Flex, ya want flex?” Winston said. “You no know me a murderer?”

  When Jacob got into his fighting stance to get ready, he balled up his fists and put up his arms really high, and then he bent his knees to get real low to the ground. He looked like he was joking but he was dead serious. When he was ready, he signaled for Winston to bring it. Before Jacob could throw a punch, Winston charged at him and kicked him dead center in his chest. The force of the kick wasn’t much, but it was enough to push Jacob a few feet back. When he got his balance back, he had a confused look on his face like, did this nigga just kick me? Before he knew it, Winston was charging at him again with another kick to his chest. This dude Winston must’ve kicked him like eight times, with each kick throwing Jacob a few feet farther up the block. With each thump into his chest, Jacob grew more and more confused, then his confusion turned into frustration, and then his face turned red with rage.

  Everybody on the Block—except for Jacob—thought that this was the funniest shit to ever happen in front of their faces. Even Spits and Cee were across the street from them, laughing like crazy. It was nowhere near serious—meaning neither one of them got hurt—but that can really hurt someone like Jacob’s pride. The only reason he’d even reacted the way he did was because he’d felt that Winston had disrespected him in front of everybody. Now it was worse. Maybe Winston could have gone about getting his money another way, but that’s how he was. He was just always naturally loud when he spoke and Jacob took offense.

  When Winston was done, he’d kicked Jacob two building lengths up the block. When Jacob finally got up on his feet, he ran across the street where Spits and Ceelow were standing and into the backyard of one of the houses. When he returned, he seemed to be concealing something behind his back. He jumped over the gate—only two houses from where Spits and Ceelow were posted, and pointed a little black .9 mm across the street at Winston. He let two shots go in Winston’s direction that sent everybody that was gathered in the front of 666 fleeing and made Ceelow and Spits duck for cover behind a car. After letting one more shot go off, he ran away as fast as he could; as if he’d just caught a body. When Cee and Spits looked up to see if Winston had gotten caught, they saw him lying on the floor face-down. When Winston got up and brushed the dust off of his clothes—as if he wasn’t at all fazed by the gunshots—Cee and Spits both laughed hysterically as they thought about what must’ve been going through Jacob’s mind at that time.

  “He thought he caught him, or something?” Ceelow asked. “Why the fuck did he run off like that and he’s the one with the burner?”

  “That’s your boy, nigga,” said Spits teasing Cee. “I don’t know what the fuck is on that nigga’s mind.”

  They both laughed for a minute with each other and then it was time for Spits to go. He still had to go all the way back home to Jersey where Ginger would be waiting; plus he had arrangements for a limousine to pick them up in exactly an hour. He would have just enough time to get home and make sure Gin was ready before they headed back out.

  After speeding through the New Jersey Turnpike, Spits made it back home at exactly 5:45 p.m. The limousine was scheduled for 6 p.m. and Ginger had no idea what was planned until she saw the suit he had on. Spits was dressed from head to toe in Gucci and a fresh shave complemented the outfit perfectly. When he’d left the house earlier that afternoon, he was dressed very regularly in jeans and a white T-shirt. For the element of surprise, he’d never brought the suit home when he’d purchased it and had made arrangements so that he could pick it up from the Gucci store when he intended to wear it. After an appointment
for a shape-up at his favorite spot on Allerton Avenue called Butter Cuts, he went down to 5th Avenue to the Gucci store. He changed in the dressing room and put the clothes he had on in a bag. When he left the store, Spits looked incredibly slick in this pitch-black three-button suit with a white shirt and a silver tie. From his sleeve, a perfect half-inch of cuff peeked out from under his jacket with platinum cufflinks appropriately engraved with his initials: “MS,” for Mike Spits. Under that was a fitting Gucci watch with a diamond bezel in the form of a “G.”.

  When Ginger saw Spits, thoughts that she had overdressed for the occasion were quickly thrown from her mind. In fact, she thought that he still looked better than her, but she was often modest when it came to such things. She had on a sexy, tight, ankle-length black gown with a long slit up her right side that fitted her as if it was made especially for her. Her hair was done in Shirley Temple curls and her makeup was done perfectly in earth tones; just how Spits liked it. On her pretty little feet, she wore a pair of black open-toe shoes, with six-inch heels. Spits was speechless.

  They kissed each other and they both respectfully commented on the other’s appearance. When it was time to leave they walked to the door together. Upon reaching the front steps, Ginger lit up as she saw the white stretch limo that had been waiting for them at the curb. The driver opened the door for them and as they entered, Spits informed him that they were ready for their first stop. Ginger then began to get excited, thinking of what Spits had planned. After a ride through the tunnel and up the West Side Highway, they found themselves on 30th Street & 12th Avenue. Spits cracked the window enough for Ginger to see a sign that read: VIP Heliport. They exited the limo where a pilot was waiting to show them to the helicopter.

  “Everything is set up just as you requested, Mr. Spits,” the pilot said as he led the way.

  “That’s cool,” said Spits, as he took Ginger in his arms. “Let’s do this.”

  They walked around a small building and through a gate that led to the heliport. After briefly instructing them about safety procedures, the pilot escorted Ginger and Spits onboard the aircraft. Once in the air, Spits revealed a bottle of champagne and they toasted to their love. The trip lasted about forty-five minutes to an hour. The pilot took them down the Henry Hudson River over to the Statue of Liberty where he circled a few times before heading over to the Financial District where the World Trade Center stood. After that, he took them farther north to where the Empire State Building was located, then past the Chrysler Building, all the while naming the landmarks as they flew around them. It was great. Spits had originally hesitated, due to Ginger’s fear of flying, but minus the take-off and the landing, she said, “Everything was perfect.”

  When they landed, the limo-driver proceeded to Ginger’s next surprise location. The spot that Spits had chosen for them to have dinner was the restaurant they’d gone to on their first date in ’94, called Maroons, on West 16th Street. Upon their arrival, Ginger was somewhat surprised to see that Spits had reserved the entire restaurant for the portion of the night they were to spend there. Candles decorated the entire floor and all the tables surrounding theirs, where a fresh bottle of champagne graced the table. When Spits preordered the meal, he requested garlic shrimp for an appetizer, smothered pork chops for his entrée and the red snapper for Ginger’s, and for dessert they had the applesauce carrot cake. When they were done eating, Spits gave the signal for the waitress, but instead of the bill, she came over to their table and placed a little black box on the table in front of Ginger. Ginger knew exactly what was in the box, and she looked as if she wasn’t ready to open it. When the waitress just walked away without a word, Ginger didn’t know what to do with herself. She looked up at Spits. She’d never, never seen him look at her so seriously before. She began to cry. She cried until tears began to form in Spits’ eyes as well. She had never once seen Spits full of the kind of emotion he had in his face at this moment. She was at a complete loss, and she didn’t know what to do. Her body was just completely frozen.

  “I don’t know what to . . .” Ginger said before Spits interrupted.

  “Then, don’t say anything.” He said. “You don’t have to open it yet, Gin. I just want to see the look in your eyes when you do. It’ll always be there for you, Mommy . . .just waiting. Feel me?”

  “I love you, Daddy,” she said as she let go of all the emotions that had just gotten stuck in her chest.

  “Me too, Gin,” he said plainly. “Now, let’s get out of here.”

  CHAPTER 16

  What’s there left for us to do, son?” I asked, as Ceelow and I each sipped on bottles of champagne in the VIP section of a popular New York nightclub called The Tunnel.. “We done did every fuckin’ thing we set out to do. We did the cars and cribs . . .we got all these stupid bitches beggin’ us just to get a cock-slap.”

  “Ha-ha, you can’t be serious, nigga,” Cee said with a giggle. “That’s funny coming from Mr. Commitment. Ha-ha! Fuck that shit, son!”

  I gave a moment to chuckle at Cee’s comment, and then continued, “I mean we gave ’em the Benzes, the Porsches, the Beemers,” I recalled. “We really did it up, son . . .but what now?”

  “I can’t call it, nigga,” Cee responded. “But I know we ain’t gotta do shit but keep on gettin’ this money. ‘Gotta get that paper, dog,’ feel me?”

  “No doubt, my nigga,” I answered. “I guess that’s what it’s all about, huh?”

  “Hell yeah, nigga!” Cee responded as his blood-shot red eyes grew larger. “2000 and beyond,” said Cee as he lifted his glass for a toast.

  I, too, lifted my glass and we toasted. “Dom P’s and palm trees.”

  As we threw back countless glasses of champagne, and choked on enormous amounts of weed-smoke, we sat there and celebrated life, and actually dancing hadn’t even crossed our minds. ‘Thug niggas don’t dance.’ Only one song could demand that we leave the sanctity of the VIP section and enter the sweaty, melting pot that was the dance floor.

  Funk Master Flex was on the turntables and it was just around 1 a.m. It had been a continuously live and entertaining evening, but Flex decided to liven things up a bit more; 1999 was a really good time for Hip-Hop classics, so he hit ’ em with back-to-back head-bangers. He started with . . .

  “Money, cash, hoes . . .money, cash, hoes.”

  Then, he hit ’ em with . . .

  “Holla, Holla . . .(all my niggas that’s ready to get) Dollars, Dollars . . .(bitches know who could get ’em a little) Hotta, Hotta . . .(come on, if you rollin’ wit’ me) Follow, Follow . . .It’s Murdaaahhh”

  When Flex had our attention, all me and Cee had to hear were the first four words of this next record . . .

  “Escobar season has returned.”

  When that shit came on, it was pandemonium. We made our way downstairs and as soon as we hit the floor, the hook had settled in time for us to go crazy along with everyone else and sing along.

  “You could hate me now . . .but I won’t stop now . . .’cause I can’t stop now . . .you could hate me nooowww.”

  As the night progressed into the early hours of the morning, I completely forgot about the doubts I’d developed regarding the life that we were leading. My mind state had been heading in the direction of positivity, but that was quickly overthrown by expensive alcohol and potent marijuana. By the time I would have those thoughts again, it would be too late.

  As our evening came to an end, the sun had already begun rising over the skyscrapers located in Midtown Manhattan. We stumbled out of the club and walked two blocks to 25th Street to where we were parked. From there we jumped on the West Side Highway to 125th Street to get a bite to eat at one of our favorite after-the-club spots called Jimbo’s on 125th Street and Amsterdam Avenue. I’m tellin’ you, no amount of money could ruin breakfast at those greasy, dirty, underground spots for us. It was just one of those things that you didn’t grow out of; no matter what. We hadn’t gotten so rich that we’d forgotten where we’d come from.
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br />   Once there, we got seats at the counter, right in front of the grill to make sure our food was prepared correctly. We both ordered cheeseburgers with a fried egg on the top, and a side order of fries—that was our special. While we sat there watching the cook close enough to make sure he was doing his thing, Cee snapped his finger and said, “Oh shit! I forgot to tell you.”

  “What’s up?” I asked as I woke up out of the trance I’d slipped into, anticipating how delicious the burger would be.

  “You remember that bitch-ass nigga Fish?” Ceelow asked.

  “Yeah,” I answered. “He fuck with that nigga AG, right? Didn’t he get sent up a while back?”

  “Yup that’s him,” said Ceelow. “He just came home not too long ago.”

  “Word?”

  “That’s my word, and this dude is already gettin’ into shit on the Ave. Niggas told me that he just be posted up on the other side of White Plains Road all day and night like he waiting to pop off or some shit.”

  “Say word?” I said. “How long he been on the streets now?”

  “The little niggas on the block say about two weeks, but I only saw him for the first time like two days ago.”

  “He say anything to you?” I asked.

  “Nah, son,” Cee responded. “I still think he’s trying to figure out how much the Block is changed.”

  “It be like that though, son,” I agreed. “But he’s a dickhead anyway. It won’t be long before that nigga end up gettin’ sent back up.”

  “Yeah, well, he better realize that shit ain’t the same since he left,” suggested Ceelow. “You know me, dog. It’s nothing to run up on a nigga and empty out one of them thangs.”