Street Pharm

by Allison van Diepen

  “Thank you, Ty! You so good to her.”

  “Sure.” I clicked end. When the time was right, I’d have a talk with Clarissa about self-control.

  I went back to class. Ms. Amullo opened the door for me.

  “That was six minutes,” she said.

  “Ain’t good to rush nature.”

  Hiding a smile, she let me go back to my seat.

  “Some drama going on?” Alyse asked.

  “Women.” And then, realizing what she might’ve thought, “Mom’s always bugging about something.”

  “Speaking of women, I was thinking we could do Alice Walker for our project.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “She’s a famous writer and feminist.”

  “Yo, I’d rather leave the feminists alone.”

  She rolled her eyes. “A feminist is just someone who believes in equal rights for men and women. Don’t you believe in equal rights?”

  Those eyes were so pretty but so damn serious.

  “I ain’t gonna sit here and say men and women are the same.”

  “It’s not about being the same. It’s about having the same rights. Shouldn’t women get paid the same as men if they’re doing the same work?”

  “Yeah, I got no problem with that.”

  “Then you’re a feminist too.”

  I laughed. “Shit. And I been walking around thinking all feminists were lesbians.”

  “That’s B.S. Most lesbians are feminists, but most feminists aren’t lesbians.”

  “Now I’m getting confused. Are you a lesbian or a feminist or both?”

  “Would you like me less if I were a lesbian?”

  “Depends. Could I join the action?”

  “Ty!” She giggled.

  “I’d still wanna be your partner for this project if you was a lesbian, don’t worry. But . . . you ain’t, right?”

  She smiled. “That’s for me to know and you to find out.”

  I was looking forward to finding out.

  A MEETING WITH THE PRINCE OF PAKISTAN

  One of my hustlers was a Pakistani kid named Mo. He sold weed from the counter of the family deli, right under the nose of his clueless daddy. I wasn’t sure if Mohammed was his first or last name, but I didn’t really care.

  Most of the time, I recruited peeps after watching them for a while, figuring out who they knew and how I could use them. Other times peeps came to me, wanting to get connected to my supply, or offering to work as a runner. Usually I turned them down. Put a few dollars in their pocket, they got cocky and started showing off. Po-po comes sniffing, and the trail leads back to me.

  There were always exceptions. When Mo approached me a couple years back, I could tell the kid was the real deal. He wasn’t looking to be big-time, he was just looking for a little cash. I had Monfrey watch him, make sure he wasn’t a narc or a heavy user, before I agreed.

  Mo worked the deli alone in the late afternoons. A little bell above the doorway rang as I walked in. Behind the counter, a slick Pakistani guy served a couple of kids. I didn’t know him.

  I went to the back of the store, pretending to look at drinks, hoping I’d see Mo. I figured I could do a few minutes of hanging around before the guy at the counter got suspicious.

  A minute later, Mo came out of a back room carrying some boxes. He saw me, then turned his back and started shelving the stuff.

  I grabbed a soda, bought it at the counter, and went outside.

  Mo kept me waiting ten minutes. We walked a block and turned a corner before he stopped. “Shit, that wasn’t easy.”

  “Who’s the guy?” I asked.

  “My brother. He and his wife are down from Toronto.”

  That explained his Blue Jays jersey. I knew Mo wouldn’t drop the cash for it himself. The kid never bought new clothes.

  “Waqas’s totally overdoing it,” Mo said. “Whenever he comes to town he’s breathing down my throat.”

  “Your neck.”

  “Whatever. He wants me to live and breathe that fucking store.”

  “Don’t you?”

  “Yeah, but he thinks I can always do more for the store, fix it up, work longer hours. Dad is an old man now, he always says. You must do everything you can to help him. Easy for him to say, living thousands of miles away.” He looked up at me, realizing he was ranting about personal stuff that had nothing to do with me. “So, you got the stuff?”

  We did the deal.

  “A’ight, Mo. Call me with the next order. You gonna be able to hustle with your brother watching you so close?”

  “Waqas has to go back to med school next week, so he’ll be outta my hair.”

  “Your brother’s in med school?”

  “Uh-huh. He finishes this year. My father paid for the whole fucking thing.”

  “He can send your bro to med school with what he makes from that store?”

  Mo nodded. “He’s been saving since the day my brother was born. Too bad he can’t afford to send me, too.”

  “You, in med school? You crazy?”

  “Crazy? No way. I got the grades.” He looked at me like I was crazy. “What do you think I been saving for?”

  THE MAKING OF A HERO

  Ask any brother in the projects who his hero is, and you’ll hear the names of basketball and football players.

  My hero was my dad. He was everything a man oughta be: strong, successful, smart. Men wanted to be his friend or they stayed away because they were afraid. Women couldn’t get enough of him. He went to parent-teacher conferences just to hit on my teachers.

  Orlando Johnson was raised by his grandma, dirt poor, in Prospect Heights. His mother died of a heart problem just after his brother Jean was born, and his father, well, he didn’t know nothing about him, except that his father was better looking than Jean’s. Grandma Johnson told him that much. She was a crabby old witch who was only good for one thing: bitching. She was too lazy to get off her saggy ass and get a job, but her nasty mouth wasn’t too lazy to tell Orlando and Little Jean how she wished they was never born.

  Orlando never knew a scrap of clothes that wasn’t from the Salvation Army or a taste of meat that the butcher wasn’t gonna throw out, anyway. Not until he started working for a family of Italian mafioso. Orlando learned all about Brooklyn’s underworld. Strip clubs, brothels, weapons, drugs, there was nothing he wasn’t into. And when the boss retired from the business, Orlando went out on his own.

  Sure, he got caught. But in his day, he was king. He lived the American Dream. And once he got out, he’d be back on top again, with me by his side.

  ORLANDO’S ONLY

  That week I got a postcard.

  Son,

  Come see me this weekend.

  Daddy O.

  * * *

  I got into Ossining on the noon train. It took half an hour to go through the paperwork and the searches. One guard liked frisking me a little too much, and I had to stop myself from smashing his ribs with my elbow.

  As usual, the meeting was in the visitors’ room. The plain white walls reminded me of the rehab center where we used to visit Uncle Jean. The difference was that this place had bars on the windows and guards at every exit.

  I spotted my dad sitting at a back table.

  “Hey, Dad.”

  “Son.”

  He clapped me hard on the back. This was the closest we ever got to hugging, and it was close enough for me.

  Dad was looking good. He was mad brolic. Since he been in prison, he didn’t have nothing else to do but work out. His head was shaved, and he had a goatee on his square chin. He wore a gold hoop in his left ear.

  Leaning across the table, he grabbed my bicep, smiled. “You getting there. Got good genes after all.”

  “That’s what they say.”

  “Family business still booming?”

  Like he didn’t know. Yo-yo prisoners and guards kept him up on things.

  “You know it, Dad. Ain’t no shortage of customers.”

  “Go
od.” He sat back, folding his arms across his chest. “Proud of you, Ty. Sonny doing his job?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I heard there was a fuck up with an undercover cop.”

  I nodded. “Sonny told you?”

  “Nah, Sonny’s too pussy to tell me that shit. Heard about it from a Brooklyn nigga last month. He said a boy named Michael Brown took the fall for a bigger operation. I remembered you telling me you got a kid named Michael Brown running errands.”

  “I had a bad feeling about it, so I told Sonny to send Michael.”

  Dad glared at me. “You should’ve listened to your instinct and sent nobody.”

  “I know. But Sonny was so sure about the guy. . . . ”

  “Sonny won’t be making that kind of mistake again. When I found out about all this, I sent for him. We had a good talk.”

  “You probably had Sonny shitting his pants.”

  “I didn’t take a whiff to find out. He knows I tell it to him straight. And he knows he wouldn’t be nothing without me.”

  “Me, too, Dad.”

  “You better believe it. What would you be doing now if you wasn’t running the family business, huh? Working at McDonald’s?” He grinned. “You owe me, son. You better be around to buy me diapers when I’m eighty and can’t hold my piss.”

  “I’ll buy you diapers and pay some hot young chick to put ’em on you.”

  We laughed.

  “I also wanted to tell you, Ty, that you don’t have to worry about Michael Brown slipping up.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I took steps to make sure he don’t talk.”

  “What kinda steps?”

  “I got connections in juvey. They making sure he keeps his mouth shut.”

  My hands made fists under the table. “Dad, keep them away from Michael Brown. He just a kid, loyal as hell. Ain’t no snitch.”

  “Chill, a’ight? I’m just taking precautions. Michael Brown knows he’ll get seriously fucked up if he talks.”

  “Dad, look. When I need your help, I’ll ask for it. I ain’t asked for it in a while. I’m holding shit down.”

  “No need to get salty, Ty. You your own man now. I ain’t doubting that.”

  “Good.” I told myself to chill. Dad was locked up, for Christ’s sake. I was the one making the calls on the street, not him. If he got some satisfaction out of butting his nose in, fine. Reality was, Orlando wasn’t up for parole for another three years.

  I decided to change the topic. “So, how’s Reg and Midas?”

  “Missing their hos.”

  “Too bad they ain’t got girls like Lorraine.”

  He smiled. “Yeah, she one fine woman. She was here last week.”

  Lorraine was in Dad’s life for as long as I could remember. On the outside, she was just one of his girlfriends. Since he got put away, she was the only one. Calling herself Orlando’s almost-wife, she strutted the streets thinking she was big-time.

  “What about you, Ty? How are the ladies?”

  “K-Ron was in town last week. We had some wild times.”

  Dad smacked his hand on the table. “Bet you did! D’you know, I tell the niggas in here that my son be friends with K-Ron, and some don’t even believe it?”

  “They just jealous.”

  THE CASE OF THE JAMAICAN MUSHROOMS

  I used to believe in trying everything once.

  That was before I tried Cheddar’s Jamaican mushrooms.

  By the time I was fourteen, I was a hardcore hustler. But I wasn’t tempted to start using. I knew too many people who lost everything to drugs, like my uncle Jean.

  Still, Dad always said that a man should try everything once, and the wannabe Original Gangsta that I was, I thought maybe he was right.

  So when Cheddar met me in the park with these Jamaican mushrooms he got from his cousin, I said we’d split them.

  “This shit is sour.” I downed them fast. “They’d be better with ketchup. We should’ve gone to McDick’s and mixed ’em with our fries.”

  “I should’ve put some in Mom’s chicken stew!”

  “You think cooking with these would make them stronger or weaker?”

  He shrugged.

  “Well, heat evaporates stuff, right? So maybe weaker. I’ll ask Ms. McEvoy on Monday.”

  Cheddar’s eyes bugged out. “You seriously gonna ask Ms. McEvoy?”

  “Hell, yeah. She get paid to answer our questions, don’t she?”

  “She’ll tell Guidance if you ask her.”

  “So?” I wrinkled my nose. “I don’t think these ’shrooms is working. I think your cousin played us.”

  “Rodney don’t joke about drugs or sports. Just wait. By the time the homies show up, we’ll be all fucked up and they’ll be jealous. You think Kim will be at the dance?”

  “Her mom’s strict. Makes her sing in the church choir. I don’t know if she’ll let her go.”

  “She better be there. She’s so hot.” He leaned forward, staring down at his lap.

  “Cool it down, Cheddar. I can see you sweating. Save it for the bedroom, son.”

  “It ain’t that. My head’s feeling weird.” He turned to me, his eyes bloodshot. “Your head feel weird?”

  “You imagining things. Ain’t nothing in these damn ’shrooms. I hope you didn’t give Rodney no money.”

  “Nah. No money.” He looked past me and waved. “There’s Joe and Bear.”

  Joe Joseph was always rocking the phatest gear. But his parents must’ve been on Jamaican mushrooms when they named him.

  Bear didn’t get his name from being big; it was because his last name was Beardsley. His first name was Keith. A quiet brother, Bear was okay with being the butt of our jokes because we let him hang around with us young OGs.

  Both of my boys were styled up for the dance, Joe’s gear yellow and black, Bear’s gray and red. I wished Joe had shared a few sprays of his Drakkar Noir with Bear.

  We all pounded palms.

  “Sorry, niggas, you too late,” Cheddar said. “Missed all the magic mushrooms.”

  “You serious?” Joe looked at me. “Ty, you got enough for us, right?”

  “They wasn’t mine.”

  “Huh?”

  “Cheddar got connections too.”

  “That ain’t fair.” Joe glared at us.

  Cheddar and me laughed.

  “This shit is strong!” Cheddar hyped.

  “Mad strong!” I crossed my eyes, even though I didn’t really feel nothing.

  Joe said, “C’mon, homeboy junkies, we better get going. Doors close at nine.”

  We headed to the school. Seeing three seventh-grade girls, we walked a few feet behind them. As I stared at their fine little asses, my eyes started to blur, like bad reception on my grandma’s old TV. I clapped a hand on Joe’s shoulder. “This is hard shit, Joe.”

  “Serves you right for not sharing.”

  I looked over at Cheddar. He looked good, head up high, smile on his face. Problem was, there were two of him.

  “Cheddar! Who’s your twin?”

  “What the fuck you talking about?”

  “Ha! I’m tripping! I’m baked as a fucking cake!”

  “You ain’t the only one, nigga!”

  Joe said, “You two better start acting normal if you wanna get into the dance.”

  “No sweat. Right, Cheddar? We can act normal.”

  “No problemo, muchacho!”

  Kids lined up at the front doors of the school. We were at the end of the line, right behind the cute seventh graders.

  “Ladeez, how you doing?” Cheddar slurred.

  “Uh, good.” The girls started giggling.

  “Tits, nice tits,” even if there was four of them. Her tits were winking at me, ready to pop out like little rockets.

  “Ty,” Joe said, glaring at me with a thousand eyeballs. “Chill.”

  I felt a shove against my shoulder. “Don’t you talk to my friend that way.” Tits’s friend Red Shirt was all up
in my face. “Show some respect for a sista, dumbass!”

  Everybody went, “Ohhhh . . . ”

  Joe grabbed my arm. “Let it go, Ty.”

  “Let what go? We gonna dance or what?”

  “What, you turned gay on me now?”

  “Gay? Huh? Dance . . . dance.” I heard music blaring inside. “Dance inside!”

  “Yeah.” He whispered, “You lucky that girl backed down, son. You don’t wanna have to hit no girl.”

  I wasn’t listening.

  I blew through the metal detectors and got a pat-down from a she-man guard. Joe stayed close so I didn’t give anyone lip.

  We got into the building, no problem. But when we went into the dance, the loud music and flashing lights made my head spin.

  I put my hands over my ears.

  I was shaking. Somebody was shaking me.

  “Ty, Ty! Keep it together, man! We gonna get thrown out!”

  I opened my eyes. Joe. Trying to talk to me. Weird mouth sounds.

  Lights flashed.

  My body spazzed. My mind screamed.

  Hands grabbed at me. Hands turned into snakes. Fought them as hard as I could.

  I blacked out.

  * * *

  Hospital. Choking. Stomach on fire. Can’t breathe.

  * * *

  Morning. I woke up in a bedroom plastered with basketball posters. It wasn’t my bedroom. It was Joe Joseph’s.

  For a whole minute I stared at a poster of LeBron James, his mouth hanging open as he went for a slam dunk. I started to remember last night.

  The girls.

  The dance.

  The hospital.

  Holy shit.

  How the hell was I gonna leave this room and face Joe’s family?

  There was a knock at the door.

  Joe came in. “How you feeling?”

  “Okay. Why am I here? I don’t . . . ”

  “The hospital called your place. Your mom wasn’t there, so mine came. Cheddar and Bear, they took off when the ambulance showed up.”

  In their shoes, I would’ve done the same. It was strange that Joe hadn’t.

  “I bet your mom freaked out,” I said.

  “Yeah, well.”

  “Look, I’ll tell her you wasn’t doing ’shrooms. I’ll talk to her.” I didn’t know how I’d do that. Joe’s mom was a church lady. Church ladies scared me.