by D. Watkins
“See, man, that’s why you gotta get off this corner! I know you got money, man, so just get a job. I’m not gonna keep coming to see if it means laying on the ground, boy! I work too hard for my money!” Troy laughed while reaching out for a handshake. I walked him over to his new ride and took a look inside.
“You doing good for yourself, man! Keep up the great work,” I told him.
“Yo, I can plug you with a job whenever you want, bro, just let me know!” said Troy as he pulled off. I waved a peace sign and shouted, “Naw, bro, you work too hard!”
Sad thing is that I wasn’t joking. He worked about sixty hours a week at that place and could probably barely afford his used Nissan. My runner probably made more than him. At times Troy told me he couldn’t survive without all of that overtime. What if they took that away?
THE BEAST
The streets have a way of making goofy, fun-loving kids beasts—bloodthirsty money grubbers who focus only on capital and power. I didn’t realize that I was a beast until a dope fiend named Rolo hit our stash. He stole like a hundred dollars’ worth of drugs and received an ass-whipping that could cost $3,500 in medical bills easy.
I cracked his head like a coconut with a broomstick and emptied his pockets. Nick kicked his head in until it leaked. Rolo would’ve died if Li’l Bo hadn’t stopped it—and Li’l Bo only stopped it because Rolo was his uncle. We thought we had to show junkies and other crews that we were animals—not the kind you pet and love, but the ones that would rip your head off and piss down your throat. Every segment of our diverse clientele took notice.
Some of our junkies were in wheelchairs and some limped in floppy shoes and others had two straight legs. Some junkies worked at Hopkins and drove nice cars, some worked for the block on 100 percent heroin salaries—100 percent heroin diets too; well maybe 98 percent, because junkies loved honey-glazed, jelly-stuffed, and powdered doughnuts. I saw them swallow those sweet things whole without chewing. Our junkies looked like the mother from Fresh Prince or Bill Cosby and they all yelled funny curse words like Samuel Jackson. They always danced even when they weren’t trying. They were white, whiter than Klan sheets—whiter than the drugs we sold them. They were black or Mexican with big belt buckles and pointy boots. Some junkies were deaf and screeched out their orders in sounds and hand gestures. We didn’t care about disabilities; if you had money, we’d serve you.
If you were a mom, or pregnant, or a teen, we’d serve you.
We were beast. Being beast made us free—slaves to money but still free. Being a beast felt great. It’s sport. My uncles were players, my brother was a starter, but I’m the MVP. And why shouldn’t I be? I was there, I was in the center. I was an orchestrator. As a kid I stayed away—even though this stuff always went on right in front of me, I remained clear. Most of us try to stay clear until we grew up and became a part of it. Your mother can’t protect you from it; mine tried but I still was presented with a chance to make my own choice like everybody else. Bodies always fell and fat mothers, fat grandmothers, and fatter aunts always hit the scene screaming and yelling, “WHYYY!” up to God. God never really answers them back but if God were to answer, the response would probably be something like, “Cuz that’s just how it is!”
The beast only allowed us to feel the murders of the people we knew—the ones we had real attachments to—meaning fuck the guy who got shot up the street; if we didn’t know him, it didn’t matter to us. The minute you try to connect with the pain of the community in general will be the same minute that the beast will chew you up, and spit you out too. The beast allows you to be content with the idea of being buried before your mom and grandma.
This is east Baltimore and everybody will get a chance to be in a fucked-up situation—you’ll have to shoot, or be shot, or be arrested, or beat down, or robbed, or kidnapped or tortured or murdered.
The beast will guarantee that.
I got used to it and it became my life. I would throw on the latest just to post up and watch my team. We were staples in this community. We polluted the block. We were responsible for the traffic, the tragedies, and the pain. We didn’t live there, but we did. Day in and day out, decked in whatever anybody wanted—threads, kicks, haircuts, technology, and everything else. We introduced the hood to videophones, platinum chains, and diamond-covered teeth. Adolescents ran past us, pointing at our sneakers, clocking our cars, dreaming of being us, asking their moms can they be like us. They idolized us just like we idolized Gee and the dealers that hailed before. The dealers that introduced us to beepers, gold ropes, Cazals, box fades, 740 Beamers, and silk tank tops.
I had been selling drugs for about a mouth now and I kinda had this game figured out. I bought my workers thin platinum Cuban-link necklaces and the fiends knew that shit. If a junkie rolled up on someone selling six-dollar yellow-tops of Rockafella, Phat Cat, White Diamond, or whatever I called my product that day, they knew to look for that necklace.
I also never ran a dirty strip. I hated trash, so I kept Ashland and Madeira trashless. I used to tell people that it was so clean you could eat off of the ground. I paid junkies to pick up the trash and they worked in shifts just like the dudes that hustled under me. The residents appreciated that. I didn’t hold them hostage and they didn’t give me a hard time. I called them sir and ma’am, my workers never disrespected them, and I even kicked a little cash to the church programs, youth sports teams, and whatever else Angie recommended.
I was the boss, so I rarely touched crack or guns or money at all anymore.
Really, I only touched basketballs, Robb Reports, big butt Trina, marijuana sticks, Keisha from Chapel Hill Projects, fried chicken, sweet tea, and girls my age named Tonya or Tarsha.
Other than a few run-ins with the law, Ashland and Madeira was almost drama free.
COMING TO AMERICA
Hurk and Nick were sick of me riding around in their cars. They complained about how I adjusted their seats because I liked to sit upright—being all dipped back made me dizzy—and they hated how I took out their Project Pat and Juvenile CDs and threw in my favorite albums—Illmatic and Reasonable Doubt. Hurk was always like, “New York rap over, nigga! Get on this south shit!” Nick especially hated when I didn’t turn his radio down before cutting the car off.
“Nigga, cut the beat off before you cut the car off, my speakers gonna blow!” he’d yell and I’d just say, okay, my bad, next time. Plus, I left change and ashes and girl paraphernalia all over the place. They were neat freaks when it came to their cars. Every CD had to be organized, new vanilla trees dangling off the rearview with a spare tree in the glove box. And I also never parked close enough to the curb for them and didn’t refill their gas tanks. Who carries a parking ruler around to measure how many inches the tire sits away from the curb? Who likes filling up gas tanks? Those cars were attached to their identities, they meant everything to them—but to me they were just cars.
“Where the keys, Nick!” I asked.
“Seriously, dug, you need your own shit! I’m gonna get wit’ this chick,” he barked before leaving our crib one night. And then that became his response every time I needed the wheel. Hurk would just disappear. I got it. It was time for me to buy a car.
When I told Hurk and Nick that I was about to bust out with some new shit, they harassed me every day like, “What you want, a Benz? A beamer? What you gonna get, man?”
“Chill. Coming to America!” I’d say. “Coming to America!”
They’d look at me like I was crazy. And maybe I was a little off. Our Percocet habits were growing, so we were all always semi-fucked-up most of the time. I say semi because we stayed alert enough to conduct business. I used to break my 30’s in half and give the rest away—my own special way of telling myself that I didn’t have a problem.
Nick was worried about me upstaging his Lexus. That was his baby. He washed it more than he washed himself.
“Yo, you gonna wash the paint off that car, man!” was what me and dope-fiend Fred used to
tell him.
“Dee, what you driving? Nuffin? Ah okay! And Fred, you never had a car and you prolly never will never get one because MVA don’t let junkies drive!” is how Nick responded. Nick really OD’d on that car. He placed a Lexus car cover with a huge Lexus logo over it when it rained, or when the sun shined too hard, or just because. The leather was perfect, not a crease or crack, and he hit the dash with Armor All every day. Nineteen-inch Lexanis were his wheels. They shined like lit diamonds when the sun hit them. Hurk didn’t go as far as Nick but he loved his ride too, and I felt him. Even though I bought Nick’s and put Hurk in the position to get his.
The AutoGuide advertised deals and sales on all types of cars in the Baltimore area. Everything was in there from new Jags to rare Acuras, but what did I want? I knew I didn’t want something that was too flashy; however, I did need a car that said I was the man, because I was.
Dog Boy helped me out: “A truck will be dumb hard. Get that, bruh! What twenty-twos on dat hoe!”
“You see, Dog Boy, I’m not a truck guy. I need something that’s like Coming to America, you feel me?” I said, circling some Audis and handing him the book.
“Coming to America? Like Eddie? Fuck that mean, dug?”
Coming to America to me basically meant a smooth and clean showstopper. When Eddie Murphy’s father the king hopped out, you knew he was somebody special. He had a sense of regal power that screamed, “Bow down! Don’t fuck with me! I run shit.” That’s what I wanted.
“Dee, you know what! You need some kinda Benz then.”
I flirted with that idea. That’s what everybody expected, so I made the call.
“Seth, what’s good!”
“Dee, what do you need? I just got some amazing stuff in.”
“Cool, I’m coming up.”
VIRGIN GANGSTERS
Me, Dog Boy, and his homie Long Tooth piled up in a hack. A hack is an unofficial cab in Baltimore that will take you anywhere for five or ten dollars. I normally pay twenty dollars. This one was a Chevy with beige cushion busting out of the seats, a lint-covered interior, and it smelled like Brut and Black Ice.
Long Tooth was Dog Boy’s new worker. Dog Boy quickly advanced to my little lieutenant. I gave him the last of my heroin, which was about 250 grams, and he set up a little shop on Ellwood and Monument. It was a test that he passed it with flying colors. Dog Boy ran the shit out of his shop. He recruited Long Tooth to help him out. They’d met at Hickey reform school back when Dog Boy sat a year on some petty drug charges. Long Tooth was being held for a murder, but he beat it. I don’t know if he did it or not, but I took an instant liking to him.
“I’m really going ride in my first Benz today, Yo. Dis so crazy,” Long Tooth whispered to Dog Boy from the backseat. He really looked up to me, I could tell. But they don’t really give direct compliments where I’m from; you have to maintain a sense of arrogance. Long Tooth was as skinny as Dog Boy but tall. Not as tall as me, but he towered for his age. His teeth were piled up like New York traffic, one covering the next with no space in between. One long tooth hung from the top of his mouth and almost scraped his bottom row when he talked—hence the name “Long Tooth.” He was really into guns. Long Tooth kept a gun mag rolled up in his back pocket and a .50 cal in his dip.
“What color you want, big brova!” Dog Boy yelled to me.
“I don’t know. Roll the weed up, LT. And Dog Boy, make sure that money right.”
Hacks let you smoke weed if you tip a little extra. Some even hit the blunt. This driver didn’t want to smoke. He was an old church nigga from around the way. We never knew his name, so we called him Unk. (Basically any old-head or dope-fiend or old-head-dope-fiend from Baltimore goes by or will be called Unk at least once in his life.) This Unk gives people rides to and from church on Sundays and hacks in front of the Stop Shop Save Market on Monument Street during the week. We always saw him around.
“Bitches gonna go crazy over dis car, Dee!” Dog Boy laughed. He organized eight stacks of my money on his lap while he talked. Each stack was five thousand dollars in evenly folded twenties.
“They gone go crazy anyway! Speaking of that, where y’all girls at?”
I saw Long Tooth stare out the window from the side-view mirror.
“I still be fuckin’ Kearia, dat’s my baby, ah nigga try get her I’ma fry his ass!” said Dog Boy, reaching for the blunt. I passed it to him. The driver laughed. “Damn, you only got one girl?” I asked. “All that fuckin’ money ya ugly ass have! And you only got one girl?”
“She the only one that’s trying to let me fuck! I mean some sales sucked me good but I only got that one body.”
I looked at Long Tooth. “Damn Yo, and you ain’t getting no pussy either?”
“On some real shit, Yo, I’m a virgin. I ain’t get none yet but I came close like twice.”
We all busted out laughing. Unk spun his Kangol to the side and told Long Tooth “That first piece of ass gonna feel good to ya, boy. When I got my first piece of pussy, I came quicker than a Monday! Whooooo! I tell you I came quicker than the cops in a white neighborhood! Mannnn, that twat was sweet!”
“Hold up, man! Hold up!” I said. “You mean to tell me that you shot somebody, been to jail, and never had no pussy? Damn!”
I told them to relax, they were now on my to-do list right after buying a car and securing a drug connect. I was going to establish their sex lives. Unk pulled up in front Seth’s. I hit him with sixty dollars.
“Y’all be good and don’t spend too much time chasin’ that kitty kat! Haaaa,” said Unk as we exited the car.
MY FIRST BENZ
Hello, welcome to the Foreign Auto Exchange, how can I help you guys?” she said. I paused for a second. We all did. She had a latte tone with dark curls. The only thing more perfect than her smile were her lips—or maybe her skin.
“Seth, I’m looking for Seth,” I replied, all awkward and goofy.
“Dee? He’s waiting for you, let me go back and get him.”
Her teeth were flawless. She could’ve modeled for Colgate or sold Crest ads. Seth walked out. “Dee! Come on back.” I tried not to glance at her as we walked past. Seth’s office was clean and organized. The last time I came he had contracts scattered, but now I could actually see the color of his desk. Pictures of his family and exotic cars lined the walls. I also noticed that those broken-down Legends and Vigors were gone.
“Damn, Seth, you really fixing this place up. What’s up with the girl?”
“Ahh, Asia, she’s great for business. Guys see her ass and buy cars they can’t afford! You see her ass? Look at her ass before you buy a car!”
“Naw, not yet.” I laughed. “What you got for me, though?”
Seth walked us around his lot. Dog Boy and Long Tooth were two steps behind me. I wanted them to see this side of the game. Not me fucking up money, but how these white people who didn’t really care about us easily kissed black ass for money. If we were broke, he’d ignore us, but money made us his equal. Money made him embrace Bip, embrace me and Nick and now Long Tooth and Dog Boy.
A couple of Caddy trucks, some Porsches, and a few Lexuses were parked around the lot. They were showroom clean and I was impressed. Seth told me that the MVA was cracking down on dealerships like his, so he was slowly switching up his business. He wasn’t slanging raggedly luxury cars on their last leg anymore and was being more careful with titling. I told him that my situation was the same. I’m buying a car. I don’t have a real job, and I’ll probably never get one, and he can put it in anyone’s name he needed to as long as I had the title.
Dog Boy found a Beamer. “Dee, the five series wet, bro! This it right here!” Seth quickly said he could cut a smooth deal on that car but I wasn’t with it. The 5 series was nice but I knew too many chicks with them. I considered 5 series, A4’s, X5’s and Lexus ES’s and really anything in that grade or price range to be girl cars—middle-aged-stay-at-home-bake-cookies-for-the-soccer-game mom cars—baby-mother-mobiles. I neede
d some king shit.
“Seth, you ain’t got nothing for me!” I said, patting him on his back. “Maybe I should go to CarMax and build some credit or some shit.”
“No, no, no, tell me what you want and I’ll bring it back from the auction tomorrow. We’ll detail it and I’ll certify it!”
I told him that I wanted a Benz, an S500. Long Tooth and Dog Boy’s eyes stretched across their faces. I then told Seth that I wanted it to be as new as possible. I agreed to pay cash and let him know that I wasn’t paying that brand tax that commercial dealers try to put on people. Fuck that, I knew the prices.
“Gimme some of the money and I’ll have it delivered.” I had Dog Boy give Seth $20K and told him he’d get the rest after he delivered the car. Seth gave us a Camry to hold while he found my dream car. I asked if we could keep the Camry too and he asked for $10K.
“I only got eight on me, man. Wassup?”
“Do we always have to do this? Nine and a half.”
“$8,250 or I ain’t buying shit!”
He took it and I agreed to do the paperwork another day. I knew I needed another car. I didn’t want to drive my big shit every day. Nick hit me up on my way back down to Madeira Street. He was all excited, saying that he had big news. I didn’t catch him that night but the next day he said that we had a new connect. A dude named Rex from west Baltimore who was fresh out of the feds and back to slanging bricks. Nick already set the buy meeting up, which would take place in few days.
“This nigga gonna look out for us, man!” Nick said as we all sat out on Angie’s steps. Madeira Street was changing. We used to be the only guys out here, but it was hot now, loud music banging from multiple houses and forty-plus people hanging. They were kids in Polo and jumbo-sized hoodies, smoking and drinking, all passing the bottles to the right and the blunts to the left. Kids with no curfews were everywhere like they never had parents. The people that flooded this block never had anywhere to go but here. Most of them didn’t hustle—they just wanted clout. Being out there around us instantly gave them clout.
