by D. Watkins
Sammy, one of the owners, greeted us at the door with a pound. “How you been, man?”
I dapped him back and said, “Living.” From there, two girls followed us around the store as we pulled everything Polo and Lacoste off of the racks—hoodies, shirts, sweaters, buckets, t-shirts, everything. I needed to make sure I had a huge care package for LT because he took that bullet, and some designer shit for Angie because she works for me and can’t be going to church looking all raggedy, and a leather coat for Dog Boy just because, plus some ill shit for Lil Bo to wear to court, and some husky clothes for Nick because he’s getting fatter by the second, and probably some pink or purple shit for Tone—he never leaves his crib, but I know he likes to walk around the house with new clothes on. We piled so much stuff on the girls that you could no longer see their faces; their arms were tired, and they had to make trips back and forth to the countertop.
I gave Block some stacks. “Cash them out, Yo, I’m gonna get us some tennis!”
I wasn’t sure what sizes everybody wore but it was fall and my people needed boots, even Kruger Man. He washed my car with holey shoes that are funky like PCP smoke, and it was about to be too cold for that, plus I didn’t want the smell to get on me or in my car. I bought a bunch of Timberlands—different shades, different colors, and different sizes. Didn’t really matter who could fit them or not, I’d just park on Madeira, pop my trunk and give them all away.
“My man, the Jordan 3 Retros drop on Saturday. Slip me a extra hundred, you can get them now,” said a salesman.
“Yo, I need like fifteen pair, I’ll give you an extra thousand over the price.”
“I could lose my job, man! How about three pair?” he bargained.
I should live. My family should live. “Yo, fifteen hundred plus the price, man, load me up, G. Plus I wanna buy everybody in the store a pair of shoes!”
“Damn, man, you need some shoe cleaner for all of those kicks? I’ll throw some free ones in!”
“Thanks, man, but you can give them to the people who want them. I don’t really clean my shoes, I just get new ones.”
There were about fifteen people in the store walking away with something free because of me. I cashed the kid out. He helped carry the boxes to my car and we stuffed them in the back. Block was still in the mall buying more stuff. I went back to get him and passed a jewelry store. There was a platinum and diamond bracelet in the window. Soni probably wouldn’t wear it but fuck it, if she didn’t I’d give it to my mom or just have crazy store credit—I dropped another $3K on the bracelet, met Block and our ten thousand bags, then shot back down Madeira Street.
I gave away more than I kept. Everybody in my crew had Jordan 3’s before they came out, even Miss Angie. She rocked hers with a flower-printed muumuu while running around in the kitchen making us lunch. Her fat ankles bulged out of the sides—the front of them creased the first half hour she owned them. I never saw Jordans fuck up so quickly.
That night, Angie made a big-ass dinner and we all ate. Everybody was fresh. Kruger looked really funny with a new jacket, new boots, and old-ass clothes from the late eighties underneath. Nick and Dog Boy pulled up in a new green Range Rover with stickers tattooed to every window.
“Oh shit!” we said. “Look at these niggas!” was yelled in different tones while everybody ambushed the truck like steak in a piranha tank.
4.0?
Nick’s new truck had paper tags and new rims. It was a used Range Rover to somebody, but new to us. Whirlwinds of weed smoke exited the car before Dog Boy and Nick jumped out. “You keep the Lexus? You keep the Lexus?” was the number one question for two reasons. One: everybody was nosy and wanted to see how much money we really had. Two: dudes thought they could borrow the Lex while he drove the Range or borrow the Range while he drove the Lex.
“Naw, dug, I keep all my whips! And y’all ugly asses ain’t driving them!” yelled Nick, beating on his chest like a gorilla. Nick liked to beat on his chest when he accomplished a goal, or when he was trying to make a point about something—basically whenever he was in his feelings.
“You really need two luxury cars?” I asked as I surveyed the vehicle, checking out the rims, thinking about how crazy it was that we had a Lex, a Benz, and a Range in the crew—we were really moving work.
“Is you really hatin’?” he replied in a gulp of a chuckle. I laughed; we all did until I stopped. I had to.
The rear of the truck fucked up my day. It read “4.0.”
“Really, Nick? A 4.0? What the fuck is wrong with you!” Everybody on the block jumped in like “Hell no! Take that shit back, boy! That cheap-ass truck!”
“What? I saved ten racks! What the fuck!” Nick argued.
I ain’t give a shit. The hood ain’t give a shit. We wasn’t having that. We are students of Jay culture, direct products of Jay-Zism—meaning that anything under a 4.6 is unacceptable. Jay Z even had a whole song called “Imaginary Player” where he clowns a dude for driving a 4.0, telling him to spend that thirty G’s, so fuck that. I wasn’t going to let Nick go out like that.
“Nick! Building up these haters was hard work! You can’t let them off the hook with a 4.0!” I yelled. Some guys laughed, but I was serious as cancer in its final stage. We took our Jay Z shit seriously, meaning that we didn’t even wear fake stuff. We couldn’t drive small economy luxury vehicles like 3 series Beamers, we didn’t drink rail vodka, our jewelry was platinum, Cristal was the only champagne for us, we carried packs of Franklins because Washingtons were a no-no, and we didn’t put aftermarket diamonds in our Rolex watches because that’s uncivilized, plus it cheapened the value.
No one from our hood really knew the difference between a 4.0 and 4.6. Some of the dudes who joined me in clowning Nick’s truck didn’t even have cars. Some of them couldn’t even get their hands on a hundred dollars and others were junkies who lived in places without running water. Some were kids and most of us were from public housing but Jay Z set the standard and we rolled with it.
Nick took the truck back the next morning and came around with a shiny black 4.6 with twenty-inch black rims to match. The streets went crazy. I started hearing wild rumors like our cars were rented and our money came from us receiving settlements due to lead paint poisoning. Some of us had lead but our new money didn’t come from checks.
I laughed at it all and spent more.
SHOULD’VE
We were beyond stupid. We should’ve laid back. We were facing a war and just kept buying shit. Shit and more shit. My whole hood was fresh from head to toe—it looked like a Macy’s and a Foot Locker warehouse had exploded.
I shouldn’t say we. I was the boss, so I should take personal responsibility.
I should’ve been protecting my crew, loading up on weapons, recruiting soldiers, doing pull-ups, applying war paint under my eyes, and mapping out strategic attack plans on a dry-erase board in a room full of killers. I should’ve been kneeling over the edge of my bed every night, cleaning off my nickel-plated .45—checking my reflection, and anticipating the kill. I should’ve been doing research on those kids in the Taurus and making sure my strips pumped cash because you can’t have a war without money.
Soni should’ve not known a thing about the shooting or LT’s wound, but that’s impossible because pain goes straight to my face, so she would’ve found out eventually. I should’ve known that she’d hear my story, call me crazy, and leave. I should’ve mastered a poker face by now. Shutting the fuck up when talking to women about street shit is an OG rule. I should’ve known not to break it.
I should’ve been excited about avenging LT, Dog Boy, and myself. I should’ve called Hurk up and invited him to a meeting with Uncle Gee because they are the most bloodthirsty people I know. But I didn’t even tell them. I should’ve been visualizing bullets ripping through the flesh of the kids that shot at us, watching their blood spill and laughing all the while.
I should’ve been able to trash the smoking pistol, bop into LT’s hospital room and
say, “You should’ve seen their faces when I caught them! I laid them out and gave them all headshots, just for li’l bro! You ain’t gotta hurt no more!”
He should’ve been able to take a deep pull of the oxygen, smile and say, “You should’ve waited for me. I like to get my hands dirty, big bro.”
We should’ve both known that trying to hurt the people who hurt us wouldn’t heal that hole in this chest.
We should’ve known, but we were beyond stupid.
OLD HEAD SAID
Troy hit my phone like two millions times in one day, saying, “Mr. Pete needs to see you! Go talk to him now! Please!”
I silenced Troy and headed Mr. Pete’s way ASAP. I didn’t go just because he was our connect. He also gave me crazy game and countless lessons—lessons that got deeper with every trip, shit every young person needs to know. Gems to live by were buried in all of his rants. After my two months’ worth of trips to the dialysis unit, I was finally used to the funky formaldehyde smell that stuck to my clothes like chewed gum. The cute secretary, Robin, knew me now; she even buzzed me into the clinic without Troy. I knew my way around the unit—enough to reach Mr. Pete.
He was propped back as usual, watching The Price Is Right and winning. Pete was way better at estimating the price of the trips and cars offered than the screaming housewives that ran up and down the aisle on the show each day.
“OG, wassup?” I said, propping myself on a beige leather stool and rolling in his direction. He took his earphones off and waved me closer. I inched forward. He waved again, this time positioning himself close enough to whisper in my ear. “Dee,” he said, “you are going to die if you don’t get off those streets. The next bullet will hit your head, boy. I promise. I dun seen plenty of li’l dudes like you get flipped, easy.”
I sat still, looking down at my feet for a minute, and then tried to pick up my head enough to look Pete in the eye. It felt like a ten-thousand-pound weight was on the back of my neck. Pete rolled his eyes and leaned back in his chair, looking at me in despair. He shook his head in shame and turned his nose up as if I wasn’t worth spitting on.
“I hate your generation,” he mumbled. “Fuckin’ crack babies.”
“I’m confused,” I said.
He didn’t reply; some doctors had walked behind me and were checking his machine. The unit’s charge nurse pushed some buttons and flicked some switches.
“Howdy, Mr. Pete! Have you been taking all of your medicine and watching your fluids?” a block-headed young doctor asked; he looked fresh out of med school.
Pete shrugged and said, “I’m here and alive right?”
The nurse called Pete cranky and laughed it off. They caved to doctors and cringe when patients didn’t do the same. The duo continued to make their rounds throughout the clinic.
“So Troy told you about the shooting, huh?”
Pete said it wasn’t just the shooting. He wanted to know why was I living in the city because he was from an era where black dope dealers got rich and moved to Randallstown. “You aren’t supposed to eat where you shit, boy,” he said. That meant I should slang in east Baltimore and live way out in the county—I knew that but I couldn’t. I love east Baltimore and I ain’t never leaving; plus, I have a apartment downtown, I just like to hang on my block—but that wasn’t good enough for him. I laughed and said, “Hell no! Maybe in the nineties! Rich niggas move to Atlanta now!” Pete didn’t find it funny.
“Why y’all on blocks anyway?” he whispered. His lips were really chapped, and cotton grew at the seams, enough to stuff a case of aspirin bottles. I felt his pressure rise.
“I know you have lead, but I think you are smart enough to know that wholesaling is the only way. That block shit is over, boy. You should be shot dead by now. You and Troy are in a good position to make some money and start a business. Drugs ain’t forever. Ain’t no 401K for smack dealers, boy. You lucky you not dead!”
I thought about the shootouts, Ike Guy and the rest of the racist cops that beat on us. I thought about Long Tooth, when he was coming out of the hospital and would he ever be the same. Bip. I thought of Bip. I thought about Li’l Bo and Fat Tay in jail—what if I was next? Could I even deal with that shit? I thought about how I hated working on the block. I didn’t mind sitting out and joking with my friends and the junkies, but working was a hassle. I’ve spent eighteen hours plus in the same spot on multiple days. How long could I sit there and collect money with no war? War was guaranteed like death and taxes. How long would the cops allow guns to be our get out of jail free cards? Madeira Street would end soon, just like it ended before. Everybody knew us; even the cops. We all looked liked a bunch of targets out there anyway, waiting to get plucked off. It could happen any day.
“Mr. Pete, look, man…”
“Shut up—when your mouth is open, your ears are closed!”
I paused. The streets forced me to not respect many, but Pete was genuine.
“I used to run Pennsylvania Avenue back in the day, boy. I told you that, no, listen. Me and some real gangstas had some night spots. We ran a big dawg card game upstairs and performances in the lounges downstairs. We booked everybody and when I say everybody, I mean everybody from Billie Holiday to Nat King Cole. When the biggest stars weren’t performing, they were in my clubs, having a drink and living that life. Redd Foxx came through, Satchmo came through, Duke came through, everybody, man, we ran the most classy joints on this side of the Mason-Dixon. The gangsters mixed and mingled with the artists. The most beautiful women in the whole city would come out every night! Boy, I tell you we had something beautiful. Something real!” He gazed as he reminisced. His eyes glossed; he rubbed his belly as if it was full and laid his head back in the chair. His machine went off. One of the nurse techs came by to adjust it.
“Really? It looks like Night of the Living Dead out there now, I even be hittin’ workers over there with bundles and weight. What happened, Mr. Pete?”
“We happened. We let it go, boy. We let it go without a care. I was young and dumb like you. I let greed fuel me. I could move that dope. That dope money looked way better than that club money and we led a lot of our clientele straight to it.” Pete sat up and looked me in the eyes. “That was the worst shit I ever done. Look at me, boy. Smart people learn from they own mistakes. Genius niggas learn from other people’s mistakes. Make your wholesale money while I can get what I can get you. Get off the block and start a legit business. Go to a college like Troy. I wanna see you boys do good, better than us. Don’t try to do this shit forever, you aint me and things aint the same.” Pete leaned back in his chair. I sat there in military silence and thought about what we said. I knew Soni would agree. Pete was right, that block shit was stupid, but what about my crew? Who’s going take care of Tone? What about Angie and everything I worked to build?
I thought all about the people I fed in that neighborhood. The kids who needed a little extra money for school, the junkies who needed a little help getting high, the junkies who needed a little help getting clean, the coaches, the church niggas, the pretty girls, the up and coming athletes, the single moms—I fed them all, at some point.
Mr. Pete’s three-hour session had ended and I left the unit. Madeira Street was still wrapped all around my mind. The lives of the block residents like Mr. Sam played in my head like movies. Mr. Sam had a wife and some kids who all looked liked him. He knew me from the days he sold coke with my uncle Gee. Sam caught a small bit and vowed to never hustle again after his release. Even though he wore soiled work clothes everyday, he was always in between jobs, and I used to give him a couple of dollars here and there. I never did it in front of anyone. It had to be in private because he was the man of his house and no one needed to see him relying on me. Being a provider was important to him and he didn’t want his kids to see him taking or borrowing money from a dealer. I respected him for trying to break that cycle, and he always paid me back, even when I tried not to take it. As I laid out my next move, I realized that the people
meant more to me than the money. I was an important part of a community and it would cause a major impact if I just removed myself from the equation.
But I wouldn’t really be able to do anything for anybody if I was dead or in jail. Mr. Pete was right; I was falling victim to the same greed that got him. That’s the reason he has all of that money and is still unhappy about a lot of things. He wears a Rolex made of diamonds, everyone at the unit kisses his ass, and I heard his house had eight bedrooms with a sick pool—but still, his happiest days came from running a legit club with good music. His happiness came from happy people.
I knew then, I was done with Madeira Street.
STRAIGHT TO VOICE MAIL
I dialed Soni, and it went straight to voice mail, again. But she had to be the first to know that my days on Madeira Street were over. I was going to get off the block, get my health in order, and start a business—just like Mr. Pete had. I had zero credit but my car was paid for, I had a half a brick of dope to split with Troy with more to come from Pete, and about $200K saved up.
Call from Hurk: sent to voice mail.
Running a convenience store couldn’t be that hard. I bought and sold dope all of the time. I got fronted and paid back. I paid my crew, I paid my debts, stacked buy money, shopped weekly and still had dough left over to save. People don’t shoot at storeowners, well, not normally. And if it all fails, I’d still have dope to sell as a wholesaler until Pete stopped.
Call from Hurk: sent to voice mail.
Nick would be able to hold Madeira Street down. He’d been doing that anyway but now all the extra money could go to him and whatever worker he decided to pick up. Even calling myself a wholesaler felt better than being married to a block. I couldn’t even believe I did that shit for so long. I had to tell Soni, but she was avoiding me like I was avoiding Hurk.
