by D. Watkins
After three days of missed calls, I decided to drive to her mom’s house. I had just picked Long Tooth up from Johns Hopkins, which was a few blocks away. Long Tooth had Perks and vodka. He leaned sideways in the passenger seat and dozed off, only waking when I cut Lil Boosie off. He’d pop up and say, “Pump the Boosie, man! We need dat! Going through some thangs! I swear for God, Boosie the one!”
I pulled onto the corner adjacent to Soni’s mom’s house. “Glad you back, LT, I love you, li’l bro. Tell me what you want, I’ll get you whatever you want, I mean that!” Long Tooth sat up straight and turned the beat down, and our eyes met: “I want some more pills, I want my dick sucked by a Destiny’s Child girl—any one of dem—and I want us to kill dem niggas dat shot me, all of dem.” He leaned back in the chair, took a swig of Goose, and closed his eyes.
“Really, Dee, I just want them niggas got.”
I took a roll of cash out of my pocket and sat it in the cup holder. “Well, this ain’t enough money to get head from a Destiny’s Child girl but I bet you could fuck they friends.” He cracked a smile. Soni’s car was parked out front so I exited with the bracelet I bought her and knocked on her door. She poked her head out of the window.
“Stalker! What do you want!” She laughed. “Do you understand English?”
“I’m not on the street anymore, can we rap about it later?” I yelled. Long Tooth watched from the car shaking his head, looking at me like I was crazy. Soni came downstairs and opened the door. I waved that one I’ll be right back finger at Long Tooth before walking in. Her mom’s house smelled like perfume and turkey wings.
“Are you lying to me?” she asked.
I wrapped my arms around her. “I’ve been thinking, I’m tired of this shit. I bought you a gift.” I kept my left arm around her waist and pulled the bracelet out of my pocket with the right.
“It’s platinum and diamond, I hope you like it.”
“Oh, my God, it’s so pretty! Are these conflict-free diamonds?”
“Absolutely!”
“No, they aren’t!” she said, pushing the bracelet back at me. “I should cash that thing in and pay my student loans off! No, but really, it’s really nice. I can’t take it. I really like you. I don’t want gifts; I only want you as a safe, like a square that doesn’t run the streets. Can that be my gift?”
I put the box back in my pocket. “You mean like a dashiki-wearing nigga with dreads and open-toe sandals?”
She laughed. “No, silly, just you without the crime. I love you.” She stood on her tippy-toes and kissed my lips. I dipped down and stole another kiss when she pulled away.
“I love you too, Soni.”
MURDER TEAM
Madeira Street was a ghost town. My shop was closed; Nick sat on Angie’s steps in all black. His hood eclipsed his eyes, his back lined up with the wall; his head was like a swivel rotating in every direction—he was on point. I parked and joined him.
“Yo, wassup?” I asked.
“You gotta gun on you?” said Nick, still looking over my shoulder and surveying the block.
“Naw,” I replied, trying to follow his eyes and see what he was looking for.
“Yo, you talk to Hurk? Sit by me and hold this,” he said, passing me a Glock.
“Naw, I ain’t rap to Hurk,” I replied. Nick told me that someone shot Rex up and Hurk has been coming through every hour on the hour looking for me.
“Damn, is he dead?”
“I don’t even know, man, but he buggin’ out and that’s not even the worse part. Dis day fucked!” he said.
“It gets worse?” I asked.
Nick nodded and said that Gee hooked up with Long Tooth and picked up Dog Boy. The trio popped handfuls of ecstasy and had been riding around the city all day shooting at any and everyone they thought had something to do with our incident. No one had asked me or gave a fuck what I thought. They waged a war off of blindness—with Gee, who has never made a rational decision in his life. I’m not even sure who told him about the shooting, but the idea of me being attacked probably sent him crazy. Especially since I put him back on his feet. I love him but he is the definition of what no one should ever aim to be like. Gee also had a million petty charges, ranging from domestics to assault.
Gee once climbed into the booth and knocked out the DJ at Strawberries for not playing DMX. Afterward he threw the guy into the crowd and took over the show. When I was a kid he rode a dirt bike wearing nothing but a blue mink and some blue gators all through his project lobby—old women turned away and covered their kids’ eyes. The housing cops managed to tackle him off of the bike but he knocked out a few before they subdued him, and he did the shit again as soon as he got a bail. Gee’s never been sober, and his gun stays warm; he doesn’t fuck with vegetables—he doesn’t really fuck with anything. Forever he’ll be a wildcard with no filter; he’ll always drink life and smoke whatever you pass to him. He always made every situation worse.
“Yo, you got extra bullets?” I asked. Nick was right, I needed a gun; I’m not getting killed because of their bullshit. Nick said he had a case at the crib. I texted Soni, I love you just because. Hurk had pulled up in a new CL500 with his passenger window down.
“Dee, ya phone broke, nigga? Get in the car, man.”
Soni texted I love you back. I dapped Nick and hopped in Hurk’s ride. The interior was a rich peanut butter color and smelled like new leather dipped in weed smoke and a vanilla tree. Hennessy leaped out of his pores. We cut through Bradford and rode up Monument Street. Nick wasn’t lying, nobody was out. This Gee shit was all my fault. I should’ve handled this situation before LT came out. We could’ve spent a month in the islands. By the time we would’ve returned, they wouldn’t care about this petty beef shit. Hurk had a Mac 11 in his lap with an extended clip poking out. There was a sawed-off shotgun with peeling grip tape on the handle resting in the backseat. I saw the bulletproof vest print all in his t-shirt.
“Where we going at?” I asked.
“Nowhere for real, just wanna put you down with Rex. Niggas tryin’ to say we killed him, that’s crazy shit, right?”
“We! Fuck you mean ‘we’?”
He said he was as surprised as me and that I needed to lay low for a while. He needed some time to figure everything out because it was a strong possibility that some people would be coming for us. This is the ugly part of the game that recruiters forget to mention—home invasions, sleepless nights, gun battles, and wondering if you’ll be the next person with a hole in your head or in a wheelchair or dead. We pulled up at a 7-Eleven. Some people admired the car.
“What you want, Yo?” asked Hurk.
“Grab me an extra large red Slurpee and some seeds!” I yelled out the window. A frail shell of a woman approached the car.
“Can I have some change please?”
I glanced at her round face and patted my pockets. The only thing worse than her skin and breath were her teeth—they were jagged and spotted like dice. A cloud of crack funk followed her. I glanced again. It was Hope. Hope was a junkie now. I pulled some crumbled ones from a roll of money I had tucked in my sock. She didn’t acknowledge me and I didn’t acknowledge her.
“Aye, get the fuck away from my car, you stinky bitch!” yelled Hurk, coming out of the store.
“It’s cool!” I said. “It’s cool”
She tucked her head down and walked away. Hurk threw his fountain soda in her direction, cranked his Project Pat album, and skidded off.
I looked at myself in the side-view mirror. The reflection had red eyes like hers, rough skin like hers—my tone was off, I looked numb. I didn’t look as good as I thought I did. I could be Hope sometime soon.
Fuck that!
Dear Percocets,
I can’t even front, we had some amazing times together. Met you at eighteen and now I’m twenty! Who thought I’d see twenty! You’ve been there when I couldn’t even buy a friend, helping me get over death after death after death, and letdown after letdown after le
tdown—numbing me to the pain of life. You made everything better, which makes this painful, but I gotta let you go. I’ll always love you, but you gotta go.
You fucking my hood up, my friends up, and fucking me up too. We all look ugly and ten years older because of you. I keep shitting blood and I know it’s because of you; I act like it’s not but I know it’s you. You are on my mind all the time and it’s messed up how all of the bad things always have to be so damn good. You, raw pussy, and chocolate chip cookies are all bad but you all feel so good.
I was riding through my block the other day and you were out. I knew you were out because you all over east Baltimore now, on every stoop, project lobby, and corner. Dudes who used to be the cleanest are walking around with holey Nikes, mini linty ’fros, and shredded-worn Seven jeans. They keep scratching like they are covered in ants and so do I. They are the new junkies and I’m one of them.
I saw a respected hustler get bitched by a heroin addict over you the other day. It felt like I was in the Twilight Zone. I couldn’t tell who the junkie was because the hustler needed you as much as the heroin addict needed his heroin. They were both sick. I’m sick and I don’t want to be anymore, so you gotta go.
I don’t want to sell drugs forever so it’s definitely time to stop using them. Thank you for everything. I’ll always remember you. Bulletproof love.
Your homie,
Dee
HOT BOY TROY
I wanted to rap to Troy about my issues with Hurk so I headed to his place.
Troy’s family moved to Decker Street, about a block away from the top of Ellwood Park. His room was in the basement. Their walls were cluttered with family pictures from back in the day. Big afros in front of Cadillacs, party shots, his parents inside of champagne glasses and heart-shaped frames, Troy’s Little League baseball cards and a bunch of prom portraits—Jheri Curls and gold teeth were on every image. His mom greeted me like, “Heyyyyyy baby,” as always before saying, “He down that basement. You hungry? Lemme know, baby, cuz you thin! I’ll fry you sumthin’!”
I thanked her, declined the food, and dipped my head so that I wouldn’t hit it while walking down the basement stairs. I almost tripped over the collage of sneaker boxes that blanketed the floor. Troy wasn’t a sneaker guy but I guessed hustling was changing him too—he had everything, everywhere from Gucci to Reebok to brands I never even heard of.
“Troy, what’s up, man?”
“I’m great, bro, I just scrambled and put together a hundred fifty grams for us, time to knock these off!” he said, tossing the work on his bed next to a bunch of new shirts and hats. “I got some plays for us out of town too, Dee, as soon as Mr. Pete get us that new shit!”
“Damn, man, you trying to open a clothing store? I thought I had too much shit!” I said, moving some shirts and sitting down. “Yo, I feel kind of bad, man, I gotta rap to you about something serious.”
Troy opened the storm window and sparked a blunt.
“Yo, you a rich nigga, you ain’t got no problems; shit, I’m trying get like you so I can have your problems!” he said, passing me the blunt. “But yoooooo, I don’t fuck with Kim no more! Why this bitch say she wanted to do a threesome and I was like hell-to-the-yeah! So I booked the nice hotel and she showed up looking good as shit! I was like it’s on nigga and then asked where her friend at. She said he on his way and I said what! Sure enough, dude knocked on the door, and I put both of they dumbasses out!”
I choked on the weed and then choked even harder on Troy’s story. He gave me a break from the bullshit that Hurk hit me with. In that moment I didn’t feel scared. Troy went on for another hour about women and money and then women and more money. He never doubled back around to ask if I was cool or not. Troy didn’t even sound like Troy. The game has a way of doing this. The game takes innocent kids like us and transforms us. Two loving guys with big hearts who were supposed to never hustle, sitting here talking about nothing but hustling and girls and hustling again.
I couldn’t even tell him what I was going through. He just assumed that I had no issues—that we had no issues because we were making a couple of dollars. Troy said nothing about college or starting a business. His only concerns were who he was fucking next and how much heroin we had to sell.
“Dee, I’m buying a Beamer too! A 745—please be aware that every girl in the state of Maryland will want to suck my dick!”
“I hope it makes you happy,” I replied. Leaning back on the bed looking at the full zip of heroin: “I hope it makes you happy.”
NICK GOT THE BLOCK
The fifteen-minute ride from my condo at the Green House down to Nick’s spot felt like a ten-hour road trip. Probably because I couldn’t imagine not being connected to Madeira Street, and I was worried about what Nick would say. We came into this together and I didn’t want to abandon him, but it had to be done. Selling drugs outside is like being a fish in a bowl—everybody can watch your every move and you can’t do anything about it. I wasn’t going to die on that block and I figured I’d let him make his own decision.
Some dope fiends were cleaning his truck with suds and ripped-up t-shirts when I pulled up. He added big gaudy wheels to his Range, they had to be twenty-two inches or more. Small diamond-like crystals circled the base; I guess they made for a better shine. I walked up to them and touched the tip—it spun around slow like a ceiling fan.
“What in the fuck?” I said, spinning them hard, like a game show contestant.
“Yeah, buddy, he ridin’ spinners! When you stop, dey keep goin’! Twenty-five thousand dollar wheels, Nick say dey cost, you gotta get some, Dee!” said the guy cleaning them. He was a new fiend; I didn’t know him. He knew my name and my job and I couldn’t pick him out of a lineup. All of these dudes suffer from what I call “The Fifth Nigga Syndrome,” meaning that the story always gets stretched all the way out of shape by the time it reaches the fifth nigga. Twenty-five thousand dollars in the hood means about six thousand in real life. I never subscribe to Fifth Nigga Syndrome, but either way, the resale value was probably two pennies and those wheels looked stupid to me, like rolling indictments. Seeing those pointless attention suckers made me feel a little better about my decision, and then breaking away from these strangers further validated what I was already thinking. I told the fiend to get my car next and walked into the house. Li’l Bo sent us mail and a picture of him kneeling in standard gray DOC sweats that read, “Stay up, my niggas! Death B4 Dishonor” on the back.
The house smelled like a crack rock outlet. I told Nick to stop frying in the crib at least two million times but he was too fat and lazy to pack the work at our stash house. His clothes were all over the place. It’s like he stripped, changed, and just left the shit on the couch, floor, and everywhere else.
“You sloppy as shit!” I yelled.
Every day he wrapped himself in State Property gear and cranked the State Property CD on the highest level. I loved that album but never really understood that clothing line. It was created by the rapper Beanie Sigel from Philly. Every shirt, jacket, and jumpsuit was designed to make you look like an inmate. Like going to jail was cool. Li’l Bo had to wear that shit and I’m sure he wouldn’t rock those clothes if he were free. Some of the shirts even had fake prison ID numbers printed on front—I’m surprised those clown suits didn’t come with fake cuffs. I loved that all those rap dudes were busting out with clothing lines but fuck, a jail look—plus my days of urban apparel were fading. I was switching to wholesaling, which meant I needed to look the part. Wholesalers should live in designers like Gucci and Loui, or at least that’s what I thought.
Every fly in east Baltimore lived in Nick’s kitchen. I had fiends cleaning the place twice a week when I stayed there and Nick still junked it up. Twenty half-eaten chicken boxes were in the fridge, along with about forty empty Hennessy and Grey Goose bottles. “Nick cut the beat down!” I said. “Come down, I gotta rap to you about something serious!”
In goofy Nick fashion he tripped dow
n three steps in a size XXXX State Prop jumpsuit. It was green with fake inmate numbers on the front and back. “You see my wheels, nigga! I’ma fuck every girl eva, nigga!” he belted with a big wet Kool-Aid smile.
“We gotta talk, man,” I said, pulling up a chair.
“What’s wrong, Dee?”
“Yo, I’m done with Madeira Street. I’m sick of the shooting and Ike Guy and all that shit. You got two options. You can keep it and all the money from down there and work it by yourself or switch to this heroin wholesale shit with me and Troy. But I can’t do that block shit anymore.”
Nick looked at me like I lost my mind. “You dumb as shit if you walk away from all that money! Are you serious? A little beef make you leave that shit we built!”
“It’s not just the beef. I’ll hold my own, but I don’t like being out there no more, plus I’m not chilling around here too much anymore,” I said, surveying the trash. “I gotta tighten up. That block shit is stupid, I can’t be workin’ out of alleys, plus you gotta bunch crack in here. It smells like a kingpin charge in this bitch! I smelled that shit all the way across the street!”
“This ain’t even you talkin’. Is it because of that girl, nigga! She don’t even know you!” screamed Nick. His jaws wiggled; he wiped his tears before they could spill.
“Naw, Nick, it’s just time.”
“Man, what the fuck ever, nigga!” he said, running back up the steps. “You fuckin’ up, Dee. I don’t know who you rappin’ to, but you fuckin’ all the way up!”
MADEIRA STREET
Man, am I gonna miss Madeira Street.
That block was hotter than fish grease in the summer and winter and I loved that. That made me. I speak up and out because of Madeira Street. Early on, that block showed me what it felt like to lose and bounce back.
