I missed Young Mike. True, he was in the streets pulling capers, but there was more to him than stealing. I remember him at my kitchen table studying for his GED, trying to get an education that he didn’t get a chance to pursue as a teenager. I knew him as someone trying to take care of his mother and crippled younger brother.
Unfortunately for Mike, he was busted for a petty case and went to prison for two years. Upon being released from prison he returned to society completely broken. Mike got involved with another crew from down south who were up north getting money, and after only two months, he found himself as a codefendant in their federal drug case. He got indicted, implicated on some he-said, she-said, they-said shit, placed on house arrest, and was shortly thereafter found dead. At age twenty-three, Young Mike took his life when living became too much for him. The coroner removed a nine-millimeter bullet from his dome. He was a tall, handsome young man who could have been anything in this world, but when the streets get you, there is no getting out. Young Mike took himself out. May he rest in peace.
China loved the fact that she never had to leave her hotel room—or her crack pipe. She had it all delivered to her doorstep. Going to China’s room was like visiting a crack house. I was never comfortable in a place where drugs were plentiful. I was worried that at anytime the Feds would kick the damn door in.
I asked China if she shared my concern, and all she would say was, “Carmen, I wish any motherfucker would run up in my shit. They’d take me down handcuffed, getting my last drag off my pipe. Besides, I don’t keep enough dope around. I smoke it too fast. The worst I am looking at is a drug abuse case. I can lie down for a weekend while I beat that shit. Sleep right through it if I have to.”
Other times, she would call me and say, “Yo, C! Bring me some food.”
I’d say, “Is Chinese okay?”
She would then say, “Let that be the reason.” Eating Chinese food was the only aspect of her Chinese heritage she held on to. I’d take food to her, and we would sit and talk. Once, over a plate of sweet and sour pork, I confronted her about her choice in hair weave. I hated it and wished she would get rid of it. It was blond. The whitest blond I had ever seen.
“China, I hate your hair, girl. It’s flamin’.”
“Don’t worry, I keeps me a hooker helmet nearby,” she squealed, smacking her lips.
“A hooker helmet?” I inquired, devouring my egg roll.
“Yes, Ms. Carmen! A wig. I have a black one. Check it out.” She began waving an object pulled from underneath the bed.
“I like it.”
“I don’t care if you tell the callers I’m blond or brunette. Just get me some calls.”
“And you know I will.”
She showed me all the items she purchased with her new money. I told her, “China, please take care of your things. You purchased some nice stuff.”
As I glanced around the hotel room, I saw a photo of a beautiful little girl who looked just like China. She had the same eyes.
“China, she’s adorable. How old is this princess?”
“Four.”
“Girl, let that be the reason you stop smoking,” I said sympathetically.
“My grandmother keeps her. My old girl is still mad at me for stealing her checks and for giving birth to my daughter in a crack house. I took a hit and was like, ‘Damn, this dope is da bomb!’ Then I felt like I had to go take a shit. The next thing I knew, I was on the toilet and out came my daughter. She looked like a wet rat. She was so tiny and so pretty. I was terrified. I called my old girl, and she took us to the emergency room. I left the hospital to go get my friend, starts with a c and ends with a k. My old girl picked up the baby, and we’ve been at odds ever since.”
“China, she really is precious, and I think she should be the reason you turn your life around.”
“Look, C, don’t make me check you, ’cause I respect you and all, but we live in this real world, and you out there just like me, chasing the dollar, just like I chase my highs that I’ll never catch. I may be a crackhead, but I am far from asleep. You think I wanted this for my life? You think I didn’t try the traditional route? Shit didn’t work for me, so I got down for mine. Was dating someone I thought was special, and he enjoyed the fact that I got freaky in the bedroom. So much so, he bragged to his friends and told them everything we did. One day his friend stepped to me and offered me a C-note to sleep with him. I was so mad that my special friend told our bedroom business, I took the nigga up on his offer with the hopes that he would go and tell the guy I was dating. Sort of a punishment for telling our business.
“Dude had a lil’ paper in his pocket and didn’t mind spending. I sucked his dick like a lollipop and even gave him some back-door action. Had him sayin’ my name and whose it is. Hmmm, instead of him telling and me getting revenge on my dude, he kept it to himself and kept coming back. I kept fuckin’ both of them. I would suck the one’s dick, swallow his cum and then later that day, go kiss the other on the mouth. And they had the nerve to call me nasty? Shit, I was making them fuck each other on the down low. Eventually, the nigga fell in love with me, the neighborhood freak.
“That’s when I began to see that niggas are tricks for some pussy, and then other shit happened in my life, experimenting with alcohol, drugs, and I just got caught in the streets. My motto is ‘bitch gotta get paid!’
“I live the smoker’s life. Our nights are our days, and the daytime is our night. We smoke all night for several days at a time. Carmen, I have been awake for three days. I’m gonna eat this food, go into a crack coma, sleep for about twelve hours and hopefully be awakened by the ringing of my phone—a call from you with a date for me. Take a hit, pop in the shower and make my money by what I do best, flat backin’. Carmen, I see you stackin’ that cheese. So what’s your excuse?”
China’s question brought me back to reality and Pammy was about to take over. I wasn’t trying to feel… I didn’t want to feel.
“I’ll do anything for my son…” I stopped abruptly and got a grip on myself. Carmen took over again.
“Carmen, your son is so handsome,” China continued.
“Thanks, China, and I hear ya. Do ya hear me?” We both smiled and hugged each other. China and I, for some reason, saw a lot of things eye to eye. I looked over at her and said, “All right, girl, you’ve checked me. Now I got work to do. No time to sit around and complain. I’m about to go campaigning and get you some calls.”
“Now, that’s what I’m trying to hear. I’ll be sittin’ right here in this room waiting on my men.”
I left and drove off in silence. I just kept telling Pammy to stop thinking and Carmen to stay in control. Besides, I had to meet G for more clothes, which meant more money. I turned the music up loud and sang along to Tupac’s “Keep Ya Head Up.”
At six in the morning, someone was knocking on my front door. It was my boys from New York, T-Love and his brother, Abdullah. I met these money-getting hustlers through my good friend Erik. Erik and I met at Ohio State University as freshmen. He was from New York, and I was from Detroit. We both became curious about each other due to the reps both of our cities had. New Yorkers were known for being trendsetters, and the men were known for their jewelry, gold fronts, clothing, accents and money. Detroit women were known for their dressin’, hairdos, game and taste in automobiles. We searched each other out to see if the stereotypes were true. Hangin’ out after class, he introduced me to his crew, two of whom were T-Love and Abdullah.
“What’s up, man?” T-Love said to Erik as he walked up on us in the student center. “This you?” he questioned, looking at me.
Erik began to speak but I interrupted. “Nah, this ain’t him. It’s me. My name is Pamela and hello to you, too.” I extended my hand for a handshake, but instead he put his arm around my shoulders.
“I like this. She’s feisty. Where you find her at?”
“You must be from New York,” I said, becoming agitated.
“Harlem, baby, how you know?
”
I smiled and so did Erik. In this case, the stereotype was true. T-Love had a big gold T emblem hanging on a fat gold chain around his neck. Both of which could be used as weapons if necessary. I also had the urge to pull up his pants, which obviously were masked by a shirt that was about three times too large for him. I’d only seen it on videos, particularly of the East Coast rappers, but if the trend of wearing pants hanging off the ass and oversized shirts was the next thing to come, I prayed that not everyone would embrace it.
“In that case, I can forgive you,” I said, removing his arm from around my shoulders.
“What you talking about?”
“For disrespecting me.”
“When I do that?”
“Just now. I don’t know what women are like in New York but, baby, Detroit women don’t go for that. If you have a question, you can ask me. I don’t bite.” With that, I gave him a wide smile.
Ever since then, we were a team.
They ran through Columbus every couple of months for a week at a time. Anytime they were in Columbus, they would drop by to see me. They were ballers in every sense of the word. They hustled by any means necessary. I think of a baller as a person who views life from a sink-or-swim perspective. In the streets, there is a philosophy that says: Everyone gets a chance. What will you do with yours? Sometimes there’s that thirsty person, and they take their chance and try to take the next person’s chance. Then they get out there and run full-court with their opportunity, whatever that may be, to the best of their ability.
I sold T and Abdullah clothes for their girls, wives or baby mamas. I always got a little jealous watching them fuss over the clothes, selecting the perfect outfits. Here I was, somebody’s baby’s mother, and no one cared. Here I was in the streets, scramblin’ for me and mine while their baby mamas were home safe. But every time Pammy went soft, Carmen came out hard. Fuck it, just tax any muthafucka. So that’s what I did. Carmen used every opportunity and created new ones. One of my escort service clients, Peter, had a BMW M3 for sale. Peter said, “For you, Carmen, $15,000 cash.”
So I stepped to T-Love about it. “Yo, T, I know where you can get a nice BMW. Cash, no questions and in whatever name you want.”
T-Love was like, “No doubt! I want it.”
“He wants $18,000 for it, plus give me $500 to do the title and tag registration.” I knew someone who worked at the DMV, so taking care of this would be a cinch. Life on the hustle is all about who you know.
I set up the deal with my client, whom I soon learned worked at the car dealer auction. He was able to get the car for a bargain. This was another valuable connection, and I was determined to make good on this sale so I wouldn’t lose him. I wanted to buy my mom and myself new cars one day. A shiny motherfucker rollin’ right off the showroom floor.
T-Love had me eighteen Gs by nightfall. I spoke with my client and proudly told him, “I got $12,000 today. All cash.”
“It’s a deal!” Peter screamed.
I made a $6,500 profit. Whoever said the middleman gets the worst deal? It was automatically assumed that it would be safe with me because I never went anywhere, or so they thought. I flossed that bitch for a week and didn’t have a problem doing it.
I’d learned long ago that ballers always look for the easiest, hassle-free way out. T and Abdullah used my house to hustle everything from dope to women. After three months, I’d had enough of being compromised. I played hostess twice a month with nothing in return, but that was going to change.
I began to resent the blatant disregard the guys had for me. See, at first you try to be a trooper and do all you can for the team, doing your part, going that extra mile, but then you realize that it’s not appreciated.
They just assumed I’d be there and always be available. I guess I had a major attitude. Carmen was not having it.
I’d read that someone could be so traumatized, an alternate personality takes over to protect them. I had been traumatized in my own way.
Betrayal is a very big pill to swallow. Two very important things in my life were gone: my Chino and my salon. I felt like I had no control. I am learning now that you always have control of your life by doing the best you can with what you have. I’m a firm believer that everything happens for a reason and when God says, “Be,” that’s just how it is. The only way I can explain Carmen is that she appeared and saved me from what I couldn’t take again: failure.
I picked up my ringing cell phone from my Coach bag and answered.
“Hello, may I help you?”
“Hello, sweetheart.” G’s voice came through over background rap music.
“Hey, G, what’s up?”
“Wanna meet for lunch? I’m in a bad mood and need someone to talk to.” His voice had a hint of sincere depression.
“Where do you wanna meet?”
“The Cooker Restaurant at twelve thirty.”
“No, one thirty.” He don’t run shit!
“Okay, one thirty it is. Carmen, you don’t give a brother nothing, do you?”
“Nothing he doesn’t earn. Just like I got to earn it, so does the next man. I’ll see you at one thirty.”
I went to collect from the girls, and before I knew it, I was running late to meet G. So what! You press hoes and clothes. You don’t press me. My Chino used to say this all the time when I tried to press him about things. As I pulled into the restaurant parking lot, there was G waiting in his champagne-colored Honda Accord, rims sittin’ on 20s, with the music playing.
“Hey, beautiful, you’re late.” He raised his sleeve, displaying his diamond-studded Rolex watch. Flossin’ for fun, I raised my arm, displaying my diamond-encrusted Ebel watch and said, “I know, I know. I had to make some stops.”
“How are the girls doing?”
“That’s a $2,000 question. Where is the rest of my money?”
“Come on, let’s go in. That’s what I want to talk with you about.” We walked into the restaurant and we were seated near a window. Gazing out, I playfully said, “G, I am starving like Marvin.” I noticed he was not his usual self. “What’s up? I like this place,” I said, looking around. “Here comes our waiter. We must look hungry.” I laughed aloud.
“May I take your order?” the waiter asked.
“Yes, I’ll have the lasagna and salad with a glass of your house white wine.”
“And you, sir?” he asked, turning to G.
“I’ll have a highball of your best Cognac,” G replied, rubbing the sides of his face.
That was it? Normally, G gets his eat on. As the waiter left, I kept my eyes focused on G’s face. We had grown closer, so I knew his moods. G and I basically came up together on different teams, but we watched each other grow. Over the last couple of months, I watched him go from a Honda Civic to an Accord. He watched me go from a white Jeep Cherokee to a black Range Rover and silver BMW.
G began to shift in his seat. He was obviously annoyed about something. “Carmen, my connect got knocked,” he blurted out.
“Okay,” I said, trying not to sound upset. “You don’t know anyone else?”
The waiter returned with our drink orders. G took a big gulp of his Cognac and continued. “Carmen, I never told you this, but I work for someone else.”
You frontin’, fake-ass nigga, I thought.
“I had my own girl connect, but he got knocked, too. I didn’t do much with him, but what I did allowed me a lil’ more freedom. I work for this dude named Jay-Jay. I push heroin for him, and he pays me.”
Just to break the mood, I said, “Oh, so you on commission. You a salesclerk.” I laughed, but this was serious. “Damn, G, it’s not like you’ll starve. You still have the boosters.”
“No, not really. They work for drugs. They want to unload and score all in one stop, ya know?”
“Yeah, I hear you. It is all about service, convenience and another hit. Just give me one more hit!” He still didn’t smile. Shit ain’t funny when you on the verge of broke.
“
I’m gonna lose them, C. I got bills. I don’t know what to do.” He finished his drink. “Can I get my $3,000 back?”
I couldn’t believe my ears. He looked me dead in my eyes waiting for a response. I leaned into the table and replied through gritted teeth, “Hold up, this ain’t no refund counter. You want that, then go to Wal-Mart or someplace.” It was time for one of my lectures.
“First, stop all that whining,” I demanded. “You’ve totally flipped on me. Where G at? ’Cause Gregory is trying to fold like a card table. Money don’t make you, you make money. Remember that! I gotta go to the bathroom. I’ll be right back.”
I excused myself, and as I walked from the table, I heard Carmen in my head. Look, game is sold, not told. Remember the price you paid for it. This is an opportunity, so take it. Fair exchange ain’t robbery. This nigga looking for a sponsor, so sponsor his ass ’cause he ain’t getting his money back. He ain’t your friend. Ain’t no friend shit in this. You already know that—don’t forget it. You down for yo’ crown, fuck da rest.
“Okay, okay, can I pee now?” I asked myself. My mind was really starting to play tricks on me. I couldn’t believe I was really talking to myself. To rationalize is normal. But I was having a full-fledged conversation. G’s a wimp. Who doesn’t have problems? Get in line. Nigga crying because the next man really was making him. That’s exactly why I chose to help myself.
I returned to our table and cleared my throat. “Okay, G. Explain to me what you need and what you are trying to do.” Our conversation was cut short when the waiter arrived with my lunch order. Although I’d lost my appetite with the shit G had laid on me, the aroma was too tempting not to dig into the hearty pasta.
“Is there anything else I can get you?” the waiter asked.
Let That Be the Reason Page 4
