Trust in No Man

by Cash

  The whip by itself didn’t label Glen as a hustler, some niggaz with a good job and even better credit pushed Benz’s or other fly whips.

  But his mad spending on Toi, his attitude and persona had me suspicious. Whatever Glen’s occupation was, it really was my sister’s ball to bounce. My only concern was that she didn’t get hurt or used in the process. I knew the dope boy’s game on a green, unwise female. They hooked up the female in a fly crib that she can show off to her friends and family, but couldn’t afford without the dope boy. That made the female dependent on the nigga if she wanted to maintain that lifestyle.

  And once a female got a taste of luxury and style, she gotta be knocked off that high horse. She wouldn’t voluntarily step down.

  Usually, the female wasn’t even the dope boy’s main woman; whether she knew it or not, she was his side bitch.

  I wasn’t trying to see Toi be no nigga’s bitch.

  If Glen was a hustler, I hadn’t heard of him. He damn sho’ wasn’t no rapper or entertainer or professional athlete. I had him pegged as a nigga doing well with his own business. But I stored it in my mental to watch dude until I could peep his profile. I had to make sure he wouldn’t put Toi in danger.

  While Cheryl slept, I popped in Tupac’s CD into my stereo, cued All Eyez On Me and then put on the headphones while I played Play Station.

  It wasn’t no secret that listening to Tupac put a young G in the mood to do some thug shit. ‘Pac was the realest nigga to ever bless a mic, no doubt.

  My pager vibrated on my hip. I checked the number and then headed out the front door to the pay phone. I didn’t go to the pay phone in the apartment complex, ‘cause I planned to jet down to Englewood and cop a bag of weed and grab a bottle of Henny.

  I stopped at the liquor store, first, bought some Henny and a six-pack of coke and then used the pay phone outside of the store.

  “Hello?” A bitch’s voice. Mad noise in the background.

  “Yeah, this Youngblood,” I said to the voice.

  “Y’all hos be quiet, I can’t hear!” The background noise lowered a little.

  “Hello?”

  “Yeah, this Youngblood,” I repeated. “Somebody page me from there?”

  It was a freak bitch named Fiona from the hood. Shorty was a dime, but her rep was zero. Shit, she was a straight ho, had fucked more niggaz than the justice system.

  I had boned her a few weeks ago in the back seat of my whip while parked outside of her aunt’s crib. The pussy stanked like dead dogs and like forty fat bitches! I’d had to get my interior washed and shampooed in a hurry. Ain’t no way Fiona gettin’ anymore of Youngblood’s dick.

  “Why you ain’t call me?” she complained.

  “For what?”

  “Oh, it’s like that?”

  “What it s’pose to be like, playgirl?” I shot back.

  Fiona caught a quick attitude. I could hear it in her voice. She spat, “Nigga, you ain’t all that! So don’t even try to act like you’re sex on the fuckin’ beach!”

  “Why yo’ mouth so fly?” I asked. “Ya nigga must don’t beat you right.”

  “I ain’t got no nigga. Why you trippin’, Youngblood?” Fiona copped dueces, bowed down.

  I told her I wasn’t trippin’ until she started trying to check a nigga for not calling her, like I owed her a phone call ‘cause I had hit that stank pussy.

  “My pussy don’t stank, boy!” Feeling dissed.

  “Whatever, playgirl. On the real, yo. Maybe you should go get a check-up. Your stuff smelled like dead dogs.”

  “Fuck you, bitch ass nigga! Your lil’ bitty dick stanked!” I heard the phone slam down.

  I cracked the fuck up, but Fiona’s pussy was foul for real. I was sure she would certainly drop salt on my name in the hood before I could salt her name. That was the way punk hos rolled. Like that comment about my lil’ bitty dick. Yeah, she’d probably tell her friends my wood was mad small. I wasn’t trippin’ it, though, ‘cause the hos in the hood who’d been boned by me would squash that rumor. They knew first hand my shit was a long way from being little.

  I was almost at my whip when a short, dark skinned dude got out of his car and approached me.

  “Your name Youngblood?”

  “Naw,” I lied, sensing beef. I didn’t recognize dude.

  I opened the truck door quickly, but nonchalantly, hoping dude would swallow my lie. At least until I could reach my gat. Damn! I had left it in the glove compartment ‘cause I didn’t want to take it inside the liquor store.

  Now, if I was reading dude right, there was beef and he had the drop on me. Shit!

  I saw the heater in his hand before I heard it blast. Then I felt a fire explode in my side. I knew that if I tried to reach in the Lex’ and go for my heater in the glove compartment, dude would shoot me in the back. I didn’t wanna be a paraplegic, a young G in a wheelchair, so I turned to face the nigga. Fuck being paralyzed and wearing a shit bag. I’d rather die.

  I grabbed at dude’s arm, the one spittin’ lead at me, point blank.

  He jerked away and stepped back, still firing.

  Pow! Pow! Pow! Pow!

  My body jerked and I fell against my whip and slid down to the ground.

  “That’s for my sister. Bitch ass nigga!” Dude stood over me and shot me one more time. Then he spat on me.

  I tried to record his face in my mind, in case I didn’t die. He would see me again, and it wouldn’t be to talk. My blood poured out while dude drove off. For some odd reason, Tupac came to mind as I thought, they shot me six times, but real niggaz don’t die!

  My whole body felt like it was on fire, and the pain became unbearable. I saw blurred faces run out of the liquor store and stare down at me before I passed out.

  When I woke up, I was in a hospital room, hooked up to mad machines. I was so drugged up I couldn’t recognize faces, only voices. They said I didn’t wake up again for six days. I was so weak I could barely open my eyes. When I finally did open them and gain some sense of where I was at, Cheryl was in a chair by my bedside. She stood up and leaned down over the bed.

  “Hey, you,” she said, smiling through tears.

  I couldn’t speak back because I was still groggy, hooked to machines with a tube stuck down my throat.

  Cheryl left out the room, quickly returning with a nurse. The nurse was a short, squatty, white lady with a nice, concerned voice.

  Nurse Squatty checked my pulse and then the machines hooked up to me. A doctor then came into the room, followed by younger looking doctors. One of them checked my eyes with a little hand-held light.

  The doctors huddled together discussing my condition, I assumed, and then left out without telling me if I was gonna live or die. Not that I would’ve understood whatever it was they could’ve told me, I was conscious but incoherent.

  I knew I’d been shot and was in a hospital, but I didn’t know which hospital or how long I’d been there. I knew I wasn’t dead, unless heaven or hell was a hospital. If I was in thug heaven, I wondered where ‘Pac was? I didn’t see him. And if I was in hell, why hadn’t any of my dead homies come to kick it, yet? Surely, I wasn’t the only young G in hell. If that’s where I was at. And why was Cheryl here?

  A few days later I was much better, no longer hallucinating. I was moved from the intensive care unit and put into a private hospital room. While checking my vital signs, a male nurse explained that I’d been shot six times, had gone through emergency surgery and was lucky to be alive. To add insult to injury, I had been fitted with a shit bag. Fuck!

  “It’s only temporary,” he explained.

  He had the voice and the mannerisms of a bitch. When his bitch ass left out of the room, Cheryl came in with a smile on her face, her belly was like a blimp.

  “Hey, boo.” She came over to the bed and kissed me on the forehead.

  “Hey,” my voice was scratchy.

  Later I learned the scratchiness of my voice was a temporary result of having a tube down my throat t
o help me breathe for a few days.

  Cheryl said, “Youngblood, you sound like a frog! Dag.” But I could see in her eyes she was just happy I was alive and talking, no matter how my voice sounded.

  A few hours later, Lonnie and Delina showed up to visit me. I was still being given drugs for pain, so I hardly knew they were there or when they’d left. Cheryl told me my sister and my mama had also come to the hospital, but I was heavily sedated so they’d left.

  They returned the next day. I tried to tell Cheryl I didn’t wanna see my Ma Dukes, but Cheryl either didn’t understand me or ignored what I’d said.

  Ma Duke tried to kiss me, but I turned my head. Then I closed my eyes and refused to even look at her. I heard her crying, but I still kept my eyes shut until she left out of the room. I opened my eyes when I heard my sister’s voice.

  “Terrence? You okay?” Toi asked, her voice laced with concern and uncertainty.

  “I’m good,” I answered in a whisper. I sounded like a frog, for real.

  “Why wouldn’t you even look at Mama?”

  “I ain’t got no mama,” I declared.

  Toi was getting me vexed and shit, and the machine hooked up to me started beepin’ and making other noises. I was feeling like I was ‘bout to die.

  A nurse came in and checked the machines and then told my visitors they’d have to go. After that, the nurses kept close tabs on who visited me. I told them I only wanted to see Cheryl, Toi, and Lonnie, which is why they’d refused to allow Shan and Lil’ T to visit when they came.

  I didn’t want to see Shan no way, but I would’ve been glad to see my son. The nurses said children weren’t allowed to visit patients on the floor I was on ‘cause kids carried too many germs that might infect the patients. So I didn’t see Lil’ T the whole time I was in the hospital.

  Poochie was able to talk her way past the nurses to see me. I was okay with that. She brought me a card my son had made for me, and a message from Shan. I let Shan’s message roll off my back, but I kept my son’s card on the stand beside my hospital bed.

  Cheryl visited me every day after she got out of school, her mother never once visited. I wasn’t trippin’ it, though. I wasn’t the one to care about nobody that don’t care about me.

  I was getting much better after three weeks in the hospital, but I still had to wear the shit bag. The doctors said I’d be discharged soon, but I’d have to wear the shit bag for a few more months. I wasn’t too happy about that but at least a nigga was still alive. I was anxious to get back on my feet and find the nigga who’d tried to take me off the shelf. I’d remember his face ‘til the day I splattered it with lead.

  “That’s for my sister!”

  Pow! Pow!

  “Bitch-ass nigga!”

  I could still hear his words and the sound of the heater. Time would tell who the real bitch ass nigga was.

  I had no idea who the nigga was, or who his sister was. She couldn’t have been Fiona, the stank pussy bitch I’d dissed on the phone that night I got shot. It could’ve been any one of the black stripper bitches I’d jacked. But how had they found out my real name?

  Or maybe dude’s sister was any one of the many rats I’d fucked and forgot? Though that wasn’t a good enough reason for a nigga to try to kill me. I was puzzled.

  Now to add more drama to the situation, a day before I was to be discharged, po-po came to my hospital room and read me my rights before telling me that I was being charged with possession of a firearm by a convicted felon. A charge that was the result of po-po finding the heater that was in the glove compartment of my Lex truck the night I’d been shot.

  I was placed under arrest in the hospital room, my ankle shackled to the bed rail, and a sheriff stood guard outside the room. Whenever I was discharged from the hospital, I’d go straight to the county jail.

  Ain’t that a bitch?

  I cussed the sheriff’s ass out. How the fuck they gon’ arrest me? I’m the mafucka who got shot.

  A detective had come to my room and questioned me about the shooting. I told him I didn’t know who had shot me or why.

  “Was it one of your drug partners?” The po-po questioned.

  I told the fool I didn’t sell no fuckin’ drugs and I wasn’t answering none of his questions so he might as well quit asking and step.

  “You’re going back to prison on that gun charge unless you cooperate!” the detective mean mugged me.

  “Whatever,” I said calmly. “I still ain’t got no rap for you!”

  Fuck po-po and the law. I wasn’t telling shit. Real niggaz didn’t run to po-po to settle beefs for shit that happen in the game. I wasn’t letting nobody, but me, deal with partna that shot me.

  The po-po’s bluff to send me back to prison didn’t have me shook, either. I had vowed to never return to prison, but I knew I could handle it if fate played out like that. I also figured I’d make bail before ever going to trial on the gun charge and once I was out on bail, po-po would have to bring ass to get some.

  When my shawdy came to visit and saw the sheriff outside of my room and learned of the charges against me, she snapped.

  “How the fuck y’all gon’ lock him up and he’s the one who got shot?” Cheryl screamed at the old ass sheriff, her thoughts mimicking my own.

  “Ma’am, I’m just doing my job,” the old bastard said meekly.

  I had already sized him up and felt I could beat his old frail ass and take his gun from him if I could get him to remove the shackles from around my ankle.

  Even though I was still weak from surgery and had staples in my side and a shit bag, I figured I could beat po-po’s old ass and make a break for it. But the situation wasn’t that desperate yet, I knew I’d get a bond and make bail. Besides, medically I was in no shape to go on the run. I had to just go with the flow.

  The sheriff stood at the door while Cheryl visited with me.

  “Yo, wipe away those tears, shawdy,” I told her. “You can’t help me if you’re gonna fall apart. Look, it ain’t no trip. I’ma be a’ight.” I explained what I wanted Cheryl to do.

  Cheryl whispered, “Dag. Why you keep your money in the freezer?” she asked after I’d finished telling her how to handle everything.

  “Lonnie will take you to the lawyer’s office and to the bail bondsman once I get a bond.” The sheriff told Cheryl she’d have to leave, she stared holes through him. “Go on, boo. Handle biz and I’ll be home soon. Take care of my seed.” I patted Cheryl’s big belly. She smiled, trying hard to be a soldier fo’ a nigga, but I could see Cheryl was about to cry again. “I thought you was street tough?” I teased.

  “I am,” my shawdy said.

  About midnight, two other sheriff officers rousted me from my sleep, read me my rights and the charges against me again and took me to the county jail. I was booked and placed on the jail’s hospital floor.

  A few days later, I was arraigned. The attorney I’d told Cheryl to hire was present along with Cheryl and her mother. Bond was set and a few hours later, I was in the car with Cheryl and her mother, on my way to the crib.

  The ride to the house was mostly silent other than Cheryl’s few questions about what had happened in court earlier. Her Ma Dukes didn’t ask or say shit. I had the feeling she didn’t like me too well.

  Fuck it!

  When Cheryl’s mother dropped us off, I was all up in them guts. Cheryl was ‘bout eight months pregnant, so I had to hit it from the back ‘cause her belly was so fat.

  Afterwards, Cheryl fell asleep. I went to the freezer to fix a bit to eat and to check my stash. Neither the lawyer’s retainer fee nor the money Cheryl had paid the bondsmen to bail me out put a dent in my pocket. But I knew it would be a minute before I was in enough shape to go on a lick. I’d have to live off of my savings. I also needed to get my whip out of impound, but that wouldn’t cost but a few C-notes.

  I wasn’t really hungry so I just ate one of them boil-bag soups.

  Plus, fuckin’ Cheryl had me weak as hell. The docto
rs had told me not to have sex until they removed the shit bag and gave me the okay, but a nigga wasn’t studyin’ that shit.

  As long as my dick got hard, I was gon’ use it. I’d just be careful not to bust the shit bag while I was fuckin’, ‘cause an open shit bag stink like a mafucka.

  Cheryl was soon to find that out.

  I stood over her while she was asleep on the living room couch and opened the shit bag on my side, letting the stink hit Cheryl square in the nose. She jumped out of her sleep, her hand immediately went to cover her mouth and nose.

  “Oooooh! You stank, boy! Dag!” Cheryl cried. She got off of the couch and ran from me. I was cracking the fuck up, chasing her through the apartment with the shit bag opened and smelling foul.

  Cheryl locked herself in the bathroom.

  “I ain’t coming out!” she vowed. Her ass was laughing, too. I promised not to open the bag anymore, so Cheryl finally cracked the door, testing the air. Her nose was still scrunched up.

  “Stop playing, Youngblood. You gon’ make me and the baby get sick.”

  “How the baby in yo’ stomach gon’ smell it?”

  “It ain’t gotta smell yo’ stank self! If I get sick, it gon’ make the baby sick.”

  Fuck that! I opened the shit bag one more time. Cheryl wouldn’t come out the bathroom for a long time after that. When she did finally come out, I had fell asleep.

  The next day while Cheryl was at school, Lonnie took me to get my whip out of impound. While we went through all the hassle and waited for the impound attendant to bring my whip to the checkout point, Lonnie asked if I had any idea who’d shot me. I’d already told him how the shit went down and what the nigga had said while pumpin’ lead in me.

  “It might’ve been some other reason dude tried to smoke you,” Lonnie said. “Maybe he just made that shit up about his sister to throw you off?”

  “What sense would that make, dawg? Shit, dude tried to send me to my maker. He wouldna been worried about throwing me off unless he wasn’t trying to kill me.”