That first semester at Loyola, I was down to about $2,900, sharing a car with Nick, and had no income. Pain stared back when I glanced in the mirror and basically my whole demeanor looked manic-depressed.
I was sick of school and knew it was time to crack Bip’s safe. I could ease some pain with the cash and look for a job while I figured this life shit out. The key for me was not to blow all the money on stupid things like cars, clothes, and fun—really the only stuff eighteen-year-olds cared about.
The safe was red and rusted. It had to weigh about two hundred pounds. I remember when Bip bought it from a pawn shop on Monument Street. The guy wanted five hundred dollars but he talked him down like, “Man, you know what I spent up in here? Hook a brotha up and knock a little off. You want me to have a lil something to put in there, right?”
Those guys at the shop discounted it because they loved Bip. Then they spent about fifteen minutes explaining the functions and talking about how it was fireproof and could probably survive a nuke. It took two fiends to lift it, which says a lot because crack gave junkies superhuman strength.
I had a junkie I was cool with named Bucket and he, along with one of his friends, carried the safe up to my room and tucked it into the closet.
I looked at it every day. I knew there was something valuable inside. I just had to make sure I was ready for it.