Sometimes the lines wrapped the corner, and we had to move them into the alley to shift attention away from the front of the block. We couldn’t cut and cap fast enough. Our pockets and socks couldn’t contain the cash. Me, Nick, and Hurk couldn’t run Madeira Street on our own. Sure we could move weight and run small operations, but I had a lot of drugs to sell. I needed a few good men who wanted some dough and were down to earn it.
Now, don’t let TV shows and hood movies lead you to believe that drug crews only consist of childhood friends with crackhead parents who came up poor in some housing projects and, frustrated with their living situation by the age of sixteen, so they decide to be kingpins. And don’t let the news fool you into believing that we are all bloodthirsty killers who only sell dope and stay ready shoot shit up. Fox and MSNBC and CNN like to portray us as B-roll footage of skinny teens in sweat suits with gold teeth and AK’s. That’s not the case, either. It doesn’t work like that. A hustler staff could include eight-year-old kids who play with Ninja Turtle dolls, awkward teens, Comcast employees who hate their shift managers, mothers who really want to find work but can’t, grandmas raising three generations of kids at the same time, asshole cops, the prettiest girl from your high school, the Little League basketball coach, for sure, city workers who want a little something extra at the end of the week, junkies, and basically anyone else who seems loyal—because you can never really tell.
Everybody has a breaking point, and even dudes who have been tested fold. A stranger could take thirty years for you while your best friend is in the next room ratting, crying, gargling on his own snot while explaining the whole operation. The no-snitching thing is a façade, and it’s evident when you look at the incarceration rates. The street-corner retention ratio is too low to be building lifelong relationships and unbreakable bonds—y’all could be on today and off tomorrow. I’d even argue that it’s better to work with strangers just in case you have to throw them out of a window one day. Who would you rather throw out of a window—some Comcast nigga or your childhood best friend?
I know Gee ran through multiple crews and Bip had a new clique like every two months. It wasn’t about being a real friend or a fake one—it’s just that jail and death were guaranteed and you had to survive. You had to focus on you.
Selling dope is a team game on the surface but you’re really alone. The game is like dodge ball—you start with a team and you want to protect them but that’s not always the case as things move along. People will be hit, and finishing with the cast that you started with is a rarity. You really have to be able to stand on your own in the mist of the ten, twenty, fifty employees and friends that surround you every day. Some quit and some expire but the game doesn’t give a shit. Losing friends hurts and thick skin is needed. There are no therapists on the street and pain is only mended with music, sex, pills, yak, weed, and the shit that we were out there selling.
But by a month in I had a solid team of seven: Nick, Li’l Bo, Tone, Fat Tay, Young Block, Miss Angie, and Dog Boy.