The streets have a way of making goofy, fun-loving kids beasts—bloodthirsty money grubbers who focus only on capital and power. I didn’t realize that I was a beast until a dope fiend named Rolo hit our stash. He stole like a hundred dollars’ worth of drugs and received an ass-whipping that could cost $3,500 in medical bills easy.
I cracked his head like a coconut with a broomstick and emptied his pockets. Nick kicked his head in until it leaked. Rolo would’ve died if Li’l Bo hadn’t stopped it—and Li’l Bo only stopped it because Rolo was his uncle. We thought we had to show junkies and other crews that we were animals—not the kind you pet and love, but the ones that would rip your head off and piss down your throat. Every segment of our diverse clientele took notice.
Some of our junkies were in wheelchairs and some limped in floppy shoes and others had two straight legs. Some junkies worked at Hopkins and drove nice cars, some worked for the block on 100 percent heroin salaries—100 percent heroin diets too; well maybe 98 percent, because junkies loved honey-glazed, jelly-stuffed, and powdered doughnuts. I saw them swallow those sweet things whole without chewing. Our junkies looked like the mother from Fresh Prince or Bill Cosby and they all yelled funny curse words like Samuel Jackson. They always danced even when they weren’t trying. They were white, whiter than Klan sheets—whiter than the drugs we sold them. They were black or Mexican with big belt buckles and pointy boots. Some junkies were deaf and screeched out their orders in sounds and hand gestures. We didn’t care about disabilities; if you had money, we’d serve you.
If you were a mom, or pregnant, or a teen, we’d serve you.
We were beast. Being beast made us free—slaves to money but still free. Being a beast felt great. It’s sport. My uncles were players, my brother was a starter, but I’m the MVP. And why shouldn’t I be? I was there, I was in the center. I was an orchestrator. As a kid I stayed away—even though this stuff always went on right in front of me, I remained clear. Most of us try to stay clear until we grew up and became a part of it. Your mother can’t protect you from it; mine tried but I still was presented with a chance to make my own choice like everybody else. Bodies always fell and fat mothers, fat grandmothers, and fatter aunts always hit the scene screaming and yelling, “WHYYY!” up to God. God never really answers them back but if God were to answer, the response would probably be something like, “Cuz that’s just how it is!”
The beast only allowed us to feel the murders of the people we knew—the ones we had real attachments to—meaning fuck the guy who got shot up the street; if we didn’t know him, it didn’t matter to us. The minute you try to connect with the pain of the community in general will be the same minute that the beast will chew you up, and spit you out too. The beast allows you to be content with the idea of being buried before your mom and grandma.
This is east Baltimore and everybody will get a chance to be in a fucked-up situation—you’ll have to shoot, or be shot, or be arrested, or beat down, or robbed, or kidnapped or tortured or murdered.
The beast will guarantee that.
I got used to it and it became my life. I would throw on the latest just to post up and watch my team. We were staples in this community. We polluted the block. We were responsible for the traffic, the tragedies, and the pain. We didn’t live there, but we did. Day in and day out, decked in whatever anybody wanted—threads, kicks, haircuts, technology, and everything else. We introduced the hood to videophones, platinum chains, and diamond-covered teeth. Adolescents ran past us, pointing at our sneakers, clocking our cars, dreaming of being us, asking their moms can they be like us. They idolized us just like we idolized Gee and the dealers that hailed before. The dealers that introduced us to beepers, gold ropes, Cazals, box fades, 740 Beamers, and silk tank tops.
I had been selling drugs for about a mouth now and I kinda had this game figured out. I bought my workers thin platinum Cuban-link necklaces and the fiends knew that shit. If a junkie rolled up on someone selling six-dollar yellow-tops of Rockafella, Phat Cat, White Diamond, or whatever I called my product that day, they knew to look for that necklace.
I also never ran a dirty strip. I hated trash, so I kept Ashland and Madeira trashless. I used to tell people that it was so clean you could eat off of the ground. I paid junkies to pick up the trash and they worked in shifts just like the dudes that hustled under me. The residents appreciated that. I didn’t hold them hostage and they didn’t give me a hard time. I called them sir and ma’am, my workers never disrespected them, and I even kicked a little cash to the church programs, youth sports teams, and whatever else Angie recommended.
I was the boss, so I rarely touched crack or guns or money at all anymore.
Really, I only touched basketballs, Robb Reports, big butt Trina, marijuana sticks, Keisha from Chapel Hill Projects, fried chicken, sweet tea, and girls my age named Tonya or Tarsha.
Other than a few run-ins with the law, Ashland and Madeira was almost drama free.