Re-up time came around and Nick and I were off to cop from Rex for the first time.
Rex lived in the Northwood area of northeast Baltimore. His neighborhood was full of trees, grass, and driveways—shit we never really see. Some consider it a hood, probably because of the dense black population and Baltimore’s rep in general, but that area was a dream to kids like us. I mean, most of the families around there went to college, hung up Christmas lights, and were probably homeowners. There would probably never be a boarded-up house around here.
When Rex opened the door, he was wearing full Muslim attire from head to ankle, that matched his black Nike boots.
“As-salamu alaykum, come in.” His beard was long but it didn’t fully connect. Small dark frames hugged his puffy face enough to make a set of creases on the side of his temples.
“As-salamu alaykum means hello and peace be upon to you. Every time you see your brother, you should bless him,” said Rex. Some bottles of oils were scattered around his crib, and black artwork was everywhere, from African masks to those annoying paintings they sell at flea markets of the muscled black dude riding a lion and wearing a crown with his black queen in one hand and Mother Earth in the other. He also had books that matched his artwork on the table and chair; some were cracked open with bookmarks poking out. A jump rope was on the floor by some Perfect Pushup bars—the combination of which could be united to become a hood nigga’s Bowflex.
Rex used to be a wild pretty boy who talked about nothing but banging his gun and getting his dick sucked; now he was calm and smelled like incense.
“Y’all young brothers ever think about converting to Islam?”
Conversations about religion make me bored. Rex went to jail for four years and now he’s Minister Farrakhan? I didn’t get it, but Nick loved it.
“Off my din now but I’m a get back on ahk.”
Nick’s a jail nigga too so he slips in and out of religion. He should identify as a Christ-slum—Christian when he’s home and around his mom, Muslim when he’s locked.
“With all due respect, fellas, I ain’t trying to explore religion. I’m down to my last li’l bit of powder and I need you, man,” I said.
Rex asked me to stand up, saying he wanted to get a good look me. He said I wasn’t the kid he remembered. He remembered me chubby and happy—an innocent virgin on a dirt bike with clean Nikes and a mouth full of butter-crunch cookies. Love was in my eyes and my smile. Love was in my walk and followed me as I ran up and down Fayette Street. And now I was in the game—and cold like everybody else.
“You know, Dee, you could maintain that happiness you had as a kid and survive in this game if you built a relationship with Allah.” I held in my laugh a little but some chuckles slipped out. I couldn’t figure out why he didn’t understand that I wasn’t looking to be saved, and if I was, I probably wouldn’t have a drug connect as my spiritual advisor.
“Let’s rap about it later,” I said with respect. Disagreeing could have turned into a ten-hour conversation on Muhammad’s philosophies. I learned early not to have arguments about religion.
Rex said he’d hold me to it and asked how many ounces did we want. I laughed again and said, “A hundred and eight ounces of your finest cane.”
He took his small glasses off and said, “Come again now, you really want three bricks?” I took the JanSport off of my back and unzipped it enough for him to see that it was stuffed with cash.
“Told you we was out here doing us, man.” Nick said to Rex, slowly placing the cash on the table, preparing for it to be counted.
“Hold up, shorty, I can’t cover that today, but I’ll give you two for forty.”
“That’s steep, and we buying two, man.” I used to look up to Rex but now I’m taller so he had to look up at me. He stroked his beard with his left hand while his right hand was tucked in his left armpit. “Okay, li’l Dee, gimme thirty-eight. That’s a great price.”
“Rex, bro, I’ll get you thirty-five and you can sell us that other one as soon as you get it.”
Rex agreed and went into his basement and came back with a leather ottoman. He sat it down in front of us and opened it. Some Folgers cans were inside. He pulled them out one by one until he reached the bricks. He tossed one to me and the other one to Nick.
I nicked the plastic rectangle with my house key and put a little on the edge of my mouth. My eyes twitched as it dissolved while my tongue furled and touched the back of my mouth. “This will do!” I said. We counted that money out, paid, and bounced.
Nick and I cruised down Ashland Avenue. I had spent a bunch of money in the last two days, and I was glad to be putting work out.
“Why you be dismissin’ Allah and Jesus all the time?” asked Nick with a straight face. Most Baltimore people are the same when it comes to God. They do whatever they want and then use their part-time religion as a front to make them feel better when they mess up. It’s like they don’t feel bad when they commit a sin, but only when they get caught. Getting caught instantly brings the religion out.
I pulled over and looked at Nick. “Yo, I don’t reject any God, I just don’t know. Like God wants us to be happy, right? I’m never happy. Everybody is dying and if this God wants us so happy, then why is religion always about punishing yourself? Like no pork, no alcohol, only fucking one girl, and being nice to everybody! Man, fuck that! Heaven and hell is right here on earth and all of the hypocrite drug dealers and evangelizers like Rex are the ones who were confused!”