I couldn’t stop thinking about Soni, her eyes and her spirit. We could run away and be like the Cosbys or that family from the Fresh Prince, with beautiful kids, good credit, clear healthy skin, and a nice home. I could live off of my street money and re-enroll in college while she finished up and found a grad school. We could be those elite blacks who never forgot where we came from. The ones who come back to the hood to give out books and throw block parties.
My daydream was interrupted by a call from Tone. He said that Fat Tay had a bail on the drug charge he had got booked for, but I said fuck him. Let him sit forever, it’s time for me to tighten up. I was knee-deep in this shit and I had money, enough money for me to pick and choose who I wanted around me.
Li’l Bo was still sitting. Tone told me that his girlfriend said they are violating his probation so he might not get bail. I told him she could come by later and get three thousand for the lawyer. Li’l Bo probably had that in his stash, but fuck it—I take care of the people I love.
Ring ring ring…
“Block, what’s up? Where you at, dummy?”
“Down the projects, come get me.”
Block was down at Somerset Homes; a lot of my family and friends were from down there. Driving through those courts brought me back to some of my best moments—Miss Rita’s frozen cups, playing catch one, catch all with my friends, my first kiss with Jasmine, cutting school and smoking jays with Damon and Smoke, dance contests, funky underwear smelling house parties, walking over to Toi’s for a slice of pizza, laughing at how hard we laughed, being a kid. I’ll always love that place. Block was already on the corner waiting for me.
“Yo, you ready to kill something for real?” asked Block, getting in, slamming my door way too hard. He pulled a .45 off of his waist and flashed it. “Man, they fucked with the wrong niggas!”
“Yo, watch the door, clown! And naw. We gotta get with Dog Boy later. Relax on that beef shit, man. I’ll figure it out. It has to be done right. LT’s alive, meaning that making money is still the number one thing we need to concern ourselves with.”
“Won’t be no money if we all dead, but Yooooo! Gee super mad! He heard about that shit, boy, he ready! I promised he had the big sawed-off shotgun on him down here late night!”
I knew I could always count on Gee for gunplay, but I wasn’t thinking about war, or why Block wasn’t coming to work, or anything but LT’s health, Soni’s smile, and fucking some money up. I needed to show the hood how much I appreciated them. Greedy dudes who flash money and Benzs without giving back get big gaping bulletholes in their heads.
I pulled a well-twisted rello from behind my ear.
“Spark this, we goin’ shoppin.” Block’s eyes lit like the Bic lighter he used to spark the rello. I wasn’t sure if he was more excited over the weed or the new shit I was about to buy.
Spending money’s great for depression. As street dudes, it’s all we really have. America’s racist as fuck and businesses do everything in their power to keep black people out of the workforce. My cousin Jaquan said he couldn’t get a callback for a job until he started putting Jay as his first name on applications. To make matters worse, our country has laws that force companies to interview blacks, furthering the point that they don’t want to see us make it anyway. We felt like we’d never have great careers or huge homes—the only happiness we find lies in these luxury items we keep buying.
Soni says chanting will remove my negative energy. I tried to do it with her, it didn’t work—but spending, spending works. Spending’s a way for me to channel that negative energy into some positive thoughts. I had a nice Benz, about fifteen thousand dollars on me in tens and twenties, plus a big-ass empty trunk that needed to be filled up. Life was good. USA Boutique—the hood version of Macy’s at Mondawmin Mall—was the first stop. We call it the hood Macy’s because they carry designer brands like Polo in the big sizes we liked to rock.
Stores like the Boutique, RudoSports from back in the day, and DTLR made Mondawmin one of the top cash malls in the country. They carried the clothes that clothed the dope dealers. Nikes, Rocawear, Polo, Sergio, Maurice Malone, Sean Jean, Mecca, ENYCE, Guess, Evisu, Hilfiger, Adidas, Boss, Lacoste, Puma, Nautica, New Balance, Prada, Air Jordans, True Religion, Timberland, and a bunch of other shit—I bought it all.
Sammy, one of the owners, greeted us at the door with a pound. “How you been, man?”
I dapped him back and said, “Living.” From there, two girls followed us around the store as we pulled everything Polo and Lacoste off of the racks—hoodies, shirts, sweaters, buckets, t-shirts, everything. I needed to make sure I had a huge care package for LT because he took that bullet, and some designer shit for Angie because she works for me and can’t be going to church looking all raggedy, and a leather coat for Dog Boy just because, plus some ill shit for Lil Bo to wear to court, and some husky clothes for Nick because he’s getting fatter by the second, and probably some pink or purple shit for Tone—he never leaves his crib, but I know he likes to walk around the house with new clothes on. We piled so much stuff on the girls that you could no longer see their faces; their arms were tired, and they had to make trips back and forth to the countertop.
I gave Block some stacks. “Cash them out, Yo, I’m gonna get us some tennis!”
I wasn’t sure what sizes everybody wore but it was fall and my people needed boots, even Kruger Man. He washed my car with holey shoes that are funky like PCP smoke, and it was about to be too cold for that, plus I didn’t want the smell to get on me or in my car. I bought a bunch of Timberlands—different shades, different colors, and different sizes. Didn’t really matter who could fit them or not, I’d just park on Madeira, pop my trunk and give them all away.
“My man, the Jordan 3 Retros drop on Saturday. Slip me a extra hundred, you can get them now,” said a salesman.
“Yo, I need like fifteen pair, I’ll give you an extra thousand over the price.”
“I could lose my job, man! How about three pair?” he bargained.
I should live. My family should live. “Yo, fifteen hundred plus the price, man, load me up, G. Plus I wanna buy everybody in the store a pair of shoes!”
“Damn, man, you need some shoe cleaner for all of those kicks? I’ll throw some free ones in!”
“Thanks, man, but you can give them to the people who want them. I don’t really clean my shoes, I just get new ones.”
There were about fifteen people in the store walking away with something free because of me. I cashed the kid out. He helped carry the boxes to my car and we stuffed them in the back. Block was still in the mall buying more stuff. I went back to get him and passed a jewelry store. There was a platinum and diamond bracelet in the window. Soni probably wouldn’t wear it but fuck it, if she didn’t I’d give it to my mom or just have crazy store credit—I dropped another $3K on the bracelet, met Block and our ten thousand bags, then shot back down Madeira Street.
I gave away more than I kept. Everybody in my crew had Jordan 3’s before they came out, even Miss Angie. She rocked hers with a flower-printed muumuu while running around in the kitchen making us lunch. Her fat ankles bulged out of the sides—the front of them creased the first half hour she owned them. I never saw Jordans fuck up so quickly.
That night, Angie made a big-ass dinner and we all ate. Everybody was fresh. Kruger looked really funny with a new jacket, new boots, and old-ass clothes from the late eighties underneath. Nick and Dog Boy pulled up in a new green Range Rover with stickers tattooed to every window.
“Oh shit!” we said. “Look at these niggas!” was yelled in different tones while everybody ambushed the truck like steak in a piranha tank.