Troy hit my phone like two millions times in one day, saying, “Mr. Pete needs to see you! Go talk to him now! Please!”
I silenced Troy and headed Mr. Pete’s way ASAP. I didn’t go just because he was our connect. He also gave me crazy game and countless lessons—lessons that got deeper with every trip, shit every young person needs to know. Gems to live by were buried in all of his rants. After my two months’ worth of trips to the dialysis unit, I was finally used to the funky formaldehyde smell that stuck to my clothes like chewed gum. The cute secretary, Robin, knew me now; she even buzzed me into the clinic without Troy. I knew my way around the unit—enough to reach Mr. Pete.
He was propped back as usual, watching The Price Is Right and winning. Pete was way better at estimating the price of the trips and cars offered than the screaming housewives that ran up and down the aisle on the show each day.
“OG, wassup?” I said, propping myself on a beige leather stool and rolling in his direction. He took his earphones off and waved me closer. I inched forward. He waved again, this time positioning himself close enough to whisper in my ear. “Dee,” he said, “you are going to die if you don’t get off those streets. The next bullet will hit your head, boy. I promise. I dun seen plenty of li’l dudes like you get flipped, easy.”
I sat still, looking down at my feet for a minute, and then tried to pick up my head enough to look Pete in the eye. It felt like a ten-thousand-pound weight was on the back of my neck. Pete rolled his eyes and leaned back in his chair, looking at me in despair. He shook his head in shame and turned his nose up as if I wasn’t worth spitting on.
“I hate your generation,” he mumbled. “Fuckin’ crack babies.”
“I’m confused,” I said.
He didn’t reply; some doctors had walked behind me and were checking his machine. The unit’s charge nurse pushed some buttons and flicked some switches.
“Howdy, Mr. Pete! Have you been taking all of your medicine and watching your fluids?” a block-headed young doctor asked; he looked fresh out of med school.
Pete shrugged and said, “I’m here and alive right?”
The nurse called Pete cranky and laughed it off. They caved to doctors and cringe when patients didn’t do the same. The duo continued to make their rounds throughout the clinic.
“So Troy told you about the shooting, huh?”
Pete said it wasn’t just the shooting. He wanted to know why was I living in the city because he was from an era where black dope dealers got rich and moved to Randallstown. “You aren’t supposed to eat where you shit, boy,” he said. That meant I should slang in east Baltimore and live way out in the county—I knew that but I couldn’t. I love east Baltimore and I ain’t never leaving; plus, I have a apartment downtown, I just like to hang on my block—but that wasn’t good enough for him. I laughed and said, “Hell no! Maybe in the nineties! Rich niggas move to Atlanta now!” Pete didn’t find it funny.
“Why y’all on blocks anyway?” he whispered. His lips were really chapped, and cotton grew at the seams, enough to stuff a case of aspirin bottles. I felt his pressure rise.
“I know you have lead, but I think you are smart enough to know that wholesaling is the only way. That block shit is over, boy. You should be shot dead by now. You and Troy are in a good position to make some money and start a business. Drugs ain’t forever. Ain’t no 401K for smack dealers, boy. You lucky you not dead!”
I thought about the shootouts, Ike Guy and the rest of the racist cops that beat on us. I thought about Long Tooth, when he was coming out of the hospital and would he ever be the same. Bip. I thought of Bip. I thought about Li’l Bo and Fat Tay in jail—what if I was next? Could I even deal with that shit? I thought about how I hated working on the block. I didn’t mind sitting out and joking with my friends and the junkies, but working was a hassle. I’ve spent eighteen hours plus in the same spot on multiple days. How long could I sit there and collect money with no war? War was guaranteed like death and taxes. How long would the cops allow guns to be our get out of jail free cards? Madeira Street would end soon, just like it ended before. Everybody knew us; even the cops. We all looked liked a bunch of targets out there anyway, waiting to get plucked off. It could happen any day.
“Mr. Pete, look, man…”
“Shut up—when your mouth is open, your ears are closed!”
I paused. The streets forced me to not respect many, but Pete was genuine.
“I used to run Pennsylvania Avenue back in the day, boy. I told you that, no, listen. Me and some real gangstas had some night spots. We ran a big dawg card game upstairs and performances in the lounges downstairs. We booked everybody and when I say everybody, I mean everybody from Billie Holiday to Nat King Cole. When the biggest stars weren’t performing, they were in my clubs, having a drink and living that life. Redd Foxx came through, Satchmo came through, Duke came through, everybody, man, we ran the most classy joints on this side of the Mason-Dixon. The gangsters mixed and mingled with the artists. The most beautiful women in the whole city would come out every night! Boy, I tell you we had something beautiful. Something real!” He gazed as he reminisced. His eyes glossed; he rubbed his belly as if it was full and laid his head back in the chair. His machine went off. One of the nurse techs came by to adjust it.
“Really? It looks like Night of the Living Dead out there now, I even be hittin’ workers over there with bundles and weight. What happened, Mr. Pete?”
“We happened. We let it go, boy. We let it go without a care. I was young and dumb like you. I let greed fuel me. I could move that dope. That dope money looked way better than that club money and we led a lot of our clientele straight to it.” Pete sat up and looked me in the eyes. “That was the worst shit I ever done. Look at me, boy. Smart people learn from they own mistakes. Genius niggas learn from other people’s mistakes. Make your wholesale money while I can get what I can get you. Get off the block and start a legit business. Go to a college like Troy. I wanna see you boys do good, better than us. Don’t try to do this shit forever, you aint me and things aint the same.” Pete leaned back in his chair. I sat there in military silence and thought about what we said. I knew Soni would agree. Pete was right, that block shit was stupid, but what about my crew? Who’s going take care of Tone? What about Angie and everything I worked to build?
I thought all about the people I fed in that neighborhood. The kids who needed a little extra money for school, the junkies who needed a little help getting high, the junkies who needed a little help getting clean, the coaches, the church niggas, the pretty girls, the up and coming athletes, the single moms—I fed them all, at some point.
Mr. Pete’s three-hour session had ended and I left the unit. Madeira Street was still wrapped all around my mind. The lives of the block residents like Mr. Sam played in my head like movies. Mr. Sam had a wife and some kids who all looked liked him. He knew me from the days he sold coke with my uncle Gee. Sam caught a small bit and vowed to never hustle again after his release. Even though he wore soiled work clothes everyday, he was always in between jobs, and I used to give him a couple of dollars here and there. I never did it in front of anyone. It had to be in private because he was the man of his house and no one needed to see him relying on me. Being a provider was important to him and he didn’t want his kids to see him taking or borrowing money from a dealer. I respected him for trying to break that cycle, and he always paid me back, even when I tried not to take it. As I laid out my next move, I realized that the people meant more to me than the money. I was an important part of a community and it would cause a major impact if I just removed myself from the equation.
But I wouldn’t really be able to do anything for anybody if I was dead or in jail. Mr. Pete was right; I was falling victim to the same greed that got him. That’s the reason he has all of that money and is still unhappy about a lot of things. He wears a Rolex made of diamonds, everyone at the unit kisses his ass, and I heard his house had eight bedrooms with a sick pool—but still, his happiest days came from running a legit club with good music. His happiness came from happy people.
I knew then, I was done with Madeira Street.