The fifteen-minute ride from my condo at the Green House down to Nick’s spot felt like a ten-hour road trip. Probably because I couldn’t imagine not being connected to Madeira Street, and I was worried about what Nick would say. We came into this together and I didn’t want to abandon him, but it had to be done. Selling drugs outside is like being a fish in a bowl—everybody can watch your every move and you can’t do anything about it. I wasn’t going to die on that block and I figured I’d let him make his own decision.
Some dope fiends were cleaning his truck with suds and ripped-up t-shirts when I pulled up. He added big gaudy wheels to his Range, they had to be twenty-two inches or more. Small diamond-like crystals circled the base; I guess they made for a better shine. I walked up to them and touched the tip—it spun around slow like a ceiling fan.
“What in the fuck?” I said, spinning them hard, like a game show contestant.
“Yeah, buddy, he ridin’ spinners! When you stop, dey keep goin’! Twenty-five thousand dollar wheels, Nick say dey cost, you gotta get some, Dee!” said the guy cleaning them. He was a new fiend; I didn’t know him. He knew my name and my job and I couldn’t pick him out of a lineup. All of these dudes suffer from what I call “The Fifth Nigga Syndrome,” meaning that the story always gets stretched all the way out of shape by the time it reaches the fifth nigga. Twenty-five thousand dollars in the hood means about six thousand in real life. I never subscribe to Fifth Nigga Syndrome, but either way, the resale value was probably two pennies and those wheels looked stupid to me, like rolling indictments. Seeing those pointless attention suckers made me feel a little better about my decision, and then breaking away from these strangers further validated what I was already thinking. I told the fiend to get my car next and walked into the house. Li’l Bo sent us mail and a picture of him kneeling in standard gray DOC sweats that read, “Stay up, my niggas! Death B4 Dishonor” on the back.
The house smelled like a crack rock outlet. I told Nick to stop frying in the crib at least two million times but he was too fat and lazy to pack the work at our stash house. His clothes were all over the place. It’s like he stripped, changed, and just left the shit on the couch, floor, and everywhere else.
“You sloppy as shit!” I yelled.
Every day he wrapped himself in State Property gear and cranked the State Property CD on the highest level. I loved that album but never really understood that clothing line. It was created by the rapper Beanie Sigel from Philly. Every shirt, jacket, and jumpsuit was designed to make you look like an inmate. Like going to jail was cool. Li’l Bo had to wear that shit and I’m sure he wouldn’t rock those clothes if he were free. Some of the shirts even had fake prison ID numbers printed on front—I’m surprised those clown suits didn’t come with fake cuffs. I loved that all those rap dudes were busting out with clothing lines but fuck, a jail look—plus my days of urban apparel were fading. I was switching to wholesaling, which meant I needed to look the part. Wholesalers should live in designers like Gucci and Loui, or at least that’s what I thought.
Every fly in east Baltimore lived in Nick’s kitchen. I had fiends cleaning the place twice a week when I stayed there and Nick still junked it up. Twenty half-eaten chicken boxes were in the fridge, along with about forty empty Hennessy and Grey Goose bottles. “Nick cut the beat down!” I said. “Come down, I gotta rap to you about something serious!”
In goofy Nick fashion he tripped down three steps in a size XXXX State Prop jumpsuit. It was green with fake inmate numbers on the front and back. “You see my wheels, nigga! I’ma fuck every girl eva, nigga!” he belted with a big wet Kool-Aid smile.
“We gotta talk, man,” I said, pulling up a chair.
“What’s wrong, Dee?”
“Yo, I’m done with Madeira Street. I’m sick of the shooting and Ike Guy and all that shit. You got two options. You can keep it and all the money from down there and work it by yourself or switch to this heroin wholesale shit with me and Troy. But I can’t do that block shit anymore.”
Nick looked at me like I lost my mind. “You dumb as shit if you walk away from all that money! Are you serious? A little beef make you leave that shit we built!”
“It’s not just the beef. I’ll hold my own, but I don’t like being out there no more, plus I’m not chilling around here too much anymore,” I said, surveying the trash. “I gotta tighten up. That block shit is stupid, I can’t be workin’ out of alleys, plus you gotta bunch crack in here. It smells like a kingpin charge in this bitch! I smelled that shit all the way across the street!”
“This ain’t even you talkin’. Is it because of that girl, nigga! She don’t even know you!” screamed Nick. His jaws wiggled; he wiped his tears before they could spill.
“Naw, Nick, it’s just time.”
“Man, what the fuck ever, nigga!” he said, running back up the steps. “You fuckin’ up, Dee. I don’t know who you rappin’ to, but you fuckin’ all the way up!”