The California Saga

“Back on the Scene”

“Hey, Touch. What’s good witcha?” “Man, you looking a’ight. Can’t even tell a nigga got shot.” “Long time no see, big homie.”

Everybody dapped me up as I stepped on the scene.

Just as I’d done when standing on my throne at Club Encore New Year’s night, I held both of my hands in the air in a kingly fashion. “Yeah, y’all niggas know what time it is. The king is back.”

I had just walked in “A New Look,” a barbershop where all the ballers and street niggas went to get their hair cut. Behind the barbershop was another room with a pool table and a crap table, where men came to smoke weed, brag and talk shit, and lie about all the money they had and bitches they fucked. The truth be known, more business transactions took place there than corporate America handled on the golf course.

The spot was packed, which made my entrance all the more dramatic. The whole barbershop atmosphere made a nigga feel real dapper, just from the smell of aftershave and powder, the sound of clippers, and rap music that played in the background. This was a man’s thing. Nothing like a fresh cut and shave to make a man feel like a man. I was already jiggy with my gear and an added fresh cut was exactly what I needed to make me feel like my old self. I hopped in Mike’s chair and requested my usual “edge-up.” I wanted and needed to feel like “that nigga” again.

This was the first time I’d been out since my recovery. I was determined to go back in public holding my head high, to let niggas know I wasn’t scared of the streets. Sure, I’d gotten shot, but I wasn’t letting that shit hold me down. I was strapped with my Glock and dressed in the best. Although I only wore a pair of Robin’s jeans, a plain beige D&G thermal shirt, and a fresh pair of wheat Timberlands, it was the Louis Vuitton scarf and skullcap that really set it off. I was finally walking with no assistance, free from walker and cane, so I was feeling on top of the world.

As Mike prepared to line me up, everyone gathered around me to shout me out and sincerely seemed happy to see me. They acted like I was Lazarus being resurrected from the dead, which, in a sense, I was, or better yet, like I was some return war hero from Iraq.

These streets were at war, and that ain’t no joke. I could have died, fucking with that damn Calico, and I’d planned to dead that nigga as soon as I located his snake ass.

When I finished getting my cut, a few niggas gave me pounds, tapped shoulders, did the infamous handshake that all street cats do.

Raz, another heavy drug nigga on the streets, called out, “Hey, I heard you and Jewel gon’ tie that knot.”

“Yeah, we decided to do that thang,” I said, acting nonchalant.

“Word on the streets is, Jewel got a diamond on her finger so big, it’s making bitches sick!” Mike said.

“Yeah, sort of like mine.” I gave them a glimpse of the ice I was holding.

“Y’all niggas doing it . . . living large,” Raz chimed back in.

“What you mean, nigga? I’m trying to be like you,” I said jokingly to Raz.

Suddenly the shop was filled with boisterous sounds of admiration and compliments. Everyone stood around and examined my platinum wedding band with my engraved initials boldly lifted across the band. Jewel had picked this ring out to match hers, which was just as large.

“Man, that ring is sick!”

“Damn, nigga! I ain’t never seen no ring like that.”

The dick riders started to add their praises.

“Hey, my lady says y’all niggas gon’ put on the wedding of the century. They say Barack Obama and Michelle’s inauguration ain’t gon’ have nothing on y’all thang. We got our invitation the other day.”

This started a round of everyone saying they did or didn’t get their invitation.

I held up my hands good-naturedly. “Hold up. I’ll make sure Jewel get y’all niggas your invitation. If you don’t get one, on the real, everyone here today is officially invited,” I said, knowing Jewel would have a fucking fit if she knew I invited everyone from the barbershop. Knowing her, she didn’t send them an invite on purpose.

I finally felt like I was in my element again. I was back, back on center stage where I belonged. All of a sudden, the room fell quiet. I was still popping shit with one of my niggas when I heard somebody whisper, “Poppo’s here.”

I looked up to see that bitch-ass nigga standing in the door, staring at me. In one quick motion, I went for my Glock, which was in the holster hooked on my belt. My first instinct was to kill his bitch-ass, but I knew I was in a public place, filled with snitches. I knew wherever Poppo was, Calico wasn’t too far away. I threw my left hand in the air as to say, “What’s up?” I didn’t want to have to light the barbershop up, but I would, if I had to.

To my surprise, Poppo threw both hands up in the air on some white-flag, I-surrender shit, letting me know he wasn’t trying to beef, at least not at that point. I didn’t trust that nigga as far as I could see his scandalous ass, though.

“Hey, nigga, you need to relax. Just consider me your savior,” Poppo said in a low tone as he passed me.

Everyone’s eyes beamed on that nigga Poppo, their ears almost peeled back. Poppo looked just like one of those 2Pac-ass West Side muthafuckas too, dressed in Converse, jeans, and a flannel shirt. This cat was a fucking joke.

“Nigga, what is you talking about?” I screwed my faced up and wondered how his bitch ass could ever be my savior.

“Ask your bitch.”

I could feel my temper rising. “What the fuck you say?” I started to rush his ass, but everyone grabbed me and held me back.

Poppo looked at me and said, “I ain’t got no beef with you, little homie. Just ask your old lady what it is.” With that, he left.

Although I stayed and let the African broad in the shop braid my hair, my mind was churning, and I was burning up inside. Ain’t life a bitch? I almost got killed, my wifey stands by me, then the next thing I know, that bitch is trying to do me.