Chapter Fifteen
It was scarcely the crack of dawn in the low-income neighborhood. The sounds of the city garbage trucks pulling out of their home base yard one block over woke the homeless teenager. Nolan’s swollen eye was all the way closed shut. The clothes he’d been forced to sleep in were still very much damp from the previous day. Not only was he hungry, but he was also visibly and mentally worn out. Doing some soul searching, he knew he wasn’t the best kid he could have been growing up to this point, but he knew he didn’t deserve what he was presently going through. The weight of the world was tragically on his shoulders.
Thirty minutes passed, and then the sun was all the way up. Contemplating his next move, Nolan buried his face in his hands. Still in deep thought, he lifted his head. It was then that he saw one of his homeboys from grade school, nicknamed O. P.
“Hey, what up, doe?”
“Damn, what up, doe, with you, nigga? What the fuck happened to your eye?”
“Oh yeah, this,” Nolan proudly replied.
“Yeah, that, nigga. What the fuck? And, damn, what your ass doing back on this side of town anyhow?” O. P. was full of questions, starting with his friend’s eye. He’d known Nolan since kindergarten and had never seen him in this bad of a shape. However, he would let him take the lead and reveal what Nolan felt he needed to in his own time.
“Man, these ho-ass faggots over near my pop’s crib called they self getting down. But it is what it is.” Nolan stood trying to fix his damp clothing and discreetly pushed his bags of belongings off to the side. He and his friend did indeed go way back, but that still didn’t stop Nolan from feeling some sort of shame for now basically being homeless.
“I heard that. Well, damn.” O. P. put one foot up on the stair of the porch, acting as if everything were normal. “I hope you showed they ass what was good.”
“No doubt, my guy. I gave ’em some ninth-ending bullshit, ya feel me?” Nolan managed to laugh while mocking as if he were swinging a bat.
“Dig that,” O. P. cheered him on in the early-morning breeze.
“Yeah, my eye messed up some, but trust, they somewhere mad they even tried that shit with me,” Nolan smirked, giving O. P. a dap.
“That’s what’s up. Niggas gonna learn fucking around with Black Bottom boys will get ya all the way fucked up.”
“True, true. But, what up, doe? What you about to get off into now?” Nolan changed the subject as he looked up one end of the block, then down to the other.
“Yo, I’m heading to the gas station to get a few loosies. You gonna make that hike with me or what? You ain’t doing shit, so come on. Besides, I wanna holler at you about something.”
Nolan was still pretty sore from the battle the previous day, but it was true, he had nothing else better to do. He couldn’t risk his few bags of belongings coming up missing, so he swallowed his pride. He bit the bullet, grabbing them. O. P. was from the streets like his friend. A known neighborhood troublemaker, he’d been kicked out of his house in the middle of the night and gone hungry more times than he chose to recall. He did not judge. He just asked Nolan if he had another bag he could help him carry, or was this it. Nolan handed him the small duffle bag, and just like that, they were on the move.
Reenacting blow by blow how he had gotten all three of his attackers together over on the other side of town, the two teens decided to smoke a joint. On the way walking back from the gas station, Nolan’s boy explained to him his current situation. They were pretty much in the same predicament. O. P. revealed he was living a few blocks over in a house squatting. He said he was working on a bag he’d gotten from some older dude that ran the house. O. P. suggested he needed some help making something shake so that they could both eat. Nolan was all in. What other choice did he have? After all, he was homeless. Selling dope was the answer to his prayers. Nolan’s life had gone from bad to worse within twenty-four hours. He’d lost a decent roof over his head. Now, he was willing to risk his freedom, as well.
* * *
Tall Rob ran the spot that his best friend was working out of. Nowhere in particular to be, O. P. lived there as well as a few other workers. Although Tall Rob didn’t actually own the house on East Kirby, he’d commandeered it after one of his family members lost the property due to back taxes. He, like everyone else in the city of Detroit, knew that there were multitudes of vacant dwellings. So many, in fact, that no one department assigned to figuring out what was what could handle it. Tall Rob capitalized on their inability to do so. He had the lights on illegally. On the colder days, they used space heaters. There was no need for a stove or refrigerator. Most of the young guys he had staying as well as hustling there bought fast food on the regular. They were mostly from broken homes and used to living like savages.
At six foot five, Tall Rob had a few strict rules he’d made perfectly clear. All the drugs, be they weed, pills, or crack, would be provided solely by him. There were no outside drugs allowed in his “den of sin,” as they nicknamed it. Tall Rob gave his workers each a small sack. It was up to them to pay their ticket and also pay him rent if they chose to stay there. For the conniving middle-aged mastermind, it was the perfect setup because the majority of the teens were like Nolan . . . homeless and desperate.
Tall Rob did everything he could to fit in with the young group of men he was manipulating. He wore the latest Jordans that were released, turned his baseball cap to the back, and allowed his designer jeans to sag. He had the newest rap music blasting out of his vehicle’s speakers when’d he’d pull up on the block. His plan was to appear youthful to blend in like he was one of them, not their superior. Tall Rob used that to keep the sometimes ambitious youth in line. He was wise enough to charge them for everything extra he could think of. The utilities were on illegally; yet, he still charged them for that. If he bought paper towels or toilet paper cheap off the streets, he charged top price for that too. As far as Tall Rob was concerned, not even advice was free. If he kept the struggling teenagers’ pockets low, they’d never consider branching out on their own. They couldn’t afford to. It was nothing more than modern-day sharecropping.
O. P. and Nolan each had a hundred-dollar sack. Joining forces, the pair was smart enough to have an angle to selling the marijuana as a team. Even though the weed was the same product, they would use a red sharpie to put a mark on half of the plastic bags. They then separated the bags, convincing customers that the “red bag special” was only for their VIP clients. Nolan and O. P. would act as if they were doing them a favor if they secretly served them the red bag against their boss’s wishes. This ensured them a quick flip all the way around. Even though the other guys slanging various drugs out of the house made way more revenue than the two of them, the friends found a way to survive, if only barely.