Girls From da Hood 14

I was depressed. I felt like my life was going to end. And for me, it was. When my mom told me that we were moving to Detroit, it seemed like the end of the world because all I knew was Chicago. I loved home and wouldn’t trade it for nothing in the world. That’s where all my friends were, my existence, and most importantly, my hustle . . . how I made money. But when you’re 16, none of that matters. When my mom accepted the job offer at Ford Motor Company, what she really meant was that “we” accepted the offer; her, my two sisters, and me.

I tried everything to keep from leaving my birthplace. I even got my uncle to agree to let me live with him and his wife, but no such luck. My moms wasn’t buying it. When the U-Haul was packed, my black ass was included. In the weeks leading up to the day we were to leave, she kept talking about us having a better life waiting for us in Motown. But to me, that was all a bunch of bullshit. In all honesty, my life was fine just the way it was back at home. I knew off the bat that I’d hate Detroit just on the strength of it not being the South Side of Chicago.

My mom rented a three-bedroom lower flat on Waverly off Dexter. It was dead smack in the heart of the hood on the West Side of the city. The house came with worn-out wall-to-wall carpeting, an old stove with a nonworking oven, a refrigerator, and roaches. Big-ass roaches neither my siblings nor I had ever seen before. I was disappointed and confused. Back home, we were living rough, true enough, but our new house and the neighborhood it was in were like staying in a third world country.

“Mom, are you serious right now? This is what you dragged us all the way from back home for—for this?” my oldest sister whined as we all took our first tour of the interior of the house.

“This is kinda messed up. I’m just saying, we was doing way, way better in Chicago,” my youngest sister added her two cents, avoiding even touching a wall with her shoulder.

“Okay, y’all, settle down and quit y’all bitchin’. This is just until I can save a few paychecks. This is temporary but necessary. We won’t be in this house for long. But until we move . . . welcome home.” Mom spoke in an assuring but stern voice.

“I mean, they are kinda right. This is wrong all the way around,” I put my two cents in as well.

“Look, ‘Ham,’ I need you, of all people, to stop complaining and make due until I turn things around.”

Ham was my nickname. I was told I had temper tantrums as a baby, and my moms started saying I was always going “ham.” So, that title came to stick with family members.

That plea from my mother changed my perspective. I was the first to step in and at least act like things would get better with time. Deep down, I knew my mother needed me there with her to help with my sisters, and that was cool because I loved all of them. Our new digs was just gonna take some getting used to. For the most part, we were all close, always had been, and I guess that’s how our mother wanted to keep us. I knew all she wanted was a fresh start, not just for herself but for the entire family. And I had her back.

More than anything, my mother wanted me to finish school. I had been held back twice already, and I was going for a third. I was 16 years old and still in the eighth grade. My younger sister and I were in the same grade. And the oldest was in high school. Moms was hoping that I’d do better being in Detroit and away from Chicago, but I gave up on school when my dad died. He was killed gambling in an after-hours joint. Some lame couldn’t stand the loss and probably all the cash shit my father would talk while taking loot off of them. “I now pronounce you broke.” He would taunt them after he broke the next man’s bank. I miss the shit out of that old, slick fool. Even though I was a girl, I was his favorite child. We were best friends and did everything together. When he passed away, it kinda left us fucked around, so school wasn’t nowhere on my mind.

I found my true calling seven years ago down in Teri’s basement. She was an old, free-spirit type woman who lived two blocks over from me back in Chicago. For some reason, Teri took a liking to me. She said that I reminded her of her late husband. He was like me, an occasional Muslim when it suited him, but still infatuated with the streets. Rumor has it that man had to be the slickest Negro God ever created. Legendary, he was the coldest to ever play the “two-finger dip” game in the South Side of Chicago.

Teri saw something in me, I guess, so she blessed me with the game on how to dip. The dark-haired woman had a mannequin set up in her basement. It was fully clothed and rigged up with buzzers that went off at the slightest touch. The object was to pretend the dummy was a victim, and you had to pick wallets and other hidden trinkets from various pockets without setting off the buzzers. Every day after school, I would go straight over to Teri’s and down in the basement to practice on that damn dummy. For three months straight, I practiced. Sadly, every time I went for one of the wallets, the buzzers would sound off. That infuriated me. But at the same time, it encouraged me to try to go even harder to get the game down packed.

Teri would say, “You don’t get a second chance in real life. Now, let’s get it right this time.”

She would demonstrate with ease how to pick the dummy, clipping one of the wallets, removing the money, then return it to the pocket. Her expertise had me mystified. Finally, one day after millions of tries and countless hours, I successfully clipped my first wallet. I was struck to see that the mannequin didn’t snitch me out.

“I did it, I did it,” I excitedly called out for Teri. I wanted to show her that I had mastered the art of pickpocketing. Impressed, she made me do it repeatedly until she was satisfied that I had it down.

She smiled through the cloud of smoke from her cigarette. “It’s time to put all that practice to work. You ready, Melody, or what?”

Damn, I couldn’t wait. The deal was since Teri blessed me with the game, I owed her 20 percent off the victims that I picked for the next six months. I wasn’t tripping, though. For the art she had given me, I would’ve agreed to two years. I was just ready to put what I’d learned into play.

The next morning, I skipped school. I started out riding the train. I’d brush up against people picking they shit left and right. Teri showed me how to train my eyes to spot where a victim was holding their prized possessions. I could look at you, and in five seconds, I knew where a wallet, cell phone, or iPod was located. Once I did zero in on that small bulge of wealth, there was nothing that could keep me from clipping yo’ ass. Every day when I finished pickin’, I would break bread with Teri. She would have a nice dinner spread waiting on me. We’d eat and then count our chips, and I’d dip. She’d keep all the credit cards and IDs. All I wanted was cash. And initially, that’s how I traded in the nickname “Ham” and became “Money Mel.”

* * *

Blessed with a skill, I didn’t leave Chicago empty-handed. I took my show on the road. For the first two weeks in Detroit, all I did was learn the city. As soon as my mom dropped us off at school, I’d wait until she pulled off. Once I made sure she was well out of sight, I would cross the street and wait for the bus to take me downtown. Once at the main transit terminal, I would ride east to west, picking the early-morning passengers for their lunch money and whatever else I could clip.

One morning while I was riding the Woodward bus, I scanned the seats looking for a victim before I sat down. I spotted a gorilla knot bulging out the front shirt pocket of a heavyset, no-neck man. He was too lost looking out the window to notice that I had slid in the seat beside him. I folded my arms high across my chest and assumed the two-finger dip position. I scooted so close up on the man that he looked over at me with a look that said, “Damn, girl, you ain’t got enough room?” I kept my head and eyes straight to the front of the bus. I didn’t care how his big ass was feeling. I had my seat, and I wasn’t moving until I got that knot up off him.

Every time the bus rocked and dipped into a pothole, I would inch closer up on him until my position was just right. No-Neck kept breathing hard and looking over at me with his eyes bucked like “Get up off me.” When the bus rocked again, I leaned into him, and that was all she wrote. Got ’em.

Ole No-Neck got frustrated by the closeness. “Fuck it, I’ma move. Excuse me,” he yelled, trying to get into the aisle. “Move the fuck outta my way. You young people are the worse. Y’alls’ mommas raising y’all like animals.” He rolled his eyes on the way to an empty seat.

That was my cue. “Sorry,” I smiled, letting his insult roll off my animal back. I pulled the cord and got up, walking to the rear door while keeping eyes on No-Neck in case he realized he’d been hit. Out of all my times of clippin’ folks, I could count on one hand how many times I got caught with my hand in the cookie jar. Twice, but never did I stick around long enough for the police to show up. If a victim caught me dippin’, I would flip the script. I had to because shit could get ugly—quick—and Teri taught me not to allow the victim to pump they self up. Lastly, I was to remember, in most cases, that they were just as scared of you. So, when they screamed, I’d scream louder. Shit, I would play crazy . . . whatever the situation called for, as long as it was good enough of a diversion to get up out of there.

Once off the bus, I darted around the corner, then sprinted up the block to watch the bus through a parking lot. After patting myself on the back, I counted my earnings as the bus faded into traffic. Yeah, not bad, fat boy. Yeah, not bad at all. This so-called animal got down on you for $300. God made suckers so us hustlers could survive. Content with myself, I tucked the money in my pocket and crossed the street. I was starting to feel like moving to Detroit might work out.