Chapter 1
Crew
I knew that jail wasn’t for me, and normally, I’m not paranoid after I take a life, but the way I had to murder Kairo was different from how I usually handle shit. Daylight, witnesses around, having to speed through the streets like a fuckin cop. I knew I had to catch his snitch ass outside the courthouse because they had that nigga in witness protection before then. But, no matter what I had to do, I was going to get his ass to save my nigga. I wasn’t letting some prissy ass lawyer decide his fate. The streets always provide more justice than the courthouse does in my experience.
After I changed my clothes and left my condo, I switched into my Charger and drove across town to the part of Brooklyn where my mom lives. Driving was always a relief to me, and I found peace behind the wheel. I always joked that if I ever ran out of money, I would become a truck driver. Make money on the road crossing state lines instead of boroughs in New York.
Once I hit Atlantic, the skyline started to fade in my rearview, and the drive turned into a long stretch of stoplights and cracked pavements in front of me. I passed through downtown, where the buildings were tall and new, rolling deeper toward the blocks that still looked like the Brooklyn I grew up in.
Traffic moved slow like it always did on Fulton, so I cut down a few side streets passing the old laundromat that I spent plenty of time in back in the day. My Mama spoiled us as much as she could, but my sisters and I spent plenty of time washing our own clothes because Mama was busy washing dirty sheets at the hospital for a living. My childhood wasn’t hard, but it also wasn’t easy, and the lack of a father figure in my life ultimately molded me to be the nigga I am today. No amount of coaches or mentors helped for the fact that I went home every night and got no real guidance from the nigga who created me. After all, I didn’t know who the fuck he was, and I could walk past the nigga every day and I wouldn’t know.
I parked on the side of the street, right near the corner that Mr. Applewhite had held down since I was a teen. He was the same old man who had his white and red hotdog cart parked on the street, sizzling up hotdogs like time had never touched him. I stepped out of the car, threw my head back, and laughed when he spotted me. I've seen this man out here through blizzards so bad that the snow damn near covered his ankles, but that fire was always hot on his grill. Around New York, hustlers don’t come in just one form. We had a variety from drug dealers to nine-to-fivers, to niggas cooking hot dogs to take care of their families. And me, I respected them all. That’s why I’m so hard on bum ass niggas to this day. There are too many ways to get money out here for anyone's pockets to be empty.
“Crew, my man! Can I make you a dog with extra mustard?” he called out, waving his tongs in the air.
“I’m good, man! Mom's cooking for me, and I don’t want to spoil my appetite.” He smiled and gave me a thumbs up.
Back in the day, Mr. Applewhite used to give me a free hot dog every time I dropped at least thirty points and had over five assists in a game. So, it's safe to say I was tired of that mealbecause getting thirty points was way too easy for me. I could get forty points in my sleep back then. Niggas just weren’t on my level. I crossed over so many niggas; they called me baby Jesus in the hood. They treated me like a king any time I won a big game. That notoriety and ass kissing is why I wanted to be a basketball star to begin with.
So, growing up broke made me play harder, because every shot counted for something. I’d play my heart out just to earn that free hot dog or the money the local drug dealers promised me. Hov’s father, Papi, would make sure I had a hundred dollars every triple-double, even with him being locked up for a while. He did that because he and I grew close, with me and Hov becoming best friends. Papi was the type of nigga who looked out for everybody. That’s why when he died, the hood got darker and colder for a lot of people, including me. I wanted to be just like him and bless my family the same way he did. Yeah, I got us out of that small ass apartment down the street, but it wasn’t the NBA that did it. Bricks, licks, and taking lives moved my Mama up into a brownstone in a part of Brooklyn that was half new money, but still half old chaos too. On one end of the block, you had a coffee and tea shop with soft jazz playing through the open door, and on the other end, a fully functioning crack house where fiends lined up before the sun came up. That’s New York for you. Beautiful and fucked up combined into one fuckin neighborhood. You just have to love it for what it is.
When I walked into my Mama’s house, that same smell of cinnamon candles and her favorite perfumes flew into my nose, putting comfort over my heart that was still racing from the hit I just pulled. I heard her movements in the kitchen, so I went down the hallway that looked like a shrine of me and all of my accomplishments to find her in the kitchen located in the back. My Mama was always so proud of anything me or my sisters didthat got us a trophy, medal, or ribbon. She used to be a track star back in her day herself, and I hear she was the baddest long jumper that ever came through Brooklyn.
When I stepped into the kitchen, my mama tilted her head when the oil hissed after dropping a piece of fish. I know she knew exactly how it should sound at the right temperature and that wasn't shit you could teach in a classroom.
“Hey, mama.” I crept up behind her.
"Crewshon, my baby."
I bent down to kiss her on her cheek. My Mama smelled so good, and the way her skin was so soft, I swear I could kiss her on her cheeks all day. With my Mama, I allowed way more physical touch than with anyone else in the world. I wouldn’t kiss a bitch on her cheek to save her life because to me, that shit was way too sincere for these hoes. My Mama, however, deserved every soft spot I had in me. She was my world, and I cherished her. I couldn’t imagine being distant from her as Hov is from his moms. I talk to mine every day and would give her all the blood in my body to nourish her’s.
“I didn’t think you would show up on time. I just knew I would have to drop more fish because you let it get too cold.”
“You told me you were cooking catfish, so of course I am showing up on time ma.”
She laughed, reaching up to touch my face, brushing her thumb over my jaw the way she always did when she wanted to “see” me. My mother had been completely blind for about three years now due to diabetes taking her eyesight. She’s always had diabetes but back in the day you couldn't tell her shit, and she did and ate what she wanted. It's crazy that her eyesight had to be taken for her to realize she needed to manage her health better. I'm just happy that it was just her eyesight lost and nother life because of that shit. I know one day I will have to stop eating the way I do as well, or I may end up in the same position she's in. Not many people know it, but I am prediabetic myself. Found that shit out when I got stabbed on the train one day for beating the shit out of a nigga who pushed his girl down in front of me. When the doctors told me that shit, I brushed it off because I didn’t feel like a nigga that was sick and prediabetic meant I wasn’t diabetic now to begin with, so I let it roll off my shoulders. After all, I knew how it looked when someone has diabetes because there were plenty of days that my Mama wouldn’t be able to climb out of bed from her sugar being too low. So, I’m fine. I work out and take care of myself in other ways besides eating spinach, kale, and shit. Give me a double glazed croissant from Mo’s Bakery any day over that shit. My mama however didn't have an alternative health regimen like me which is why she can't see now.
My Mama had a hard time adjusting to her blindness at first. Shit, we all did because she had to relearn everything, down to making her way around the house, and doing simple shit like putting on clothes. She only started showing major progress when I hired a TVI lady named Sarah to come live with her full-time to teach her to be independent without her eyesight. It only took my Mama six months, and she shocked me and my sisters by cooking us a full meal by herself one day. Now, years later, she was almost back to her old self, completely. No, she can't see the world, but at least she is still living in it and able to do things like cook my favorite food any time I ask her to.
“I got the home fries done on warm in the oven, and I have your cold water in the freezer. I put it in about an hour and a half ago, so it should be cool just how you like it by now.”
I smiled while still wrapped around her waist.
"Do you know you are the best mother in the world, lil lady? You frying that fish hard for me, ain’t you ma? I know you told me you be listening to it.”
"You know it, baby boy. I may not be able to see anymore, but I know exactly how that oil is supposed to sound when the fish is done to your liking. That’s a sound you don’t forget. Once that grease starts talking softer, that means it is ready." She grabbed a towel from a rack in front of the stove and whipped her hands.
My Mama knew, just like anyone who knows me, that I like my fish fried hard with hot sauce and bread. That was my favorite food. That and sweet pussy right after, though I’m trying to wean myself off that shit. Sweet pussy doesn’t do anything but bring me problems. Problems you sometimes can't get away from. Problems you wouldn't otherwise have in your life if you never touched a certain bitch. Cashmier was a perfect example of that. I was ignoring that girl's calls every fucking hour on the hour because I didn’t want to hear shit about her or her son. I’m not sure if she’s found out he isn’t Hov’s, but she’s been working overtime trying to throw him off on me. Shit, I’m sure I wasn’t the only nigga she was fucking this past year. A bitch that will give up pussy to two best friends would give it up to a stranger in seconds. She is not fooling me. Cashmier was a Manhattan bitch with a project bitch mentality, yet her ass thinks she's better than every other bitch around her. Someone needs to slap some sense into that hoe.
I took a seat in the kitchen chair as Mama worked her way across the kitchen like a magician, one hand skimming the counter to keep her direction.
“Crewshon, were you down at the courthouse whenever that fool came through shooting today? I heard on the newsthat three people were shot and that the boy accusing Hov of shooting at him was killed too.”
"Nah, Ma, I wasn't there.”
“Really? I can’t believe you weren’t down there supporting your boy. I tell you what. I’m so glad that none of those bullets hit Jehovah or anyone in his family.”
“Yeah, I am too, Ma.” I dropped my head because I hated being deceitful with my Mama. She used to pray that I didn’t turn out like the niggas on our streets, but I turned out worse. I’ve killed more niggas in New York than the police department this year. Yeah, most of it was business, but I can’t say I didn’t get a little pleasure out of it too. My mind fucked up like that.
