“I’m cool!”
“You sho’? I don’t want to get comfortable after my shower and you start with the questions if I’m fuckin’ that hoe.”
“I said I’m cool.”
The next day, I pulled up to Hollow’s. He answered the door with a blunt in his hand and a pair of black scrubs on. Love wasn’t home. I hated that I missed her; I hadn’t seen my girl in a while.
“What’s so urgent?” I asked.
He didn’t say anything, just gave me his back as I followed him to the office.
“You may have a problem,” Hollow finally said.
“What kind of problem?”
“Niggas sniffing around.”
“And how the fuck would you know that before me or Whodie? Nigga, you ain’t even in the streets like we are,” I said with an attitude.
My attitude wasn’t towards him. It was more so because I was slipping, and yet again, my big brother came in to save me. I liked standing on my own. Everyone already thought I hid behind Hollow.
“Calm the little nasty attitude down. I may not be in the streets, but shit still comes to me. Now, I’m talking to you instead of Whodie because if you’re a boss, then it’s time tomove your chess pieces. Whodie can be a bit impulsive. It’s not the time for that. Pay attention to every bitch ass nigga on your team. Muthafuckas start out wanting information. For the right price, a nigga will fold. Keep them big ass eyes open, sis. And I’m always here if you need me.”
CHAPTER 3: WHODIE
Most people thought I was crazy. When you looked at me, I was quick to swing, quick to shoot, or short-tempered. But people that grew up like me didn’t get the fucking luxury of patience. I sat on the hood of my Chevy outside one of the stores on the east side, watching the street like I always did. Usually, I would be shooting dice while sitting here, but the boys were inside moving product, and I needed to pay attention. Everything looked normal. But normal in the streets never lasted long. I lit a blunt and leaned back on my windshield. When shit got quiet like this, my mind drifted.
It drifted back to the place that got me here. The fucking crack house. At least that’s what
everyone called it when I was growing up. It was the place I called home until my parents disappeared on me. I was ten years old the last time I laid eyes on them. Shit, they weren’t dead. That I know of anyway. They just stopped fucking coming home. One day my mama left, saying she was going to the store and never came back. The next day, my daddy said he had to go and handle something and never came back. And the crack house? That bitch kept running like nothing happened.
People still came in and out all day and night. The smokers and the dealers. The smell of burnt crack lived in my clothes. It was like the shit was coming out of my skin. I slept on a mattress in the corner of the living room while strangers stepped over me all night to get their fix. I waited for almost a week. Thinking them muthafuckas was coming back once their high came down. Then it hit me, nobody was coming. The feens that came in and out didn’t give a fuck if I lived or died. I remember one night I got so hungry my stomach was hurting. I asked one of the older dudes if he had something to eat. The muthafucka laughed at me. I’ll never forget what he said…little nigga ain’t nobody feeding your ass ‘round here. Better go get it how you live.
That night I walked out that muthafucka, stank and starving. If I wanted to survive, I was going to have to learn how the streets worked. That’s how I met the 239 Boyz. Not because I wanted to be in a crew. Because I was hungry and hungry kids learn fast. I started running errands. Then it went to me holding small packs and watching corners. Before long, I knew the streets better than most grown men. By fourteen, I had my first gun. By sixteen, I had my own corner. And by the time I met Adore…I had learned the most valuable lesson: nobody was coming to see about me. In this shit, you either survived or you didn’t.
The sound of a car creeping up behind me pulled me out of my memory. Black. Florida tags. Not anything I’d seen on the eastside. Most nigga rode Donk’s or beat up Chevy’s on this side. This shit was too clean. They were out of place. I memorized the tag so I could get it ran. My hand was already on my Glock just in case shit went left.
“Aye, Whodie!” One of the runners jogged from across the street. “Who tha fuck is that creepin’ slow ‘round this bitch?”
“Shit, ion know, but some shit ain’t sitting right. Go tell them to cut that shit shawt and let’s get the fuck outta here,” I told him as I hopped off my hood.
An hour after making sure the store was shut down, I hopped in my car and started the Chevy. I’m sure with how late it was, I had woke the whole neighborhood with my pipes. As I pulled away slowly, I kept my eyes on the mirrors the whole time. In this life, instincts kept you breathing longer than any bullet did. I for damn sure didn’t want anyone following me home. As I drove, I sent the license plate to one of my connections. Nothing came back. Now that shit was really bothering me.
When I pulled up to the house I shared with Adore, the light was on. Usually, I wouldn’t pull my car in the garage because we were so far out, but I decided to do it for safety measures. When I stepped inside, Adore was in the kitchen drinking a glass of Remy. If she was drinking, something was wrong.
“You didn’t call,” she said calmly.
“Why the fuck the door unlock?” I asked.
Adore shrugged, “Who’s coming way the fuck out here?”
I squinted because Adore’s face told a story. We had been friends for years, and I knew when she was stressed. Now that she was my girl, I could feel when something was wrong with her. Her mind was moving fast.
“Why are you drinking?” I snatched the cup. “The same way you made me stop with the pills, is the same way we’re gonna stop with the fuckin’ drinkin’ and shit. I need you sober, and you can’t think straight if you fuckin’ drunk every muthafuckin’ day.”
“I only had one damn drink, Whodie.”
“Cap!”
