Footsteps To Faith

WARNING: There is language that is considered offensive, vulgar, and inappropriate.  If you are easily offended and cannot stomach graphic and insensitive language, PLEASE refrain from reading this article.  In no way was this article written to offend any person or group of people. You've been warned Thank you.

Footsteps to Faith

CHAPTER I

The Move

     We lived in the ‘Back’.  It was the year 2000.  We lived in a small apartment on the third floor in a four-story tenement located in Red Hook Brooklyn – 164 Dikeman Street.  We were trying to raise our first son, Isaah Fredrick.  At the time Isaah was 4 years old, and our second son, Syncere Zaire, had just been born March 10, 2000.  We lived across the street from a mason yard where the rats hoarded, and the rodents ran back and forth ganging up and loitering in and around our building’s front walkway where the garbage was kept.  When we entered the building - day or night - one could see a dozen or more rats scurry to find a hiding place, jumping in and out of garbage cans eager to find cover.

    

     Every month a car would be torched on our block and left to burn: charred, it would sit for a month only to be replaced by the next burning automobile. The smell of burning gas and plastic often drifted through our windows.  In addition to the smell, fire-truck’s twirling siren lights flickered and passed through our windows, and danced on the apartment walls.  The New York City Fire Department (NYFD) arrived on the scene – most of the time – towards the end of the fire.  They watched as the flames burned.  I assume they only stuck around to contain it so no one would get hurt.  It was as if it were a monthly routine outing for the NYFD because rarely did they waste any of their resources on the fire.  They watched and waited, and as the fire was almost out, the NYFD would saturate the melted automobile and the area around it to be sure the fire wouldn’t rekindle.  It seemed like it was an annoying field trip they were forced to attend. 

     On the west side of the tenement was a school bus parking lot – or depot - surrounded by a cement wall 15 foot tall, and almost 2 feet thick.  The lot parked at least fifty or more yellow school busses, short and long, and the lot occupied the largest portion of our block.  On the east side of our building was a contracting company's garage surrounded by an 18 foot metal-wire fence with barbed wire: fitting two large trucks and a large amount of pipe, other plumbing supplies, and tools.  Every morning I could see a crew of workers pull up in vans, load both trucks, and every afternoon they would do the opposite: unload, unpack, and go home.  Behind our tenement on the north side was an abandoned building: huge brick building, stretching the length of the block on the backside.  It was odd because it was abandoned day and night but a portion of the roof was catered to in a way that it was dressed with a clean, glossy, and fine looking Astroturf for carpeting, and furnished nicely with waterproof sofas, chairs, and umbrellas.  Every 4^th of July, and random other occasions we could see a group of people enjoy themselves as they celebrated the holiday, threw parties, or held get-togethers.  Often I’d imagine buying an abandoned building and doing the same.  We lived three blocks from Red Hook Projects where friends and family lived.  Wed visit at once or twice a day and enjoyed ourselves whenever we did.

    Our third floor apartment was on the south side of the building directly across from my mother in-law and father in-law – and they lived in the apartment directly across the hallway, located in the backside of the building.  We had two pit bulls, Elliot Ness (Ness) and Atlantis (Lanti), and my wife, Sabina, kept our apartment extremely clean.  However, at any given time while in the apartment - it sounded like gangs of mice trafficked through the house walls, inside the ceilings, and we’d always see them scurry across the floor as if our apartment were abandoned.  Lanti was a huge 100lb. all white bitch that just lay around and comforted Ness, while Ness was a 65lb. fine tuned male bull.  Ness was an Irish red-nose who had the awareness of a cat in regard to the mice.  Sometimes we’d see him in the kitchen focused on a spot waiting for mice to take a chance and dart past him.  Other times we could hear him rustle around attempting to catch them.

   

     The building was infested: bold, the mice would hide in the couch, run and jump into the sofa, and disappear under the cushions.  We’d remove the cushions to expose the mice, and the mice would either leap out in a flash or find their way underneath the couch and vanish as if they were never there. The mice were champions at playing ‘hide & seek’.  The sound of small scratching nails, across the wood floors was a normal sound, and it was a sound I came to expect and became accustomed to.  As the mice ran we could here the warp speed pitter-pat of their four feet darting destination to destination. There were small holes in random spots along every wall's baseboards and in every corner.  The mice would stick their heads out like ‘Jerry’ to see if the coast was clear, or to see if ‘Tom’ – Ness was waiting for them to make their move. They feared not: no matter if we were present, moving about the house, or simply watching TV, the mice would entertain themselves in front of us. 

    

     A large 69-inch television from Rent-A-Center sat in the living room and covered a majority of the wall.  Behind it were two tiny mouse holes we were well aware of, and we did our best to catch mice coming out but no matter what we tried we were rarely successful.  One day I made a phone call to Rent-A-Center, and I asked them to come and pick up the television.  Days later they arrived, and as they pulled the television from the wall and removed it from the apartment I immediately noticed the mouse holes were no longer the size of a slit, or the size of a mouse even.  No, these holes had grown into massive holes I could fit my fist or foot inside. 

   

     Looking at the size of the holes in disbelief and without expecting a response I asked Sabina, “Wuss that?” 

     She looked at me as if I were being sarcastic and said, “They’re mouse holes babe!”  

     I turned to her and looked at her as if she wasn’t looking at the same holes I was.  I said, “That ain’t no mouse hole, dat's big enough for a rat!” I turned and pointed at the holes, “Mice don't make holes this big.  Mice don't wanna be seen. Baby those ‘s rat holes!" 

     My logic told me mice only created very small holes with hopes not to be noticed.  Examining the holes it came to mind, “In addition to mice, we were dealing with rats.”  I knew by looking at the two holes and considering the short amount of time the hole grew to its enormous size it was a rat hole.  “A cat could fit through the damn thing,” I thought to myself.  It all made sense why only days before we noticed these holes, in the morning while laying in bed, it sounded like two squirrel or raccoons were wrestling in the ceiling directly above us.  I can remember being startled by it. The sounds were so loud I could tell that it wasn’t mice and that whatever it was it had a considerable amount of weight to it.  I remember flinching, and for a quick moment I felt as if whatever it was that was making all the noise was going to come crashing through the plaster and lath ceiling onto the bed while Sabina slept and I lay awake.  I can remember asking my wife if she heard the raucous and what could of possibly created such a riot.  Jokingly, I said to her, “Baby, you ‘wake?  Wake up!  You hear dat?  It sounds like there’s two dogs scrappin’ in the ceiling.”  She wasn't amused by my humor, and I don’t think she appreciated my need for her to wake up and witness what it was I was hearing.

    

     In the moment, we evaluated the huge rat holes in our walls while we both shook our heads in disbelief.  We looked at each other for comfort. I said to her, “We gotta move baby, we can't stay here no more.  If them rats get to my babies I'm 'a go crazy."  At this point we both knew it was unsafe and unhealthy for our family to remain in the apartment especially with two baby boys. 

     Sabina asked me, “Well, what are we gonna do? Where we gonna go?”

     I told her, “We'll move to Peekskill closer to my mother and family. You know I can make it happen up there!"  

     She gave me a worried look. 

     Knowing we had little or no money and we needed to get out of the situation: I said to her, “Give me three months in Peekskill and I’ll find a place to stay and send for you and the boys.” 

     She agreed immediately without pause.  However, she was aware of a life I’d left behind me when I left Peekskill.  I could see the fear in her eyes.  She didn’t want to lose me.

     At this stage in my life the decision was easily based on the fact that I had a set of skills that would allow me to make money and turn it over fast: hustling.  In the next few days I visited and spoke with two con’ects and later that day I was on my way to Peekskill with a quarter of a brick of soft poison (HEAVY): poison I planned on pushin’.  It was easy for me really, and I was blessed with amounts that others would spend years trying to accumulate, or years trying to gain a reputation to even cop.  Jumping on the iron horse I felt young again, as if I were back to business, and I was.  Earphones in my ears and beats like background music in a movie set the tone.  I felt like my soldiering days were reborn.  With a I felt as if I were about to successfully defeat the odds and my backpack had the resources I needed to make it happen.  In my head I was doing what I needed to do.  I was doing in my heart what I felt was necessary: extremely necessary.  I thought to myself,  “All I need to do is to get this ‘cake’ so I could make good on the consignment and re-up again.  It’s nothing, really.”

     Stepped off the train in Peekskill like I was in a meditative state: I could smell the new air like getting off a plane in Florida and smelling the salt in the air from the ocean.  The world and everything around me seemed to move in slow motion while my eyes and ears scanned everything around me instinctually looking for anything that was not in place, anything that stood out, and looking for whatever might be a trap.  Peekskill I knew too well and was aware that I could move around this small city in a way that was profitable as I did years before even meeting Sabina.  Stepping onto the train station platform felt liberating, as if a brand new day had begun and life would be okay from this point on.  Taxicabs and their drivers crammed the parking lot waiting for riders, flagging me to get in their cars.  I always skipped jumping into or riding in cabs for my own reasons: it was how I moved.  Jumping in a cab right out of the train with my appearance and with the weight I was holding onto wasn’t a smart move in my book.  In fact, under-covers would often steak out arriving trains looking for young cats like myself to do just that, so it seemed like a suspect move to me, therefore it was something I never did. 

     Rule: I never trapped myself in four doors because I would much rather have the freedom to sprint, bail, or run if needed.  Shit, if I had to I’d jump in the Hudson River and let go of all that shit underwater: I would have, but I never had to.  I was always thinking of ways to escape or something I would do in the heat of the moment. It was sort of a calm unseen paranoia.  However, arriving from downtown with weight on me was all too familiar and comfortable for me so I was cool and never had a problem.  Forget how others moved - I moved how I moved: and the way I moved, kept me safe and out of prison.

     Immediately I found shelter.  Stayed with a few friends but knew that I had to make progress fast because I didn’t want to get comfortable until my wife and my two babies was beside me.  In my head, the hustling wasn’t something I was going to hold onto.  I kept telling myself it was only temporary, that it was a way to get my family to Peekskill.  I was back in a game, and in the streets comfort could easily become hazardous. 

    

     Not even a day went by and I was already making money, and putting a bug in a few ears that I needed to so I could come up fast.  Thankfully I possessed a talent, and the skill of an experienced chef: however, it wasn’t food I was cookin’.  Not only was I an excellent chef and chemist but; others knew I was ‘nice’, and because I was ‘nice’, I gained ground fast.  Finding houses, rooms, and kitchens that I could occupy for a short time was never a problem - only to whip the weight.  Indeed I took cooking seriously because it was/is considered an art.  I had many Aunts and Uncles in Peekskill.  One of my Aunts was somewhat of a mentor to me, we were close, and I loved her dearly.  She called me ‘Bumper or Bump’ as did most of my family.  She once told me, “Bump, the two most important and detrimental times (in the game) are cheffin’ and transportin.”  She said, “During these times there’s no escape, no turnin’ back, and both are red-handed situations.  Don’t play games, do what you need to do, and get where you need to go!” It was advice I took from her, and I took it seriously. 

     Like many years before this one, once again I was the go-to guy.  Choice M.A.S. was on deck, and word traveled fast.  Those who needed to know knew I had it, and those who didn’t need to know were trying to find out. Aware of time as another pawn in the game I knew I had 3 months to make something happen.  If I were to remain out of sight, out of mind, and under the radar it would take at least 90 days - 3 months for my opponents, ‘Jakes’, to round up information about me: and build a case against me with enough information to infiltrate my gates; enough information to request legal documents to support suspicions and raid.  Also, I was keen to the fact they had other problems on their hands, problems that existed before me, problems that were equal to or greater than any noise I was making, problems that were prone to making them selves known because they felt the need to be seen and heard.  With these philosophies and other logic I made my way.  Before I knew it, alone, without an entourage, and by myself, I was receiving calls to my cell and putting in work.  All day and all night orders were placed and filled, and there were no unsatisfied clients.  Large and small orders were filled without discrimination. I saved friends and playas from the detrimental trip to the ‘Heights’ – NYC.  My con’ects was solid and strong: in fact, so strong they allowed me to peddle prices that were low enough for playas to stay close and not have to take the risk and drift south on the Sprain Brook.  We were all smiles, while I made money off the ‘soft’ and the ‘hard’, and quietly produced results.  Everyone around me, and all those who came to see me was making money too.  It was a beautiful thing.

     One day within the first two weeks back in Peekskill, another one of my aunts asked me to help her move a refrigerator out of a small house she owned uptown because she had invested in a large Victorian fixer-upper in midtown, just two blocks from the center of hot-block, and around the bend from ‘busy-corner’.  Immediately a light bulb went off in my mind, and I asked my aunt who was occupying the house while she was moving into her new investment.  I thought my cousins would have taken over the house but she told me no one would be living there, and she needed to rent it out.  She offered to rent the house to me knowing I was trying to get, Sabina and the kids upstate, and she suggested I would only have to pay the mortgage she paid to the bank, no more – no less.  In a breath I agreed to take her up on the offer knowing I could pull my family into the house later on.  In addition, I was excited because it was the first real house I ever had the chance of occupying and all to myself, far from apartment status, and far from living with mice and rats. 

     Still I couldn’t bring my family to Peekskill yet – there was still much work to be done.  The house needed a serious cleaning because while my aunt wasn’t living in it, while no one was there, fiends and prostitutes had been breaking in and staying there illegally, and my aunt didn’t have the time and energy: or the money to chase them out, monitor the house, and keep it clean.  In a way, her focus was the same as mine.  All her time was invested in her new location and getting my cousins settled in: her sons, her daughters, and her grandchildren. 

     Quickly I cleaned the house and removed trash, garbage, and rugs so that the house was livable for me.  In the closet some one had pissed the walls and the rug.  The smell burned my nose and pinched the inside of my nostrils it was so bad, and the heat from the summer sun didn’t help with the stench.  I had to air-out the master bedroom for a week.  After I cleaned the house, I went back to Brooklyn and picked up my pit-bull, Elliot Ness.  I had Ness when I met Sabina and long before Isaah was born.  He came to stay with me as my dog, my friend, and my security.  He was a loyal dog, extremely intelligent, and dangerous if I told him to be.  He also quietly and secretly made me aware of anyone near and around the house.  He wouldn’t bark, he would investigate and get my attention by running back and forth from the door to me, or the window and back - giving me a look that insisted I follow him to confirm his worries.  He was a well-trained Irish red-nose pit-bull bred from good stock.  His father’s name was ‘Picasso’, a well-known dominating pit bull in Peekskill that was well trained and belonged to my man ‘Cub’.  Like Picasso, Ness was extremely intelligent.  He was a human of the sort and I treated him as if he was most of the time.  I even had some people tell me we resembled each other: I believe, it was our character they noticed and not so much how we looked.  Now, with my dog next to me, business established, and a house of my own - I was in line and everything was in place for me to succeed in what I set out to accomplish.

CHAPTER II

The Vet

    During this time a veteran to the game, who I didn’t know personally, but had known for years and looked up to in a sense because of his street credibility, had been home from jail for some time now, and he was getting his hustle on, in town.  He was known for bustin’ his gun.  He went upstate for puttin’ a blade in a dude in front of Onofrio’s Pizzeria across the street from the ‘monument’.  The ‘monument’ was a well-known hotspot to get money and to cop whatever drugs a person needed or was looking for.  People that didn’t live in Peekskill and didn’t know anything about Peekskill heard about the monument or knew where it was.  Even though I knew him and he knew me, we never ran together or got into anything basically because he was generations before me.  He heard I was clickin’ and came to me in need of a layover purchase until he received his work.  He got word about the clarity and the flava I was producing, and the way I was moving it.  I was surprised to say the least.  He had no problem confronting me and asking me if I wanted to rock with him for a little while: and so, I did.  We teamed up and things went well.

     One night, the vet asked me to meet him outside my house.  He told me he would come by and to hop in the car when he pulled up.  He pulled up in a nice new cream-colored Lincoln CTS, and I hopped in the back because there was someone sitting in the front seat already.  He introduced me to dude in the front seat and told me dude was one of his ‘mans’ he did a bid with upstate New York.  After introducing us, he dropped him off somewhere uptown, I gave dude a ‘pound’, he went his way, and I hopped in the front seat.  The vet told me homie was his right-hand man and that he was one of his runners.  He said he was helping him get on his feet cause he was only a few months outside the walls and didn’t know anyone in Peekskill but was staying with a girl I had grown up with and went to school with.  This cat – the vet’s homie- was a cool dude, calm, collected, never did me any wrong, and we clicked from the first introduction.  The vet and I rocked for a few months using each other for support mostly. On rare occasion, if I needed something to get me through a dry spot he’d put me on, as I found myself doing for him more often than before. I knew my time was limited, and I was gambling with my odds fuck’n with him because I always moved alone. I knew trying to stretch time out with him might make me a target, and basically I was going against my grain and breaking my own rules: hustle alone and with no one, anything and anyone beyond myself was too much to worry about.  Soon I informed the vet of my intentions, that I was going to be pulling out of the narcotics game as soon as I made enough money to get my wife and kids settled in.  He was disappointed but I remember he smiled at me because he understood and seem to have a greater respected for me because of it.  Time to time he would stop by to check on me.  He would stop by to sit and talk.  He told me if I ever needed anything he was close by.

  

     Shortly after settling into the house, keeping in mind it was my aunt’s home, and I was already past 30 days - somewhere in the second month back in Peekskill - I knew I needed to down-grade business.  Fortunately my wife’s second cousin in Brooklyn, had a boyfriend, and he had an uncle who was top man with the ‘Blueberry’.  Before I knew it I was holding onto clips of the ‘Blue’.  The more clips of ‘Blue’ I got the less I had to deal with the quarter bricks of soft, the less cookin’ I had to do, and truthfully it was like taking weight off my shoulders: there was a sense of relief.  However, the relief took me in a different direction.  I started picking up and moving clips.  Clips were ten or more pounds.  Picture a hockey bag, and my turnover was, so fast his uncle began to question how he was letting the clips go so quickly (assuming before me, he wasn’t moving them as fast).  After a few visits he told me his uncle was questioning him: asking him who he was giving the clips to, who was doing what with them, and where they were being sold.  That was a red flag for me because if anyone from downstate NYC found out about my flow up here, I would easily become a target.  It didn’t matter if it were friends or family of my wife, they could come to Peekskill, make me their next ‘joox’ and return to Brooklyn without anyone knowing – like a Dominican I knew from 163^rd St. who clapped cats and disappeared to DR, only to return years later as if nothing ever happened.

     Quickly I resorted back to old con’ects, especially two – one was ‘Trini’ (Trinidadian) and some knew him as ‘China’, but I called him by his government name most of the time.  He was brought to my door years before I lived in Brooklyn and introduced to me.  He was brought to my door for a reason: because I had it back then, and a friend of mine name ‘Ras’ wanted to link us up because he knew we would be beneficial to each other, and we were! China put me on to his brother who was married to the daughter of an African American celebrity who was famous for his comedy and tap dancing (he passed away a few years ago), and I won’t name him for obvious reasons: mostly respect, and the protection of his daughter and her son.  They owned a lounge in Brooklyn close to Fort Green and one of the bartenders at the lounge introduced me to another business opportunity that seemed to be on the rise –‘X’.  With clips of exotic trees and ziplocks filled with moons and half-moons I did well. 

     The other special con’ect was a white-boy from Manchester, England - I called him ‘Pub’.  One day, a good friend of mine ‘Loose’ received a call and told me I could make some money if we rode out to the Cortlandt Town Center and met up with this kid.  So we did, it was Pub, and he became a small time client of mine.  He ran his own business he created on his own, it was a mobile-car-detailing business.  We became close because I used to give him small purchases on consignment and treated him well.  I can remember him saying to me how he’d been in the United States for years and no one treated him with that kind of love. He was amazed that I would do that for him.  Funny thing was, I was amazed that he was so amazed.  In time he let go of his business, showed up at my door one day, and he asked me what I he should do. He said he didn’t know what to get into next.  I can remember telling him that he was the type of dude that knew people and had an energy about him that attracted people, the right people, people with money.  I told him to see if he could get his hands on some exotic trees, and if he did to swing by and we’d talk about it.  He did exactly that: in fact, he showed up at my door with a pound of some insane green and a smile, and already knew what he had planned to do with it – give it to me, let me get rid of it, and make him a small profit while making some money for myself.  It wasn’t two years later that my boy Pub was moving truckloads and dropping hockey bags off to me on cosign without putting a dent in his load. 

     Like I said, Pub attracted the right people.  He was smart and moved like I did – alone.  He stumbled across another business in no time, a business out of Yonkers that catered to famous rappers such as Lil Kim, DMX, The Ruff Riders, Sean Puffy Combs, and other high priced people. In this business, Pub moved Concealed Service Units (CSUs).  He had a small but lucrative hustle building stashes into cars, which evolved into building and selling furniture that hid stashes, money, or anything important, and the CSUs worked very well.  There weren’t too many artists in the hip-hop game that didn’t take their cars to see him and his peoples, even motorcycles.  His furniture game was crazy though.  Each furniture sale would come with a guarantee that if the stash was found or taken it would be replaced.  I started to market and sell furniture on the side for him.  I was kicking out fish tank stands, end tables, and coffee tables to heavy hitters in Brooklyn mostly, and a few cats in Washington Heights.  It was a fine hustle because they’d cost anywhere between $2,200 and$3,000 each, and for each piece I would get a $500 cut.  I’d call China to set up meets and sales throughout Brooklyn and Washington Heights because like Pub, China had countless con’ects and favors owed to him by spots all over NY: and not just spots, but the crews that owned the spots.  I’d cut China in.  Only thing I needed to do was show up with the furniture. 

     Money was good, sales were up, and before I knew it I was experimenting with the ‘X’ and I was smoking exotic trees like chain smokers smoke cigarettes.  In addition to the high, I was high on money, high on the hustle.  There was making enough bread to do and act as I pleased, to have the freedom from financial worries.  Quite honestly I had exceeded my expectations and didn’t look back.  All I can remember is savoring the taste of freedom that came with the money, and loving the excitement that came with the hustle.  The hustle was as addictive as the drugs: and somehow, it all made sense to me. The insanity and the chaos were simply and utterly attractive.

     Weeks past, and I was into my third month back in Peekskill: almost the 90-day mark.  Figured it was safe to bring my wife and kids upstate to settle in and didn’t give quitting the hustle a thought at all.  That was my insanity.  Time to time an ‘OG’, who goes by the name of ‘Supreme Black Lord’ would stay at the house so he could get some sleep and recuperate from his crack and cocaine binges.  He basically intimidated everyone he came close to, including police.  For some reason, he was good with me, and I was good with that.  Even though I didn’t use crack or cocaine, we got along well, and he had a great deal of wisdom that I enjoyed and used to get from our talks.  Basically, I loved the irony of it all.  He had experience in the streets and behind the walls: shit, he might as well been a lawyer the way he would dissect law and all he knew about litigation.  He was serious.  And there wasn’t a hustler that didn’t know it.  Often playas would turn to him for help with their case while inside prison, and often he would decrease their time significantly, if not get them off on technicalities. He and I would sit at the table and discuss ‘god-body’ lessons, the alphabet, and numbers.  He used to call me the Mind And Spirit of Mathematics, Ness loved him, and he adored Ness.  He helped me gather up my things and the family from Brooklyn and helped us move in.  He told my wife on the way to Peekskill while moving them upstate, “Consider me an insurance policy.”  My wife looked at him confused.  He said to her, “If anything happens to your husband, if anybody was to ever cause a problem, consider me the answer.”  In other words, he’d take care of any problem my family and I might have had.  I didn’t have to ask him to leave the house, and I didn’t have to say anything.  Out of respect for my wife and my kids he found an alternative place to bunk.  After my wife and kids settled in, I think my wife expected me to leave the game alone. I’m not sure because she never asked me to stop or even hinted to the fact.  My belief at the time was that we were both satisfied with the money.  More weeks flew by, the wallet grew bigger, and the hustle got better.  More trees, more pills, and finally my wife and kids - and that’s all I kept close to me.

     Things began to unfold as every day passed.  There was a day when I got a ‘Bleep” on my Nextel – it was the vet.  I hadn’t heard from him in weeks. He was talking fast and he sounded out of breath: frantic.  He explained to me that he just put a whole in somebody. The some body was his cool, calm, and collected right-hand man he had introduced me to inside his cream-colored Lincoln weeks before.  Immediately I thought to myself how dangerous the situation was and how it could harm my operation and my family.  I told him not to contact me on my phone again and not to come directly to my house.  I said to him,  “Come see me later tonight after you get rid of dat heat, when da sun is down, and you in da shadows.”  All I could think about was how he should have known better than to outright contact me seconds or minutes after he’d just bust his gun and maybe or maybe not have killed his own friend. 

    

     Hours later while my kids were sleep and my wife upstairs I hear a frantic knock at my front door. Thinking about what the vet had done I run to the back to grab my gun and quickly and quietly walk back into the kitchen almost tip toeing to the door.  Walking past the steps I look up the stairwell to see if my wife heard the knock and if she was looking downstairs to see what the raucous was.  Pleased that she wasn’t disturbed and that she hadn’t come to the top of the steps to see who was at the door, with the heat resting in one hand at my side and behind my back, I carefully use my other hand to shift the curtain and look out the window.  It’s the vet.   He stood outside already peering through the window hoping I would hurry and let him in.  Examining his person quickly through the window, I opened the door and let him in.  He stepped in fast as if he were running from someone.  I asked him “Wuss goin’ on?”  He tells me that he had a problem with some work he was holding on to and some bread that was owed to him.  Still it wasn’t enough information for him to be standing in my kitchen, so I pressed him for more.  He explained to me that his man had owed him some money and in addition to the money he was missing some work from the crib. 

     The vet looked at me, and kept looking towards the door and the window as if someone was going to come through it. He said to me “My man was the only person that could have taken the work. I confronted him about it and homeboy fed me some bullshit.”  He explained, “A few hours ago, right before I hit you on the jack, when I ‘bleeped’ you, I got my man to drive me over to da’ house.”  Standing in the middle of the kitchen turning his head every second looking all around the kitchen and my house he said, “While the car was moving I jumped out dat shit and sparked the hammer about 5 times.”  He quiets down and lowers his volume as if someone might hear him in my house in the middle of the kitchen, and he whispers, “I hit shot nigga a few times and I might of hit his girl too, I don’t know!” 

     I looked at him confused.  I asked him, “How the fuck you don’t know if you hit his girl or not?  Wasn’t she pregnant?”

     He looked at me like he knew he messed up, “Yeah, she pregnant but I don’t know if I hit her or not.  Everything happened so fast, and I disappeared quick - I bust my ass runnin’ in the yard across the street ‘cause I ran through the yard, jumped the fence, and bust my ass when I landed.”

     I asked him, “You ain’t run into no problems after dat?”

     He responded and repeated him self, “Nah, but I don’t know if I hit homegirl!”     

     Instantly my radars went up and my heart dropped and I thought to myself how crazy the situation was.  Still in disbelief I asked the vet again, “You talkin’ bout your man right? Dude you introduced me to in the car?” 

     He confirmed and seemed frustrated with the question, “Yeah man!”

    There I was still where I stood wondering how he could of shot his right-hand man, and more important- how could he run to my house where my wife and kids were after doing such a thing.  I look up the steps again to see if my wife was awake or aware of what was going on.  She wasn’t, or at least it seemed that way.  Quickly I brought him out of the kitchen where the windows were open and the curtains were drawn.  Immediately I closed the curtains, clicked off my porch light and my kitchen lights so fast the entire downstairs went pitch-black instantly.  Placing my hand on his back I guided him into the living room and before I could say anything he pulls his gun out the backside of his pants. 

     I said to him, “Fuck is you crazy?” 

     He was scattered, looking all over the place as if he wanted to be sure there were no windows or any other way someone could see us.

    I continued to press him, “Why you ain’t get rid of dat heat already? Why you bring dat shit to my house?” 

    He asked me, “Can I leave this joint at your crib?”

    Quickly and before he could even finish his sentence I said to him, “ You fucken crazy, you not leavin that shit in my house!” Thinking to myself, wasn’t no heat but my own gonna be sitting around my house for my babies to find or my wife to stumble upon – especially no hot or warm heat with blood on the barrel! 

     I tell him, “You got to get the hell out my house and take your iron with you.  You need to do something with dat fast. Get rid of dat shit!”

     He reassured me he would and frantically apologized, “My bad man I ain’t know what else to do, and I really ain’t have no place to go!  My bad man I wasn’t thinking, shit happened so fast.  I’m a get rid of it!”  He looked around and around, “I’m a get rid of it!” 

     By this time I had already moved him out the side door of the house and into the driveway as he was apologizing.  We stood in the driveway in the dark.

     He asked me, “Can I get something’ to run wit, I’m bout to skate outta here.  I need somthin.  I know you got it!  Common Choice I need a favor!”

     I looked back at him and said, “Whatchu need?”

     “I need some trees, I know you got somthin for me Choice.  Common man, I gotta get my head right.  I’ma bout to disappear for awhile.”

     Trying to stay calm I said to him, “Yeah hold on, stay here, don’t move, I’ma go grab somthin for you.  Damn man!” I shook my head in disbelief.

Before I could turn around he grabbed my arm and said,

     “Hold up, I need some pills too, you got em?”

     “Yeah I got em for you. I’ma give em to you and then you gots to get movin’ man.  Get outta here!  Get outta town!  Do something cause you can’t be here at my house!”

    

     I told him to stay where he was, that I had to go get it and bring it out to him.  I told him not to come back into the house.  Running into the house my wife was downstairs in the middle of the living room with the lights on looking puzzled wondering where I had disappeared and gone.  I startled her and she startled me because when I ran back in I almost ran her over not expecting her to be there. 

     She looked at me like I was doing something suspect, “What the hell are you doin’?”

     “Helping my man out. He just did some crazy shit and came to me for help!

     She asks, “Who?”

     “Don’ worry ‘bout it baby, please go back upstairs until I know it’s safe!” I ain’t know how the vet would of reacted had my wife seen him.  First thought that came to my mind was he would see her as a witness or thought she’d say something about it. “He ‘bout to be on his way, he’s waitin’ for me in the driveway, I need to give him somt’in! Everything is okay, just please go back upstairs!” 

    

     Sabina was frightened, disturbed, and quickly became paranoid with worry that something might happen to me.  I reassured her that I’d speak with her as soon as I got him out the driveway.  I was worried for her safety if she were to see him, and if she were to say anything to him, but I didn’t tell her that because it would have caused her even more worry.  I was worried about his mind-state and knowing he had already accomplished one crazy deed for the day I didn’t want my family and I to be his second.  I figured we wouldn’t be any more trouble but there’s always the slight chance of something happening.

    Sabina went back upstairs. I swiftly and quietly grabbed some trees and a handful of Ecstasy pills for the vet and headed back out to the driveway where he waited impatiently.  He was crouched down next to the wheel well of my Civic as if police had passed by or something.  Seeing him crouched down next to the wheel well in the pitch dark - I knew he was scared of what he had done, scared of being caught. The vet was paranoid.  I walk up on him, and he’s counting his money.

     I look down at him, and I ask him, “What da’ hell are you doin’?”

     “Fuck you mean what I’m doin,” he says. “I don’t wanna be seen!”

      “Who da fuck is gonna see you in da back of my driveway,” I say to him.  “Does someone know you’re here?  It’s pitch dark out dis muthafucka.”

     “My girl knows I’m here, I’m waitin for her to come scoop me up.”

     “From where, here? Why would you tell your girl to come scoop you from my house, and why did you even tell anyone you was coming to see me after da shit you done?”

     Thoughts raced through my mind and it was a learning experience for me that night.  That night I learned that no matter how much time locked up north or in any prison for that matter, and no matter how much street credibility and experience one may have, when a person acts irrational – it doesn’t matter how many years they have under their belt, most will throw all strategies, rules, and intelligence out the window to save their own ass. 

    

     There I was in the moment thinking, “How could someone who has the street credibility he had- this dude is a legend of sort- a man with years locked up, a man with blood on his knife in the past, a man who is known to bust his gun, a man with victims and years in the game: break rules he shouldn’t and move in a way that’s not only detrimental to others but detrimental to himself?” 

     “How could he ask his girl to come scoop him up: putting her in danger and having her participate in the aiding and abetting of a felon who just put holes in his own friend and doesn’t know whether or not he shot the pregnant girlfriend as well?” 

     “How could an experienced felon with good money still be only blocks from where the shooting occurred and only hours later - instead of already on a train or plane out of state?”

     “Am I buggin’?” 

     Shaking my head at the situation, he was crouched down while I stood in the driveway and it was significant that I was looking down upon him.  Here goes a man in a standing fetus position, shaken, fearful, nervous, and paranoid and there I was a younger buck staring at him analyzing the entire moment.  Suddenly a car with tinted windows came to a stop in front of my driveway. 

     I quickly turned to him, “Who da fuck is dat?” 

     “Finally!”  He said, “Dat’s, my girl man!” He stood up gave me a pound and we pulled each other close.  We leaned towards each other shoulder to shoulder and he thanked me. He asked me what I thought he should do, and he said that he’d be in contact with me to let me know how he was doing.

     In my mind I’m thinking, “Don’t contact me.  In fact, get my number out your phone.”  Out loud I said to him, “Leave town. Go sit up in a motel n’ don’ tell noone where you at, not even your girl?”

     He stopped in his tracks and said, “How I’m supposed to do dat?”

     “I don’ know.  Figure dat shit out, “ I told him.  “Have her drop you in one place and disappear to another, but disappear.  Trust me!” Again, looking at him like he suppose know this shit.

     He thanked me again and after letting go of my hand he balled up his fist and held it up to his heart.  “I love you man thank you.  You looked out.  Not too many I could of gone to but you looked out.  I’m a’ holla at you.” 

     I said to him, “Peace, and be safe.” 

     The vet moved toward the vehicle slowly with his head ducked between his shoulders, jumped in the car, and disappeared behind the tinted windows.  I went back into the house where it was quiet.  Sabina was still upstairs.  She’d already laid down for bed.  Leaving the lights out I walked into the kitchen and kept an eye out the curtain for a few more minutes just to see if the coast was clear.  Making sure my doors were locked I made my way upstairs, laid next to my wife in bed and I could sense she was troubled.  She hugged me and without having to say anything I knew she was frightened but glad that I was in her arms.

     The next few days I spent moving slower than usual as a result of the vet’s actions and keeping an eye out to see if any of his bullshit would lead back to me.  Almost a week later there’s a knock at my front door and it was a girl I’d gone to school with and I’d known for many years.  She was cool, and I knew her to have a hard life really and her share of bad relationships, even with her brother and her father as we were growing up.  She had some issues of her own she dealt with but ultimately she was broken from the constant betrayal and confusion she dealt with as a child, dealing with dudes, and the gossip that surrounded her throughout school.  She didn’t do herself any favors with her drinking, smoking dust, and whatever else she’d get herself into.  I was a little worried and curious as to why she was knocking on my door.  Knowing I didn’t have any personal history with her, I still thought to myself, “What’s my wife was gonna say when she see’ this chic at my door?”  So before I answered the door I called out to Sabina to warn her there was a girl at the door and I didn’t know why. 

     Sabina looked at me with an uncomfortable suspicion, “Well, why is she on our porch?”

     “I don’t know babe, I’m ‘bout to find out.  I just wanted to let you know so you don’ freak out when you see her because I know you don’ know her, I don’t know why she’s here, and I want you to be here when I answer the door so there don’ be no problems.”

     Knowing talking would’ve just made the situation worse I turned away from my wife, took a deep breath, and opened the door. 

     She greeted me with my government, “Hi Freddie, how you doin?  I know this is awkward and I don’ wanna cause any trouble with you and your family but would it be okay if a speak with you for a second?”

     I stared at her stomach and said, “Sure come on in.”

     I let her through the door, stuck my head out the threshold, and stepped out onto the porch looking left and right to see if anyone was following her while I was thinking, “Shit might be a set up!” She was alone.  She entered the house and I noticed she was pregnant. I closed the door behind her.  Sabina said hello and she said hello back.  She immediately spoke to both of us. Sabina waited for an explanation. She told us she was not there to cause any trouble, and she apologized directly to Sabina for popping up at our house and asking to speak with me without a proper introduction.  I could see she was troubled: she seemed not to know where to start or what to say.  Finally she began to tell us why she had come by.

    

     “Freddie I know you deal with *** (the vet’s name) and I know y’all was hustling or doing whatever together, but I just wanted to let you know that he shot my boyfriend Ed and he almost shot me too.”

     I responded quickly, “First off we wasn’t husltin’ together, he helped me with some things and I did the same for him but we wasn’t a team.  I don’ fucks with dudes like that.  I stick close to myself.  One pair of eyes is enough for me.  Four eyes is an eye witness,” I said to her.  She gazed back at me and listened.

     I kept on, “But damn, are you serious?  I had no idea you were involved.  What happened?”

     She responded while I was in mid-sentence, “What happened is he’s an asshole.”  She looked at Sabina and asked my wife to forgive her for her language.  “Yeah, he shot my boyfriend two times in the shoulder and once in the back.  He’s in the hospital now in stable condition.  And Freddie, he almost shot me too because my instincts were to help my boyfriend move out of the way, and as I went to grab Ed by his shoulder he shot three more times, one hit my boyfriend in the back and the others…” – at this point she tried to hold back her tears and frustration as she spoke.  She explained the shots just missed her.  “Freddie I could hear the bullets zip past my face!” She began to cry. 

     My wife immediately changed her attitude and approached her and pulled out a chair for her to sit down.  Sabina asked her if she was okay and if she needed something to drink or anything to comfort her and the girl said that she was fine and smiled back at Sabina.  Sabina was able to calm her down enough to so she could speak to me.  She explained that all her life she never wished any harm on any one and that she always got herself into some bad situations, but never like this one.  She would’ve never thought she would have almost died while pregnant protecting her boyfriend- and even though it was her life’s theme: sticking her neck out for her man, I was surprised it had happened.  I was even more surprised that she was the one the vet was talking about when he said he didn’t know whether or not he had shot his man’s pregnant girlfriend.  I hadn’t seen this girl in years. I hadn’t seen her since I moved back from Brooklyn, and I had know idea she was with this dude or even knew the vet’s friend because homeboy was from out of town, and the vet met him while they were locked down together up north.  She asked me where the vet might have gone and in the same sentence told me she understood if I didn’t want to say anything.  I told her I had no idea.  She said that she was just curious and that she had only really come to warn me about the vet’s insanity and to keep my family safe.  I told her that I was thankful and that I was already trying to steer clear of the vet.  I also told her to keep her head up and that I hoped her boyfriend was okay and that he came home wishing him a speedy recovery.  She finished the conversation by talking with my wife about her pregnancy and they talked like women do while I went back to whatever it was I was doing.

     Returning to my tasks my thoughts were immediate:“How dis’ this chic know where I lived?  How did she know I was dealing with the vet?  How does she know I knew her boyfriend?  I just moved back to Peekskill after being in Brooklyn for years, so how did she even know I was back? 

All these questions raced through my head and it was another red flag for me.  It’s a small world indeed. I needed to be very mindful of my movement and whom I was dealing with.  More mindful than I thought I was, and I was much more cautious than most: this I knew, but not cautious enough.  I needed to do my thing as I always did: ALONE!

CHAPTER III

The Wife

     Months passed and all seemed to be well, and so was business.  It was a pleasure to see my two boys playing in the driveway.  Oblivious to my dealings, Isaah would ride his bike and Syncere would pedal around on his big wheel and sometimes his tricycle.  When the boys weren’t riding their toys they would play with each other.  Often, Isaah would get bored with his little brother and would like to read a book or two. Syncere had an amazing imagination and created his own worlds around the house.  One day he’d be a power ranger, the next he’d be a samurai warrior, and sometimes he’d just walk around and talk to the toys and himself in full conversations – it was adorable because he was still so young he could hardly speak.  Sabina seemed to be okay as she tended to the house and the kids, watched television, and made phone calls to friends and family.  She didn’t have to work and I didn’t want her to.  There was a part of me that took pride in that.  No matter the reason and how we were getting by: she didn’t have to get a job and she could stay home with our children.  Quite honestly we both wanted it no other way because we didn’t trust anyone with or around our boys.  At the same time I didn’t realize what I was doing to her.  I was slowly confining her to a lifestyle, to the house, and taking her away from who she was as a person.  I was stealing her spirit and didn’t know it. Nor did I take the time out to realize it.

     Now, I have to take this time to explain some things.  Sabina was/is a blessing.  When I met her she had little physical and mental experience when it came to relationships and guys even.  This was one of the things that attracted me to her the most outside of her physical beauty. Having experienced some heart break and humiliation before her with a girl I was with through some of the most trying times of my teenage years, I never wanted to feel those emotions again.  In fact, I didn’t even want to bother with girls when I met Sabina.  All I wanted to do was make paper, get bread.  All I wanted to do was hustle.  All I wanted to do was be alone and in my own world: unbothered. 

     When I met her I quickly adjusted to her respect factor and how she carried herself.  She traveled only with two Dominican girlfriends, who I called Ray-Ray and Mama. They all shared a similar self-respect, and they supervised each other as well.  They were very close to each other.  It didn’t take long to find out she hadn’t - ‘been around the block’ per say.  She didn’t engage in relationships with boys, and she didn’t even deal with females really, only her two Dominican friends she roomed with and stuck very close to. I was 21 years young and she was 20.  She was/is what us guys - and even girls - would call ‘a good girl’.  Often she and her friends would explain how much they didn’t deal with dudes, and quite honestly it took me some time and some witnessing to understand she wasn’t just telling me this to seem better than other girls or to attract me.  It was who she was.  She was protected, sheltered in a sense, and I was attracted to her inexperience, her innocence.  In my mind I compared her to what I knew: and in my mind, it did make her out to be better than other females.

     Sabina had an energy that was delightful and a caring spirit that was just phenomenal to me.  It couldn’t be matched.  Her self-respect and respect for me was something that was new to me, incredible and in a sense, and unreal.  If I were to tell my boys or another player how she was they would give me the look like they didn’t believe it.  They would immediately imply that girls are sneaky and try and fill my head with all the standards and all that I already knew.  This was not Sabina, and I never let them convince me otherwise.  As I said I witnessed her innocence, sensed it, verified it in many ways, and it was confirmed even by her friends.  Most of the time girls were quick to tell on each other or blow each other up so they didn’t seem less or more used than the next.  However, this wasn’t the case.  All of Sabina’s friends had no problem showing her the respect she deserved and communicating to me nothing but good things: they never had anything bad to say about her, not a single soul.  That was impossible to find in my world, and I thought in the real world girls like this didn’t exist, but she did, and she made it clear she belonged to me. 

    This was a blessing, and especially to a hustler because girls, chics, whatever we called females at the time were material.  They wanted the money, the clothes, the stiletto shoes and boots.  They wanted to hang out in the club and prove how much of their man’s money they had the right to.  They wanted to flirt and play games.  Sabina was grounded, she stayed put and not because I told her to, because she wouldn’t of had it any other way.  She never wanted me to have a notion of anything other wise.  She never wanted to be seen in those shadows doing dark things.  In fact, often my mans would tell me that she dissed them as they rode by and said hello, shouting her out as she walked home from the store with the kids and groceries in hand.  She wouldn’t even look up.  She’d look away on purpose.  Even my closest friends couldn’t get her attention.  She didn’t want anyone who may have been with them, anyone who saw her walking, and those themselves to think they could have her attention.  She would come home and tell me what happened and I would tell her she didn’t have to be that way.  She’d refuse, hug me, kiss me, and tell me that it didn’t matter what I said she’d continue to behave in the same manner whenever someone would call her out. 

     Often my man ‘Loose’ would see her and wave out the car window and call out to her or ask her if she needed a ride and only because he was looking out for me.  He would explain that he nearly had to ask whoever was driving to pull over next to her to get her attention, and still she’d continue walking without even looking at the car or Loose.  She’d tell me right after it would happen and my boys would confirm it saying to me, “Yo Choice, I saw Sabina and she wouldn’t pay me no mind!”  Those close to me respected her ways and there were some who were offended.  Those who were offended I would respond to them, “Is she suppose to?” Honestly, I loved it and it made me feel respected, as a man, and I’m sure cats were envious of the respect she showed me.  What guy doesn’t want a female they don’t have to worry about in that way?

     Sabina had left me earlier in our relationship.  My hustling was too much for her and there was always the question of where it was leading me.  Females played a key part in her leaving me and they also played a key part in my hustle.  I refused to give up my female clients who brought me skrill and made me money, and as a result I almost lost my wife.  That’s how I made it to Brooklyn.  That’s how I made it to Red Hook.  She left me and went back to her family and friends in Brooklyn because the only thing she had in Peekskill was me, and I wasn’t present, I wasn’t grounded, I was an addict addicted to the streets, addicted to my grind, addicted to that lifestyle.  I used to tell my brother Ian I wish they had meetings and groups for hustlers like they do for alcoholics and drug addicts. I wish they had a Dealer’s Anonymous: a place or group one would go to get rid of the urges to deal drugs, the urges to roam the streets, the urges to whatever that lifestyle brought them.  I said the same thing to my mother one time and she said, “They do, it is called prison!”  Only prison doesn’t rehabilitate dealers, it only makes them more clever, educates them and supplies them with bigger schemes and plots.

CHAPTER IV

The House

     As for myself, I kept on keeping on and still I didn’t stop pushin’ trees.  Soon I was locked back into my old ways.  It all became an infatuation, a way of life, and a religion.  The money was so good and came so fast I didn’t even give it a second thought to do anything else.  I buckled down and stuck to my guns in regard to doing what I do and doing it alone: my way.  In those months I acquired a solid clientele and what I called a paper route.  A paper route was really no different than a paperboy’s paper route.  I had select clients that came to the house to see me and there were many others who I would visit, drop off whatever was in order, and make that paper.  The paper route just kept growing and it was definite money on a daily basis.  In fact, the paper route became more structured as time passed.  I would see some clients on specific days of the week and at specific times, and the list grew larger and larger as clients suggested friends and family.  There were doctors, lawyers, retail managers, high school students from as far as Bronxville to Poughkeepsie, and even military personnel that would break from Camp Smith time to time. 

     The only clientele not on schedule was the corners and the streets.  Because I grew up with them all, I catered to the corners and streets of Peekskill and some of the hustlers that needed their doses of herb.  I knew all of them and they all knew me but I only dealt with a select few, and they would come to me to cop for those I did not welcome.  Often, some moneymakers would come to my door and I had to refuse them, and it would be a testy moment in the moment.  Hustlers, more than anyone, felt entitled.  Those who displayed this type of arrogance were turned away just because.  They’d become offended because I wouldn’t deal with them at all.  It was my home, and as far as I was concerned, I was already treading waters dealing out of my house, so I definitely wasn’t going to let anyone – for lack of better words – drown me.  In order to come cop from me, it didn’t matter who you were.  There were rules and considerations that were a must.  For example, parking in front of my house leaving the car running, or parking the car outside with passengers left in the car was off limits. If police were to pull up and see a car full of people waiting or a running engine it may or may not have attracted attention, but I wasn’t going to take that chance. Pulling up to my house with the car stereo on loud was off limits too.  It attracted neighbors to their windows and attracted other eyes and ears on the block to wonder what the noise, or disturbance was and where it was coming from. Coming straight to me from a drug exchange was also not allowed, as they may have been seen or watched and I didn’t want anyone followed to the house.  I had no way of really telling whether or not dealers would abide, so when hustlers called I always told them to give me some time and I would call them right back to tell them I was ready for them: this way, they would have to pause and come on my time and not on their own. 

     Quick and timely was considered ‘good business’, and I was.  The wait was never long so they always cooperated.  A person couldn’t just come to my door without calling me first.  This was totally unacceptable because I had no way of telling what was waiting for me on the other side of the door.  Also, I had no idea what state of mind the person was in before they came to see me. Even more important, my wife and kids were in or around the house most of the time so I needed to be sure clients came by while I was home. No matter what, I needed to talk to the client first.  Something about talking briefly with a client gave me a ton of information I needed: how they were feeling, where they were, what they were doing, whom they were with, and more.  I could retrieve all this information in a 10 to 20 second phone call.  If they delayed on the phone, couldn’t answer my questions, or couldn’t communicate within those 10 to 20 seconds, I considered the client too busy and not clear enough to come see me and would hang up.  I can remember a good friend I grew up with came buy the house without calling first, and I wasn’t home.  He knocked on the door and pressed my wife to enter the house even after he was told I wasn’t home.  My wife told me he was persistent even after she told him I wasn’t there.  She said he would not leave until she sounded aggravated and expressed her frustration in her small voice, and she told me he was standing very close to the door with his hand on the doorknob as if he didn’t plan on leaving until she changed her mind and let him in. I was extremely angry when she told me about it but I kept my cool.  Later that night he showed up at the door again without calling.  First thoughts that ran through my head (as usual) were questions.  Did this cat come this time to enter the house no matter what?  Did he expect me to be home or did he expect my wife to be home alone?  Who in the hell does this dude think he is? This time I answered the door, and instead of letting him in, I opened the door slightly slipped out quick and stepped outside without letting him in.  I asked him what the deal was, and this cat had the audacity to tell me about the situation – as if I were going to agree with him because we grew up together- and express to me that my wife was out of pocket.  Immediately he saw my frustration and was offended by my demeanor.  I said to him before he could say anything else, “You buggin’ and you on some other shit!”  I told him he was wrong and out of place no matter what he thought.  He insisted that I should check my wife and let her know that she didn’t handle it correctly.  I told him, “I ain’t tellin my wife shit, she don’t have to answer the door for you.  In fact, she don’t have to answer the door for nobody!” I told him he was the one that didn’t handle the situation correctly- “Why the fuck you ain’t call me before you came?”  He gave me excuses as to why he couldn’t.  With my voice raised and my chest growing I told him to get off my porch because he offended me, my family, and that my home wasn’t a place for him to be comfortable. “Nigga I don’ live for you! The only person I’m worried about being comfortable in my home is my wife and if you can’t accept that we ain’t got no more to say to each other, ever!”  He stepped off the porch and while walking backwards, still facing me he talked his beef.  He was so upset he basically said to me that he didn’t accept or appreciate my response and that we’d revisit the conversation at a later date. I responded, “How ever you see fit, see me when you see me!”  He kept talking and walking and I just stayed on the porch eyeing him until he was off my block.  He never came back to the house.  He got caught up only weeks after our dispute and was arrested in a hand-to-hand exchange, and it didn’t surprise me one bit.  A person’s arrogance can cause mistakes on the streets and can even become fatal.  It is that cocky attitude like it can’t happen to them, which gets them caught in the first place. 

     Coming up in the game I often asked questions and asked for advice from specific elder hustlers. I trusted them because I watched them move and admired their intelligence and clever ways.  Most of the time the elders would take the time to give me advice, and I always listened.  I watched the younger generation come up too and cared a bout them all, whether they knew it or not.  As much as I was benefitting from hustlers bringing me money, I felt like the relationship was reciprocal.  I saved them from having to make any extra stops or trips to ‘hot stops’ on their way down to NYC or on their way back from NYC.  Often I’d communicate to them just that.  I felt like I might be able to help them with a bit of advice time to time.  Whether they listened or not was not was totally up to them. I would say to them “Come see me, and don’t jeopardize yourself going to the spots downtown and risk being followed by DTs, a joox team, or even the them blue coats – Jakes.”  In addition, coming to see me was a break away from the block on a daily basis as they put their work in.  To me it was away to refrain from being on the block all day – they come see me, rest up, smoke, and get back on they grind.  Often come through and tell me how I saved them a trip to the bodega, the ‘weed spot’, and they would share their re-up stories and more with me while they copped from me. 

      Rules applied to non-hustlers too.  I can remember telling this kid who went to Hen Hud High School, and I told him he couldn’t come to my house anymore because of the way he looked.  Kid’s name was Ryan, and his hair was three different colors at the time, he was wearing pants that were bright yellow, and he wore a shirt that was ripped to shreds with pink boat shoes on his feet.  When I told him he couldn’t visit me looking like that he asked why.  I told him that he was flamboyant and stood out like no other.  He looked like he didn’t belong on my block.  If he stood out to me then why wouldn’t he stand out to others, including the police?  I told him he could come by if he toned it down: he did, and damn that kid brought tons of money with him.  He would make a collection from all his friends in the Montrose, Buchannan, Croton, and Cortlandt Manor area, and others who knew he could get his hands on some exotic weed and come to see me: hundreds a day he would bring so I wasn’t so quick to cut him loose.  Some clients, in some ways, I had to raise them like children and teach them how to be clients.

     Sometimes, teenagers would drive by the house slowly who didn’t know me but knew that someone they knew was allowed to come to my house and they would loop the block, which immediately caught my attention.  Sometimes they would pull over when they saw they had my attention, and sometimes I’d just walk out into the street, stop, and flag them to stop the car.  As they rolled down the window I’d tell them they better not ever show their face on my block again, they would immediately begin to explain themselves.  I’d say to them, “You’re mouth is moving too much already!”  I’d look at them like I wanted to reach through the car window and pull their ass out by their necks, slam them on the pavement, and lay them on the double yellow lines.  Sometimes that’s exactly how I was feeling and the expression on my face said it all.  They would apologize, tell me they’d never do it again, roll up the window, and bounce.

     They came to see me because I had it, and I had it good.  In fact my con’ect from England, ‘Pub’, was coming to see me more frequently and I no longer had to travel to re-up.  This was key for me.  As I said before transportation was/is one of the most crucial and compromising times during a person’s hustle.  Transporting was no longer part of my equation, it was now delivered to my door along with pieces of furniture (CSUs) to sell as well: mostly fish tank stands and end tables that had room to stash a tv in them: equivalent to about twenty bricks or so.  The great thing about Pub was, he brought me so many varieties of exotics that were considered fire.  He’d drop off White Widow, Lemon Drop Haze, different varieties of Blueberries, Silver Haze, Strawberry Haze, Juicy Fruit, and many other flavors. It’s funny people still talk to me about it still to this day.  They say, “Choice, remember when you had that fire?” Or they might say to me, “No one had that fire like you did, Choice!”  Others would say, “No matter how hard I try I can’t find those flavors you used to have.” The comment I like most is when they tell me someone I don’t know from out of town or something would come around and ask them, “Yo what happened to that kid Choice, he still got it?”  Dudes from all over the tri-state would come to visit others that had access to me.

     It was crazy when I think about it.  My boys were too young to understand what was going on and I was aware of the fact.  For me it was great. I justified my hustle to be a good thing because I retired from hustling narcotics to hustling trees.  It was almost like I downgraded but was making even more money.  I often thought, “What could be better than this?”  So I felt safe, I felt like if I were to get caught up it couldn’t be too bad.  Sabina, in her own way turned a blind eye.  She moved around my nonsense without complaining, as if my hustle was a picture on the wall or a piece of furniture.  She knew it was there but paid it no mind.  I can remember the refrigerator being filled with pounds of special, loaded at the bottom, and sometimes it took up the second tray of the refrigerator as well.  It stayed fresh this way and was convenient for myself to retrieve when I needed to.  I kept the one of many scales in my kitchen draw.  Not just any scale either.  A friend of mine swapped a scale from a plant that he worked at for a 20bag and the scale had the ability to be hooked directly to a computer, but I didn’t dare hook it up. That would have been keeping records of how much weight I was letting go of daily. I would open the draw and the refrigerator when clients came and quickly have them set up.

     The problem was I.  I let my hustle spill over and into my family life.  Quickly, my hustle began to occupy real estate within our home.  My wife loves to cook and she likes to be in the kitchen.  The kitchen was also a central spot in the house where we would entertain our company. Her and I would sit, smoke, and talk all of the time, and I mean smoke!  We smoked trees like other people smoke cigarettes.  In fact, those who know me and have smoked with me can vouch for the community box in the center of the table.  My motto is you can smoke from it, grab whatever you needed and roll it up in a Dutch Master Cigar but you would have to smoke it with my wife and I.  With this rule I never had to roll anything basically.  Rarely did we spend time anywhere else in the house.  The kitchen was a habit like any other.

CHAPTER V

The Car

    

     In a matter of months I acquired a few cars.  I had it in my mind to buy and sell them and make a little bit of money off of each vehicle and before I knew it the driveway was filled with cars.  One after the other I purchased but quickly figured out that I was not a good car salesman because I just sold them to people and basically got my money back, and sometimes I even took a loss.  I looked at it as money in the bank.  As long as I had a car or two to sell I would always have enough money to stay afloat, re-up, double my money and grow again, or have some change to fall back on.  Sabina had a car for her self to drive and I had my civic that was all geared up.  In fact the Civic came to me before the other cars from a friend that got word I was doing my thing and needed to come off it quick because he needed some bail money.  I bought the civic shortly after I returned to Peekskill.  The Civic was mint, and it was my baby.  It was a classic 1989 3dr hatchback 16 Valve Si, all black, and the interior was in excellent condition: power sunroof, AC, and I bought it with 17 inch white rims on it.  I didn’t want 17s on it because I had a specific look in mind and everybody else had 17s on their whips.  I purchased some badass 16-inch alloy/chrome rims and had a plan for them. One of my clients painted for Honda on Route 202.  I asked him to custom paint my new rims Honda Black to match the car so the entire car would be one color and the rim’s black would match the car’s black paint: this way, it all had the Honda black pearl paint job.  Not like other black cars and trucks with the rims a dull black color.  My man painted my rims did, and he was compensated without me spending a dime.  The car quickly became my sanctuary - my escape.  The car was entirely stock except for the rims and anyone who saw it loved it.  Someone would offer to buy it every day, to take it off my hands, and sometimes the offers were well worth selling it, and I would always refuse.

     The whip soon became a sanctuary for me.  The vehicle was a mobile man cave.  I kept it fresh inside and out. Immediately I dropped thousands into ‘my baby’ – as I used to call it- so that when I was in ‘my baby’ I felt comfortable, relaxed, and so there were no worries or hiccups in regard to performance, maintenance, appearance, and most important to me: my music! I’m not the average cat who drove around with my fellas or females crowded in the backseat nor did I always feel the need to have a co-pilot in the passenger seat at all times.  In fact it was my place to go to be alone, cruise, and think to myself, and think hard.  Driving ‘my baby’ was meditation.  In addition, the car was business. 

     Knowing the car was business there were many things I didn’t to it so it wouldn’t attract too much attention.  For instance, nine out of ten people would always say to me, “You need to put tints on your whip son, it would look hot!” Some would even offer to put the tints on for me, “Yo, I’ll put the tints on if you buy ‘em Choice!” I would always shake my head when they said this.  Never, tints are a reason for me to be pulled over, a reason for Jakes to think I had something to hide.  I didn’t want to attract that kind of attention and why bring heat to my movement.  Besides, I like a car without tints because if it’s squeaky clean and polished it looks as if I drove it straight off the car lot, brand new.  Also, I wanted police to see there weren’t any passengers in my backseat.  I didn’t want them to have to pull up close to me to see who was in the car and what I was doing while driving it.  Tints were a curse, a red flag, and I can’t tell you how many times friends of mine got pulled over because of tinted windows, and then hearing about ‘Knocka’ ripping their car apart trying to find what was usually present, drugs.  Wouldn’t be me, ending up in Valhalla or Rikers Island behind some tinted windows.  I would hear cats trying to justify their tinted windows and trying to talk me into getting them as well, “I don’t know why they pulled me over, my tints aren’t dark!”  Cats would call themselves having AC tint: tinted windows that are just dark enough to shade the car from the sun and keep it cool, my ass!  “Choice, you should just get AC tint, it’ll look fresh!” 

     “No it wouldn’t I would tell them, “It would muddy my look.”  Fresh clean windows on a car, is like a color pop in a fresh new outfit.  That was my style, and my precaution.

     However, like the rest of them I dropped a system into the car immediately, only I didn’t do it like most did, I did it professionally so that my sound was clear at it’s highest volume, and believe me it was ridiculous.  One could here me coming from four or five blocks away if I was in the premises, and they could hear it clearly and the bass would set off any car alarm I drove by, shakes houses, and turn all heads.  In fact, I can remember letting my car stereo play while it was in my driveway and it would knock things off the shelves inside the house.  My wife would look at me bothered sometimes and say, “Babe!”  The system was bananas.  I drove down to China town and copped a radio head that appeared to be a normal radio head, but it wasn’t.  At the touch of a button, like a transformer cartoon, the radio head face folded down, a 7-inch screen slid out slowly, folded up, and faced me, and the passenger.  It was a touch-screen TV that played DVDs, CDs, and even broadcasted TV if I had chosen to hook a television antenna up.  All I wanted was my music though and time to time watch some DVDs.

     The speaker system was crazy.  With four tweeters located in the roof, 6 mid-ways: one in each door, two located in the side panels of the back seats, and two in the dashboard the sound was loud enough to shake a house already, and clear as a bell without a bass box.  To top it off I had three 10 inch MTXs in a bass box that was custom fitted for my hatchback.  The radio and speakers consumed so much power I had to put a separate battery to power the system without draining my alternator.  In addition to the second battery, I had a transmitter -it looked like a pipe bomb with a computer on it- hooked up so that it didn’t blow any fuses and drain the system battery, bananas!  I loved my music and I loved it loud.  Precaution: I made sure that the system I bought had a button to cut the music to mute immediately, and touching the button a second time would bring the music slowly back to the volume it was set last at, so that it didn’t blow my system speakers or blow my ears out.  This was defense for when I knew I needed to cut my music off fast, when I would enter a neighborhood, sit at a light and police pull up behind me, across from me, or if I knew they were in the vicinity.  There wasn’t much that I didn’t do – in anything I did – that didn’t require a defense mechanism for Knocka, I ALWAYS thought about them first and how they might be thinking about me.

     In regard to performance I dropped a stage 3 racing clutch in the whip because I drove hard and drove well.  Driving with a racing clutch is not the same as driving a stock clutch: the timing, the catch, and the kick was much more powerful.  I could merc out of second or third gear with my wheels spinning easily.  I had a cool-air-intake with a water guard to protect it from rain, a top of the line Greddy exhaust from the engine all the way to the rear: not those loud, cheap ass straight pipes cats do themselves to make their cars sound loud like a motorcycle.  My car hummed loud and sounded beautiful, especially in between gear shifting. 

     Quickly I blew holes in three radiators back to back in no time because the engine became too powerful and heated the car too quick for the stock radiator.  So what do I do?  I go to the auto parts store and tell them I wanted to order a radiator that would be used for racing.  They told me I could but it might not work, it would need to be modified to fit because it wasn’t made to fit or be used in a road car.  I ordered it anyway, brought it to my mechanics, and they welded the required brackets to hold my AC unit and the aluminum radiator in place so that it would perform properly, do its job, and keep my car cool.  When I opened the hood of my car, the engine was clean like new and the radiator shined like a trophy.  It was the first thing dudes noticed and asked me about when they asked me to look under my hood and see my engine.

     Last but not least, like interior decorator to a house would tell you lighting is everything.  I snatched the stock dashboard out and replaced it with a black-light-lit dash that shined in the car with an amazing ambiance.  My speedometer and RPM meter glowed beautifully and allowed me to see inside the car without clicking my dome light on.  Precaution: dome lights are another reason for Jakes to wonder what someone is doing or looking for in a car, not me.  In addition, I had small LED lights professionally installed like the cars in a car show.  They were installed into all the foot-wells in the car, and the LEDS were xenon white like a Mercedes Benz headlights or a BMW’s.  They were installed with a switch at the dashboard. When they were lit – and I always kept them lit – anyone in the car, in the backseats and the front could see the floor and their feet like it way daylight: like spotlights, without lighting up the entire car.  Finally, I had what they call a HUD, better known to race drivers as head’s up display.  It installed on my front window.  A head’s up display is a digital broadcast of the car’s speed and RPM on the front window so a driver doesn’t have to look down at the speedometer.  Instead, it was transparent and right in front of my face, and you couldn’t see it from outside of the vehicle looking in. It was a tiny box located on my dashboard that projected the speed and RPMs onto my window like a movie projector would to a movie screen or wall.  Anybody that got into my car was in awe when they saw it, “What the hell is that?” They never failed to ask. 

     My car was my cave, it became my home outside of my home it, became my comfort zone.  I took the time to explain all of this so you may get an idea of where I spent ninety percent of my time because in no time, I was in my car more than my home, and it soon took a toll on my wife.  I began to separate myself from my house, and business at the house continued as usual but also grew further and further away as well.  It was blessing and a curse.  It was a blessing because it was a sanctuary for me to get away and think about life and how conflicted I was with my operations, and it was a curse at the same time because it only took me deeper into my hustle and further away from the things I cared about most, my family.

CHAPTER VI

The Plugs

     Now that I had the whip I knew I could extend my hustle beyond the streets of Peekskill.  In my head, I figured this was better for my household because I wasn’t pitching out of my home as much. It would cut down on traffic to the house.  In addition, I knew I could make even larger sums if I linked up with my man China in the Heights where his grandmother stayed, in Brooklyn where the majority of his family lived, and get money downstate pitching to bigger buyers.  On top of that, he and I always had fun and enjoyed each other’s company while we hustled. 

     By this time I was plugged.  I was receiving drop offs from my man from Pub that were beyond my wildest dreams, really.  I knew that I would be moving pounds but I had no idea it was going to grow so rapidly and so easily.  Even better (or I could say for the worse) the more Pub grew in his hustle, the larger I became.  He was moving truckloads and before I knew it I went from a few pounds a week to hockey bags.  Now I’m not sure if you all know what a hockey bag looks like.  A hockey bag isn’t a gym bag. A hockey bag fits an entire hockey uniform in it, pads and all.  Honestly it could fit a dead body in it easily.  Both my kids could fit into a hockey bag comfortably.  Hockey bags were getting dropped off about every three or four weeks.  On a good run, I would empty the bag in about two weeks.  I began doing a lot of wholesaling so the overhead was not as generous, nor was it as tedious as breaking down a pound and selling nickels and dimes but the turn over and the excitement were grand.  All exotic, and the flavors were impressive.  I would take a few pounds out, throw some in the refrigerator, some in my North Face book bag, and keep the rest in the closet in the master bedroom.  When I left the house the North Face bag came with me and I kept it in the passenger side foot well of my car when I was alone. If a passenger was riding with me I kept in the backseat, never in the hatch. 

     Can’t forget the ‘E’ or the ‘X’.  Those were stashed deep in my steering wheel in the centerpiece that popped in and out and had about enough room to fit the equivalent of a cup of water.  I knew it was safe because I’d been pulled over with it before and if Knocka tossed my car (which happened 5 out of ten times) they never found them.  In fact, a few smart ‘State Boys’ attempted to examine the steering wheel’s centerpiece but they didn’t know how to release it, so they figured it secure, that it didn’t pop out, and they’d leave it alone.  I thought- it was only luck when I got pulled, they tossed the car, and I didn’t have my North Face bag with me.  When that luck struck I would always think to myself about the consequences had the bag been in the car, and it was these very moments that caused me to be conflicted with my dealings.  It caused me to ask myself if all of it was worth not seeing my family for years, not being able to kiss my baby boys goodnight, not being in the comfort of my wife’s arms at night while she pet my head and my chest, and most of all the fear and the pain my wife would feel if it were to happen.  See, I didn’t believe in a Higher Power.  I had no faith in GOD or the prophets, so my thinking was pure luck, and never did I feel protected or given chances.  In fact, I sometimes was extremely arrogant and considered the way I moved to be the reason I wasn’t bagged.

     After getting the car in order, I remember the first few weeks of going down to spend time in Manhattan and Brooklyn with China.  It was like being reunited with a good friend, and I looked forward to it.  China and I spent plenty time hanging out together before I moved to Brooklyn, especially after Sabina left me: took our son Isaah, and moved back home to Red Hook.  As much as I wanted to be a father and a husband, as much as I thought I would do anything for my family no matter what, I stayed put and stayed hustling.  I was a coward and was scared to make a change, afraid of leaving the game behind, afraid of giving up the money, the fun, and the excitement. I justified my staying in Peekskill as resentment towards Sabina for leaving me and taking our baby boy with her, away from me.  The resentment, and the lies I told myself, kept me in Peekskill and away from my family. I owned a black Volkswagen Golf at the time. I would leave Peekskill to go and hang out in Brooklyn with China to relax and enjoy myself and in order to stay out of sight and out of mind from the Peekskill Police Department.  At least that’s how I thought about it.  I told myself that it was a rest away from the hustle.

     Those first few weeks of reuniting were just like before but this time, I had additional intentions.  I didn’t only want to hang out and have fun: in fact, that was secondary.  I wanted to get money downstate.  Besides being a good friend I knew he was a solid plug in.  I would call him from Peekskill and tell him I was on my way down, and no matter where he was and what he was doing he was welcoming and always ready to chill, do whatever, and go wherever.  So was I.  He’d tell me where to meet him or where to scoop him up and I was there.  He liked the fact that I wasn’t intimidated, by any person, place thing, and very few situations.  Nor did I ever complain about where I had to go to scoop him up.  I enjoyed his company because he was a different dude the way I saw him, and I enjoyed the experience and wisdom he carried in terms of ‘the game’, the hustle. He was considered a dangerous cat as well and I’ll admit there was a part of me that wanted to be next to someone with a reputation like his, but it was never the reason we became close friends, and he knew that.  He knew that and I respected him outside of all the nonsense, for who he really was as a human being. I knew he respected me the same.  He would always remind me of it, and I respected him for that.

     Now to give you an idea of what China did and who he was before we began to chill, hang out, and hustle together.  China was a ‘Joox Man’, a goon with a mask who carried a silver nickel-plated 45 he called ‘Baby’, and refused to leave his house with out it.  He was a cat that other cats called upon to run up in drug spots or drug houses and take them for all the money and drugs.  He was that dude that when others saw him they quivered, and they knew he had no problem busting his gun.  Busting his 45 Caliber was like second nature, or an extension of his left hand, or his right.  He was good at what he did and he too had morals in regard to the game.  I admired that.  He had rules, and as funny as it may seem he practiced etiquette.  On top of it all he was spiritual. I loved the irony of his character, and he was too interesting to me.  Sometimes he did jobs for big names in the drug game all over NYC and they would owe him favors: hence, he could move around and call upon big shots when needed.  This was a benefit to me and I’d be lying to say I didn’t know that it was.  However, it was also – in a sense- a danger for me, and I was well aware of it.

To be continued...