They Made Me an Addict: An American Tale

By Bruce Welch

They Made Me An Addict

They Made Me An Addict shows the journey of Moses, a young African American male who grows up fascinated by the street lifestyle and dismayed by its tragic results.. He decides to write a book about the streets from the inside out. The only way he knows how to do it is to hang with the thugs and do what they do and say what they say. He changes his church upbringing lifestyle to that of a hardcore juvenile delinquent. He says when he begins his quest, "I want the blood of the streets to flow through my veins so when I write about it, people can feel it." And we all feel it, as we follow Moses from birth to adult years through the streets of Newark, NJ and the dangerous world of drugs, cool, crime and violence, and his quest to make a difference.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Sep 19, 2011
• ISBN: 9781463419950

Bruce Welch

Most books about the street lifestyle are written by brothers who grew up in the hood, lived crazy ass lives, survived and decided to write about their exploits. The difference between Bruce and those authors is that he decided to be a writer at the precocious age of 12 before he ventured into the lifestyle. So, he went into the game with writers eyes. Not only did he live the crazy ass lifestyle and survived but he took a break at the age of 17, went to college and got a degree in literature. Then he went back out on the streets, finished living the crazy ass lifestyle, survived (barely) and wrote his novel. This novel is the first of it's kind. Bruce has given his life, soul and blood to this novel.

Book preview

1

Street Life

It’s around midnight. I’m standing alone on the corner selling medicine, and buggin’. I’m buggin’ because I want to get the fuck out of here. I’m tired of this medicine dealing game, and I want out. This ish got me confused. I’m supposed to be writing a book about the streets from the inside out. Instead, I’m selling medicine, sniffing every day, and I stop writing months ago—ain’t that much research in the damn world.

Once, I get the rest of my street money from, my man, Roger, I’m done, hopefully for good. The only thing that could slow me down from leaving the streets is that I’ve been getting high a-little-bit-too-much, lately. But I got a plan to get off the streets. I heard from old timers that the first night of withdrawals could be the worse. I know I don’t have a habit because I don’t bang (inject); I sniff. But I have been getting high for a minute, so if I start to feel a little sick, I got my just in case bag with me: a brown paper bag with a pint of Hennessy and can of coke. I’m going to drink the Henny, get drunk and sleep it off, but that’s only, if I start to feel a little sick. Plus I’m getting rid of all of all the medicine that I have by tonight. I’m going with the, out of sight-out of mind, theory. After that, I should be straight since I don’t have a habit. I only sniff.

I’m leaning on a closed drugstore with iron gates on the doors and windows; hanging above my head is a big white neon sign inscribed with the prescription symbol. I look on the ground and see empty bags of diesel and plastic vials from crack cocaine all over the damn place. I shake my head, because little kids walk through this block all the time, and they shouldn’t see this shit. But how can I talk about stuff being everywhere when I sell it? Like my man Roger said, This shit is crazy.

The full moon is sitting in the sky all alone, no stars, no clouds, just darkness. And I laugh, because loneliness has been an uninvited guest of mine for a long time. It grew on me like an unjust life sentence. Usually, three or four dealers are out here, trying to get money. But I’m glad to be alone, because I don’t want those motherfuckers walking up to me, talking about how much money they made or how good their medicine is. I don’t want to hear shit. That ain’t what it is.

I sell medicine on South Orange Ave. and 10th Street in Newark. It used to be called Martin Luther King Street, but they changed it to 10th Street. In most medicine spots in New York, one or two major dealers run things, but we don’t get down like that. In our ’hood, local kids run back and forth to New York buying bundles (ten bags) of medicine at a hundred dollars a pop. We’ll sell a bag for fifteen or seventeen dollars, for a profit of fifty to seventy a bundle. But if your ass comes around here trying to make money, and you don’t fit in and you don’t belong, Man, yo’ ass a get lit up. Not by me; I’m not a bad man. I just keep the bad men off me.

I haven’t made a sell in thirty minutes, but I’m not sweating it, because I only have a bundle of diesel left, and I want to keep that for myself. See, not only am I the medicine club president, but I’m also a client. And since it’s my last night on the streets, I’m going to get fucked up one last time. I hope I can get that taste out of my mouth.

It looks like rain, but it doesn’t matter to me, because I’m trying to get money so I can get paid, so I can get out of here. That’s what we always say on the block: I’m trying to get money. I’m trying to get paid. I don’t believe them when they say, It’s about the money. Money has something to do with it, but it’s always about something else, whether they know it or not. I know it. For me, it ain’t never been about the money. It’s always been about the story. And that’s why I’m getting out the game—because lately it ain’t been about the story. It’s been about the medicine, and this shit has got to stop.

As I’m looking out toward the four-lane intersection, a sinister breeze sweeps through the empty avenue and picks up an innocent can on the corner, twirls it in the air, and then slams it on the ground, bending it out of shape forever. In the afternoon, it’s crazy busy out here. Buses run up and down the street, blowing their horns, slamming on brakes, letting people off and on. Neighborhood people rush in and out of stores, buying drugs from the drugstore, liquor and beer from the liquor store, and picking up and dropping off clothes at the cleaners. All types of kids, big and small, fat and skinny, chewing gum, buying candy, and going to the poppy store for their mom’s to buy instant rice, canned foods, or cereal.

I check out the other corners of the intersection. One Hour cleaners: gates locked and closed, corner empty. Julio’s Spanish store: gates locked and closed, corner empty. South Orange Liquors: gates locked and closed, corner empty. Closed—now that’s a word I’m familiar with. It’s just like America—the only time it’s open for brothers from the ’hood is when we’re spending money. Unless it’s prison bars. They’ll open those gates with a public defender and a smile and then throw away the goddamn key. It’s called justice. Richard Pryor said, Just us black folks.

Richard was wrong—funny, but wrong. Blacks aren’t the only ones in prison; there are Latinos, whites, Chinese, Indians, some of everybody. We just happen to be the favorite sons, making up 50 percent of the prison population and 13 percent of the total population. You do the math.

The only movement on the block comes from a few shadows behind the closed blinds and curtains in the windows of the apartment buildings on top of the corner buildings. Every now and then, a car rides through; if it slows down, I’m on it. I have to decide, fast, if they’re stick-up kids, undercover 5-0, or someone visiting the neighborhood; but not too many people get visitors after midnight on the weekdays.

They might be customers, but most of my customers walk. I don’t play that drive-by-and-I-walk-up-to-the-car shit; this ain’t Burger King, goddamnit. You do it my way. If you want some of this product, you get your ass out and walk. And even though I sold most of my product, I still have to worry about 5-0. They wouldn’t mind some extra change, especially if they think it’s medicine money. Shit—some cops are worse than stick-up kids; they’ll take everything you got with their bullying asses. And none of them live around here. They should have a rule that a cop has to live in the neighborhood he’s supposed to protect.

Yo, yo, Roger, what’s good? I yell when I spot him across the street, walking toward me. Roger is my man. We grew up together. He’s running for me. I gave him three bundles to sell three hours ago, and he probably just finished. My cousin, Lamont, would have sold that shit in thirty minutes. You’ll meet him later. He’s a pain in the ass. But I love him anyway. We’re all somebody’s pain in the ass.

Yo, yo, he says as he walks up to me. He fakes as if he’s about to shake my hand and then hands me the dirty money. I look around the dark streets as I stuff the loot in my front jeans pocket and pull the front of my hoodie down to cover my pockets.

"You going to the Drug Store in the morning to re-up?" Roger asks.

Nah, I’m good, I tell him.

The Drug Store is a hot medicine spot in the Bronx that sells diesel. They call it the Drug Store because it opens and closes at the same time as a regular drugstore and it conducts business out in the open as if they have a license. Sometimes their lines are longer than Macy’s in New York on Christmas Eve.

The money is short, he says.

I roll my eyes, shake my head, and say under my breath, This motherfucker. He could fuck up a wet dream.

I had two bags left, and the cops came around, so I threw them in the gutter, Roger says as we walk across the street into the hallway of an abandoned apartment building on South Orange Ave so I can count the money at our regular count, the money spot. It’s junkie as hell in the hallway, but I take a piece of old newspaper and wipe the steps off so I can sit down. There’s enough light coming from the streetlight outside for us to see. Roger stands by the closed door, peeking through the slats of wood where there used to be windowpane, playing lookout.

The hallway has all kinds of evidence lying around. There’s a faded picture of an old fat Italian gangster in a three-piece suit, wearing a magician’s hat with a wand in his hand. A ripped-up diesel bag with the name Holocaust stamped on it, a broken needle, a dried-up cemetery wreath, and a naked brown baby doll (a boy) without a head. And lying in the corner, watching everything, is a pair of black plastic shades.

The hall smells of shitty Pampers and death. I look at the shriveled-up wreath and remember when someone said, When a person dies, the first thing they lose is their bowels, and I think they lost them here. There’s also that empty, abandoned building smell, which I hate. It’s the smell of a burnt building immediately after the fire has been put out, when all that’s left is smoldering wood, crackling sounds, and emptiness. This is a good hideout, because we can see out, but out can’t see in. Regardless of how good it is, we can’t stay in here very long, because that smell is busting our asses.

Damn, Moses, hurry up. It smells like homicide in here, Roger says.

I know, but why don’t you pick up your shades off the ground, man? I say with a laugh, looking around at the rest of the garbage.

Nah, man, I don’t wear the all-black FBI joints, he says. I ain’t the police.

As I count the money, I wonder if Roger beat me for the two bags. You always wonder if somebody is trying to take your shit in the ’hood, because jokers build reputations by bullying people, and medicine can makes childhood friends your worst enemies. I’d seen Roger take jokers’ shit, but he never did it to me. It reminds me of something Roger said to me. I looked at him and said, Roger, we cool as hell, and he answered, Until you cross me. I was twelve years old, and I’d never thought about crossing anyone.

Roger could be lying about throwing away the two bags, but twenty dollars’ worth of medicine is not enough to fuck up a friendship. For some jokers, it’s worth bodily harm. But I ain’t living like that. If word gets out that somebody beat you and you don’t do anything about it, everybody’s going to beat you. I’m getting out this game any damn way, so I don’t care what jokers think.

I used to look up to Roger. He’s the big brother I never had. He’s a couple years old than me. We became cool because we were both our mother’s only child. He used to look much bigger than his five-seven frame, slim build, low-top fade, light skin, and round face, like Smokey Robinson without the Miracles. We used to call him Gangster. Back then, he was the man—a smooth-talking hustler with a good right hand that danced with the needle before he had a chance at life. I used to take a lot of shorts before I met Roger. He taught me how to box.

I’m short for a man, five-seven, 165 pounds, with a brown baby face, a high-top fade, a Fu Manchu mustache, and a smile. Mostly, I wear baseball caps backward, with the NY Yankees insignia. I walk with the style and grace of a street hood. My first reaction in most conversations is to smile and let out a little laugh, but in the streets, jokers think you’re soft if you smile too much. So I chill with the happy face. I’m a thinker. I’m always trying to figure things out: Why he do that? Why she say that? I’ll think about a situation over and over again until I’m satisfied that I understood the meaning. Sometimes, I’ll think about something that happened bad over ten years ago and try to figure out what happened and why and what I could have done to make it end differently.

I take a good look at Roger and see how the street has changed him. His weight is in the basement, and his skin is pale. But one thing about Rog—he still tries to hold it down. I have to give him props for that. He ain’t giving up on himself. Most people living like him are so strung-out that they don’t care how they look or smell, but not Rog. His clothes may be old and out of style, but they’re clean, pressed to a T, and he doesn’t stink. That’s why I always have mad love for him. He’s still holding it down, even though he’s playing with a fucked-up hand.

I continue counting the loot I got from Roger. It’s a big knot of money, mostly crumpled, dirty singles and fives. Roger is still leaning on the empty mailboxes, looking out of the double wooden doors, playing lookout. If the po po comes, we can lock the door and haul ass up into the dark building or out the back door.

Did you check in? Roger asks.

You know it, I answer.

You whipped.

Nah, that’s my baby, man.

Man, Kim got you trained.

Why I got to be trained? I’m in the streets, getting money. So what’s wrong with calling her and letting her know I’m good? That I ain’t locked up or shot? I say.

What’s in the bag?

Henny, tennis bracelet, and rose petals, I say. You spread them around the room. Women like that.

Moses, you try too hard, man, Roger says. You calling in, buying bracelets and rose what-ever-the hell-they-is. You don’t have to give her flowers. You already bought a bracelet. When you do too much for a woman, they’ll think you’re soft and take advantage of you.

Like you ever did too much for a woman. How would you know? I say.

Man, you know how many women I slept with because their man was too nice? he says. Woman like a challenge.

They like nice things, too. Here, man. I hand Roger two bags.

That’s it? Don’t you owe me one more bag?

You sold three bundles, so I owe you three bags. But you lost two bags to the cop, remember. So because you’re my people, I’m going to take a bag loss, and you’re going to take a bag loss. That’s cool?

Yeah, that’s cool. But damn, Moses, that’s all I got. Front me ten dollars, Roger says, knowing if he asks for ten he can get five.

Front you. You know you ain’t trying to pay me back. Plus, I bought you something to eat. And I already took a bag loss. I’m a have to put you on my damn taxes form.

Come on, Moses, fuck it. Give me five and we’re even.

We already even.

Come on, man, five dollars ain’t going to hurt you. A pack of cigarettes and a soda, he says. Let a brother live.

That’s the same shit you said when I bought you lunch. Man, you need to leave that shit alone, I say, knowing it don’t mean shit to Roger.

Can I get the five? Roger says.

Here, man, take the goddamn five. That’s why a joker can’t make no money. Jokers always want you to give them shit. Too much game. I handed him the five.

That’s what it is, Roger says. You staying the night?

Nah, man, Kim’ll kill me. My man James is going to give me a ride. Kid I went to school with. I saw him a couple hours ago, and he’s going to take me home for a bag and five dollars.

That’s cool, Roger says.

Rog, I’m getting out the game. I’m tired, man.

You tired? Man, I been using since I was a pup. Shit. I thought by the time I turned fifteen, I’d have the whole street game figured out, and I’d be rich. I was going to buy Mom’s a house, a new car, turn my medicine money into a legitimate business, and get out the game. Twenty-five years later, I’m still in the game, and all I got to show for it is a bad habit and a bunch of war stories. I’ve been chasing that shit all my life.

Then why don’t you stop? I ask.

Man, I think if I stop using medicine now, my body will just fall apart.

Your body will fall apart? I laugh. Well, I’m getting off diesel.

Man, Moses, it ain’t going to be easy. You been messing with that diesel hard.

Not that hard.

Yes, you have. Moses, I was born in the game. You don’t think I know when somebody got it bad, man?

That’s why I bought the pint of Henny and a can of Coke, I say. If I get sick when I chill, I’m going to drink the Henny and sleep that shit off.

Henny. That shit going to make it worse. Roger shakes his head.

How you know? You can do anything you want to if you put your mind to it, I say.

Who told you that?

I’m Popeye the sailor man. I’m Popeye the sailor man. I’m strong to the finish ’cause I eat my spinach. I’m Popeye the sailor man, oh, oh, I say jokingly.

That’s why jokers think something wrong with you, saying that kind of stuff.

That’s what it is, then, I say with bass in my voice.

Forget about that, Roger says. I’m just trying to tell you, man. That Hennessy ain’t going to work.

Why, because you think I got it bad? You think I’m a junkie?

I’m an addict, not a junkie, Roger answers.

What’s the difference?

Addict means addicted, which I am. A junkie is them jokers living in abandoned buildings who don’t take baths, don’t brush their teeth, and will steal from their mommas. I ain’t living like that. I got a little style with mine. I keep a fresh cut, clean clothes, and I don’t steal from my momma.

Yeah, well, I ain’t neither, I say. I’m a writer. I’m only out here because I’m writing a book about the streets. I just get high a little bit too much, that’s all.

That’s what you think? Roger says.

That’s what I know. You out here because you chose the streets.

I didn’t choose the streets. The streets chose me. I was born into this shit; by the time I was five, I saw jokers nodding and sweating on the project steps, Roger says. I went from chasing medicine dealers out the ’hood when I was ten to sticking a needle in my arm when I was thirteen.

How that work? I ask.

Shit came back with a vengeance. It was everywhere, everywhere, everywhere.

Who is vengeance?

Bullies.

2

Jones

What’s good? I say to James as I open the front door of his thirteen-year-old black Monte Carlo with red leather bucket seats. As I sit in the car, I notice an open ashtray full of cigarettes butts, some smeared with red lipstick, and a small clock on the dashboard that’s stuck on stupid.

A strip of masking tape is across the glove compartment with the word Poison written on it in black marker. The car looks like a smaller version of the Bat Mobile, without the fishtails and the sunroof. I put the bag on the floor and look out the window as we’re leaving the block and say, See ya.

It looks like it’s about to rain, James says. So what you been up to?

Chilling, getting a little money, that’s all. What about you? I ask.

Trying to survive.

Why did you name your car Poison?

Because that’s the name of the best medicine I ever had, he says with a smile.

Here, man, get Poison some gas, I say to James after giving him five dollars and noticing he’s damn near on E.

You know I only charged you a bag and five dollars ’cause we go way back, he answers. A cab will cost you twenty-five, thirty dollars, easy.

Good looking, I answer, knowing he’s full of shit. I see that junkie look in his crusty-ass eyes. He’ll drive me to West Hell if I ask him and for less money, too. Where is he going to get a good bag of medicine at one in the morning but the projects? He mess around down there and get robbed.

I ease the seat back and get hit with this musty-ass smell like feet. I sit up and look in the backseat and then shake my head. It looks like James lives in this damn car. He has clothes and medicine paraphernalia everywhere: old jeans, soiled cotton balls, turned-over pair of old black gators, a spoon coated with white medicine residue, old, dirty undershirts, and a leather belt with cracks.

I remember a conversation James and I had in the third grade. He was bragging to me that he went to see his father, who was in federal prison for bank robbery. He told me his father was a G (gangster) and didn’t take shit from nobody. Not even the guards fucked with him. He said his father was tall, had big, muscular arms like Popeye, and had big, fat, puffy hands.

Back then, we didn’t know that fat, puffy hands didn’t come from lifting weights. But as I look over at James while he’s driving, I can tell by his hands that he knows what causes them to be fat and puffy and scarred for life.

James stops the car in the parking lot in the back of the building where I live in Plainfield, a small town about twenty minutes from Newark. It’s pouring. The parking lot is dark except for the streetlight at the end of the lot. James sits back with his hands on the steering wheel, tapping it with his fingers like he’s a damn crack head.

I pull out the last seven bags of diesel that I have. The stamp-sized see-through packages are wrapped with a brown rubber band. It’s my favorite brand, SOTF. Once, in New York, I asked the dealer what SOTF stood for. He smiled and said, Sins of the father, baby, sins of the father. That messed me up. I thought it meant soft but they spelled it wrong.

I give James his bag. He stuffs it in his pocket and smiles, then looks at me like a sick puppy, hoping I’ll give him some more, which I do. I don’t want to party by myself. It’s my last night getting high, so I might as well share.

I sit up in the seat. I put six bags on the dashboard and keep one in my hand as the rain tap-dances on the hood. I flick the bag with my middle finger to see the white powder jump. It shows me how much medicine is in the bag.

Did you ever graduate high school? James asks.

Yeah. Then I went to college and got a degree in writing.

If you got a degree, what you doing selling medicine? You should be able to get a good job, James says.

I’m working on a book about the streets, I say.

And you sniffing and dealing? he asks and looks at me with his face all twisted, like I’m lying.

But I’m used to that look, and I promised myself I would stop telling jokers about my desire to write a book, because that shit is depressing. I get tired of people looking at me like I’m stupid or full of shit.

I wanted to write from experience, I say.

You keep messing with diesel, you’re going to get a lot of experience.

This is it for me. My last time sniffing medicine. I peel the tape off the small bag and then stick two fingers in the mouth of the bag. With both fingers, I split it down the sides, careful not to spill a drop. I put the open bag up to my nose and sniff it like there’s no tomorrow. I lick the bag dry, ball it up, and put it in my hoodie pouch. I pick up the other five bags and do the same thing, but I split three of them with James. I sit back and snort as the powder drips down my nose and into my throat.

Damn. You always take six bags to the head like that? James asks, squinting at me.

What you talking about? I gave you half.

Yeah, right. How many bags do you do a day? James looks at me as if he’s a cop questioning me about a murder. How many does it take for you to get high?

Three or four will get me nice. But, you know, it depends on the quality. Like this SOTF—this shit ain’t no joke. You’ll feel two of these.

You think you got a habit? James asks.

I don’t know. But I know people who stopped just like that, so I ain’t worried. I taste the medicine dripping down the back of my throat.

You think it’s that easy?

You ever try to stop? I ask.

Man, this shit ain’t no joke, James says as he looks up. He slowly shakes his head as thunder and lightning battle in the sky and the rain pours nonstop. "I’ve tried everything to stop so I could get back on board. I used to be strong, man. I was making five to ten Gs a week, profit. I had a penthouse apartment, Lexus, Jeep, the whole nine. But I was under a lot of pressure from cops, courts, jealous-ass jokers, and hos. I started dipping and dabbing in diesel. Next thing I knew, I was sniffing ten bags a day. Then I started smoking coke and drinking. And look at me now. Living like a bum. Driving a raggedy-ass car with barely enough money for gas. I got this car from a crack head for twenty bottles. I ain’t got no insurance. My license is suspended. It’s only a matter of time before I go back to jail. I got three warrants out on me now. On some real shit, I’m looking forward to a bid so I can get off this medicine. I’m tired, man. I’m just tired."

That’s some crazy shit, man. Your Jones that bad that you want to go to jail, do a bid? Jail. Damn, that’s serious. What about rehab? I say, feeling my head getting heavy.

Been there, done that, twice. Sometimes, man, I feel like hanging up. I stole from my mother, my wife, and my daughter. Tears ease down his face.

Yo, man. Your mom’s is just mad. She’ll forgive you once you get clean, I say, trying to be understanding as my head gets heavier and the rain hits the windowpane.

You ever been sick before? Moses, yo. Moses, James says, wiping his eyes with his hands as I go into a nod.

Uh… oh, yeah. Um. I don’t know, man. I know my back be hurting, and my nose runs sometimes when I don’t do a bag first thing in the morning. I come out of a nod.

When was the last time you went without a bag?

I don’t know, man. Couple of months. Shit, it might have been a year or two. I don’t know shit, I say to James, feeling groovy and not taking the question seriously.

You got it bad when you can’t remember the last time you went without a bag. You got it bad. Moses—Moses, James says as another boom rips across the sky.

Man. You crazy as hell, I answer, coming out of a nod.

Do you know how long I’ve been trying to get off these streets? James says as he smacks the steering wheel with the palm of his left hand. How long I’ve been trying to get away from this place?

How long? I ask with my eyes closed.

I’ve been trying to kick for five years. And my uncle has been trying to quit the streets for twenty years. He’s tried everything: rehabs, church and prison, and ain’t none of that shit work. None of it.

Well, that’s you and him. You ain’t really want to stop, because if you did, you would have stopped by now. When a man makes up his mind to do something, he can do it, I answer, coming out of a nod.

Just like that? James asks.

It ain’t going to take me no five years, I say with pride and closed eyes.

You ain’t listening to me, James says.

You see this brown paper bag? I say. I pick up the bag from the floor and put it in my lap as fog cover the windows. This is my just-in-case bag.

Yeah, I see it.

I bought a pint of Hennessy and a can of Coke. Old-timers told me that the first night of withdrawal could be the worst. So if I start feeling sick, I’m going to drink this Henny and get drunk and then sleep that shit off.

Man, that shit ain’t going to work. You ain’t listening. You hard headed. James looks at me like I’m stupid.

My Uncle Sam always say that, I say as I snap out of my nod. But let me finish. I sold all the diesel I had. I’m going to give my girl all my money to make sure I don’t spend it on the street. I don’t know anybody out here in Plainfield. I don’t know any medicine spots. Now, if I was hooked, would I do that?

Your ass in denial. You don’t listen. I hope your girl give you your money back without a fight. James shakes his head.

You bugging. I ain’t living like that, I snap.

I’m telling you. You got a Jones. You a junkie just like me.

"I don’t bang man, I sniff," I say.

It don’t matter. You do that shit every day. You got to have it. You’re a junkie, just like me.

I’m out of here, man. You bugging. I step out of the car in the pouring rain with the bag inside my hoodie pouch and slam the door.

James looks at me, starts the car, and shakes his head.

It’s raining like hell, I say as I watch James’s car drive off into the darkness. I head for the crib and slip in a puddle of water. I fall on my left knee and then my hands. I’m on all fours, soaked, high, and laughing. I’m tripping. I bust my ass, but I don’t drop the bag, because it’s hanging inside my hoodie pouch. I look around in the dark, laugh, and slowly get up. My hoodie is so wet that it’s sticking to my back like wet paint. My knee is throbbing, but I don’t feel a thang. First Roger and now James, talking that I got a habit, shit. I don’t know if I got a habit, so how in the hell do they know? I squeeze the brown bag and say, Just in case.

3

School Boy

I know y’all feeling the street game, but it ain’t all about that. I wasn’t always getting money (hustling) in the streets. I used to hang with a different group. I used to belong to a different place.

I remember walking across the stage when I was a senior in college, Jersey City State College. I wanted to go to Harvard but life got in the way. So I went to one of the only schools that would take me. And I believe that had more to do with the grant I was awarded than me as a student, but I ain’t complaining. I have never been as good a student in the classroom as I tried to be in