Grace After Midnight_ A Memoir - Felicia Pearson [46]
It’ll be what it’ll be.
But true to form, this bitch is too high to show up in court. There’s no one to press charges.
I’m free.
Another chance.
I dodge another bullet.
I could see this is as an opportunity to mend my ways and go straight. But I’ve been through that straight shit before.
It don’t work.
Besides, my business is going good. My shops are thriving.
My corner is hot.
COP SAYS, “CRACK
YOUR ASS CHEEKS
SO I CAN LOOK UP IN THERE.”
That’s what the cops say when they suspect you holding.
Things are changing. Getting tighter, stricter, meaner. Lean times means you gotta get smarter. Ain’t like back in the day when the shit was loose. Game’s getting rougher.
But I’m playing. I’m schooling my boys. I’m telling them, “Be cool. Be smart. Not only will these motherfuckers crack your ass and look up your hole, they’ll look up under your balls to see if you hiding rock there. So learn the hood, know who lives here and who don’t, study every goddamn car cruising through, pay attention, niggas, and don’t make no stupid mistakes.”
My niggas had to be steely, steady, and ready to step. They had to have their heads on straight. If they were too nervous, they’d scatter when they didn’t need to. If they were too spacey, they’d stay when it was time to scatter.
I trained ’em. I said, “Watch my eyes. Watch my eyes watching the street. I don’t give out no expressions. My eyes ain’t saying that I’m happy or sad or tired or wired. My eyes are dead set on the street. I can tell you exactly how many people passed by in the last thirty minutes, and I can tell you the color of their clothes. Damn near tell you the color of their eyes. You gotta be a hawk, niggas. You gotta be a goddamn hawk to get through this mess out here.”
I was flying high. I was flying low. I was flying the right speed and the right distance. I was flying under the radar. Once in a while they might nab me for loitering, but I was in and out in a hot minute. Nothing was sticking on me. Nothing holding me back.
Broke up with that old girlfriend and found me another. Thought it might be serious but it turned out she was cheating. Girl she was cheating with was a bitch who looked like the Predator. I ain’t kidding. But it was no big deal. What I thought was real romance wasn’t real at all.
Cool.
I could find a girlfriend when I wanted one.
Besides, what I really wanted was to keep my shops poppin’.
I wanted to get bigger at the game.
That was my fate, my life, my only way of surviving.
I’d been in and I’d been out. Up and down. And even sideways. I knew which way was right for me.
Don’t argue with me.
Don’t tell me any different.
Don’t give me no attitude.
If you wanna work for me, study the streets.
Maybe I’ll give you a corner. Maybe I’ll keep you around, look around to see how you do under fire.
You get one chance, but not two. If you fuck up the first time, that second chance could land me back at Grandma’s House.
Ain’t going back.
Going forward.
Don’t get in my way.
“NO, NIGGA. I HIT
THE BLOCK.”
It was a Sunday night. Not much happening. Just hanging with a friend.
We were at a bar called Club One. Straight bar. Everything was cool.
I noticed this guy mad-dogging at me. He looked like a crime-type dude, so I looked the other way. But he kept staring.
“Who is that motherfucker?” I asked my friend.
“Michael K. Williams. He plays the gay gangsta on The Wire.
“What’s The Wire?” I wanted to know.
My friend told me it was a TV show about Baltimore.
A little later Michael came over asked me, “You act or rap?”
“No, nigga,” I said. “I hit the block.”
“Well, come down to the set of The Wire. There some folks you should meet.”
Next day I asked people I knew who watched the show what it was all about.
“People like you,” they said.
“What does that mean?” I asked.
“Real people.”
I wasn’t thinking all that much about it, but figured I didn’t have anything to lose.
So I went down to the show. When I got there, with all the trailers and shit, it didn’t look like much to me.
“Please wait,” they said.
“Wait for what?