“Fuck would he do that shit for though?”
“I don’t know man. That fool ain’t been right for years. He’s probably trippin’ ’cause his little brotha Nikky just had a heart attack from hittin’ the pipe and he probably figured those was the fools who sold it to him. Shit, Nikky got the shit from watchin’ him smoke. But niggas can’t take responsibility for they own fuck ups. They always got to blame somebody else.”
“Damn, Snap. Didn’t you and Nikky used to play together when ya’ll was little?”
“Yeah, and Warlock too. He was like a big brother to me. He’s the reason I wanted to get in the game to begin with. He wasn’t all fucked up then like he is now. He used to be clean as fuck, a straight hustler. You remember how he used to cruise around in that big ass Lincoln dressed like a pimp and shit? He showed everybody ’round here what it meant to be a playa. I got all my game from him. He used to shoot dice, steal cars, he even sold dope. His main thing was pimpin’ hoes though and he had some fine ones too. I never knew where he got them from, but he had white ones, black ones. He even had a couple Puerto Ricans once. Then his dumb ass started usin’ and he fell the fuck off like all the rest of them junkies. He kicked heroin and went straight to crack and fell in love. He ain’t been right since.”
“That’s fucked up, playa. You really gonna do him?”
“The trigga has no heart my brotha. I ain’t gonna do him, but this nine millimeter damn sure will.”
“That’s pretty cold, man.”
“I didn’t make this world, Tank. I just have to live in it. If I had a choice shit wouldn’t be like this. But it is what it is. Warlock is crazy anyway. He might come up and slit my throat next or yours. Who knows what he’s trippin’ on now. We’re just as responsible for bringing drugs into the hood as those two dealers. We’re Scratch’s enforcers and he knows that shit.”
“Yeah, whatever. That shit is still cold.”
“Alright, so you’ve got a fuckin’ conscience now. Well, keep that shit to your damned self. Since when did you start givin’ a fuck anyway?”
Tank just smirked, raised one eyebrow, and tilted up the last forty, draining it dry.
“I don’t give a fuck if you don’t. You goin’ to that game tonight?”
“What game?”
“The basketball game at the college?”
“Jerome and Ty playing?”
“Why tha fuck else would I be askin’? Me and Huey gonna hook up and go.”
“Ya’ll need a ride or something?”
“Naw, we straight. I was just seein’ if you gonna be there to support ya dogs?”
“Of course I’m gonna support ’em. They my dogs. I’m gonna be there.”
The twins were having their first basketball game at the college level. After years of taking fools to school on playground courts and high school gymnasiums they had both received athletic scholarships to Temple University. Tyrone had even been offered a scholarship to run track. He could sprint like a gazelle, but hoops were his passion. He could leap from the foul line like Dr. J and execute a perfect two handed slam-dunk while twisting in mid-air. They called him Jr. Jordan and he tried his best to live up to the hype. He still played the neighborhood courts on the weekends just to keep his skills sharp, even after practicing all week long at college. Basketball was his guarantee that he’d never have to do the things we were doing for cash. Seeing us fighting and struggling, slangin’ and bangin’, was enough to instill him with a fanatical drive to escape the legacy of his roots.
His brother Jerome wasn’t quite as dramatic. He came back to the neighborhood to hang out, smoke weed, drink forties, and get his nut off in the gaggle of willing hoodrat skeezers that flocked to him because of his amateur stardom. He hated college. The politics of his fellow classmates seemed naïve and ridiculous to him. They were all concerned with feminism, animal rights, gay rights, pacifism, conservation, wildlife preservation, recycling, and he could have given a fuck about all that. All Jerome was interested in was making dollars. He believed in the golden rule. Who ever has the most gold makes the rules. In his mind if you wanted to change the world you had to start by acquiring wealth. Only the wealthy truly had the power to affect change in today’s world. All us poor mutherfuckers could do is beg them for their help. He wasn’t into begging. He was into taking.
“Ya’ll mutherfuckers are wastin’ your time with all this activism shit. Don’t you know might makes right? Don’t no rights exist without the ability to defend them. How you goin’ to say you have the right to walk down the street without getting’ mugged when fools are rollin’ your ass for your ends every time you leave the house? Sayin’ you have the right don’t mean shit. Those are just words. They don’t mean shit until you bust a cap in the next fool who runs up on you tryin’ to take yours. That’s how rights are established. What would our constitutional rights be without a military and police force that defended them? Get some power, some fuckin’ cash, and then you can change all the shit you want.”
This viewpoint did not endear him with the intellectual establishment. Overnight he was branded a fascist. He didn’t care. He despised the idealism of the sheltered eggheads who attended this school, who had never experienced a real challenge to their personal rights. He wished he could just play basketball and be left alone.
Jerome’s problems weren’t over when he reached the ball courts either. Being a twin meant constant comparisons to his brother and his style of play was completely different. He wasn’t a flashy showman like Ty. His forte was hitting jumpers and three-pointers. He couldn’t run the ball down court to save his life. He didn’t have any fancy fakes and dribbles. His ball handling skills were woeful and his defensive skills were non-existent. He was always getting the ball picked from him. He covered it up by refusing to dribble the ball and just shooting it from wherever he was at on the court. Seven out of ten times he’d send that rock sailing through the net, which was just often enough to get him full tuition.
The twins were both college freshman now while the rest of us were still in high school and some of us had already dropped out. This made them sort of local heroes. I didn’t know shit about college ball. I didn’t even watch the pros unless the Sixers were playin’, but this game was gonna be a reunion of sorts. Brothas I hadn’t hung out with since Jr. High were going to be there. I didn’t even know who Temple was playing.
When we showed up there were already about a dozen niggas from around the way hangin’ out in front of the building. Every one of them was clutching a bottle of Colt .45 with a blunt tucked behind their ears. They were arguing with security. Fat Greg was there and I could see the outline of an Uzi beneath his oversized sweatshirt. As I looked around I could see other suspicious bulges beneath the rest of their clothing. A bunch of guys I didn’t know had joined the argument and it looked only seconds away from becoming a full-scale riot.
“Fuck is goin’ on?” I yelled and everyone turned to look at me. Those fools who didn’t know me turned back around and kept arguing with the security guards who had now been joined by reinforcements. My homies stopped and waited for me to walk over.
“Yo, Snap! These fools won’t let us up in here—wantin’ to frisk us and shit—they took Drew’s beer and poured it out on the ground!”
Everyone was looking at me now. They may not have known my face, but they all knew my name and my rep. I looked over at Drew and he had his hand under his jacket like he was reaching for a weapon. His face was swollen with indignation. I doubted that he was strapped though.