I was in the hallway when I heard her say, “Vince, please get a job, not a hustle.”
“What do you mean?”
“Vinny’s gonna need a father in his life, not one that’s behind bars, or dead. Have you given going back to school any thought?”
I chuckled and left thinking she was acting like she cared for a nigga.
I sat in my car for hours outside Chandra’s building thinking who was doing more for her than I could. It bothered me that another man was being a father to my son. He was able to afford clothes and toys for my son’s birthday and holidays.
I spotted a burgundy Escalade with 24” chromed rims pulling up. A six-three, stocky dude with long dreads wearing a white and black tracksuit, and sporting new Jordan’s stepped out. A baller and definitely a nigga Chandra would fuck with, I started grilling him.
Slowly driving in his direction as he walked to the building, I eyed him like there was beef between us. He turned and looked at me with a scowl. Our eyes locked.
“You gotta problem, brethren?”
He was Jamaican and Rastafarian.
“Nah dreadlocks, I thought you was someone I knew, that’s all.”
I smiled and drove away, blocking the thought that this punk-pussy-ass, nigga could be fucking my ex, my baby mother.
Six
That same night, I was on one of the rooftops of the buildings in 40 projects smoking, drinking. There were couple of niggas from the way enjoying the night reminiscing on Thomas and how it was coming up back in the days.
I clutched a forty-oz malt liquor bottle and stared down at 107th Avenue from seven stories up. Watching life in the hood, one nigga laid to rest and it keeps going endlessly like space. We mourned and hurt but our days never stop. I thought about what the pastor said at the burial, about starting out bravely with a gallant smile; for my friends ‘sake and in his name, live and do all things the same. I chugged the forty.
I found myself wishing that my days wouldn’t go on. It seemed easier to be dead. But damn, when I’m dead, who’s gonna look after my son and my moms…?
I took another swig from the 40oz and continued to look down at society. There was a row of trucks parked on 160th street, nothing but tricked out Escalades, Yukons and Range Rovers, all sitting on huge chromed rims right across the street from the bodega.
The owners of the lavish rides were up on the rooftop, enjoying the night and trying to escape reality off beer, Hennessy and weed. I tried to trick out my ‘89 Mazda 626 with cheap alloy rims and tinted windows. It wasn’t close to what these niggas pushed.
“Vince you good my nigga…?” S.S. asked me. He was Spoon’s cousin. We went to high school together, were the same age and fucked the same bitches coming up.
The only difference between S.S. and me was that he owned a sixty thousand dollar truck and always stayed with a knot.
“Yeah, I’m good, just thinking about some shit,” I replied casually.
“Here take a pull,” he said passing me the dro.
He poured beer on the rooftop and said, “That’s for my nigga, T. May he rest in peace. He’ll be missed.”
The rest followed doing the same thing. S.S. pulled out a .357 and said, “Yo we need to send my nigga, T out right. The niggas who murdered him is still breathing.”
“My nigga, I’m down. Your beef is mine.” Someone shouted.
“Fuck it; let’s give this nigga a twenty one gun salute right now,” S.S. said aiming his .357 into the air with his arm outstretched.
More guns were pulled and aimed at the night’s sky. I waited for shots to start ringing. S.S. let off and soon an explosion of gunshots followed. I covered my ears and waited for the salute to end. It sounded like war on the rooftop. Seeing residents running, ducking and looking around made me laugh.
Empty shells covered the rooftop when it was over. S.S. and his niggas were high and ready to get into whatever.
Tyriq appeared on the rooftop soon after the shooting. Everyone gave him respect.
“Yo, it’s sounded like Iraq up here,” he joked.
“What’s good?” S.S. greeted him with dap and a hug. “We lighting up the night for your brother.”
Tyriq strutted around the rooftop clad in a Mitchell and Ness Jets throwback Jersey, jean shorts with beige Timberlands. He rocked a diamond platinum chain that gleamed brightly like the sun itself.
“Ayyite, Vince, what’s good? You acting a fool with these niggs too?” he laughed.
“I’m wit it, came up to chill and get my thoughts together,” I smiled.
“Ayyite, been a stressful, fucking day,” he said.
I swallowed another mouthful of brew and stared at the neighborhood. Tyriq and the rest stood behind me.
“Yo S.S., y’all niggas bounce for a minute. I wanna have a word with my dude, ayyite?” Tyriq requested.
When the door shut, Tyriq stood next to me.
“What’s on your mind, Vince?”
I had a lot on my mind, money, the funeral, my son, my baby moms, struggling to stay afloat.
“Nuthin’ much, just enjoying the night,” I responded.
“Ayyite, let me get a taste,” he said pointing to the beer. I passed it and he took a mouthful. “Look at these muthafuckas here, late as usual.”
I looked down and saw three police cars drive hastily up 107th Ave and five uniformed officers got out.
“Clown ass pigs,” Tyriq laughed and pulled out a small wad of bills. “Let me give them a lil’ sump’n for their efforts,” he said tossing the wad of bills into the streets. Hundreds, fifties and twenties floated into the night’s air, falling loosely to the ground.
I laughed.
“Look at that money. You think I give a fuck. I own this shit. The fucking world is ours for the taking. Who’s gonna stop us?”
I peered at the lay of the land that was South Jamaica, Queens. These niggas have it lovely, I thought.
“C’mon, before I end up busting my gun,” Tyriq said.
We walked down the piss-ridden, staircase and heard commotion. In the lobby, the police were harassing S.S. and his crew.
“Why y’all fucking with us?” S.S. shouted. “We ain’t strap.”
He raised his shirt. They got rid of the gats knowing the police would be around.
