THEY MADE ME AN ADDICT
An American TaleBy Bruce WelchAuthorHouse
Copyright © 2011 Bruce Welch
All right reserved.ISBN: 978-1-4634-1997-4Chapter One
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, Dupree, 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 Dupree 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, Dupree, what's good?" I yell when I spot him across the street, walking toward me. Dupree 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, Tyrone, 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?" Dupree 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," Dupree 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. Dupree 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," Dupree 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 Dupree 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 Dupree take jokers' shit, but he never did it to me. It reminds me of something Dupree said to me. I looked at him and said, "Dupree, we cool as hell," and he answered, "Until you cross me." I was twelve years old, and I'd never thought about crossing anyone.
Dupree 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 Dupree. 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 Dupree. 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 Dupree and see how the street has changed him. His weight is in the basement, and his skin is pale. But one thing about Du—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 Du. 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 Dupree. It's a big knot of money, mostly crumpled, dirty singles and fives. Dupree 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?" Dupree asks.
"You know it," I answer.
"You whipped."
"Nah, that's my baby, man."
"Man, Rosie 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," Dupree 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 Dupree 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," Dupree 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 Dupree.
"Can I get the five?" Dupree 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," Dupree says. "You staying the night?"
"Nah, man, Rosie'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," Dupree says.
"Du, 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." Dupree 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.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from THEY MADE ME AN ADDICTby Bruce Welch Copyright © 2011 by Bruce Welch. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
