RAW

by Lamont U-God Hawkins

  I learned about finance through trial and error. When you get successful on the street, no one teaches you about finance. They don’t teach you about taxes, they don’t teach you about IRAs and tax write-offs and budgeting your finances and balancing your checkbook and giving yourself leeway for certain things. You get a certain amount of money, you could go on vacation, you could buy a car. Just because you got ten million dollars don’t mean you go out and buy a five-million-dollar house. You buy a half-million-dollar house. You live below your means, but you’re still wealthy. Being rich is not necessarily making a whole lot of money. Being rich is having your bills paid off and being able to do the things you want to do when you want to do them.

  Of course, working on the streets is a whole different set of problems than a legitimate business. First of all, you aren’t dealing with taxes or Social Security or any of that shit. You’re dealing with fucking ornery, crazy fiends and schemers. You have no protection, and you can’t call the cops. You can’t call the cops when you get robbed. You got to handle that shit the best way you know how to handle it. That’s why I said nine out of ten times, instead of shooting or stabbing or hurting some crazy motherfucker, I’d rather just delete them from my life. I just said, “I ain’t fucking with you anymore.” That hurt them even more because really, I had the bank. Those guys didn’t have shit. I saw it from the banker’s perspective. The bankers don’t give a fuck because they the ones shoveling all the money. If you fall through on your loan, they don’t give a fuck. They’re just not fucking with you anymore.

  I put myself on a budget way back then, due to all the variables of the drug game. That was a good lesson when I started getting this rap money. A lot of rappers with a supposedly bigger name than mine are out here broke. Not me. I’ve always saved my money since the drug game, and I’ve always lived well within my means. I’m not gonna go the club to throw fifty thousand dollars in the air. Fuck that. I’m not into all that, and I never was.

  See, if you got a fucking couple of million dollars in your pocket, you have all types of motherfuckers jumping out of bowls of rice and all types of situations just to get some from you. Friends you grew up with, people you ain’t even seen in twenty goddamn years coming at you behind the scenes, and just doing a whole bunch of scheming. It’s just how the world is.

  *

  About this time, my mother’s years of hard work were starting to pay off. She had gotten a few promotions, and things were getting better for us. It was too late for me, though. By the time she was getting it together, I was too grown up—she’d find my guns and crack and other wild shit. It meant a lot to her that she was getting off welfare and getting herself situated, and I wasn’t going to fuck it up for our family. I can’t blame her at all.

  The last straw was when she found fifty thousand dollars and two kilos of coke in our house.

  I was seventeen at the time. I said, “Ma—”

  She said, “Lamont, what the fuck?” That’s when she kicked me out. She said, “You too heavy. You got to leave.”

  I wouldn’t let my mother go down for none of my shit. That wasn’t happening. Fact is, she didn’t even know how heavy I was. And just like that, I was out on the street.

  In fact, when Wu-Tang first broke out, my mother didn’t believe it. She thought I was still out there selling drugs. She didn’t believe it until I brought home a gold album. I put it in the living room. And now she believes it.

  So I moved in with Method Man, into an apartment across the street from Trackmasters, where we lived with a fucking sneak thief cokehead. That spot was fucked up. The heat never worked. There was always a little crack and/or money missing from there. You couldn’t leave anything in the refrigerator either, cause anyone who came through was always eating up whatever they could find.

  We also had a dog named Samson, a Rottweiler. He started out real nice when he was young. As he got to his fucking full size, he started shitting like a dinosaur, just everywhere. Basically, it was a hellhole. That particular apartment embodied the struggle we were going through at the time.

  But there was still music. There was always music.

  There were times when Meth and I would be on the corner, pretending it was a stage and we were putting on a show in front of thousands of people. We would dream about getting out of the streets, flying around the world, getting a crib in L.A., meeting movie stars, getting with women, the whole lifestyle. At the time, our self-esteem might have been in the toilet, but we just knew we were going to lift ourselves out of that situation. But first came putting the work in, because without it, we weren’t going anywhere.

  But we kept our moves discreet, partly because we didn’t want to set ourselves up for disappointment. Also, it was best to move in silence with all the crabs in the barrel surrounding us. The few dudes on the block we did tell about our plans thought it was all bullshit, anyway. They didn’t take it seriously.

  We had to keep that shit secret because motherfuckers treated you weird. Even when I was in high school, people would be like, “What are you doing?” when I’d have my headphones on making rhymes. “Writin’ rhymes?”

  “Yeah, man, I’m writin’ rhymes.”

  “You ain’t EPMD. You ain’t Big Daddy Kane, man.” Those were close-minded motherfuckers. I bet you they sittin’ there like “Oh shit” now.

  Method Man was really serious about it, though. He had entire songs, verses, and choruses in place. Out of all of us, Meth and ODB were more serious about rapping and entertaining. When it came to entertaining, they were the best. That’s why they were so advanced. Their dedication to their respective crafts was very real.

  Even with all the other dudes around, Meth always stood out. I knew he was going to be great, even when his self-confidence was lacking a bit and he didn’t believe it himself. But as he developed his rhymes, I started to see his talent grow and realized he shouldn’t be hustling and ducking cops on the block. I wanted him away from that so he could focus solely on the music. He’d already done a lot of shit to hold us down in the streets, so he had earned his respect.

  But in order for Shaquan to truly grow into Method Man, though, he needed to focus on his writing. To do so, he had to step away from the asphalt jungle, and in turn I had to step it up in his absence. I took care of him so he wouldn’t have to be in the streets.

  “You know what, man?” I told him. “You just sit there and write. You do your thing while I cut this half a brick over here,” I said. I used to cut a fucking joint up, right in front of him.

  I’d be sitting there cooking up all this fucking coke, and he’d be pacing around the room writing his rhymes and reciting them to himself until he had it down, then he would rap that shit to me. Or he’d just be sitting there doing his rap, eatin’ his sandwiches from this fucking corner store. He’d have his headphones on, getting busy. He’d write them, and then slide off and do a studio session sometimes. I’d be whipping work in the pot, nodding my head while he kicked his verses. His rhymes were crazy.

  One afternoon we were kicking it, me chopping and cooking, and him writing, when “Method of Modern Love” by Hall and Oates came on the radio. Of course it’s got that great refrain: “M-E-T-H-O-D-O-F-L-O-V-E” and we’re just doing our thing, and that’s when it came to us, and we knew “M-E-T-H-O-D-M-A-N” was here to stay!

  That’s always been a gift of ours, transforming thoughts, acronyms (like C.R.E.A.M.), and slang, and providing the right energy or mind-set that can turn a simple concept into something much bigger, whether that be a rap name or single title that would become a worldwide hit.

  In fact, Meth was responsible for coming up with what the acronym W.U.-T. A.N.G. stands for: Witty Unpredictable Talent And Natural Game. We were acronyming everything at the time: “Cash Rules Everything Around Me,” and all that, and certain things stuck, and certain things didn’t. But given that we were also heavily influenced by martial arts and Asian kung fu movies and all that, the name Wu-Tang seemed like a natural fit.<
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  *

  Even when my drug game was at its height, I always kept in mind that I was just trying to make a fucking living in a fucked-up situation. I was content with my small operation, making enough to get by and taking care of my peoples.

  But with all that, I was still learning about the game. Anything you do, you should study it extensively. I’d hop in my Volvo 740 and go check out my contacts uptown, not even to cop drugs, just to observe and learn from the way they were hustling there. Plus, it was an escape from Staten Island. I got to see how other hoods hustled, how they dealt with the heat and the stickup kids and all those headaches. You had to learn the latest tricks the cops and the junkies were pulling, or you’d be their next victim.

  When my operation was running full-bore, I had about twenty people working under me. Then I had to shave it down because some dudes were fuckin’ up. I shaved it down to about five or ten people. I got better output when I downsized, because I wasn’t dealing with so many crazy motherfuckers anymore. I ran my operation like fucking IBM.

  The ones I cut were users who were fuckin’ up and sometimes not coming back with money. They didn’t respect the structure. So I let ’em go with no hard feelings, but no second chances either. I looked at it like, “Okay, you fucked up, so you got to go. You ain’t getting no more bombs or money from me ever.” Now, I know dudes that killed motherfuckers for stupid shit like that, just to maintain their reputation. Reputation isn’t everything, it’s only gonna get you in trouble. “I gotta reputation to protect, I gotta protect this legend I’ve built on the street, so if you cross me, I’m gonna come back on you and hurt you to protect my rep.”

  I know a dude who shot another guy to protect his rep, and now he’s doing thirty years. Ego combined with anger will fuck you up every time. There’s hundreds of dudes in jail right now kicking themselves in the ass over shit they pulled to protect their reputation, wishing they could take it back.

  But you’re always gonna take some shorts. It was the cost of doing business, and you just had to deal with it. Like I said, people eliminate themselves. For some apparent reason, as a youngster I already knew that. You didn’t have to shoot anybody. I told dudes, “Man, you don’t gotta shoot anybody that owes you fucking money. You just don’t fuck with that dude no more.” Whoever’s doing good, you stick with those. Whoever fucks up, they fuck up. You just don’t fuck with ’em no more. Leave them alone. Ain’t no second chances. You only get one. ’Cause I know if you fuck up once, you gonna fuck up again and again and again. You gonna keep doing the same damn thing. You’re a dummy, and I’d be just as dumb to trust you again.

  Some people I grew up with, they were hard-core shooters doing all type of dangerous sucker shit to get turf. They wound up snitching on each other and they killed eight dudes, they got eight fucking bodies, and all wound up in a big conspiracy case and all type of shit. Today, they got nothing to show for it but jail time.

  Some motherfuckers just wanted more money. The more turf you covered, the more money you were getting. That’s why we said the 160 was our building. Then there was 350 and 55 Bowen. There was 141 and 260. There was 280. These are notorious drug buildings, and 160 was our building. That’s where the majority of the traffic was coming through, 160 and 260. Before that, it was 55 Bowen when Dusty and the dreads had brought the first wave of drugs into the neighborhood. After they died off and got locked up, and their entourage got locked up, we took over.

  I had three buildings. I had 160, New Brighton, and West Brighton. I was doing more than good enough to get by. We were eating. We didn’t know what to do with the goddamn money, but we were eating. ’Cause we were giving the money right back to the coke man. Go buy some more coke. Buy more product. Buy some gifts, you go eat, get a car, pay your rent, pay your bills, then you give the rest to the fucking man again. Try to re-up again.

  At first, it was all cool. Making this money. Doing what we got to do. Doing whatever. Then I just got tired of it. I just got tired of dealing with the guns, the carnage, the people. I got my diploma from McKee Vocational High School. I graduated. I graduated because I didn’t want to be a drug dealer my whole life. I didn’t want to have to be looking over my shoulders for police, stickup kids, junkies, robbers, hateful people. I just got tired of that shit.

  Years later, I would tell dudes who were fighting over buildings and shooting it out over drug blocks, “Why are we fighting over these buildings? We don’t own them. None of this is ours. Watch, there’s going to be a day when ain’t none of us even going to be out here.”

  Sure enough, you drive past those buildings now and there’s nobody there. Nothing. It’s like all them dudes got shot, murdered over drug buildings, and nobody even owns the building. Dudes are in jail and others got killed all trying to claim the building, and not one of them could lay any type of real claim. It was all over nothing. It all meant nothing.

  *

  At the level I was at, I went through all types of shit. I almost died probably about five times. After I cut peoples loose, some tried to get back on me. It happened all the fuckin’ time. One called the police on me. Motherfuckers shot at me. I’ve been kidnapped. Literally. The killer shit was just missing me, or I saw it coming and avoided it, or shit happened and it was just that close.

  Once, I almost got killed because I was in the wrong territory. Like I’m the ambassador, right? I was supposed to let the locals know I was in town, but me trying to be on some sucker sliding-under-the-radar shit, they didn’t know I was there.

  I was up on a spot, getting it clicking. It was the first stages of a new territory for me to make money. I’m there doing my one-two stepper, in the bathroom counting the day’s take. Got my gun on me. Junkies running around the apartment out front, making a whole bunch of noise. Fucking house is noisy all day. Then all of a sudden, it just stopped being fucking noisy. I didn’t pick up on the shit. I’m like, “What the fuck? It’s quiet out there.” I’m sitting on the toilet, contemplating what’s going on. I got my nine, I got my shit. The door is closed, and I’m counting my money.

  Something told me to shoot through the fucking door, but I didn’t listen to my fucking instincts. I open the fucking door, four men run in with guns. They got me cornered in the room, and grabbed me and started beating me in the head with pistols. Boom, boom, boom, boom. Gave me a hairline skull fracture. I still got a skull fracture from that shit.

  They beat me up, tried to knock me out. Dude’s like, “Yo, where’s the drugs? Where’s the drugs?” I gave them everything I had on me. He was like, “Nah, this ain’t it.” So he threw a blanket over my head and put a gun to my head. After he put the gun to my head, he clicked it back and said, “Man, I’m goin’ kill you. Where’s the money and the drugs?”

  I said, “Yo, dawg, I gave you everything. I don’t have anything else.” Plus, with the fucking blanket on, I can’t see, I’m blind. I got a gun to my head, I got a towel over my head. I thought I was a dead motherfucker.

  I’m sittin’ there. One of the dudes is like, “Yo, man, we should take him with us.”

  The other thug’s like, “Nah, nah, nah.”

  Other dude was like, “Yo, you know what, man? I got respect for this dude. You’d be in there cryin’.” I hear him talking to his friend. “You’d bend like a little bitch,” he said. “You’d fold like a little bitch.”

  I’m sitting there listening to this shit. I’m amazed this whole shit was going on. So he cocks the pistol and says, “Yo, you know what? Count to ten, man.”

  I said, “Then what?”

  He said, “Don’t worry about it. Count to ten.”

  So I’m sitting there. I’m counting. I hear the door close. Those dudes just fucking leave. I come downstairs. I’m all bloody and all that shit. My man Each, he used to run the projects, he was like, “Oh, shit, dawg, why the fuck didn’t you tell me you were upstairs, that was you? I know the dude told me there was some guy upstairs selling …”

  I was like, “Yo, dawg
, where’s your man at?” I knew who had set me up. I said, “Where the fuck is your man?”

  He was like, “The dude didn’t tell me it was you.”

  I said, “I know he ain’t tell you. I told him to tell you I was here.” I said, “I’ll be back, man.”

  When I came back, I was all blacked out, getting ready to kill this motherfucker. I’m in the bushes, blacked down head to toe. You can’t see me. I’m the ninja squirrel. I see the motherfucker who did it. He don’t see me. I waited and I waited until the guy got real close up on me. He was with my man Each. I guess Each must have known, because he was with the dude real hard.

  I jumped out on the guy, ready to blow his fucking top off.

  Each jumps in front of him and says, “No, don’t do that shit, God. I knew you was coming. I knew you was coming. You’re real mad. Just for real, man, just forget about it. I’m sorry. It didn’t mean to go down like that.”

  I said, “Yo, man. You lucky little bitch. My man in front of you. I’m gonna see you.”

  He was like, “Oh, shit.” His face dropped. His fucking bitch face just dropped. He knew I meant what I said.

  I was calm afterward. In fact, I kinda forgot about the whole situation. I let the shit slide, but then my man Each got murdered. They killed him, too. The dude that set me up, he ran off. He ran off like a little girl when Each died, because he knew his protection was over, and if I ever did see him again, it would not go well for him.

  *

  Of course, there was a downside to all that easy access to drugs. W105e all did that shit in the fucking hood. That was part of growing up in the projects. We smoked dust. We smoked bowls. We smoked crack. We did mescaline. I did all types of fucking crazy shit growing up. We didn’t know any better.

  Me and a lot of my crew smoked woolies, a mixture of coke and weed packed into a blunt. At first it was some fly shit to be doing, some baller shit, because you needed money for the weed and the crack, so it was like rich man shit. Soon, though, some dudes couldn’t kick the habit and got turned out. That shit was addictive, and since we had the money and the access, there was no regulating our use of it. Luckily for me, I was able to stop.