by Noire
Pimp’s real name was Carl Williams and Smoove’s name was Todd. Mimi had given each of us a nickname when we were just babies, and I guess she called it right because the names fit us like a glove.
“Look at him,” Noojie told us Mimi had grinned over Smoove showing her gums. “This one has skin just like my people! He so pretty he look smoove. And this one over here”—she’d laugh and kiss Pimp dead in the mouth—“this handsome negrito is Mimi’s sugar pimp. Just watch. He’s cold, but women like that. They’ll bring him lots of money.” When it was time to give me a nickname Mimi got serious. “This little red, badass hellion of Noojie’s? He ain’t nothing but a thug. His hair is curly and he looks like an angel in the face, but watch my words. This roguish little bastard is a thug at heart.”
Wino or not, Mimi was still a fine Puerto Rican mama, and people were always telling her how good-looking her little grandsons were. My moms used to be real pretty too, before she started fuckin’ with drugs, but you could tell from their old photos that it was Aunt Dru who had been superfine. But Aunt Dru was a chaser who swung both ways. She feened for both cocaine and heroin too, and she’d almost died when a dealer beat her down for getting tight with his supplier and trying to dip on his product.
Aunt Dru wasn’t right no more after that, and when she focused on the pipe and started riding the trains, that crack had her out there selling pussy for two dollars a shot. She even got so grimy that she broke into Mimi’s apartment and tried to rob her own mother in the middle of the night. But when Mimi woke up and found Aunt Dru sneaking out the window carrying a frozen pork roast, they got to fighting over that meat and Mimi pulled out a knife. Aunt Dru was so high she grabbed a hammer and beat Mimi in the head until she wasn’t nothing but a lump of blood. Mimi died, Aunt Dru got sent upstate for life, and Pimp and Smoove came to live with us.
My moms was a crackhead just like her sister, but unlike Aunt Dru, Noojie had a baby with cancer so she knew how to slow her roll. Whenever my little sister Precious got sick and them nosey caseworkers from social services started sniffing around, Noojie would get right and handle her business in a hurry.
Still, Harlem was a gangsta town, and the three of us boys rolling together wasn’t nothing but some trouble looking to get started. We grew up fast and hard, running the streets day and night. Digging music, hooping on the neighborhood courts, chasing girls, and stealing anything that wasn’t bolted or chained down. I did all kinds of shit just to keep my rep up and get respect in the streets, and Smoove was just a fast-mouthed, Vin Diesel wannabe who followed behind me and Pimp trying to be hard. But Pimp was a for-real motherfucker who didn’t give a fuck about nothing except making money. He was one of them pretty niggahs too. Black and shiny and had a tough jaw and hard eyes. He was cold and evil-hearted, and there wasn’t no boundaries on the kind of crazy shit he would do. Pimp would sneak into a dirty alley, bang on a few garbage cans, then corner the biggest rat he could find and stomp him dead. He’d walk up to one a them little church girls, steal him a kiss, then hit her in the chest like she was a man. One time Smoove came running home from 125th Street hollering at the top of his lungs.
“Aunt Noojie! Aunt Noojie! The cops is out there chasing Pimp! They say he poured gasoline on somebody’s dog and tried to set it on fire!”
The only person Pimp gave any kind of respect to was my moms. Noojie felt sorry for Pimp and Smoove cause their mother was in jail and they didn’t have nobody else. As bad as Pimp was, and as much trouble as he brought to her doorstep, Noojie saw something she loved in Pimp and so did I. In fact, I loved Pimp more than anybody else in the world. We was more than friends and cousins. We was blood brothers. Down in the dirt for each other. Loyal no matter what. We shared everything. Clothes, money, ass. If Pimp ate, I ate. If I fought, Pimp fought. Smoove was all the way down too. We was like a triangle. Three strong points. And as hard as Pimp was, Smoove had already proved he was a hard little niggah too.
When I was nine Noojie let some raggedy niggah move in with us. He was an ex-pro boxer named Kelvin, but he made us call him Killer. Killer was a psycho dude who had taken a lot of head blows when he was fighting in the ring. He got a crazy check every month from being hurt in the service, and Noojie said he had earned that shit.
Me, Pimp, and Smoove used to laugh and run from his ass cause his nose was always running and he blew snot and boogers right into his shirt like it was a handkerchief or a tissue. The only reason Noojie liked him was cause he was a duji-head and she could dip in his pockets whenever he got to nodding out and didn’t know what the fuck was going on.
But Killer couldn’t stand little kids, and whenever one of us boys so much as walked past his ass in the crib he would reach out and bust our lip or punch us in the chest so hard we dropped straight to the floor. Killer called that his one-punch lunch, and he hit us like that so many times I don’t know how one of us didn’t mess around and fall over dead from a heart attack.
One time Noojie had to spend a weekend in jail for boosting and the four of us was left at the crib with Killer. Me and Smoove was scared as shit. Killer had been fucking Pimp up, prolly worse than he did me and Smoove, cause Pimp never cried when he got hit. Scared just wasn’t on Pimp the way it was on me and Smoove. All Pimp ever got was mad, and he whispered to us that he would take Killer out if he ever got the chance. Well, Pimp never did get where he could do nothing to that niggah, but Smoove sure did.
Killer started drinking that Friday night and the more he drank, the meaner he got. He sat on the couch smelling like liquor and piss. Mumbling and cursing with his double-barrel slung across his lap. He had on some brown shorts and a dingy wifebeater that was ripped at the neck and had food and dried snot and crusty boogers caked all over the front.
Killer cursed and squinted through one yellow eye, drinking vodka straight out the bottle and muttering to himself as we played on the floor and laughed at the cartoons on television. Every now and then he would scratch his balls, then dig his fingers into his nappy head of wild-ass hair, like bugs and shit was biting him everywhere.
A crash exploded in the air and got our attention. We turned around and saw Killer staring down at one of Noojie’s glass ashtrays. That fool had thrown it down on the floor on purpose. It had shattered and cracked in a million pieces, and cigarette butts and glass and ashes were all over the floor.
Killer stared at us with mad, drunken eyes. “What y’all looking at? Huh?” And then, “You!” He pointed to Pimp. “I said what the hell you looking at, you ugly motherfucker! C’mere, you ugly-ass little niggah you!”
Killer grilled Pimp like he was a grown man instead of a ten-year-old kid. “You been walkin’ round here like you the motherfuckin’ killer up in this house.” He motioned at me then snapped his fingers. “You too, ugly. Bring your ugly red ass over here right fuckin’ now too.”
Me and Pimp stood up and walked over to him, and I got punched to the floor first. Boom! His junkie fist almost caved my chest in. I rolled around on the floor in all those ashes and pieces of sharp glass, wheezing in pain and trying not to cry.
Pimp was next.
Boom!
Killer hit Pimp even harder, and his knees straight buckled. He dropped to the floor beside me, and we both lay there moaning, getting stuck with glass, and trying not to throw up.
But Killer wasn’t finished yet. That niggah started kicking the shit out of us, doing his best to get to our little nuts.
“Y’all ugly little motherfuckers ain’t no grown men up in here! I’m the man! I’m the man! I’m the man!” He put his foot in our asses as deep as he could get it. After getting our balls crushed, we got smart real fast and rolled over on our stomachs with our knees up to our chests, and let him kick us like that.
Killer took turns on us. He beat me, then he beat Pimp. He punched us all in our heads and backs, stomped us with his stank-ass feet, and then that niggah took off his belt and started swinging that shit on us too. We was all sweating. Me and Pimp on the floor
with glass splinters and sooty ashes sticking to us, and Killer wobbling on his feet and dripping wet funk.
Every time he left me for a second and got busy fucking up Pimp, I would hold on to my busted side and try and breathe and crawl toward the kitchen. But as soon as I got anywhere near out of the living room he would jump off Pimp and come running after me again.
I don’t know how long that niggah fucked us up, but when he picked up his shotgun and cocked that shit I squeezed my eyes closed tight and prayed that somehow Noojie would bust up in the house and save us.
“Look outta that goddamn winder!” he ordered us. I peeped open one eye and got slapped in the face with a fat drop of hot sweat. His was showing all of his rotted-out teeth, and his chest was heaving up and down from beating us so good. “Ya see all that goddamn sunshine, you ugly-ass little niggahs? Ya see it?! Well take a good look, goddamn it, cause it’s gonna be the last piece of sun ya ugly asses see in this world!”
Killer made me and Pimp get up off the floor, then he pushed us into the coat closet and locked the door. We sat there in that hot dirty closet on top of old boots, sweaters, and turned-over shoes. Pimp didn’t show no signs of being hurt, but I was sore and shaking and praying for Noojie to come home.
“Put your nose between the cracks,” Pimp told me when I started breathing real hard, and I leaned forward and breathed through the dusty ventilation slats on the bottom part of the door.
When I lined my eyes up just right I could see straight out into the living room. Smoove was still on the floor holding on to Precious, while Killer was out there tearing shit up. I could see his feet as he stomped around throwing shit, cussing, and terrorizing us like crazy.
“I’ll blow a hole straight in that motherfucka!” he threatened us, pointing his shotgun toward the closet door. “Shoot the ugly offa both a y’all asses. Blast y’all into the end of next damn week! Fuckin’ with me!”
I was scared as hell as I looked down that barrel. That niggah was gonna kill us, and me and Pimp both knew it.
“Just watch,” he promised. “I’ma shoot both a y’all right in ya head, just watch and see. Boom! Put a hole right between ya ugly-ass eyes. As soon as that goddamn sun comes up I’ma put both of y’all niggahs to sleep. You just watch!”
Me and Pimp spent the whole day in that closet. We could breathe all right and see into the living room through the slats, but we were hurting and hungry and by now both of us were scared of getting shot.
The day turned into night, and I peed on myself.
Pimp didn’t say nothing. He didn’t even move away from me and that scared me even more. I musta dozed off at some time in the night, because I remember waking up in the darkeness of the closet wondering if we were already dead.
More time passed, and I opened my eyes and almost cried out loud when Pimp elbowed me in my sore side and told me to look between the slats. I saw Smoove and Precious on the floor by the television. They were laying next to each other asleep.
Killer was sitting on the couch again. His shotgun was across his lap.
A belt was tied around his arm, and he was cooking up his shit in a teaspoon. We watched as he got his works and squirted water out first, then stuck the tip of the needle into the dope and sucked it up before finding a vein and sticking it into his arm.
Just like always, he went into a nod almost right away. His head dropped down to his chest, then jerked back up, then dropped down again before his hands fell to his sides, the needle still stuck in his arm.
Seconds later, Smoove jumped up and ran over to the table.
“What he doing?” I whispered, and Pimp elbowed me again and told me to shut the hell up.
Smoove crept up and got the teaspoon off the table, then ran over and eased the needle outta Killer’s arm. He knelt down at the coffee table and pumped the works liked we’d seen Killer do, then pulled the plunger back until the syringe was filled up with the rest of the cloudy dope.
I held my breath as Smoove tiptoed back over to Killer, who was so high he was slobbering down the front of his crusty shirt. Smoove stared at Killer for a second, then stuck that needle in the side of his neck and pushed the plunger down as fast as he could.
Killer jerked on the sofa and sat up a little bit. His body got real stiff, and his spine curved all the way back like the letter C. The shotgun slid off his lap and fell to the floor, then Killer did too. Shaking and twitching, his whole body went stiff. He danced and jerked on the floor like a fish that had jumped out of a tank. I watched all this in total shock and fear, but Pimp was next to me clapping his hands and laughing out loud.
As soon as Killer had almost quit moving, Smoove bent over and dug in his pockets until he found the key. When he unlocked that closet door and let us out, Pimp jumped up and grabbed him, hugging his brother and swinging him around the room.
“You got that junkie motherfucker, Smoove! You killed his ass!”
Smoove just grinned his face off as the three of us watched Killer lay there and foam at the mouth until his eyes rolled backward in his head and stayed there.
“Everything for the family,” Pimp said and hugged both of us again, and he was right. We was living that shit. Me, Pimp, and Smoove were united against the world, and on that day we made a vow that no matter who we had to put down, we’d be Dawgs-4-Lyfe.
The years passed, and we grew up fast and hard. New York City was our whole world and Harlem was the center of the universe. We was poor, but we had big dreams. Talent and skills. We put our heads together and decided that one day we was gonna be some paid niggahs. We saw the kind of life ballers and hustlers were living. The women, the flamboyant cars, the phat mansions, the mad platinum jewelry.
“You can’t boost your way to the big time,” Pimp told me one day as I limped up to the crib. The cops had busted me stealing for the third time, and they had kicked my ass around and put their sticks on me before pulling into a dirty alley and tossing me outta they car. The only reason they had let me go was because I was a minor and they couldn’t reach Noojie. She was too busy chasing a high to come pick me up from the station, and they were too damn lazy to bother getting social services involved.
“There ain’t shit people in Harlem got in their houses or in their pockets that’s gonna make you rich, Thug.”
He was right, but I had already figured that out. With Noojie being strung out on shit again wasn’t no real money coming in the house. I wanted nice gear, but I wasn’t trying to get busted no more cause jail would only interfere with my time on the basketball court and more than anything, I wanted to hoop. I was still working at T.C.’s, and I’d graduated from emptying ashtrays for Miss Lady to helping T.C. keep his books in the back office, but what he paid me still wasn’t enough to live large. I could’ve asked him or Miss Lady for more money, but I was already working more than I wanted to, and they didn’t believe in just handing shit over to nobody for doing nothing.
Everybody in Harlem knew T.C. stood for Trust Chambers, but I’d been a crowd-pleaser in the joint since I was a little kid, and since I was so good rolling the dice, hustlers started joking that T.C. really stood for Thug Central.
“Thug?” Miss Lady would say and roll her eyes. She always kept my most recent report card taped to the wall for everybody to see, and had recently placed a big pickle jar on the front counter with a sign on it that said Help Send Dre To The NBA! Every Friday she took the donations out and put them in a bank account she had opened for me.
“What kinda name is ‘Thug’ for a future NBA player? Boy, don’t you know you Harlem’s black prince? The one we pinning all our hopes and dreams on? Thug’s the last thing you need to be round here calling yourself. Unless you wanna end up dead or in jail.”
Miss Lady wouldn’t call me nothing but Andre or Little Dre, but I was a wild niggah with a solid rep. I’d proven myself at an age when most cats was still drinking milk. That guy I’d shot in the leg worked for T.C. full-time these days. Instead of letting T.C. kill him, Miss Lady
had given him a job, and when he limped his punk ass around the pool hall dragging his shattered leg, everybody knew it was me who was responsible. So yeah. I mighta been Dre to T.C. and Miss Lady, but every fuckin’ body else called me Thug.
When I look back on those early days, it’s obvious that getting my ass beat with Miss Lady’s house shoe was probably the best thing that ever happened to me. Her and T.C. were dead against kids selling or using drugs, and they made me swear not to get involved with rock or ice or any of that hard shit at any cost.
“You can gamble, pimp bitches…shit, you can even steal cars if you want to,” T.C. warned me. “But you fuck around and get involved with my brother Sonny and his corner action and you can kiss your future good-bye.”
He didn’t have to worry. Drugs could only slow me down on the court, and besides, working with T.C. on his books had taught me that I had a sharp mind for numbers. Miss Lady encouraged me to stay in school and get good grades.
“Dre, you gotta get through college before you can see the NBA, you know. Don’t count on being picked up right outta high school like Kobe did. That would be stupid anyway. Study your math, baby boy. Get you a college degree first. Make sure you actually graduate. Then get your ass in the NBA!”
Miss Lady was down for me like a mother would be for her child. She helped keep my dreams alive and focused, and she made playing professional ball seem like a reality and not just a poor kid’s fantasy. She signed me up for basketball programs like the NikeGO High Five Kids Club, and the Sprite Junior Knicks League. Every Sunday morning she drove me down to Basketball City to practice with the Youth Development League. She paid my team fees, bought my basketball shoes, went to parents’ meetings, and told my coach to feel free to bust my ass if I showed up late for practice or gave him any shit.
But Pimp was right. Fuck all that stealing. All three of us was bringing top talent to the court. We was from the streets, had the skills, and definitely had the heart. We dominated local pickup games, busting niggahs’ pockets and hustling street ball like professionals. I was the tallest and the fastest, but Smoove was a vicious outside shooter and Pimp had a mean defensive game and could shake a niggah back like a fly.