Street Pharm

by Allison van Diepen

  “Good afternoon, gentlemen.” The hostess, a slim white girl with shiny black hair, led us to a choice table.

  “Excellent table, Jeanine.” Sonny winked at her as he sat down.

  “I’m pleased you like it, Mr. Blake.” She smiled and walked away.

  Sonny glanced around. “I know what they thinking.”

  “The only brothers who can afford to eat here must be hustlers.”

  He laughed. Loud. “They be fucking right!”

  I scanned the menu for something with chicken and then snapped it shut. Sonny spent a good five minutes looking, but in the end he went for filet mignon, as usual.

  After we gave our order, I said, “Let’s talk Schultz. We both know it ain’t Michael Brown they want, it’s the guys at the top.”

  “The guys at the top are in fucking Colombia! But I know what you saying. Met Schultz at Woody’s Pub. He put the word out that he wanted to cop some rocks, so I went up to him. He didn’t know who I was.”

  “Good.” I took a sip of water. “Why’d you tell me you got his name from another customer?”

  “I never said that. . . . You assumed it.” He hiked his chin. “Know what happens when you assume?”

  You make an ass outta you and me. Fucking comedian, Sonny.

  “Why’d you let me assume it, then?”

  “I thought he was legit.”

  My hand tightened around my glass. “Yeah, well, I’m glad you didn’t convince me.”

  Sonny nodded. “Me too.”

  “You watch your back, Sonny. Schultz knows your face now. Po-po’s looking for you.”

  “The fuck I care. I bet he wouldn’t even be able to pick me out of a lineup. To white guys, all black guys look the same. I ain’t scared.”

  “I ain’t saying be scared. Just be careful. They wanna know who Michael Brown’s really working for.”

  Sonny grunted. “They gonna grill that boy bad. Don’t matter. Michael know it don’t pay to be a snitch.”

  “Fo sho.”

  The waiter returned with a basket of bread. Glad to forget about Michael Brown, we dug in.

  KNOW THY ENEMY

  Enemies are a gift, not a curse. Enemies force a brother to be on top of his game.

  Back in junior high, I swiped a copy of The Art of War from the public library. My Tae Kwon Do instructor used to quote it all the time. It was written hundreds of years ago by some Chinese guy named Sun Tzu, but I felt like it was written just for me.

  I used some of what I learned in that book to make up my own personal code.

  1. Know your enemies. Understand them. Figure out their next move before they do.

  2. Never show weakness.

  3. Rely on number one, no one else.

  4. Control your physical instincts. Don’t let anybody pressure you into sex or into a fight unless you’re in control of the situation.

  I lived by those rules every day of my life.

  * * *

  Sunday I met an enemy I didn’t know I had.

  Like most other Sundays, I went to the mall, my homeboy Cheddar by my side. He was one of my oldest friends. We been hanging since he moved to Brooklyn from Atlanta in the fourth grade.

  Cheddar—I gave him that nickname because he used to get off on cutting the cheese in class—was the anchor of the Sheepshead Bay High School track team. His life was all about sports, and I gave him props for that.

  It was good to have homies outside the business. I wanted to keep it that way. So when Cheddar asked questions about my dealing, I didn’t say much. Eventually he stopped asking.

  The mall was crowded with shoppers. Cheddar and me smiled at the girls. We gave real big smiles to the girls carrying those sassy pink and white Victoria’s Secret bags. We knew exactly what they were trying to say.

  I bought Sean John gear and a pair of kicks. Total price tag: $634.

  On our way out of a sports store, a girl stepped in my way.

  “Ty Johnson. You ain’t easy to track down.”

  “Do I know you?” I didn’t recognize her, and she had a face you wouldn’t forget. She had a too-wide nose, too-thick eyebrows and a tight little mouth. Maybe it was the expression on her face that made her so ugly.

  “You don’t know who I am, Ty Johnson. But I know you. I know all about you!”

  This was gonna be bad. Time to bounce. I turned to walk away. Then I felt my jersey yanked so hard, it cut into my Adam’s apple.

  “Don’t you dare walk away from me. You wanna know who I am? I’m Shanequa Brown. Michael’s sister.”

  “Shanequa who?”

  “You got a helluva lot of nerve playing dumb to my face. My brother went down for you, bitch.”

  If she was a guy, she’d be tasting my fist. But she knew I wasn’t gonna hit no girl, especially with a whole lot of people watching.

  “I think you got it wrong, honey.”

  I knew the slap was coming, but I didn’t try to block it. “You think you all dat, but you just a fool. I ain’t afraid of you, Ty Johnson. And I’ll enjoy watching you go down.” She spit on my shoe and walked away.

  Everyone stared at me. I could feel their eyes burning all over my body like cigarettes. Fuck them. Fuck her.

  Cheddar said, “Yo, let’s go grab some eats.”

  THE REAL WORLD

  Even when I was a kid, Dad didn’t hide the ugly side of the business from me.

  Once, when I was nine, I went with him to a run-down apartment building in East Flatbush. It was a cold night in January, and I tried to keep my Jordans out of the slush as I got out of the car and followed him up the sidewalk.

  “This gonna take long?” I asked in the elevator. “I’m hungry.”

  “This’ll be quick.”

  We got off on the third floor, turning down a gloomy hallway. “Remember, watch where you step in there,” Dad said. “There could be needles or cat crap on the floor.” He knocked on the door.

  It swung open. A stick-thin white lady with messy brown hair leaned against the door jamb. “It’s about time, Orlando. Get in here.”

  I looked around. The place was disgusting. Pizza boxes and take-out food wrappers were scattered over the floor. The litter box, right beside the door, overflowed with cat shit. Two cats, so skinny it looked like they hadn’t eaten in weeks, eyed me like I was dinner.

  The woman pulled a wad of cash from her pocketbook and stuffed it into my dad’s hand. He uncrumpled the bills and counted them. “Hundred short, honey.”

  She ran a bony hand through her hair. “Don’t have it. I barely got customers anymore. It’s too damn cold. No one’s out.”

  Dad made a tsk-tsk sound. “Ain’t my problem.”

  Movement caught my eye. A little kid waddled out of the bedroom. I watched as the kid climbed onto the torn-up sofa.

  “Dad.” I tapped his shoulder and pointed to the kid.

  He shrugged off my hand.

  “But, Dad—”

  “Quiet.” He handed the lady her rock. “If you don’t have the difference for me next week, I’m cutting you off. Got me?”

  She nodded.

  We walked out.

  I kept quiet all the way back to the car.

  Dad started the engine and turned to me. “You done?”

  “What?”

  “Sucking your teeth.”

  “But didn’t you see she had a kid in there? It’s just, she a ho, ain’t she?”

  “None of that be our business.” He pulled onto the road. “Tell me, what do you think would happen if I stopped supplying her? You think she’d go to rehab?”

  “I guess she’d get it from somebody else.”

  “Right, she’d find any old hustla and throw cash at him. You know what would happen then? He’d see her for the cheap crack whore she is, and give her his worst cut. She’d O.D., and the neighbors would find her cat-eaten body after a week, when the smell got so bad, they couldn’t take it no more.”

  “Ughh.”

  “That lady, she made hers
elf a junkie—I didn’t have nothing to do with it. All I do is supply her with good quality shit. The minute she decides to clean up, I’ll tell her, Good for you, I’m prouda you.”

  “But then she won’t be your customer no more.”

  “I got plenty of customers. The little ones like her don’t add up to much at the end of the week. She used to bring in other customers for me, but she don’t no more. I’d be happy if she got control of her life.” He braked at a stop light and looked at me. “The worst thing a man can do in his life is to lose control. Take the first time I did crack. I wasn’t much older than you. Best fucking feeling I ever had, but it was too good to keep under control. So I never did it again. You get what I’m saying?”

  I nodded. Never lose control.

  “Ty, when people do drugs, they ain’t nothing but slaves—not to their dealers, but to the drugs. And most of the hos out there, they be slaves to the drugs and their pimps.”

  “That’s wack.”

  “Yeah, but that’s democracy. People make they own choices, even if they be stupid ones. Look at your uncle Jean. My own brother, and I can’t do nothing to stop him from killing himself. We can’t let these things get us down, Ty. Look at us. We rich, the ladies love us.” He patted my head. “Let’s get us some pizza.”

  WELCOME TO THE LES CHANCELLOR INSTITUTE OF CAREER OPPORTUNITIES

  Les Chancellor was in a chewed-up (and spit-out) East New York hood. The grass in front of the school was fenced off, I guess because they didn’t trust people not to mess it up.

  When I went inside and saw the metal detectors and security guards, I knew I was at one of two places: a high school or a prison.

  One security guard went through my bag. Another frisked me.

  “Yo, ain’t walking through metal detectors enough?”

  The guard glared at me. “You new. Let me tell you this. We doing you a favor. Get it?”

  “Got it.”

  “Good. Now if you here for nine o’clock orientation, you five minutes late.”

  “At Sheepshead, we call that mad early.”

  “This ain’t no regular school, son.”

  “Well, maybe I’m at the wrong place.”

  “Doubt it.”

  * * *

  I could get used to this place, I thought an hour later as I walked into the classroom and zeroed in on a couple of shorties. I made eye contact with the one in the tight skirt. She smiled back, uncrossing her legs and crossing them again, giving me a peep of her panties.

  Total nympho.

  Another cute girl rolled her eyes and gave me a look that said, You interrupted our class. Wipe that smile off your face and sit your ass down.

  I liked her already.

  The dean left me at the door. The teacher (fortyish-bald-eagle) put down his chalk. “Tyrone Johnson, is it?”

  “Ty.”

  “Welcome, Ty. I’m Mr. Guzman. We’ve been expecting you. A few days behind schedule, but you’ve found your way, and that’s what matters. Why don’t you take a seat behind Darius?” He pointed to a seat, third from the front, behind a guy in a Lakers jersey.

  Was he playing? Third from the front! No thank you.

  He saw the look on my face. “Sit there for now. If you find it uncomfortable after a few days, we’ll work out a better arrangement.”

  We were gonna work out a better arrangement after class. I walked to my seat, checking out the posters of historical people on the walls. Famous quotes had been put up too. One was from Gandhi: “Nonviolence is the greatest force at the disposal of mankind.”

  Yeah, right. Put Gandhi in Brooklyn for a day.

  I sat down and pulled a notebook out of my bag.

  Too bad I forgot a damn pen.

  Shit. Wasn’t like me to forget nothing. But then, I hadn’t brought a pen to school in years.

  “Psst.” The nympho twirled a pen between her fingers and passed it to me.

  “Thanks.”

  “Kristina.” She gave me a great big smile.

  “Beautiful name.”

  Mr. Guzman looked at me. “All set, Ty?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Good. We were just reviewing the causes of World War One. Jamal?”

  “That guy got shot.”

  “Do you remember his name?”

  “Uh . . . Archie something.”

  “You mean Archduke Ferdinand.” Mr. Guzman wrote the name on the board. “Yes, his assassination was the immediate cause that sparked the war. What about long-term causes? Alyse?”

  So that’s what her name was. Alyse, that too-serious shorty, said, “Alliances between countries. And economic rivalries—each country wanted to have more colonies than the others.”

  “Excellent.” He wrote alliances and economic rivalries on the board. “What’s another one?”

  “Lots of big-ass weapons,” a guy at the back called out.

  “Yes, militarism. That’s when everyone wants to build up their armies and weaponry because they know their rivals are doing the same. What’s another reason?”

  Mr. Guzman waited and waited. Finally Alyse put her hand up again. “Propaganda.”

  “Right. The press was full of war talk before anything ever happened. The media played a major role in raising tensions.”

  “As usual,” I grumbled.

  “Pardon, Ty?”

  I said, “Well, that’s what TV and newspapers do—cause trouble. They always talking trash to make money.”

  “There’s certainly some validity to that.”

  “ ’Course there is. The news is what started that whole East Coast–West Coast thing in the nineties.”

  “Hmm. Could you clarify that for us? I’m afraid I don’t know much about this East Coast–West Coast conflict.”

  “You heard about Tupac Shakur and Notorious B.I.G. being knocked off, right? Well, they was rappers from each coast, and they got offed ’cause they was at war.”

  “What started this war?”

  “Same kinda thing that you be talking about. They was competing to sell records, peeps was taking sides, guys on each side was strapped and hiring gangstas to back them up.”

  “That’s a fascinating connection to make. So, class, if Ty is able to make such a strong comparison, what does all this tell us about the causes of war?”

  “They all the same,” Nympho said.

  “Not necessarily,” Alyse said. “There’s one other thing we haven’t talked about, because it doesn’t apply to World War One, but it does apply to World War Two and a few wars since. A dictator. Someone like Hitler or Stalin. Or that Serbian guy with the weird name.”

  “Slobodan Miloević?” Mr. Guzman said. “You’ve made a good point. So we can see that wars stem from a variety of causes, from rivalries to ambitious dictators. Will there always be war, do you think?”

  A guy in Blood colors shot his hand up. “War’s what humans do. Man is a savage beast.”

  A Latina said, “That’s a man’s excuse. War only happens because men are too stupid to find another way.”

  “We can’t generalize like that,” Alyse said. “World War One, yeah, I think it didn’t have to happen. But not all wars are like that. Someone like Hitler had to be stopped with violence. He wasn’t going to quit until he’d taken over the whole world and killed every Jew and other minority in it.”

  Mr. Guzman scratched his cheek. “Now here’s a question. Should a country start a war because they think another country will come after them in the future?”

  “Like what happened in Iraq?” someone asked.

  “I’m saying in general.”

  I put my hand up. I had to answer this one.

  “Ty?”

  “A good leader always knows his enemy’s next move, and strikes first. Think about it. Who got it made? The army that gets to the battlefield first, or second?”

  Mr. Guzman’s eyes brightened. “The Art of War.”

  I nodded.

  Alyse said, “That sounds fine, but is it really
smart to go around starting wars just in case you think an enemy might strike against you? Like when Bush went after Saddam Hussein. It only got more of the Arab world against him. Against us. Is it worth it to get rid of one enemy if you’re going to make lots more? I don’t think so.”

  The Blood said, “Saddam needed to be taken out. We knew what we had to do, and we did it. That’s why we on top and why we staying there.”

  Alyse shook her head. “That’s why America has so many enemies, because we have to be on top! What about changing our reputation so that we’re seen as a peaceful, caring country?”

  “Never gonna happen,” I said.

  Before she could say anything, the bell rang.

  As I was packing up my books, I could tell Alyse was watching me. But when I looked up, she turned away.

  I timed it so that we got to the door at the same time. Letting her go ahead of me, I said, “Sounds like you know your stuff, honey.”

  “Thanks. And do me a favor?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Don’t call me honey.”

  * * *

  I went to all my classes that day. I ain’t done that since elementary school. After Global History, I went to Earth Science, Gym, Math, and after lunch, a double-period of English. I was done by 2 p.m.

  Alyse was in all my classes except Gym and Math. She tried mad hard not to look at me, but I bet she was feeling me like I was feeling her. She had smooth, cocoa-brown skin, sweet pink lips, and a nice set of curves. The girl had style and class.

  Too bad I wasn’t looking for no girlfriend. If Young Drug Dealers of America were real, it would have a rule: No girlfriends.

  Now I ain’t saying no sex or no homegirls. But I think anything that takes your attention off the business is dangerous.

  My first girlfriend was a nut job named Tekeva. She spotted me one day in the park and put the word out that by the end of the day, I’d be hers. Tekeva had no problems getting me behind the clubhouse.

  “Y’ever kissed before?” she asked me, hands on her hips.

  “All the time.” Inside, I was shaking, but on the outside I kept my cool. “You?”

  “Son, I been tonguing since the fifth grade.”