Street Pharm

by Allison van Diepen

  Throughout the evening, I kept thinking about Alyse and wondering what she was doing. Was she at a family thing like me? Damn, she should be here, by my side.

  It was a pipe dream.

  Eventually I made it to the food table. There was fried chicken, ribs, catfish, pork chops, sweet potatoes, scallop potatoes, coleslaw, asparagus, cornbread. On Christmas, we always ate like crazy.

  “Hello, Ty.”

  “G!” I gave my grandma a big hug. She was so short and light, I lifted her clear off the floor.

  I started calling her G—for Grandma, not gangsta—years ago.

  “You look great, G.”

  “Thanks.” She craned her neck to look up at me. “Baby, I think you still growing.”

  “Sorry, G, but I think you’re shrinking.”

  “You little—!”

  Yeah, me and G always got along good.

  “Your mama’s so happy you’re spending Christmas with her,” she said, loading up her plate. “You gave us a scare, you know. Your poor mama’s been worried sick.”

  “I’m all better now.”

  “That hasn’t stopped her worrying. She’s afraid you’re turning out like Orlando.”

  I blinked. “C’mon, G, you know it ain’t like that. Me and my dad are two different people.”

  “I hope so. Did she ever tell you why she left your father? She left him because of you.”

  “What did I have to do with it?”

  “Your mama could’ve lived like a queen. But you were more important. She knew she couldn’t raise you right if she was living with a hustler.” G spooned some asparagus onto my plate. “You were brought up, Ty, not dragged up. And don’t you forget it.”

  * * *

  I spent the last few days of December working my ass off, going from one meeting place to another, delivering a few ki’s here, a few there, and coming home late at night to a silence that even my fly stereo couldn’t cover up.

  The week before New Year’s, Sonny and me met with Jones and Menendez to pick up a shipment. I didn’t give them details on what went down with Darkman, but I let them know that we were the ones who brought him down. I could tell they were impressed.

  But when we left the meeting, Sonny said, “It’s about time we got ourselves new suppliers.”

  “Why? They holding up their end.”

  He stared at me. “You serious? What about them pictures? We supposed to forget that they threatened our peeps?”

  “I told you, there wasn’t nothing behind it. They were just sending a message. Look, I’ll do some research. It could take a few weeks, and I ain’t rushing into anything, but I’ll try.”

  “Do that. I will too. We bound to find people.”

  In the next few days, I put feelers out for new suppliers, but all the leads I got were too shady to go after.

  What Sonny didn’t get was that in a business like ours, you weren’t gonna be working with no Boy Scouts.

  The question wasn’t: Is this nigga dangerous?

  It was: How dangerous is he?

  THE SOUND OF THE LATE BELL

  A few days before New Year’s, I decided to catch up with Monfrey.

  When I stopped by the local bowling lanes where he hung out, he wasn’t there. The homies said they hadn’t seen him around for a week.

  My instincts went off like a warning bell. Actually, it felt more like the late bell at school—once you heard it, you were already too late.

  My next stop was the park where he liked to chill and smoke up.

  No sign of him.

  His favorite diner.

  Still no sign.

  Another nearby park.

  Nothing.

  I was running out of options. If I wasn’t going to waste more time looking, I had to do something I didn’t want to: go to his crib.

  Rob Monfrey lived with his mom in a shit project where Flatbush and Crown Heights gangbangers shoot each other weekly. In front of the buildings were huge frozen piles of dirt, like the City tried to do something to fix up the neighborhood—but quit for the winter.

  Stepping over a bum hunched up in the side doorway, I skipped stairs to the third floor. I couldn’t remember his apartment number, but I was pretty sure it was the first door on the left.

  I knocked.

  “Monfrey, it’s Ty!”

  I banged on the door.

  Nothing.

  Cursing, I went back down the stairs.

  The damn bum was now all laid out in the doorway, making it impossible for me to get by. I nudged him with my shoe. “Yo, could you move?”

  The bum twitched like he just woke up. “Uhhh . . . ” His groggy face looked up from under a nappy Afro.

  “Monfrey?”

  “Eh . . . ”

  I bent down. “Monfrey, it’s me, Ty! You know me?”

  “Tyyy . . . ”

  I went through his pockets until I found the crumpled little Ziploc bag. “Damn, Monfrey.”

  He slumped against the wall.

  “What were you thinking? You told me you’d never touch that shit!”

  He started shaking.

  “Keys, where your keys?” I felt the rest of his pockets, but couldn’t find them. Maybe that’s why he ended up in the doorway instead of in his crib.

  What the hell was I gonna do with him?

  Leave him to rot.

  Could I do that? Could I just leave him here?

  Monfrey got himself fucked up. It wasn’t my fault. He was supposed to stay away from anything stronger than weed.

  But I couldn’t leave him.

  * * *

  With the help of a cab driver (and an extra twenty bucks), I put Monfrey on my couch. The brother was a mess. Shaking, sweating, puking. Begging for a hit. And when I wouldn’t give it to him, he cursed me, my mama, and the day I was born. I was seeing a different person. A damn scary person. It was the crack talking, not Monfrey.

  I couldn’t take the look or the stink of him, but I knew if I left the apartment, he wouldn’t stay put. He’d be on the streets trying to get the hit that would end the hell he was going through. I couldn’t let that happen. I moved him into my bedroom so he couldn’t sneak out without going past me. He tried to bounce twice that first night, but both times I stopped him. He didn’t put up much of a fight; he was too weak. I dragged him back into the bedroom and shut the door. He started crying like a baby. And when he’d cried enough, he fell asleep.

  The next day was just as bad. I thought I was gonna lose it. I couldn’t get him to eat, sleep, or sit still. Finally I gave him a little weed to ease the pain. It helped. The shaking stopped.

  “Where’s your mom, Monfrey?”

  “She in . . . Trinidad.”

  “When’s she coming back?”

  “I can’t remember.”

  “I’m gonna put on a DVD for you now, and get you some food.”

  “Food. Yeah.”

  Damn, he was skin and bones. It was hard even looking at him.

  “What you want to eat? I ain’t got any food. We have to order something.”

  “There’s a deli . . . on the corner. I’ll go.” He tried to get up.

  “Sit down. I ain’t letting you outta my sight.”

  “The fuck is this? House arrest?”

  “Call it what you want. When I get your mom’s okay, you’re going up north.”

  Monfrey almost dropped his blunt. “Huh?”

  “Not to jail, Monfrey. To rehab. I’m sending you somewhere cushy. Maybe you’ll see some celebs.”

  “Fuck you, Ty. I done so much for you, and you wanna lock me up?”

  “Fuck you, too, Monfrey. Now what you want to eat?”

  HAPPY NEW YEAR

  New Year’s Day. I woke up feeling like I didn’t sleep at all. Pieces of a nightmare bugged me like a fly behind a curtain, but I didn’t want to think about them.

  I was in my own bed again, thank God. I finally got rid of Monfrey yesterday, when his mom came back from Trinidad. She looked like s
he was gonna whoop his ass, but I knew she’d take care of him. I told her about the arrangements I made for him to go into rehab. When I said I was paying for it, she didn’t look surprised. I guess she knew that Monfrey worked for me. For all I knew, Monfrey could’ve told her himself.

  My cell phone was blinking. Whenever my phone rang or I had a message, I couldn’t help thinking it could be Alyse. I don’t know why—there was no way that girl would change her mind about me.

  I had three messages from last night.

  “Ty, it’s your boy, Cheddar. What’s cracking? You over getting shot up? Me and the homies is partying at Brown’s Billiards, so if you around, stop by.”

  Good thing I missed that one. I wasn’t up for partying last night, not after the hellish few days with Monfrey. I’d locked myself in for the night, turned off my phone, looked at some porn, and stared at the ceiling until I fell asleep.

  Message two was Sonny: “Ty, it’s around nine, why ain’t you answering your phone? Just to let you know, I found us some new suppliers, and we got a nice little shipment coming in. I figure we’ll put the shit out, see how the peeps like it. We’ll meet the shipment down at Brighton Beach at one thirty the day after tomorrow. Later.”

  When I heard the voice on the third message, I couldn’t believe it. “Hi, it’s Alyse. I know it’s been a while.” I could hear the catch in her voice. “I’m just calling, well, to wish you a Happy New Year and . . . and to apologize for how bitchy I was over the e-mail that time. School isn’t the same without you. I told our teachers you weren’t coming back, and they were really disappointed. They still ask about you. Anyway, you don’t need to call back, I just wanted you to know . . . that I hope you’re okay. Happy New Year.”

  I listened to her message again. Did she miss me? I listened to it a third time. It came at 11:30 last night. Did that mean she was thinking about me at midnight?

  When she said “you don’t need to call back,” did that mean don’t call back or you don’t have to call back, but I want you to?

  Women! No, not women. One woman: Alyse. I lay back on my bed, thinking about how it felt to hold her in my arms.

  Damn. Why she gotta be so stubborn? Why couldn’t she accept the real me?

  Or was I wrong about that? Maybe she wanted to accept who I was, just not what I did for a living. Maybe they weren’t the same thing.

  If she called me, did that mean she might take me back? All I had to do was quit the business.

  All I had to do was quit the business.

  It was the first time I thought of it. I could quit.

  But who would I be if I walked away?

  So much went through my brain, it felt like my head was gonna burst. How would I leave the business how would I make money how would Dad react what would Sonny do without me what would I do with my life? You can’t get out it’s not realistic you the King of the Streets you have a vision a vision of where you’ll be and what you’ll be—a hustler who makes mad dough and never ever gets caught . . .

  Thoughts of all kinds came at me, like a crocodile spinning in a death roll. I just let it happen.

  CHOICES

  The next day I went through the metal detectors at Les Chancellor.

  “Johnson, you look good. How you feeling?”

  “Real good, Rosie. I’m coming back to school.”

  “Yeah? Thought we’d seen the last of you.” She looked across the machine to the other guard. “Pete, you hear that? He’s back.”

  “Good for you, Johnson.”

  “Thanks.” I walked toward the main office to speak to Ms. Gottlieb, the principal. I’d never talked to her before, but I’d seen her around. The lady was always in the halls, ready to scream at anybody who wasn’t where they were supposed to be.

  In the office, I went up to the main desk. “Excuse me, ma’am?”

  A middle-aged secretary with poofy black hair looked up from her computer. “Yes?”

  “I’m here to see Ms. Gottlieb. Could you tell her Ty Johnson’s here?”

  Her head snapped sideways. I knew right away that she was the secretary I dicked around on the phone a few months ago. “Have you scheduled an appointment, Mis-ter Johnson?”

  “No, but it’s real important.”

  “I should hope it’s important if it’s the principal you’re wanting to see. Unfortunately, this is a very busy time of year for her. I can book you an appointment for next week.”

  “Next week? Are you kidding?”

  Her face wasn’t kidding. “Should I book it or not?”

  I took a breath. Could I wait until next week?

  No, I couldn’t.

  “Don’t book it. This can’t wait.”

  “I can’t imagine what it is that can’t wait until next week. You are no longer attending this school. Did you forget something?”

  “Look, I only need a few minutes of her time. I’ll wait, it don’t matter how long it takes. Please just tell her I’m here.”

  “I’ll tell her. But I’m not making any promises.”

  “That’s fine. Thanks for your help.”

  I took a seat and waited. I wasn’t gonna budge.

  An hour went by. I wouldn’t let myself check my phone messages. It would just be Sonny cursing me out for missing the exchange, and I didn’t want to deal with that right now.

  More time went by. A few kids came to sign out early, always with notes from parents, doctors, or parole officers.

  And then Alyse walked in. Without seeing me, she signed the attendance book. “I’m taking my son to a doctor’s appointment,” she told the secretary. “I don’t have an appointment slip with me, but I’ll bring one tomorrow.”

  On her way out, Alyse saw me. Her eyes widened. “Ty!”

  My tongue froze. All I could do was nod.

  “What are you doing here? Are you seeing Ms. Gottlieb?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You’re coming back to school?”

  “I hope so.”

  “Great! I’m really glad for you. Anyway, I better go—I’m taking Gavin to the doctor. See ya.”

  She hurried out.

  Over the next hour, I saw the principal twice, once leaving her office, and then returning a few minutes later. She didn’t even look in my direction. I started to wonder if the secretary ever told her I was there.

  Then the principal’s door opened, and finally, finally, she looked my way. “Tyrone Johnson. Come in quickly.”

  I didn’t need no encouragement.

  “Sit. Now tell me what this is about.”

  I cleared my throat. “I wanna come back to Les Chancellor.”

  She glanced at a piece of paper on her desk. The paper was part of a file. My file.

  “I know of your hospital stay. The school was unable to contact you after you were released. You were no longer living with your mother.” She looked at me over her glasses. “Is this accurate?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I know I should’ve come back sooner, but I was really busy. I had to do lots of physical therapy.”

  “It was your responsibility to inform the school of your status, Mr. Johnson. On what grounds do you want us to consider your reapplication?”

  “Well, as you said, I had serious medical stuff. Plus, I never got kicked out or nothing, so I figure . . . on those grounds.”

  “Truancy for more than three days without justification is the equivalent of expulsion. I’m sure that was explained to you when you first came here. I will ask you again, why should we let you back in?” As I was opening my mouth, she reminded me, “The truth, please.”

  “After I got shot, I admit, school was the last thing on my mind. I never been a big fan of school, but here, things were okay for me. I learned a few things, met some good people. Most of my teachers were cool. Coming here gives me a reason to get up in the morning.”

  She took off her glasses. “Most of the students who ask for readmission have an ulterior motive. It’s usually that they have a court date coming up and want to i
mpress the judge by saying they’re in school.” Before I could say anything, she went on, “But I do not believe that is the case with you.”

  I relaxed a little.

  “I’ll send memos to your teachers asking for their recommendations. If they feel you would benefit by readmission, I will place you on our roster for the fall.”

  “Huh? It’s only January. The second semester’s about to start.”

  “That isn’t the issue. There is currently a waiting list to get into this school. At present, the list has eighty-four students. Your position has already been filled.”

  I was speechless.

  “I will do my best to ensure that you will be with us in the fall. I can do no more than that. I recommend that you find another school that will take you. If you like, you can schedule an appointment with a guidance counselor who will help you find a space in another school.”

  I felt like sinking through the floor. Going back to Les Chancellor was the one thing, the only thing, I was set on. How could I wait until September to come back?

  “I’m sorry, Tyrone. Don’t get discouraged. You stay on the right track, and we’ll be pleased to have you in the fall.”

  “Thanks, Ms. Gottlieb.” Like a zombie, I got up. I walked out of the office and through the empty hallway.

  Outside, the sky was darkening. It was cold, and the breeze was picking up.

  I stood at the bus stop, not caring when it came. I wasn’t even sure it was the wind that made my eyes water.

  Taking my cell phone from my pocket, I saw six messages.

  ’Course, one after the other was from Sonny, asking where the hell I was at.

  The next message was from Desarae. She was hysterical. I couldn’t make out what she saying.

  The last one was from Gary, Sonny’s neighbor. He was choked up. “Ty . . . God, some bad shit went down. They found Sonny at Brighton Beach, all shot up. He didn’t have a chance.”

  TAKEN

  By the time I got to Sonny’s, police were everywhere. Gary was barefoot in the hallway.