by Trick Daddy
“Why don’t you calm down and hear us out for a minute? Or would you rather we drop you off at the gas station so you can go back to breaking bread with the homeless dudes?” said Booner.
Well, I had no intention of going back there and putting up with Habib’s jokes. I didn’t want to listen to his speeches on the ills of the hood or his soon approaching jihad, so I decided to stick around. Besides, Booner and Junior seemed like the types who would have harassed me all summer. They didn’t need the money. They never made a profit from selling the newspapers. Picking us up in that rusty, squeaky van was their way of saving us from the penitentiary or, at least, slowing down our race to get there. They also hoped we could discover our history through the very product we were peddling.
Back then and even to this day folks in Miami’s inner city didn’t care too much for the Miami Herald. It didn’t cover our lives. The paper pretty much reported on the day-to-day of the parts of the city that we never saw. Liberty City, Overtown, Opalocka, and Ghouls would get an occasional headline when some kid got his head blown off. Our paper was the Miami Times. A Bahamian dude by the name of Henry Reeves started the paper to cover our issues. On its pages Miami’s black history was recorded daily. Junior and Booner took pride in relaying that history.
“You guys know why this paper was started, right?” Booner would say. We had heard it all our lives, but Booner sure gave us his abbreviated version. “The mainstream media took a liking to calling us coons, jigaboos, and whatever other insults they could muster,” he said, turning to Junior, who nodded his approval.
“Judging by the likes of how you kids are behaving these days, I can’t say I give them any wrong,” Junior chimed in.
“Can we get to how we’re gonna make this money?” I interrupted. Darryl and O’Sean nodded.
The old men were going to give a rebuttal, but the fact that they had gotten all three of us in van was a start. The civil rights lesson would have to wait.
We were like a street team. We marched throughout the city armed with newspapers, canvassing all of Twenty-seventh Avenue and Seventh Avenue. Business was especially good in Overtown and Liberty City of course. I ran up to drivers at traffic lights, “Get your Miami Times! . . . Get your Miami Times!” Most of the drivers were polite. But when we traveled farther south into some of the suburbs like Pinecrest, it was evident that Miami hadn’t gotten past its racial demons. King and Malcolm had already died to change things, but down in Miami it seemed folks didn’t get the memo. Booner and Junior always had to show officers a permit when we pulled up to an intersection. They let us continue, but they obviously wanted us to sell our papers then get the hell out of there.
Elderly white women were especially rude. I would run up to the window to show off the newspaper’s headline while they sat in their Volvos. I beamed a broad smile to show off my pearly whites, but they locked their doors and rolled up their windows. In case the power lock didn’t work, they jammed their elbow against the door. It was especially amusing to see when those with automatic windows felt their windows weren’t going up fast enough. It was as if they saw the grim reaper approaching.
It didn’t matter how many days they saw me out there. In their twisted minds, that day could have been the day I was going to maul them to death with a newspaper. Those demons would rise up in me with the fury of Africa and compel me to tomahawk them to death with the Miami Times. Picture a ten-year-old bludgeoning good old Martha Stewart to death with the Wall Street Journal. That would be a sight for sore eyes. The thing about bigotry that always confuses me is whether the bigot ever realizes how irrational his behavior is. Seriously, you despise a ten-year-old boy selling newspapers for the simple makeup of his DNA? And they say that black people have the real issues. Go figure.
Booner would always pull us aside and try to explain the behavior. He knew it offended us. “Guys, some people are always gonna be victims of their own hate. Just pray for them because they’re the ones who are really suffering,” he would say.
I nodded but he knew I wasn’t listening. Go save that politically correct speech for the Harlem Boys Choir. Me, Darryl, and O’Sean were kids from the Beans who caught hell upon leaving the womb. Those old ladies looked like they were doing just fine to me in their Volvos and mansions along the bay. I’m sure their kids all graduated from Ivy League schools and were living high on the hog. Hell, their sons and daughters were probably the prosecutors giving out life sentences to young brothers on their first offense. The world isn’t fair by any means. I knew Booner meant well, but I wasn’t buying it. Save your pie-in-the-sky ideals, old man. In the game of life the good guys finish last, especially in Miami.
The money was good, however. At $.15 a paper, we were guaranteed a $.10 tip. Most days we each sold a hundred papers. That added up to $10. For a ten- or eleven-year-old that was a lot of money. I could go to the flea market and buy a pair of cheap shoes. The Scotch tape I used to cover the holes in my sneakers had worn thin. In the South we had jigga worms. They bore dens in the soles of your feet. Besides, this gig was different from the others. I didn’t think of it as a hustle. Booner and Junior made us believe selling those papers was a service to society. We were in the information-exchange business. It was a respectable job. I was proud to be a newspaper courier.
When the day ended, they treated us to dinner. They took us over to Jumbo’s at the corner of Seventh Avenue and Seventy-fifth Street. We laughed and talked about the day while gulping down those spicy morsels. I used to stare at the homeless stragglers who congregated inside. They looked like the world had chewed them up, spit them in an alley, and said go to hell. Nevertheless, the staff was always gracious to them. With our pockets fat and stomachs filled, we headed back to the Beans. My mother enjoyed when I came home and rattled off the crazy events that went on in my day. All that mattered was that I wasn’t out robbing and jacking. Also, the job helped us out tremendously. I used the money to buy school clothes for myself and my brothers and sisters.
But it wouldn’t be too long before selling the Miami Times would fare less profitable than the good green. The herb was making its way to Miami in boatloads and via the friendly skies. Everyone was getting high in the projects. I wanted to reap the benefits.
8
In da Wind
THAT COMMUNIST CAT KARL MARX CALLED RELIGION the “opiate of the people.” He was definitely onto something. There is a reason why people in poor countries are so religious. Look at Roman Catholicism in South America. The black church’s grip on America’s inner cities is legendary. Now don’t get me wrong, I consider myself a God-fearing person—with a lot of questions—but God-fearing nonetheless. Most folks wouldn’t know God if He was standing right in front of them. For every true servant of God, hundreds more are selling pie in the sky. That’s why it’s not a coincidence that churches in slums are packed on Sunday morning while hell blazes right outside the front door. In fact, Liberty City has over three hundred churches, and I assure you just as many crack houses. I should know. A lot of my relatives filled them. I guess folks need something to help them escape their harsh realities. For some it’s the Holy Ghost, and for others—the ghosts they see high on that good green. Bob Marley isn’t the only ambassador sent to us via the Caribbean Sea. Marijuana was a far less honorable one hailing from those same lush tropical islands. It came north from South America as well.
Weed was everywhere in Miami. It was our opium so to speak, a black man’s chardonnay. It was so prevalent throughout the city that it wasn’t out of the ordinary for the six-o’clock news to fill airtime with a story about some pounds washing up onshore. Pounds of the stuff could literally be found floating along the docks and canals. Young Caribbean cats used to go to the airport to pick up pounds in suitcases shipped by their relatives in Jamaica and beyond. In the Beans and other projects there were no go-to connect for the stuff since it was so much in abundance. Even a few ten-year-olds could cop the stuff, and so we did. I wanted to get paid.
&nbs
p; At first the older dudes that were dealing gave me and my friends a couple joints to carry to folks in the neighborhood. Sometimes they gave me as much as an ounce to transport. They noticed I kept my mouth shut and minded my own business. I was in business.
If good old Booner and Junior knew that we were using their van as a drug caravan, they would have skinned us alive. I remember their very first ground rule.
“Now there won’t be any funny stuff going on in this van. I know all of you are good boys, no matter what people try to say about your neighborhood,” Booner said. That’s the ironic thing about life. They were trying to do good by us and the community. If one of those cops who didn’t like us selling papers in those rich suburbs wanted a reason to shut down the operation, the marijuana blunts tucked neatly in my tube socks would have given them more than enough reason.
Junior and Booner would have been booked and charged with drug trafficking. Furthermore, they would have been booked for endangering the welfare of kids. All those two God-fearing gentlemen were trying to do was save our sorry-ass lives. We smacked them squarely in the face. But business was good. Damn good.
Kids in those wealthy areas had never been to Liberty City. The closest they ever came to the Beans were the stories they read in the Miami Herald or saw on the evening news. To them we were scary little thugs with guns that mirrored hand cannons, and all of our fathers were serving life sentences for armed robbery. It made us superheroes in their eyes. I was always confused as to how they could live in those homes with butlers, nannies, and the latest comic books and still fantasize about our lives. It took me a while to figure it out. The people in those neighborhoods weren’t exactly living life. Theirs was all scripted. Boredom and emptiness come with a life built on a fairy tale. Seriously, they faced their own sort of hell in that shallow world. Those kids could never say that they actually achieved something. They were tied to Daddy’s wallet. Mommy and Daddy would buy little Tommy’s sanity. When Tommy was caught with the weed he bought from some little nigger from the Beans, he would be sent to therapy. When in fact Tommy just wanted attention, but Daddy was too busy boning his secretary, and that’s why Mommy was doing the gardener. Truthfully, myself and Tommy were no different as we were both lost, but he had the best counselors to get his shit straight before heading to Harvard.
Back then, I hadn’t come up with such an in-depth analysis. Those crackers wanted a graphic tale of what went down in the Beans, and we were happy to oblige. Of course we added a bit of exaggeration to feed their appetites even more. My stories began in dramatic fashion.
“My daddy ran in the house, tied the robber up, and poured gasoline all over him” would be the lead of one of my classic tall tales. “He dragged him out in the courtyard and lit him on fire for all to see!”
“Wow, that’s so cool!” my audience yelled, hanging on every word. Darryl and O’Sean gave hand gestures for emphasis.
“Yeah, but that wasn’t the best part. The craziest part was when . . .” I paused. “Can’t tell you guys the rest of the story. I’d have to kill you if I do.”
For some cash I’d continue.
I myself was taken aback by the scope of my imagination. I would go on and on, all the while taking their cheese. Hell, they were going to use the cheddar on comic books anyhow. Why not put it in our pockets? We needed it more. Furthermore, we sold some of the best weed. Every dope man will tell you his dope is the best. He’s like a car salesman that won’t let you leave his lot, but my crew did have that good shit.
With $50 we bought five bags of weed. We broke it down, then rolled a hundred $1 joints. We then put it in manila envelopes and stamped it. “Dope Bell” gave you that cool high. It gave the kind of high that gets you floating in the breeze while imagining some half-naked chick is about to do the do on you. “Jack the Ripper” perked you up a bit. “Free Mandela” had you quoting that righteous shit. Any of the three took you to that special place. That place far away from the Beans. I don’t think I need to describe the high you got from “Kilimanjaro” and “Criss Cross.” The Jamaicans called theirs “7 Cents.”
Like I said earlier, we didn’t have one particular connect, but Jean at Winn-Dixie hooked us up well. Yeah, he was a grimy bastard. But I can’t blame the man. He had a wife and three kids back in Port-au-Prince he was supporting. It worked out well. Alongside your meat and vegetables you could get high on that magic-carpet ride.
We took to buying the regular toys and other stuff ten-year-olds would have purchased with the newfound wealth. Music. Sneakers. Comics.
Jean advised us to put a little bit away for a rainy day, but at that age, who was listening? It might sound far-fetched that a crew of ten-year-olds had their own weed-selling operation, but this was Miami. We weren’t special. Most youngsters growing up in the hood back then sold something. My city is a port where things come in and we export it to the rest of America. It was only fitting for a couple of youngsters to join in on the hustle. From rolling joints I learned how to make a quick flip and gamble.
The main part of any hustle is being able to sell yourself. Having the slickest tongue will get you far with the buyers. Having the slickest and wittiest tongue will get you far in life period. It’s no different in gambling. Being able to call another person’s bluff while keeping him in the dark is the name of the game. So I tried my hand at the crap game. At first those older dudes wouldn’t let me in on the game. Eventually I gassed their heads up so much I forced them to let me in. I played possum. They were unaware I had watched them for months, hoping to get in and take their pesos. Tank was especially determined to take my cash. “Let his young ass join in on the game,” he told the other dudes. “Don’t go home crying to your mama when you lose all your lunch money, chump.”
That was the opening I needed. In the streets it’s always good to let the other man underestimate you. That way he shows his hand and goes in foolhardy while you keep your biggest weapons heavily guarded until he’s spent his. It’s kind of like a boxer who fights defensive for eleven rounds then unleashes his uppercut in the twelfth. I let Tank kick my ass for at least five hands, then I started cleaning up. As I collected his cash, I won over the crowd. “Y’all check this out! Tank’s getting wiped out by the young-un!” someone shouted. “The jit’s cleaning him out of his last dime!”
People came running up from the basketball court. Folks were cheering me on. My crew was the loudest. But I forgot to not let my ego get my ass killed.
Tank’s name was self-explanatory. He was stuck on steroids or something. His testosterone was on overdrive. His size was only rivaled by his ego. No one fucked with Tank. I guess everyone who couldn’t dare insult Tank was using me as an avenue to do just that. I soaked it in.
“You’re not talking now, are you? What happened? Oh, you’re losing all your money. Sorry, I forgot,” I taunted. I was signing my death warrant wide-eyed.
“Shut your young ass up,” warned Tank.
“Or what?” It’s so easy to get carried away with everyone cheering you on. Tank gave me a chance and I didn’t take it. Looking back, I think he respected me because no one in the Beans dared stand up to him. They were smart. In five seconds, I was staring square-eyed down the barrel of his pistol.
“Come on, Tank? How you gonna pull a gun on a shorty?” someone asked.
“Nah, he grown. He grown enough to disrespect me in my own motherfucking projects.” Tank looked like a man possessed.
My heart raced. I was scared shitless. Standing there, with that gun to my forehead, I lost all sense of reality. In seconds my life could be over. I didn’t even get to dive into some panties yet. Just a minute ago I thought this was all a game, just some honest fun. Tank would get angry, but we’ll laugh at it later over a happy meal.
“Say something, motherfucker! I bet I’ll leave your brains all over this pavement,” he yelled.
How did I get here? If you’ve ever had a gun pulled on you, you know that feeling of powerlessness. All control is gone.
Your life is hanging upon the whim of one simple squeeze of the trigger. By now the crowd had dissipated. Only Darryl and O’Sean were left. My crew had heart. But the only thing that could save me now was a moment of sanity in Tank’s crazed mind. Did he realize he had a pistol pressed against the skull of a ten-year-old in broad daylight? Oh, I forgot. The cops patrolling Liberty City had already petitioned to get their hours reduced. The police chief felt it was wiser to increase the squad in areas where the residents seemed more genetically predisposed to live longer.
I didn’t flinch. I squeezed my fists tight. I was ready. I was scared, but what good was it going to do to piss my pants and beg old Tank to let me go? If he was going to shoot me, I’d rather Pearl didn’t find me lying out on the concrete with my shorts soaked. Tank had killed before. I would just be another notch on his belt. I closed my eyes.
“Empty your pockets,” Tank demanded.
I gave him the couple hundred bucks I had. Darryl handed over the envelope with the remaining joints we hadn’t sold.
“You little fuck niggas got Jack the Ripper!?” Tank exclaimed. “How y’all got your hands on this good shit?”
O’Sean blurted out, “Oh, we got it from—”
“Shut your ass up!” Tank interrupted.
I thought about all the things I didn’t and would never get to do. They were all a blur now. Then, I felt the pistol’s barrel drop from my head.
“I ain’t gonna kill you, shorty,” Tank said. “You a wild little nigga that got heart. But if you ever disrespect me again, I’ll blow your fucking head off.”
I stood there and watched him walk away. Tank took something away from me that day. In those two minutes or so my childhood faded. I left it there on the curb in the Beans. It wasn’t the last time I would have a gun pulled on me. It was the only time I wasn’t prepared to shoot back.
These were the growing pains of a kid raised in the Beans.