by Mark Anthony
We couldn’t keep the car show going for too long because we were on the block. So we got in our rides and drove back to our apartment. We sat down in our plush living room. The white carpet was nice and fluffy. We had a black leather sectional couch which went well with the fifty-inch color TV. We also had the phat CD system and magazines such as Essence, Ebony and Jet on the glass coffee table.
As Reggie and Claudius toured the apartment and agreed that it was the bomb, they became curious as to where the rest of the cats in the crew were—people like Richie, Xavier, Donnie, and Earl.
The room suddenly became pin drop silent. The mood switched from eat, drink, and be merry to dull, sad, and somber. No one said a word and everyone looked at each other.
Actually I was shocked that Reggie and Claudius hadn’t heard the news. I mean I would have thought that someone in their immediate families would have reached out to them and let them know about all of the deaths that had taken place, but apparently they were still in the dark.
“What?” Reggie asked with an insecure smile on his face. “Did they get locked up or something?”
The room remained silent.
“Nah, kid, them cats got mercked,” Erik said.
“What? You mean them niggas is up outta here?” Reggie shouted. “They’re dead?” Claudius asked in disbelief. Everyone’s silence basically confirmed Erik’s statement.
Reggie still wasn’t convinced, as he paced the room and waved his right hand from side to side. “Nah, hol’ up! Hol’ up! Hol’ up! They’re dead?” The room remained silent. Reggie looked at each one of us. No one blinked. “Get outta here, man! Yo, on the real, y’all shouldn’t joke like that. Y’all had me going for a second,” Reggie rebuked.
“It ain’t no joke. They’re dead,” Erik sadly whispered.
“What the hell happened?” Reggie yelled. “And how come nobody got in touch with me to tell me what was up?”
“You mean Donnie?” Claudius asked. “Donnie, Donnie? The same Donnie that lives next door to me? Slick-Don is dead?”
“Yup,” Erik confirmed.
“Yo, y’all are straight up serious, ain’t yall?” Reggie asked again.
“Yeah, Reggie, you know we wouldn’t joke like that,” I said. Claudius looked to the ground and shook his head.
“I just spoke to Donnie last month to tell him that I was coming home. Yo, I can’t believe this.”
With the closeness of our crew, I understood very well just exactly how both Reggie and Claudius must have been feeling. The two of them started to cry just a little. Everyone in the room was quiet. I guess no one knew what to say. Everyone was taking their individual time out to reflect on our lost members.
“Well at least none of us are in jail,” Randy bloopishly said.
“I would much rather come home and find out that all of y’all are alive and in jail, than to come home and find out that four of my friends are dead!” Claudius responded. “Word! Yo, how did they die anyway?”
“What do y’all want to hear about first? Do y’all want to hear about how we got large, or do y’all want to hear about X and the rest of them?” I asked.
Claudius and Reggie agreed that they would rather hear about our rise from what seemed like poverty to paradise. So in graphic detail we all took turns telling about everything that had happened to us as a crew. We told them about the Mafia-like breakfast meetings we had, and about the crime rampage that we undertook. We also explained to them exactly how our first drug purchase went down. We then explained to them how we paid ourselves and how our money kept turning over.
After explaining and talking about that for almost an hour, I took the initiative and explained how Richie had been killed. I also told them where it happened, why it happened, and who did it. Then I went on to tell them how I had narrowly escaped death. While telling them the story, I showed them the bullet scars that were on my body. By this time my arm was out of the sling and practically back to normal.
“Word! Donnie, X, and Earl were all right next to me,” I continued to explain.
Randy threw in that Bunny too had been killed.
“You mean big butt Bunny?” Reggie asked.
“Yup, that Bunny,” I replied.
“Yo, I don’t believe this,” Claudius said. “It sounds like some movie script or something.”
J.P. started to give details on their funerals, but he was cut off by Claudius. Claudius said that he had heard enough. He wanted to remember them as he had last seen them. He couldn’t bear to hear anymore. He insisted that he would visit their gravesites before he went back to Kansas.
Reggie and Claudius were both bitter about the loss of their good friends. But considering the amount of lives that were lost, they took it rather well. See, they were from the ’hood, so they understood everything that went down. Like us, they knew how to cope with incidents such as deaths. I know that they knew that it was just a matter of time before crime and violence had caught up with our crew. I mean, it was always right under our noses.
Reggie and Claudius’s bitter feelings lingered for a while, but soon they seemed to be taking everything in stride. They were very impressed with the way we had all blown up. We each gave Claudius and Reggie five hundred dollars in cash, leaving them with four thousand dollars total.
“You know why we gave y’all that loot?” Dwight asked. “Nah, why?” Reggie asked.
“Fourth Crew for life, that’s why. Y’all will always be down, no matter what!” Dwight explained.
Claudius and Reggie had never had that kind of money. They were beginning to get real excited. Even though Reggie stayed in Virginia, he was begging us to get him started in the business. We assured him that we had everything on smash, and that we indeed already had a plan for him. We vowed to tell him the plan before he left to go back to Virginia.
“Reggie, calm down, kid. You know that we’re family. So if we’re large, you’re large. You’ll be phat just like us,” Latiefe promised. “Just be patient. We’ll get you paid.”
We reminded Reggie that he was in the military, which meant that the battle was half won. What we meant was, with Reggie being in the military, any drug involvement on his part could easily be camouflaged. He could wear his “nice-looking-proudto-be-an-American-Marine” uniform when he was off duty, and at the same time transport drugs anywhere he pleased. What cop was gonna question a full-blooded American soldier?
Claudius also wanted in on the narcotics scene. He told us that he could easily hook up with drug dealers out in Kansas.
There was a brief deafening pause of silence in the room after Claudius had made his comment. The pause was then followed by the entire crew falling out onto the floor in knee jerk laughter.
“Kansas drug dealers!? Ha ha ha ha ha.”
“Yo, don’t you stay in Witchita?” Latiefe asked. “Where the hell is that? In westbubblehut?”
More balled over, belly-aching, knee-jerk laughter filled the room.
Claudius too laughed with us. He went on to tell us about the gangs in Kansas. He told us about the drugs and killings out there, and about the Crips and the Bloods.
“It’s just like New York,” Claudius said. “Urban life is just about the same everywhere.”
“Nah, hell no!” I blurted out. “No way, kid! Claudius, we’re not letting you get mixed up in this. You have a full basketball scholarship, so take advantage of it. Don’t blow that.”
Erik told him that he also didn’t want him to ruin a possible shot at professional basketball.
“Even if you don’t make the pros you’ll still have that degree to fall back on,” Erik added. “Claudius, go for the NBA millions, or at least get that degree. Don’t worry about the street millions. Plus, Claudius, we’ll hit you off with loot, so don’t worry about it. But in a few years when you’re playing against Jordan and all them cats in the finals, we want front row seats right on the floor where Spike Lee and all the celebrities be at.”
Claudius didn’t want to listen to our advice. He ple
aded with us to put him down. But we persisted in saying no.
“Claudius, on the real, this drug game ain’t no joke,” I added. “It’ll totally jack you up. Once you get involved with this game, you start to live on the edge. Best friends of yours start getting stomped out and exterminated like roaches. It ain’t worth it. Claudius, when you’re on the outside looking in, everything looks sweet. You start looking at the fly cars and females be throwing themselves at you and all that, but yo, it’s still not worth it. Hang with us for the next two weeks and you’ll see what I’m talking about. Examine our actions, conversations, and our way of thinking. I guarantee you, you’ll see a different crew from the last time you saw us. We used to care, or at least I know I did. Now I don’t even give a damn about nothing. When I tell you that I’ll snap a nigga’s neck in a second or I’ll shoot somebody and won’t lose sleep over it, believe it. Someone could walk in this room right now and blow you away, and I wouldn’t be phased one bit. See, I already lived through it, so I’m used to it happening. Claudius, this lifestyle will have you thinking that you’re crazy! You’ll stop caring about life. Not that I’m immortal or anything, but this game will have you thinking like you can’t die. And I know that I won’t die, ’cause in my mind I honestly believe that there ain’t a cat out there that’s smarter than me and more ruthless than me! You know what I’m sayin? And that’s how you have to think. If there is a cat iller than me and I do die at his hands, then so be it! I mean everybody has to die one day, right?”
After I said all of that, Claudius contemplated for a little while.
“Yo, I’m sayin’ it’s still worth it,” Claudius insisted. “Man, I be so broke at school I don’t even be having money to go out or nothing like that. And the school won’t let me work because of the fact that I have the scholarship. It just be hard to maintain. Just put me down. Please, y’all!” Randy looked at Claudius in disbelief.
“Didn’t you hear any of what Holz said? Claudius, you know Holz never used to talk all ill and sick like that. Now he’s a straight-up thug nigga, and you’re saying that you still want to be down? You’re buggin’. You mean you would chance all of what you have just for some dead presidents? Claudius, I don’t know, man. Yo, what are they teaching you in that college?”
“Yo, don’t give in to that nigga,” Erik said. “Yo, Claudius, we ain’t putting you down with this ’cause we love you too much. Period!”
So the weekend went on. It lived up to its advanced billing. With Reggie and Claudius hanging with us we had extra fun in the sun. All weekend long we just partied, got high, and committed all kinds of sin. When Tuesday rolled around, Claudius was still talking about the past weekend. He couldn’t believe how much better our quality of life was. Tons of loot will have that kind of an effect on a brotha. Most of all, he loved the high maintenance, top notch, beautiful females that yearned to be with us.
“Last summer when I came home, everything was mediocre and boring. Now it’s like a fantasy reel,” Claudius pointed out.
“That’s because when you came home last summer we were all broker than a joke. Now we have cash coming out of our anus, and the world is our footstool,” Dwight said.
Later that Tuesday night, for Reggie, who had extended hi weekend visit, and for Claudius’s sake, we decided to relive some of our pastimes that had crafted us into becoming such a tight knit family. We were all on Merrick Boulevard. We had a big boom box radio and one microphone. One by one each of us took the mic and start freestyling. While one of us would freestyle, the rest of us would dance.
Latiefe thought he was the best M.C. in our crew. He had some skills, but I don’t know if he was definitely the best M.C. But that was always something that we debated. We would always get on each other about who was the best M.C. in our crew. I would always tell Latiefe that all of his rhymes were prewritten, which gave him an unfair advantage. See, true freestyling was the art of saying rhymes off the top of your head, and that’s what the rest of us did. Therefore, we were actually more lyrically gifted than Latiefe.
That night, while on Merrick Boulevard, we all drank forties and continued to dance. Randy had the mic in his hand and he recited his rhyme. I have to admit that Randy was talented with the mic. He had the gift to produce hype and energy in those that heard him rhyme, probably because he had a natural B-boy’s voice, coupled with the fact that when he rhymed he always said a lot of one, twos. His rhymes always sounded phat. That night was no different. Randy had managed to set things off. He sparked all of us who were out there on the corner.
Latiefe then took the mic and said his rhyme. His rhyme kept the atmosphere charged. After he finished rhyming, he passed me the mic. The tape that was being played in the boom box was the “Rising To The Top” instrumental. That beat, among the young, hip-hop, Queens, New York generation, was considered to be the Queens anthem. A legendary park DJ from Queens, DJ Grandmaster Vic, basically was responsible for branding the “Rising To The Top” instrumental and making it the Queens anthem.
So with the Queens anthem playing in the background, I kicked my rhyme. It was dark outside and we were all standing under a streetlight, which was directly in front of a candy store called Pop and Kim’s. As I rhymed, people started to crowd around me. The more people that gathered around, the more hyped up I got. So with all kinds of passion and enthusiasm in my voice, I kicked my rhyme like this:
Wednesday night uptown 1-2-5
we had to let punk niggas know Fourth
Crew was live,
in front of the Apollo
punks tried to play us, you know
so I pulled out the Calico and col’ went
Rambo
wet the whole block up
even a cop got popped
so to avoid getting knocked I hopped
in the MPV, drove off
and boomed the Cypress Hill CD
“How Could I Just Kill A Man?”
Yeahhh and you know the MPV was
packed
’cause Fourth is stacked
we were rolling phat
low profile tires, deep dish rims
sippin’ on the brew from Pop & Kim’s
the cold, old gold had my head feeling nice
I remember twice in life
I was called the hot diggidy dog
And on both occasions I sent suckers to
the morgue.
Yeahhh, Fourth Crew will catch wreck
Snap a nigga’s neck in a sec
Step and won’t give a heck
’cause we’re ruthless!
So buss it, big Wiggie, yeah you know
you’re my man
Grab the mic and rip it the best you can.
Wiggie then took the mic and started rhyming. His rhyme went like this:
I grab the mic from my man, big Holz,
proceed to rip things just like I was told,
because I’ve been bussin’ funky rhymes
since I was eight-years-old.
This to me is like second nature,
in the summertime we go to six flags
great adventure.
terrorize the park . . .
While Wiggie was rhyming, the police came and made us stop. They said we were disturbing the peace. Of course we argued with them and told them that we were just having fun. And of course we lost that argument, as they pressed us and told us to get off the Boulevard or else we would all get summonses.
So to pacify the police, we walked a few blocks down Merrick Boulevard and started rolling dice. Dice rolling was also a favorite pastime favorite of ours. We played a dice game called Ci-Lo.
When playing Ci-Lo, three dice were used instead of two dice. Ci-Lo was much more fun than craps or 7/11 where you only used two dice. In Ci-Lo the object was to roll the dice, get two dice to have the same number, and the third die would be considered your point.
While we rolled, I had the bank. I was winning mad dough. There were people watching, but they didn’t join i
n because our stakes were too high. Back in the days, when we were broke, we would roll for single dollar bills. The most we would ever roll for was five dollars. But now that we had money we were rolling for fifties and hundreds.
We rolled for a pretty long time, then it became boring. See, unlike the days when we were happy if we won two dollars, or depressed if we lost a small amount like seven dollars, on that night it didn’t matter how much we won or lost because money was easy come, easy go for us, and I guess that’s what made it boring.
After rolling Ci-Lo we went back to the Fourth Crew apartment. Claudius was petrified of the Pit Bull that we had. He was also afraid of our other dog, which was a Rottweiler. As big as Claudius was, he had no business being afraid of the dogs, but we locked the dogs in the bathroom so that we could all be relaxed.
Once the dogs were put away, we all sat and got drunk. Still reliving our lost lifestyle, we decided to play a game that we used to play all of the time—Russian Roulette. This was not the same Roulette that was played in the casinos. Our version of Roulette was played with a handgun, preferably a six-shot revolver.
All of the bullets for the gun would be emptied except for one. With that one bullet in the gun, the revolver would be spun so that we would be unable to tell when the bullet would enter the chamber. We would pass the gun around the room and everyone would take a turn pulling the trigger. But before actually pulling the trigger, we would aim the gun right at one of our heads.
One rule was that when you had a six-shot revolver and you pulled the trigger four times, if no bullet was discharged, then and only then would the revolver be spun to relocate the bullet. It added suspense to the game. In order for the game to end, everyone had to be shot at least two times, unless, of course, someone was actually shot dead before the game ended.
When it came time for you to get shot at, you better not play like a sucker and try to run or quit. If you did front, you’d have to receive a five minute beating from all of the other participants. A “five minute wreck” is what the beat down was called.
We always played with a six shot revolver, which meant that we were creating a slightly better than 16 percent chance that a bullet was going to enter the chamber. In turn, that bullet would strike the unlucky contestant, possibly killing him.