2. Darius Artis
As I was walking down the sidewalk to my car, three boys that appeared to be around ten ran up to me. They looked like they were hot as hell, and every last one of them needed a haircut badly.
“Darius!” One of them called out like he knew me.
Stopping in my tracks I eyed the youngster. Where I was from nobody was to be trusted. Ever. I vaguely remembered their faces around the hood, and I wasn’t surprised that they knew who I was.
“What’s going on lil’ man?”
“I like your shoes!” he glanced down at my feet. “You be having all the new sneakers.” His eyes lit up while he was talking about my sneakers.
Discreetly, I glanced down at his white Nikes that had seen way better days. “’Preciate that lil man.” I gave a quick head nod. “Where y’all live at?”
“I live over on Glendale.” The one that been doing the talking responded.
“We stay on Lennox,” the shortest of the three spoke up.
“Word?” I’d never assume because of how they looked, their mothers were on drugs or negligent.
Maybe they were just doing the best they could.
I didn’t want to give the boys money to cop their own sneakers, however, because if they did live with anyone that was addicted to drugs there was a big chance the money would come up missing.
“What grade y’all in?” I continued to probe.
“We’re going to the fourth.”
Easing my hand inside my pocket, I pulled out a small wad of bills.
“I’m gonna come looking for y’all before school starts back.
If a few adults around here can vouch for y’all and tell me you haven’t been getting in any trouble then I’ll buy each of you two pairs of sneakers for back to school. Bet?”
“Bet!” the one that knew my name was geeked. The other two simply nodded.
I gave each of them twenty dollars, and they thanked me profusely before running off.
Even though I didn’t grow up poverty stricken, I damn sure didn’t grow up rich.
Like a lot of other kids, I grew up admiring the local drug dealers more than I ever admired the people I saw on television because in my realistic mind, I had far better chances of becoming a successful hustler than I did a rapper or pro athlete.
The drug dealers were the hood celebrities.
I saw a lot of them shining way more than I saw the people working forty to sixty hours a week living in some cases.
I had an aunt on my mom’s side of the family that was super successful.
Her and her husband lived in Atlanta. I wasn’t sure what they did for a living, but the two times in my life I went to their home, I was in awe.
They were living better than the black families I grew up watching on television.
Most of the adults I was around on a regular basis lived real simple and from paycheck to paycheck.
They may have lived in nice houses and drove nice cars, but they were one paycheck away from being behind on bills.
The cycle seemed like an exhausting one.
Work until you’re too tired to enjoy your days off, get paid, pay bills, be broke again, and repeat the cycle.
I didn’t want any parts of that shit. As a kid, I only traveled to three states with my parents.
We never went out of the country. Most of the vacations we took were to family reunions.
We didn’t eat at fancy restaurants just ones that had buffet.
And that was fine. My childhood was lit.
I just knew as an adult, I wanted to experience more.
I wanted to experience the finer things in life.
I wanted to fly first class and go shopping with no budget. I wanted it, and I got it.
It wasn’t easy by far. Anyone that thought selling drugs was simple was crazy as hell.
There were times I got less than six hours of sleep over the course of three days combined.
Being exhausted almost to the point of being delirious.
Just to make enough money in one day to cover all my bills for the month.
So the rest of the days, were spent making money for me to do whatever I wanted to do with.
I went from making around $500 on a good day to making around $4,500 on a great day.
It didn’t happen overnight. When I first started hustling, I could only afford to buy a small amount of weight.
When that was gone and I separated the money I needed to reup with, I would have around $1,000 in profit.
Something was better than nothing, but $1,000 profit wasn’t worth me risking my freedom for.
I kept going until I was seeing the kind of money that made it possible for me to get a car and move out of my parents’ crib, and it was only up from there.
Anybody could buy drugs and try to sell them, but not everyone was a good hustler.
I knew guys my age or younger than me that became strung out on the very product that they were selling.
I knew guys older than me that had been hustling for years and still didn’t have $500 on a good day.
Observing things was what I was good at.
I watched everything going on around me but for the most part, I minded my business and stayed out the way.
All I wanted was the money. They could have that other shit.
I had stopped by the projects to serve one of my regular customers.
It was time for me to go by the crib. I had been out hustling for hours, and I had too much money on me.
when I got my own place, I purposely moved to the outskirts of town.
I didn’t want to be directly in the city.
I had been living in the same spot for years and only three people that weren’t family knew where I lived.
I didn’t play that shit. I’d never been robbed, and I wasn’t trying to do anything to make it easy for niggas.
Aside from not living directly in the city, I didn’t keep all my money in one place either.
I kept some at my crib and some at my cousin Nett’s house.
Nett had two kids, and she was a nurse. She rarely went out, was single and when she did date, she didn’t let men come to her house like that, and she didn’t deal with street niggas.
For those reasons, I was comfortable having my safe up in her attic.
At home, I counted and separated my money.
I put $15,000 in my safe and $6,000 back in my pocket.
After pissing and grabbing a bite to eat, I was right back out the door.
Bree had called me earlier asking if I could give her money for a girls’ trip she was going on, and I told her yes.
Bree had her shit together. She had a nice two-story crib, two cars, and she was always well put together from head to toe.
She was older with shit to lose, and she didn’t make dating street niggas a habit.
I knew she could have paid for her own trip, but if she was fucking a nigga with money, why should she spend her own money?
That was the way she looked at it, and I didn’t disagree.
Bree would have been the perfect person to settle down with if I was pressed for a girlfriend, but we weren’t on the same page in life.
She was older than me. Bree was ready to settle down, get married, and have kids.
Kids for sure weren’t on the agenda for me anytime soon.
And I didn’t even have a girlfriend yet, so thinking that far ahead about marriage wasn’t happening.
I told her we could have fun until she found someone to give her what she wanted.
That wasn’t what she wanted to hear, but she had to respect it.
My homie told me I should wife her since she was older, established, and had good credit.
He suggested I give her money for a business to wash my money through.
Use her maturity and credit to get ahead in the game.
Put my cars, etc. in her name and be on some power couple shit.
That would have been cool. If she wasn’t so thirsty to be married and have kids.
I wasn’t doing all that. When I arrived at her house, she was outside checking the mailbox.
Shorty was pretty as hell. Bree was nineties fine.
Like Lavani. I’d never seen Bree with a bust down wig or any weave other than braids.
She wore her thick, shoulder length hair slicked back in a bun, full of loose curls, or slicked back in a ponytail ninety percent of the time.
Freckles adorned her brown skin, and she rarely ever wore makeup.
I’d seen Lavani with weave, but it was never super long unless it was a ponytail.
I’d also never seen her with the big, dramatic baby hair.
Just a ponytail, bob, or some kind of braids or faux locs.
The last time I’d seen her at the club, she was rocking her hair in a blow out, and she had my dick brick in that muhfucka.
She was just that bad. As I emerged from my car, Bree walked toward me with a smile on her face.
After closing my car door, I leaned up against it.
I could tell she’d either been at a yoga class or the gym.
Bree didn’t wear workout clothes, if she wasn’t working out.
Most days, she rocked jeans or trousers with heels or some kind of loafer or sandal.
If she wasn’t working out, she rarely wore sneakers.
“Hi,” she cheesed walking up on me.
Licking my lips, I allowed my eyes to travel down her frame before dragging them back up to her face. “What’s up? So, where you going on this girls’ trip?”
“Me and a few of my friends are going to Los Angeles to see Janet Jackson in concert. The day after the concert we’re just going to sight see. Maybe do a little shopping.” One thing I knew about shorty was that she loved Janet Jackson and Beyonce.
“Word? Sounds like a good time.”
“I’m sure it will be.” She hadn’t stopped smiling since I pulled up in front of her home.