2. Darius Artis #3
Wally was sixty years old still selling heroin.
He didn’t sell it on a big scale at all.
In fact, he only had about six or seven regular customers.
Wally wasn’t trying to go to prison at his age, but he swore the so-called American dream was bullshit.
He ran a construction company for almost forty years.
When he retired, his house and both his cars plus his wife’s car was paid off.
Wally had a decent amount of money in a 401k, and he got a monthly social security check.
It only took about two years for him to realize all those numbers that were originally in his retirement fund were dwindling fast after his wife battled breast cancer, and the taxes on his house went up.
Wally always talked about how he worked hard and tore his body down just to get old and be worried about money for one thing or another.
When his roof began leaking, and he was quoted twelve grand to get it fixed, he went back to what he knew before his construction company took off.
Dog food aka heroin. Wally simply wanted to be able to fill his kitchen with groceries, pay the taxes on his home, and enjoy however many years he had left without always scraping to get by.
“You better pray you live to get old,” he hit me with his favorite line.
“I want to stay here as long as my dick works. When I can’t get hard without a pill, I’ll be ready to meet my maker.”
Wally laughed so hard tears ran down his cheeks. “Fuck what you talking about young blood. I love my pills, and my wife does too.”
“Wally,” I frowned. His old ass was cool as hell but him and his wife having sex wasn’t a vision that I wanted in my head.
“’Cus I damn sure gets it in. At least three times a week.” He continued to torment me.
“Give me my money, so I can get the fuck on.”
“I see you took my advice,” Wally peered out of the window while ignoring me.
“Yeah. When I’m moving around selling heroin from now on, I’m going to drive a rental car. That way when the police think they’re doing something by pulling me over anytime they see my car near the hood they’ll be looking stupid when they don’t find shit.”
Wally gave a curt head nod. “Gotta be smart if you want to stay in this game long enough to see some real money. I won’t ever tell anyone that you can’t live good off legal money because I did for many years.
But when you have more money going out than coming in even what you thought would be enough starts to dwindle faster than you expected.
Be smart. Save your money. Start a career, settle down, have some kids. ”
“Why does every man’s story need to end with a wife and kids?”
“Because most times when it doesn’t you have a lot of old fools wishing they had done things differently.
Not everyone deserves or needs kids. If you don’t want them that’s fine.
Worst thing a person can do is have kids and mistreat them.
But having a good woman by your side when times get rough can make managing it a lot easier and as long as you live there will be plenty of times when life gets rough. ”
“Every time I come to serve you, I get hit with a life lesson,” I joked. Wally was cool, and I appreciated his words of wisdom.
“Somebody has to tell you knuckleheads something. I’m sure your father does, and I’m sure you barely listen. ‘Cus at your age, why the fuck would you listen to your father? What does he know?”
All I gave was a snort. He sounded just like my parents when they were preaching to me. When I didn’t take their advice, it wasn’t because I didn’t think they knew what they were talking about. Sometimes, a person just had to learn shit the hard way. I could admit that.
“I might enroll in school in the next year or two. I really do want to do something in sports. Be an agent or manager or something, but I know that shit is about more than education. I have to meet people. Network. In life it’s not what you know but who you know.”
“Indeed,” Wally agreed.
We chopped it up a bit more, and I left his house thinking about what he said.
Of course, I knew I couldn’t hustle forever.
In order to become a sports agent, I’d have to at least have a minimum of a bachelor’s degree, though it would look even better to have an MBA or law degree.
I would also have to get certified. The simplest exam to take would be the NBPA, so I could represent NBA players.
To represent an NFL player, I’d have to have a master’s or law degree and at least seven years of negotiating experience.
In order to be certified for baseball and hockey, I’d have to already be representing a player on an active roster just to be eligible to take the exam.
All of that sounded like a lot. Sometimes, it sounded like too damn much, but I knew I could do it if I put my mind to it.
Being an intern, college, it was all a lot of work, time, and dedication, that I wouldn’t be getting paid for.
I would have to have some major bread stacked to even think about starting college, but I was giving myself at least two years to make a decision.
Bree called when I was on my way to pick Lavani up.
I didn’t go to her crib the night before like I told her I might because I was with Lavani.
There was no need to answer for her because I was minutes away from Lavani’s home.
For the moment, Lavani was my newest addiction.
Only God knew if it would remain that way.