Tyrell (9 page)

All the cars is covered with snow, so we end up using them like they our forts, ducking behind them to build up our ammunition, then jumping out and bombing kids with the fat-ass snowballs we got piled up. A couple of the other guys is out with they little brothers and sisters, so least I ain't the only dude my age throwing snowballs ‘cross Hunts Point Avenue. And them guys is mad funny too, so, I gotta be honest, we all having a good time actin' like we still ten years old and shit. Before I know it, it's getting dark outside.

It take me ‘bout half hour to get Troy inside. He arguing with me and begging me for more time, but our sneakers and jeans is soaking wet, and I know his hands is cold ‘cause mines is froze. And Troy need to dry off and get warm so he don't get sick and miss no more school.

My moms is laying down when we get back to the room. Me and Troy change into dry clothes and put our sneakers in front of the one heat vent that actually work. Then I get on my bed and listen to my cheap, no-name CD player while Troy watch cartoons.

The hip-hop music is so loud in my headphones that I can feel the bass through my whole body. I always listen to music when I got things on my mind. I don't know, but music just get my mind going ‘specially when it's the right kinda music. The kind with a strong beat that block out everything else and get your blood pumping real hard.

Rap music used to be my whole life back when me and Troy was in foster care starting from when I was, like, eleven. But back then I only listened to that loud, angry gangsta shit like Mobb Deep and DMX—dudes that was just pissed off and wanted
everybody to know it. And even though them niggas was rappin‘ 'bout being in gangs and jail and all that shit, I could relate to them. ‘Cause I was in the system and that shit was fucked up.

Only good thing was that me and Troy was together in the same foster home. I used to go in our room and blast my music, and just lay on the bed and feel all the shit boiling up inside me. My foster mother, Miss Niles, was always screaming at me, telling me to turn my music down or she was gonna call my caseworker and get me put in a group home, but I used to just ignore that woman. Man, she threatened me with that everyday. Meanwhile, I knew she ain't want me there from jump. She liked Troy and them other little kids she had, but she ain't want no older kids like me living there. But, being that the city ain't wanna split me and Troy up, she got stuck with me too. And she let me know I wasn't wanted there every chance she got.

But I ain't care how much she hated me or how much she yelled at me ‘cause nothing mattered to me back then. Nothing. My pops was locked up, my moms couldn't take care of us by herself, and my grandmother, who used to be there to help us out, was already dead. So we was all stuck where we was at.

Shit, my music was mad and so was I. Them rappers was saying shit I couldn't say to no one ‘cause no one was listening to me. But Miss Niles complained so much ‘bout the noise, my caseworker gave me this cheap-ass CD player at the agency Christmas party just so I could listen to my music and not bother no one. And that was fine with me.

Only thing, I don't listen to that gangsta shit too much no more. Yeah, I'm up on all the new music, but the CDs I play the most is the rap from back in the day, brothas like Rakim, Big Daddy Kane, KRS-1, and Tupac, ‘cause them niggas had some
real deep shit to say. My pops got me into them ‘cause that's the only kinda rap he play at his parties, and when I took the time to listen to the words, man, I started to respect them dudes. They was the real deal. Not like now when most of the rappers is just frontin' like they from the streets or starting beef with other rappers over nothing just so they could be in some fake war and sell more CDs. The new rap is alright, but there ain't never gonna be another Public Enemy. Never.

But the truth is, I'ma need to get some new music soon ‘cause the old stuff ain't gonna work for this party. Patrick, this guy I know from Bronxwood, always got all the new stuff. He be making bootleg CDs and DVDs and selling them ‘round the projects. Me and him ain't really friends or nothing, but he cool, and we could probably work something out.

But there's someone I need to get ahold of first. I take my headphones off and try calling Dante again, but he don't answer. And I know he ain't gonna call me back neither. Nigga know what I want, and he ain't gonna wanna give up that equipment for shit. ‘Specially after he gave my moms money for it.

I get off the bed and put my room key in my pocket. “I'ma be back,” I tell my moms. “Don't leave Troy alone no more.”

She don't say nothing, but she look mad that I even said that. I walk down the hall to Jasmine room feeling kinda stupid with no shoes on. I knock on the door, but nobody there. Damn. I hope Jasmine ain't had to go with her sister ‘cause she sounded real upset ‘bout that.

Then Wayne, one of the guys I was out there in the snow with, come down the hall. “Lost your girl?” he ask me.

“Nah,” I say. “She went out with her sister and ain't got back yet.”

“Yo, man,” he say, then he just stop hisself. “Forget it.”

“What?” I'm here in the hall with no shoes on my feet, and I ain't got time for no bullshit.

“Nothin', man.”

“You got something to say ‘bout Jasmine?”

Wayne shake his head. “It's just, how good you know that girl, man?”

“I know her.”

“ ‘Cause last night she was hanging with, you know that tall light-skin dude with the Sean John jacket? Him. She was downstairs with him for a while talking and crying and shit. Then she took him to her room.” Wayne raise his hands like he ain't in it. “Now, I don't know what happened, but I do know that guy is going ‘round saying he hit that all night.”

“She ain't do nothin' with him,” I say, but both of us know I'm talking mad shit ‘cause Jasmine coulda did anything she wanted with him.

I tell Wayne I'ma check him later and walk back to my room. I'm mad, but I ain't even sure why. Ain't like Jasmine my girl or nothing.

Later that night, when my moms and Troy is both ‘sleep, I'm in the room still working on the party. I already called Patrick, and me and him worked out a deal. I'ma get all the new CDs and he gonna get to sell all his bootleg shit at my party. Not only that, but I told him he could DJ for me when I wanna take a break. So the music ain't cost me nothing.

But I still don't got a place. I'm sitting on the bed thinking, but I gotta be honest, I'm stuck. All the places my pops use for his parties cost more money than I got, and they probably ain't gonna let a bunch of teenagers use they place no way. And the snow ain't helping none ‘cause it's gonna be hard to get ‘round and find something on my own.

When I can't think of nothing else to do, I don't got no choice ‘cept to call my pops friend Regg on his cell. When my pops throw his parties, he hire Regg to handle the money ‘cause he the kinda guy you could trust no matter what. He also the size of a Hummer, so ain't nobody gonna mess with him.

I ain't looking to call all my pops friends ‘cause most of them is into the same kinda illegal shit he into, and I don't wanna end up where he at, but Regg ain't like the rest of them. I been knowing him since I was real young, and outta all my pops friends, he the only one that keep it real no matter what. He ain't slick like Dante, and he ain't only out for hisself. Not to say he don't wanna get paid, ‘cause he do, but he the kinda guy that got your back even if there ain't nothing in it for him.

And Regg is a scary dude when he hafta be. One time, a couple years ago, my pops was throwing this after-hours party in the basement of this take-out restaurant. As usual, the place was packed. My pops was DJing and Regg was at the door collecting the money and giving out the drink tickets. I was helping my pops pull the records he needed, and putting them away when he was done. Then I would just sit next to him, watching him mix the records, smooth, like the music for the whole night was just one long song.

When my pops needed a break, I would take over, trying to copy what he was doing. Most of the people at his parties was, like, in they thirties and forties, but for some reason at this party there was a lot of people there in they twenties too, so I was mixing the music up, going from old to new. Females was yelling out shit like, “Ooh, that's my song!” and “That used to be the jam!” Most important, everybody was dancing. And since folks was liking what I was doing, my pops left me up there for a while and he was dancing with a group of girls, pointing to me, and probably telling them that I was his kid. I was feeling all good and shit.

That's when everything broke out. Three niggas rolled up and tried to get by Regg without paying nothing. They was actin' like they wasn't coming to party, like they was just looking for
somebody. Regg was blocking the door and not moving ‘til he saw some cash. They was arguing, but I couldn't hear what no one was saying ‘cause of the music.

Then all I seen was Regg grab one of the guys by the neck, whip out his nine, and beat the dude face with it. The guy was bleeding and screaming, and none of his friends did jack to help him. I thought bullets was gonna be flying next ‘cause them niggas looked like they was packing, but after what Regg did to that first guy, all three of them just cut out like a bunch of pussies. Regg ain't even break a sweat.

After a couple rings, Regg answer the phone and we talk for a couple minutes. He tell me he in Atlanta taking care of some business, but he don't give no more details than that. Fact is, nobody know exactly what Regg do to make money, and nobody ever ask. “When your pops getting out?” he ask me.

“S'posed to be in August, if he got good behavior.”

“That shit is fucked up.”

“True that,” I say. Then I tell him ‘bout how we in a shelter and how I'm trying to make some money by throwing a party on Saturday.

“Yeah, you can make some good money, Ty. I seen you DJ for your pops, and you got his skills. You good. You got a place yet?”

“Nah.”

“How much cash you got?”

“A hundred fifty.”

“You ain't gonna get no place with that.” Then he start with the math. He tell me if I wanna get a decent place that can fit two or three hundred kids, I'ma have to spend ‘bout $500, and I'ma need that money up front. “You got any friends with a house you can use?”

“Nah. Not really.” Only kids I know that don't got they moms ‘round is Cal and them, but they apartment is way too small for what I'm planning.

“Then you gonna need to see this guy, Leon. He can find you a place, but it ain't gonna be on the up-and-up. Your pops know him. Remember that party he threw at that factory in Harlem? Leon set that shit up.”

I remember that party ‘cause we had to do the whole thing, even the setup and break down, between the time the night shift left at 9:00 and the day shift got there at 6:00. It was wild. At ‘bout 5:30 in the morning, we was throwing niggas out and breaking down the equipment like we was crazy. The whole factory was tore up. Machines was broke, garbage was all over the place, the bathroom was flooded, but we ain't care ‘bout that. We just ain't wanna get caught.

I start laughing. “Why my pops go to a guy like Leon?”

“He ain't had no money, why you think?”

“Like me.”

“Yeah. But you gonna make money if you get the word out and promote it.”

I ask him how much I could make.

“If you charge everybody ten, you make anywhere from two to three thousand, minus expenses. You gonna need some guys you trust working for you, and you pay them each two hundred for the night.”

$200. Each. That's gonna be a big chunk out my money. But I can't complain. I ain't got nothing right now. “Ten is a lot,” I tell Regg. “Kids ain't gonna have that kinda money.” Not only that, but I know if I charge everybody $10, girls ain't gonna wanna pay
that. And the party ain't gonna be no good ‘less it's packed with females.

My pops be charging like $30 for his parties, but he give a couple free drinks with that. And with him, his parties is so big, he don't leave outta there with less than $6,000 after he pay for the place and give everyone that work for him they cut. But some of his money come from selling drugs and shit, and I ain't gonna do that.

Me and Regg start going over the math again. He so quick with the numbers, now I know why my pops put him in charge of the money. No matter what numbers I throw at him, in a couple seconds he come up with what I'ma take home. After a while, I figure it out, and I know it's gonna work. “A'ight. A'ight. Fifteen for guys, free for females. How much I'ma make then?”

In a second, Regg say, “You come home with about two thousand two hundred and fifty minus expenses, if you can get half the place filled with guys. But that ain't gonna be a problem, not with girls coming free.”

$2250 sound good, but it ain't really shit if I'ma have to pay everybody $200 and pay for the place. I'ma be lucky to leave outta there with $1500.

When I tell Regg my plan to get a apartment, he tell me it ain't that easy. “You gotta have two, three months' rent up front. They don't just let you move in like that. You gonna need more money, Ty, so why don't you do like your pops do?”

“Nah, Regg. I ain't going down like that.”

“It's your call, man. I just don't know if you gonna get enough for an apartment. What about beer? You could sell beers for double the price you get them for at the wholesale place. You get
someone to handle the beer and the money, you cut him in for twenty-five percent and that would still get you another two, three hundred.”

A extra three hundred would be sweet, but no, I ain't gonna let no $300 get me locked up. “Nah, Regg. I ain't looking to go to jail for selling no beer.”

“You only, what, fifteen?” he ask me. “They arrest you, you not gonna do no real time.”

“You sure ‘bout that?”

“You been knowing me since you was a kid,” he say. “And you ain't never know me to say shit I ain't sure of. Cops come in, they gonna lock my Black ass up before you ‘cause I'm the adult. Look, Ty, you want money, you take chances. That's how it go.”

Maybe he right, but I don't know. Shit getting too complicated. I just wanna throw a party, have some fun, make some money, and get us outta Bennett. Why I gotta be worried ‘bout getting locked up all the time?

“You gonna be back by Saturday?” I ask him. “ ‘Cause I'ma need someone I could trust to work the door and collect the money and shit.”

“I'm there,” he say. “And I ain't gonna take twenty-five percent of the door money like I do with your pops. Whatever you make, you keep. I want your family out that shelter.”

“You sure?”

“Now your
next
party, I'm in it for my cut, understand?” He laugh a little. Then he give me Leon cell number. “And tell him you with me, okay?”

“A'ight,” I tell him. I wanna tell Regg ‘bout Dante and the equipment, but what Regg gonna do ‘bout that when he in Atlanta? Nah, I'ma hafta handle Dante on my own.

“And when you see your pops, tell him I got his back, okay?”

“A'ight,” I say again even though I ain't seen my pops since he was arrested and don't plan on seeing him no time soon. I don't say nothing to Regg, but the truth is, I don't do the whole prison bus-ride thing. I can't even stand seeing them women lined up on Grand Concourse and 149
^th
Street every morning waiting for them buses. That whole scene don't make no sense to me.

Saturdays and Sundays is even worse ‘cause them women drag they kids with them. Dress them up like they going to a birthday party or something. Like there ain't nothing else them kids wanna do but go through metal detectors and get searched by guards just so they could spend a couple hours in the prison visiting area with they pops. With more guards watching they every move.

I know how them kids feel ‘cause I used to be one of them. My moms used to make me wear my best clothes and take me on them buses with her. The whole way there, all us kids used to play ‘round in the back of the bus like we was friends or something. Nobody talked ‘bout they pops. We just acted like we wasn't even going to prison.

But I ain't never going through that shit again. I'm too old for that now. If my pops wanna see me, he need to keep his ass home.