By
Marshall Scott
In the beginning
Shawn stood in the hallway of Big Jew’s apartment building. He quickly counted the one dollar bills that he held in his hand. There were six single bills, but they were still four dollars short on a dime sack. Being broke was one thing Shawn hated. They were always broke.
“Man, yall aint never got no money,” he complained to the three other boys with him.
“I got some change,” said Boone, the youngest of the trio. Boone dug deep inside his front pants pocket.
“Here,” he said, giving Shawn the change. Shawn counted the change, which added up to eighty-three cents. He took a deep breath and slowly shook his head from side to side. Buying weed with pocket change was a pathetic move, even for them. It reminded him of the crackheads in the neighborhood.
“Six dollars and eighty-three cent,” said Shawn. “Big Jew aint going for this shit.” He shook his head again. Then recounted the dollar bills, hoping that in some strange way he had miscounted and another dollar would magically appear. When his recount produced no such fortune he walked to the end of the hallway and turned to Alex, who was smoking a cigarette by the steps. “Ah Cuz, we three short, and we still owe the big man from last time. It’s your turn to get us hooked up.” Alex gave Shawn a nod and dropped what was left of the cigarette before stepping on it. He then extended his hand for the money. Shawn smiled as he slapped the wad of cash in Alex’s palm. Alex walked to the rear of the urine scented hallway where Big Jew’s apartment was located. The thin blue carpet inside the hall was filthy; covered with trash and was stained with bodily fluids and god knows what else. The walls were covered with graffiti from kids who had written their names and gang affiliations and the fluorescent tube lights were blown and flickered wildly in the dim lit hall.
Big Jew and his crew ran Litton Apartments. They were section eight housing, and coincidently had eight apartment buildings. It was home to mostly single females who were the parent of one or two children. Having so many single mothers living in the same place attracted a lot of thugs looking for a young mother to shack up with. Anyone who did dirt could make a living in Litton Apartments if they had hustle. Robbing, stealing, selling drugs, it was all fair game and acceptable. Like any ghetto in America that had drugs, Litton Apartments also attracted a strange combination of addicts from every walk of life. Dealers posted up in the halls twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week to sell crack, weed, and powder cocaine. They rarely left their post, not even to take a piss. When they had to take a piss, they just pissed in one of the four corners inside the hall. It was trifling, but it was the hood. Trifling was a way of life.
Loud rap music came from the inside of Big Jew’s apartment. The bass vibrated the walls and echoed inside the hall. Alex approached the door and heard someone yelling inside the apartment. The door of the apartment was thick and solid and the music was loud making it hard to understand what they were saying. There was always something going down at Big Jew’s. And when something was going down at Big Jew’s it was a good idea to stay away. Most of the time people got hurt. They were either shot; pistol whipped, or just got the hell beat out of them. Alex and his friends had witnessed a few of these incidences. They felt lucky to be as young as they were. Big Jew was not as hard on the youngsters as he was on adults.
Alex put his ear to the cold steel door. The person doing the yelling sounded like K.C., Big Jew’s right hand man. K.C. was accusing someone of stealing drugs. Alex waved his hand for the others to come closer. The boys did as instructed. “Man he busy,” said Alex, his instincts warning him not to disturb Big Jew, but Shawn wasn’t trying to hear it.
“Man what the fuck you mean he busy? Nigga, you better knock on the fuckin door!”
“Can’t you hear that shit? You know what happened last time we came and them niggas was in there arguing. Hell naw, I aint
knocking nigga. You knock!”
Shawn let out a sarcastic laughed. “Man, I can’t believe this shit. You actin like a hoe.”
“Fuck you.”
Shawn looked at Boone.
“You wanna get high?”
He didn’t give Boone time to answer.
“Yo, we try’na get high. Give Boone the money. He aint scared to knock.”
He slapped Boone on the back.
“Aint that right Boone?”
“We aint even gotta nough for a cigar,”
said Alex.
“Make that the least of your worries. Now give Boone the money, so we can get this over wit.”
Boone approached Alex and stuck his hand out for the cash. Alex looked at Boone, disgusted that he could be sent out so easily.
“So you just goin send the little nigga out? You aint shit nigga.”
Shawn grinned and said,
“Man you tripping.”
“Watch out, Boone.” Alex said, before banging on the door three times. No one answered after the first three knocks. So he knocked again, this time banging loud enough to be heard over the music and K.C. chaotic yelling. A few seconds passed. Then Alex heard the locks on the door unlocking. The door slowly cracked opened.
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