"Those streets ain't for you, Marc! Stop hanging 'round dem fools and take your tail to school," his mother had pleaded with him daily. "Boy, I'm telling you, dem coppers get you, don't call me. I ain't coming up to nobody's jail for no child of mine who don't want to live right. I won't do it. I ain't. Ain't nothing out there in dem streets good for you! You lovin' dem streets, I pray they love you right on back when you need them 'cause I ain't gonna do it!" she warned.
Marc was sweet on the streets. He loved the excitement and respect and money that he always found within them more than anything. But he knew the streets didn't love nobody back. He knew he didn't have a budding future selling dope. Sooner or later there was only two choices: jail or the cemetery.
Marc turned the corner and ran down a dark alley that led him right into a dead end. The sirens got louder. Then the lights bounced onto the street and he faced the patrol car head on. Panting heavily and tears pinching at the corner of his eyes, Marc searched the street frantically for doors, windows or anything he could kick into and hide. His life was at stake. He silently prayed for protection and for his life. He knew that this time wouldn't be like the last time when he and his boys got away and lived to laugh about it. This time would be different. This time would change his life.
"Don't move! Put your hands up, punk!" the officer ordered with his gun in his hands pointed directly at Marc. This time he was going to jail.
***
It was so cold outside his eyes were watering icicles. He stuffed his bare rough hands into the pockets of his jacket because he didn't have or want gloves. But today he questioned that choice. In fact, for the last three years he'd done nothing but question his entire life. This year was either going to be his rebirth or the beginning of his end.
He stood outside the apartment door in a narrow hallway on the fourth floor of an old but decent looking building not knowing if he should knock or not. He didn't even know if he had the right address. It had been a little more than two years since he'd seen his old dorm mate from the county jail. But Jaleel had been adamant with Marc. He told him when got out that he would look out for him. He'd looked out for him when he was inside. Jaleel had been a man of his word. Marc knocked on the door three times then stepped to the side.
He knew if this was Jaleel's spot, he'd be up and bright eyed. In the joint it seemed like Jaleel had been the first to rise and the last to go to sleep every night. He would always have a book, or a newspaper in his hand ready to rap about whatever he'd just read. Jaleel also worked in the kitchen so everybody knew him and wanted to be in his good graces, just in case they needed something from him. At 18 and his first time in jail, Marc knew he had to give the OGs their proper respect least the streets find out.
Jaleel was an OG. He'd been in and out of jail since he was a juvenile. He'd put his time in the streets and had the tats, the animated stories, and scars to prove he 'd been to battle and survived more than a few times. By time Marc met him though, Jaleel had a rebirth.
"Nah, bra! This here ain't it for me. I ain't coming back no more. I'll die before I do another bid," Jaleel promised as he scribbled notes on the margins of the book he was reading on the small desk in their dorm.
"You act like you all that old. You ain't even 30 yet! Man, fast money and fast honeys by the pound still for the taking out in the streets!" Marc reminiscence. "I mean you still a legend, my dude!"
"A legend? Man, forget that crap. Real talk, I'll be 30 next year and done spent half of that time in here with the police. Hell, I can't stand them ninjas," he laughed. "They can't stand us either, but they do they jobs. We gotta do our jobs, too. Figure, you can move weight, whip a nice ride, lead your boys, make a hunnid g's and still won't own the block! Police still will ride through bust ya head open, steal your products, turn you into this here jail and before you make the six o'clock news your old lady be done got with the next shotcaller pushing a coupe!We gotta get what's ours using our minds to take back the hood. Hell, we gotta use our minds period." Jaleel lectured.
"What you tryna say? You think I'm stupid 'cause I was out on the block?" Marc sat up and grimaced. "I ain't stupid. I was gonna graduate 'fore I got locked up."
"Nah, you ain't stupid. But you and dem little dummies you was rolling with act stupid. Following behind old heads getting locked up - that's stupid. And I can tell you that man, cause I've been crazy stupid too long. Thinking I could out run the sun and every time, it caught me. I'm done, man! You come back to this joint, you ain't gonna be acting stupid...you is stupid!" Jaleel warned.
"What you think Imma be able to do when I get out with a record? Ain't no White people gonna hire me out there. Shhh...I ain't gonna go work at no McDonald's or Burger King making change. I gotta eat and take care of me," Marc reasoned. Let him tell it, his only option after going to jail was the same as when he went in: the streets and jail!
"Finish high school, read, work and pray in here, ya heard me? When you get out, come holla at me! I got you, kid. You ain't stupid and I can use you." Jaleel pushed his glasses up on his nose and reopened his book and started reading again. Marc knew the conversation was over. Those were the only instructions he would receive.
Six months later Jaleel was gone. Marc was still in jail. Jaleel kept his word though. He didn't come back.
It had been a week since Marc had now got out. He'd been staying with friends up until that morning. His boy offered him a run up into Bristol, Connecticut. Fast money was easier to make these days his boy told him. Marc knew he didn't want fast money or the fast honeys he'd been chasing three years ago. He was almost 22 years old. He'd gotten his G.E.D and taken a couple of courses in computers and in business. He read every day in jail. He worked in the kitchen. He lectured the youngins when they came in lost and afraid, just like Jaleel did for him.
Marc wasn't stupid either. He prayed for two and half years for strength to resist temptation. He just didn't think he be tested so soon.
"You riding or not, Marc? We ain't got time to waste with you hesitating over this easy money," Junior nagged his friend remembering all the fun they had in high school or mostly outside of high school. He'd waited a long time for his boy to get out. They were both older now -- they could take over the block. They could take over the block. If only Marc was still the old Marc.
"Junior, ya'll go handle that. I'll see you when I see you, bro! Ya'll be easy!" Marc packed up his belongings and walked out the door without turning back. He had just enough bus fare to get over to Old McKnight and see if the O.G. would keep his word.
Marc knocked on the door three times then stepped to the side. He pulled the knitted cap from his back pocket, swatted it against his thigh before pulling it over his head. It only took a minute for the door to swing open. The warmth of the apartment's heat mixed with oils and incense wafted into the hallway and defrosted the chill from Marc's face and hands. He knew he was at the right place.
"Marc Muhammad?" his old friend, the OG blurted out before landing into a hearty laugh as he extended his arm out to grab the younger man standing before him.
"Aye, bro! It's good to see you!" Marc declared after their embrace. "I'm glad you still a man of your word!"
"My word is bond, Akh! Man, get in here, knuckle head. It's colder than a mutha out there!"
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