THEY MADE ME AN ADDICT

AuthorHouse

Chapter One

It's around midnight. I'm standing alone on the corner selling medicine, and buggin'. I'm buggin' because I want to get the fuck out of here. I'm tired of this medicine dealing game, and I want out. This ish got me confused. I'm supposed to be writing a book about the streets from the inside out. Instead, I'm selling medicine, sniffing every day, and I stop writing months ago—ain't that much research in the damn world.

Once, I get the rest of my street money from, my man, Dupree, I'm done, hopefully for good. The only thing that could slow me down from leaving the streets is that I've been getting high a-little-bit-too-much, lately. But I got a plan to get off the streets. I heard from old timers that the first night of withdrawals could be the worse. I know I don't have a habit because I don't bang (inject); I sniff. But I have been getting high for a minute, so if I start to feel a little sick, I got my "just in case" bag with me: a brown paper bag with a pint of Hennessy and can of coke. I'm going to drink the Henny, get drunk and sleep it off, but that's only, if I start to feel a little sick. Plus I'm getting rid of all of all the medicine that I have by tonight. I'm going with the, out of sight-out of mind, theory. After that, I should be straight since I don't have a habit. I only sniff.

I'm leaning on a closed drugstore with iron gates on the doors and windows; hanging above my head is a big white neon sign inscribed with the prescription symbol. I look on the ground and see empty bags of diesel and plastic vials from crack cocaine all over the damn place. I shake my head, because little kids walk through this block all the time, and they shouldn't see this shit. But how can I talk about stuff being everywhere when I sell it? Like my man Dupree said, "This shit is crazy."

The full moon is sitting in the sky all alone, no stars, no clouds, just darkness. And I laugh, because loneliness has been an uninvited guest of mine for a long time. It grew on me like an unjust life sentence. Usually, three or four dealers are out here, trying to get money. But I'm glad to be alone, because I don't want those motherfuckers walking up to me, talking about how much money they made or how good their medicine is. I don't want to hear shit. That ain't what it is.

I sell medicine on South Orange Ave. and 10th Street in Newark. It used to be called Martin Luther King Street, but they changed it to 10th Street. In most medicine spots in New York, one or two major dealers run things, but we don't get down like that. In our 'hood, local kids run back and forth to New York buying bundles (ten bags) of medicine at a hundred dollars a pop. We'll sell a bag for fifteen or seventeen dollars, for a profit of fifty to seventy a bundle. But if your ass comes around here trying to make money, and you don't fit in and you don't belong, Man, yo' ass a get lit up. Not by me; I'm not a bad man. I just keep the bad men off me.

I haven't made a sell in thirty minutes, but I'm not sweating it, because I only have a bundle of diesel left, and I want to keep that for myself. See, not only am I the medicine club president, but I'm also a client. And since it's my last night on the streets, I'm going to get fucked up one last time. I hope I can get that taste out of my mouth.

It looks like rain, but it doesn't matter to me, because I'm trying to get money so I can get paid, so I can get out of here. That's what we always say on the block: "I'm trying to get money. I'm trying to get paid." I don't believe them when they say, "It's about the money." Money has something to do with it, but it's always about something else, whether they know it or not. I know it. For me, it ain't never been about the money. It's always been about the story. And that's why I'm getting out the game—because lately it ain't been about the story. It's been about the medicine, and this shit has got to stop.

As I'm looking out toward the four-lane intersection, a sinister breeze sweeps through the empty avenue and picks up an innocent can on the corner, twirls it in the air, and then slams it on the ground, bending it out of shape forever. In the afternoon, it's crazy busy out here. Buses run up and down the street, blowing their horns, slamming on brakes, letting people off and on. Neighborhood people rush in and out of stores, buying drugs from the drugstore, liquor and beer from the liquor store, and picking up and dropping off clothes at the cleaners. All types of kids, big and small, fat and skinny, chewing gum, buying candy, and going to the poppy store for their mom's to buy instant rice, canned foods, or cereal.

I check out the other corners of the intersection. One Hour cleaners: gates locked and closed, corner empty. Julio's Spanish store: gates locked and closed, corner empty. South Orange Liquors: gates locked and closed, corner empty. Closed—now that's a word I'm familiar with. It's just like America—the only time it's open for brothers from the 'hood is when we're spending money. Unless it's prison bars. They'll open those gates with a public defender and a smile and then throw away the goddamn key. It's called justice. Richard Pryor said, "Just us black folks."

Richard was wrong—funny, but wrong. Blacks aren't the only ones in prison; there are Latinos, whites, Chinese, Indians, some of everybody. We just happen to be the favorite sons, making up 50 percent of the prison population and 13 percent of the total population. You do the math.

The only movement on the block comes from a few shadows behind the closed blinds and curtains in the windows of the apartment buildings on top of the corner buildings. Every now and then, a car rides through; if it slows down, I'm on it. I have to decide, fast, if they're stick-up kids, undercover 5-0, or someone visiting the neighborhood; but not too many people get visitors after midnight on the weekdays.

They might be customers, but most of my customers walk. I don't play that drive-by-and-I-walk-up-to-the-car shit; this ain't Burger King, goddamnit. You do it my way. If you want some of this product, you get your ass out and walk. And even though I sold most of my product, I still have to worry about 5-0. They wouldn't mind some extra change, especially if they think it's medicine money. Shit—some cops are worse than stick-up kids; they'll take everything you got with their bullying asses. And none of them live around here. They should have a rule that a cop has to live in the neighborhood he's supposed to protect.

"Yo, yo, Dupree, what's good?" I yell when I spot him across the street, walking toward me. Dupree is my man. We grew up together. He's running for me. I gave him three bundles to sell three hours ago, and he probably just finished. My cousin, Tyrone, would have sold that shit in thirty minutes. You'll meet him later. He's a pain in the ass. But I love him anyway. We're all somebody's pain in the ass.

"Yo, yo," he says as he walks up to me. He fakes as if he's about to shake my hand and then hands me the dirty money. I look around the dark streets as I stuff the loot in my front jeans pocket and pull the front of my hoodie down to cover my pockets.

"You going to the Drug Store in the morning to re-up?" Dupree asks.

"Nah, I'm good," I tell him.

The Drug Store is a hot medicine spot...