I love the subway. I took it everywhere – except when I was elementary school, when we walked to school.
There was something about that rusty, tagged up, steel exterior and cold, piss-smelling interior that defined the very city that I lived in. In a weird way, it described the character and essence of New York – the place of endless dreams…
In Junior High, I rode every morning at maybe 7, 7:30. All types of students rode the train, but there were two in particular who looked like students, with bookbags and all, but were anything but students.
I caught the 4 train first, and it seemed like I would see the same girl -- a tall, caramel-skinned teen who wore a sloppy ponytail that tried to inch it’s way past her earlobes. She always wore the same pair of raggedy green and black Nikes.
On my way from school, on the 6, I would see the boy. He wore dirty sneakers and was a short and dark-skinned kid with hair like a nappy brillo pad.
They both wore huge turtle shell-like backpacks that caused them to wobble as they walked. Every time they stepped foot on the trains, they sang similar sob songs:
“Good morning ladies and gentlemen, my name is (insert name here) and I am NOT selling chocolate for my basketball team or for any church or charity – I am selling chocolate so I can buy myself and family something to eat tonight when I get out of school. I sell M&Ms, Snickers, and packs of fruit flavored candy, all for one dollar each. I appreciate your support and have a blessed day.”
From the looks of it, he seemed to be selling a lot of candy – I don’t think he had much left in his box, but he was definitely sellin’ em. I imagine that the chick was selling even more because people sympathize more with females than they do males.
To the naked eyes, they seem more vulnerable and less strong – and less likely to develop into a grown ass misfit. Males aren’t shown sympathy – I’m not sure if they’re supposed to be shown any. Over here, men are supposed to be the strong ones, so yeah, his situation sucks, but you don’t feel bad for him – you’re just glad that it isn’t you.
His skin color probably didn’t help, either – charcoal black, especially in New York, where despite all it’s culture and diversity no one trusts the brothas – especially not like the kid on the 6, with his nappy hair, baggy jeans, and Adidas – he looked like hip-hop, real hip-hop – the way the shit was meant to be.
I grew up poor, in a spot that they call the “inner city” – I guess that they thought that it was a proper way of saying the ghetto. A product of my environment, so naturally, there were only a few things in this world that interested me -- money and new videogames. Especially Sonic the Hedgehog, even though I always thought Tails or Miles was better – I never understood why they changed his or her name.
Even the chump change my mom used to give me as allowance got my hyped back in the days.
But I was a little different from the other kids, they used to get their daily nickels and dimes and spend it fast on JawBreakers and Super Bubbles -- me – I put mine in my pocket until I could get better stuff, and more of it.
Kids spend the little that they had recklessly, I guess because they weren’t used to having it, but they always wanted someone else’s candy. My big bro, who is 11 years older than me, used to tell me to cherish the small things, “If you don’t have it now, and you’re fine, you don’t need it,” he would always say.
Students were like crack addicts waiting on the dealer. Every time I would walk out of the store with a Snickers bar or chewing on some Spearmint gum, it would never fail. It seemed like they would surround me like vultures just waiting for me to peel off that wrapping paper.
“Ooouu, can I have one?”
Or
“Yo, I could get a piece…please?”
“No,” would almost always be my reply. One thing about addicts, man, they are as persistent as the devil.
I would go to the store maybe twice every two weeks with all the money I had saved up. And every time I would go, I’d exit the bodega with a bunch of candies and a few chocolates. Eventually, I caught on and started selling the kids candy, but cheaper than the stores did. It was small, petty stuff, really – nothing crazy at all. I was able to sell shit for like 5 – 10 cents cheaper. It was basic math and it helped my pockets in the long run.
Priorities usually change as one gets older, but for me, money was always a priority, and my ambition to fulfill my addiction, as I realized later, was just like theirs. That chump change I was making from selling candy wasn’t shit – it ain’t help nothin’, all it really did was give me enough for re-up, and if I was lucky, a few bucks to get something to eat on a lucky day.
Every month, our lights would flicker like lightning on a dark, cloudless night. At least once every two or three months, our electricity would take a vacation for about a week and I missed out on all the television shows the students would talk about, especially the ones on cable.
But when our television was on, my Uncle Marteen found a way to tap into our neighbor’s cable that allowed us to enjoy so-called quality television for a little bit until the connection was lost somehow, maybe it was the wind or rain, or maybe that raggedy bitch who went up to the roof her damn self and messed it all up – she was one of those women who couldn’t stand to see anyone else happy or enjoy themselves. Fuck her—who cares.
I realized that I always focus on the negative things because I’m always focused on changing them. I wanted bigger, better things, I wanted to sell those chocolates like those kids on the trains – I know they were really bringing it in.
On my way home one night, at a distance -- about two train cars length, I followed the boy. I could never forget his face because I knew he was a faker, and that bookbag – that horrid bookbag, is just unforgettable.
But shit, frankly, I’m not the one who should really be talking about appearances at all. I only got like two pairs of jeans – one of them is a hand-me-down from my brother and the other I bought with some birthday money for my auntie. I had two pairs of shoes – one for special shit and even they had a small hole on top of them, and one pair of black Nikes – the pieces of shit I did everything else in.
I’ve never done something like this, but I need money – we needed money…bad. I didn’t have a plan nor did I know what I would do with anything really, I just knew that he was making money, despite his appearance.
I know what struggle looks like, I know what pain acts like – and it wasn’t really like that. Where the fuck was he getting this candy?
Struggle just didn’t stick to the script and ask for donations in exchange for candy – struggle doesn’t have the pride to just move on – struggle begged you for donations because pain really needs something to eat.
Struggle would keep on asking, begging the same people – fuck the sob song. There are only two choices when it comes to struggle and pain – you’re lucky enough to have it given to you, or if not, which is usually the case – you take it.
I got off where he got off at, the Brooklyn Bridge station. I watched him from the staircase further down in the station as we waited on the J train. There was no way he suspected me of following him, it’s not like Brooklyn Bridge is a small or unpopular station – it looked completely natural.
Before the J arrived, a few trains passed, this was my first time ever doing something like this…I was nervous, and thinking, maybe I was over thinking --I thought of a gameplan. Dude was definitely selling for someone – he had to be, and I needed to find out who.
If I could somehow convince him that I wanted to sell too…I definitely looked the part, and certainly needed the money – enough so that I didn’t care about rejection – it’s a yes or no thing, and when he introduced me to his boss, I’ll just get in tight with him and start making some money – that’s all I really wanted to do.
It was a quarter past six when we got off at the Broadway Junction station in North Brooklyn, a place of utter unfamiliarity, but I knew I had to do it.
I was usually home by then, but I knew they weren’t too worried. Maybe big bro is, but the kooks don’t usually mess with me, maybe they realized that I had nothing to offer them, had they messed with me. Maybe they realized that I had nothing to lose, so it ain’t a thing for me to dig my rusty ass pocket knife right into them like a fuckin’ undertaker in the ground.
Dude was walking so much -- I got so tired of being in that underworld. But I still followed him as he made his way toward the Long Island Railroad. He stopped at an isolated spot in the concourse and threw his empty boxes in the trash, he held a payphone to his ear – I went into the Blimpie’s right next to it and sat to think about my next move.
I had to think fast – to fast for my liking, so it was time to just do whatever my gut told me to do.
His head turned from left to right as he spoke and we made eye contact. I nervously put my head down and sucked my teeth in disappointment because I noticed how suspicious I looked. Luckily, he thought nothing of it.
Despite my desperation, I was still nervous on how to approach the kid, I mean, I just can’t walk up to him and be like, “Yo, I wanna get down, I need some dough, man.”
I had nothing to lose and as I approached him, something in me – deep in me came out, my inner-beast, I assume, and I snatched the phone from him. I grabbed him by the straps of his backpack,
“Why the hell do you ignore me all the time!? I just want money – I fuckin’ need money, man,” I looked right into his eyes. Before he could say anything, my rant continued,
“Don’t give me that shit, man – I know what’s going on, man,” and I slammed him on the wall – I couldn’t careless about the people who were there – we were teens, maybe less – no one really cared, they just walked on, about their business. Maybe if a cop came and had to make his monthly minimum, he would’ve said something, but nobody said anything.
I slammed him on the wall again as burning tears slowly forced their way out of my eyes, “Take me to ‘em! Take me to the motherfucker you get your shit from – the motherfucker you’re selling for, man…”
I started to sob, and as the salty liquids from my nose dripped into my mouth, I shook my head in embarrassment and cried,
“I need money, man -- I fuckin’ need some money, man.”
He walked, and I followed, we hopped on the LIRR all the way to a large house in Freeport, Long Island – where I first met Tommy. In a way, I admired him – the way he operated. If the kids needed something to eat, he got them fed, he had a few extra rooms for them to sleep in, too, if need be. It was just like a regular business. He held the kids down – whatever they needed.
I turned into those candy fiends at the corner store back in the day – those crackheads – one of the sharks in a pool of blood, circling…waiting for my fix.
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