The Streets Keep Calling
Read The Streets Keep Calling Online
Authors: Chunichi
Free at Last Breeze
“Free at last. Free at last. Thank God Almighty, I'm free at last,” I shouted at the top of my lungs. I walked out the gates of the federal penitentiary after serving five long years for drug charges.
From the first day I'd begun serving my time I'd been waiting for the day I would be released. I walked out the gates with the same thug stroll I'd had walking into the courtroom, and, ultimately, into the brick walls of the federal penitentiary. I walked proud with my head high and a mean grit. No one would have ever known that I ain't have shit, not even a hundred dollars to my name. A nigga would think I had the same half a million dollars cash and even more in assets that I'd originally had when I first got locked up. One thing about me though, I am always one of two things: either filthy rich or dead broke.
“Goddamn!” I said, realizing there was no one outside waiting to pick me up.
I scanned the parking lot again, looking to my left, then looking to my right. Still I ain't see no one. Other than a couple of cars parked in the visitor parking area, there wasn't a single nigga there but me. Even though I knew not to expect any of my boys to be there waiting to pick me up, it still hurt like a bitch to come out to nothing. At that point I ain't have no one. The so-called boys who didn't snitch on me or steal from me forgot about me after the third year of my bid. We all know how the saying goes: “out of sight, out of mind.” In my case, it's been proven.
Before I got locked up, I had a whole crew of niggas by my side and another list of niggas who wished they could be by my side. But when shit got hot, niggas started snitching to save their own asses. The niggas who ain't have shit until I took them under my wing were the same bitch-ass niggas who turned on me. As soon as they felt a little bit of pressure, they were quick to drop names and information. Then there were those who owed me money before I got locked up. These niggas saw that as a free ticket. I had cats making promises to pay my lawyer, give money to my moms, and look out for my wife and kids with the money they owed. Needless to say, my lawyer, mother, and wife and kids never saw a single dollar of that money.
As far as my wife, Maria, and kids, Jaden and Kaylyn, go, well, deep inside I knew they wouldn't be waiting outside the gates for me either. Even though I hoped and prayed I would walk out those gates and be greeted by them running into my arms, I knew I was wishing on a star. Maria had turned her back on me a long time ago. Despite that I had left everything I owned to her.
At the time I got locked up, we were the picture-perfect happy family living in a $300,000 house that was paid for. My wife had her own personal car, we had a family truck, and I had over $500,000 stashed up in cash. When I went in to do my time, I made sure everything was taken care of for her. I had my attorney sign over all my paperwork so she could have access to and be in control of all my assets, and I gave her all my drug money down to the last dollar. It never crossed my mind that she would be the type of woman to turn her back on me, her husband, of all people. I figured with the house, cars, and money, she'd be straight and wait for me until I got out. Even that wasn't enough to keep her.
I will never forget the pain I felt when I called my house number collect, and the operator told me the charges were denied. I must have tried calling at least two times a day for, like, two weeks straight just to make sure I had the right number. I couldn't understand for the life of me why my wife would not take my call. Then one day I called and the operator said that the number was disconnected. When I heard that ma'fucking disconnected recording come on, I was pissed. Then I felt betrayed, but beyond all that, I was hurt that my wife would do something like that to me. After all the shit I had done to make sure she and the kids were taken care of, she would turn her back on me like that? But then I convinced myself that she had a perfectly good explanation for changing the number. It dawned on me that she might have gotten wind that the line was tapped, and she didn't want to talk to me on it. I figured instead of getting pissed off, I would just wait for a letter from her with the new number and an explanation; but that letter never came. It didn't even take her one year to change her number, stop visiting, and stop sending letters.
I can't lie; I didn't have an easy bid. I knew things weren't gonna be easy from the first day I walked through the prison gates. On the streets I had a crew, a gun, and a whole lot of hood respect. I'd spent years proving I was gangster, but once I was behind those prison walls, I was a nobody with an assigned number. After all the sacrifice and time it took me to get to the top of the street game, I walked into that place and had to work my way from the bottom up and gain my respect all over again. I got in countless fights, losing more than I won. Hell, I was stabbed the first week, and put in the hole a few weeks after that. I lost my good time for getting caught with a cell phone, and even had a couple incidents that I've constantly tried to erase from my memory. Even through all that, nothing hurt me as bad as being away from my kids. No lie, not being able to see or talk to my kids was the hardest part of my entire bid.
Realizing there wasn't a person in sight to pick me up, I finally said, “fuck it,” and started to walk. I had already made my mind up while I was in prison: I was gonna come out a new person. No more of the bullshit that got me locked up. I wanted one thing and one thing only, and that was to get my wife and kids back. I didn't give a fuck what it would take, I was gonna get them back and never leave them again. I had plans to work a nine-to-five, see my parole officer as instructed, get my rights back, get some credit, and live the simple life.
I hadn't taken a good three steps when a familiar car rolled up. I couldn't do anything but shake my head and smile, as Moms pulled up in my 2002 Lexus GS 300.
“What the fuck?” I had to laugh. This shit I was looking at was crazy!
As Moms rolled up, all I could see was her blond wig, long acrylic nails, and cigarette smoke escaping from the driver's side window. I looked at my car as she got closer. There was a dent in the side, a number of scratches and dings, and, worst of all, Moms was rolling on three custom rims and one factory rim: straight hood!
“There's my baby boy.” Moms flicked her cigarette butt out the window and hopped out of the car. She ran and jumped her teeny five-foot-two petite frame into my arms. I stood over six feet tall, towering over her. I lifted her off her feet, hugging her tight. “I missed you so much,” she said with tears of joy in her eyes as she kissed me on the cheek. It took me back years. I felt like I was five years old again.
“Come on, Ma. Ain't no need for crying. I'm home now.” I dried the tears from my mom's face and we headed to the car. When I got in the passenger's side, I couldn't believe the inside of the car was worse than the outstide. My leather was scratched and ripped, the steering wheel stitching was holding on for dear life, and my GPS screen was cracked.
“Ma, what happened to my car? It looks like Hurricane Katrina ripped through it! You couldn't take better care of it?” I knew Ma was never one to care much about cars but poor “Lexy,” as I used to call her, looked so bad, not even a crack-head would consider breaking into her.
“Breeze, I know I didn't just take an unpaid day off of work to come and pick your behind up for you to question me about no damn car, boy! You can walk home if you don't like what you see!” she said, smirking, knowing I didn't have much of a choice but to shut up and take it.
“Whatever, Ma! Take me to see my kids,” I commanded.
“Lord, Breeze, I don't know why you don't just leave that girl alone. She took all your money and turned her back on you while you were in jail. Now she out there running around with some old rich man they call Mr. Biggs. That girl has always been about money. Boy, you ain't realized that yet?” my mom said, full of attitude.
Moms ain't never liked Maria. She felt Maria always thought she was better than our family. Maria grew up with a silver spoon in her mouth. She went to the best schools, had the best clothes, and rubbed shoulders with people in high places. She had a master's degree in psychology but never worked a day in her life. Her mother was a Spanish woman who worked as a school superintendent. Her father was a white man who owned a construction company that was contracted with the government to build government buildings.
Now you compare that to the life I and my family knew. Moms was a single mother from the day I was born. I ain't never knew my daddy, and I ain't sure if he ever knew about me either. According to my grandmother, my moms was crazy in love with Daddy from the first day they met. They spent every minute they could together until she got pregnant. My grandmother said she never asked what happened between them, but all she knew was that my moms got pregnant and he was gone. My grandmother told me my moms fell into a deep depression after that. She did the best she could to raise me, while Moms spent countless nights drinking and hanging out at the clubs. As much as she tried to keep up with me, I was never home. I grew up in the projects, and was practically raised by the streets. School was never my thing, so I dropped out as soon as I was old enough, and started my hustle on the streets. Before I knew it, I was hood rich. That's right, I had riches, just as much as Maria's family, but I got my riches solely from selling drugs. As Moms said, Maria was about the dollars. If not for those riches, I would have never pulled a girl like Maria, or had her hand in marriage.
“I just wanna see my kids, Ma,” I said, even though deep inside I wanted to see Maria just as bad.
“Well, you gonna have to find that girl first. She sold the house.”
“She did what?” I couldn't believe what my mom was saying to me.
“You heard me.” Ma pulled out a Newport and lit it. “That greedy, money-hungry, mixed-breed bitch sold the damn house, Breeze. She left me and your grandma cramped up in that old house in the hood. That mixed breed sold that big-ass house you left her! Why you so worried about her anyway? You need to be worried about how you gonna live cause we both know that drug shit didn't work out too good for you the last time. While you thinking about that, think about where you gonna live, 'cause we both know Momma's house is too small for all of us,” my moms ranted.
“What? When? Why you ain't tell me?” I asked, only caring about the house and totally ignoring my moms, other statements.
“Breeze, did you hear anything I just said to you about how and where you gonna live?”
“Yeah, but that's not important to me right now. Why didn't you tell me Maria sold the house?” I redirected my moms back to the house situation.
“I didn't want you to worry while you were locked up. You had enough things on your mind.” Moms took a long pull off her cigarette, then blew the smoke out the window.
I couldn't believe Maria would stoop that low. I bought that house because she wanted it so bad. Everything in there she handpicked: furniture, appliances, carpet, all the way down to the fucking light fixtures. Then as soon as a nigga got locked up, she sold the shit! The more I thought about that shit, the angrier I got. I spent the rest of the ride deep in thought.
“We're home,” my mom said, breaking me out of my trance.
I shook my head as we pulled up to my grandmother's house. I was back to the same place I'd started from. The same damn ghetto I grew up in, and the same old-ass house with broken shutters and chipped paint. It was like I was sixteen years old all over again. I glanced around my hood, and all that shit was still the same too: same niggas on the block and same hood rats chasing behind them trying to trick for a few dollars. Only difference with them was that they looked like life had kicked their asses and they was tired as hell. Niggas had scars and faded tattoos, while the hood rats had nasty stretch marks and fucked-up weaves and wigs. That's when I realized a nigga really ain't have shit left: money was gone, friends gone, wife gone, kids gone, house gone, cars gone.
“Hey, Breeze!” I heard a chick shout out as I got out of the car and headed up to my grandma's house.
I looked to my right to see a small-framed chick with a phat ass.
Goddamn!
I thought as my dick began to rise. I couldn't put a name to the face and the bitch wasn't even all that cute, but, I gotta say, after five years in the pen, that bitch was lookin' like Halle Berry and Salma Hayek rolled into one.
“What up, yo?” I said as I gave shorty a nod as soon as my moms was inside the house.
“You don't even know who I am. Do you?” she asked as she got a little closer.
“Nah, baby girl. You look familiar, but I can't call it.” I was straight up with the chick.
“See how niggas do? Fuck and buck. You took my damn virginity in your grandmamma basement, nigga!” she snapped while playfully punching my arm.
“Oh, shit! Trixy?” I said, remembering that day like it was yesterday.
“Goddamn right. What up, fool?” She gave me a big hug.
“Ain't shit. Just happy to be home,” I said sincerely.
“Oh, yeah? This your first stop?”
“Yep.”
“What? Where your niggas at? Your wife? All your bitches? Before you got locked up you had a whole entourage. Where all them people at now? They suppose to be throwing you a welcome home party, greeting you with money, clothes, your favorite food and pussy all night.” Trixy spoke like the true hood rat she was.
“Yeah, but you know how it go: money gone, niggas gone. Ain't nothing, though. A nigga a'ight,” I lied. Deep inside I did want all that, and it was fucked up it didn't turn out that way, but I wasn't gonna let that petty shit break me.
“Well, welcome home, baby,” Trixy said while hugging me tight.
Just the feeling of her titties against my chest was enough to make a nigga wanna bust, but I nonchalantly hugged her back and said, “A'ight, li'l momma, I'ma catch you later on.”