He tried to be cool but these bitches didn't respect shit. He wanted to fit in with his peers
but they couldn't accept who he was or what he represented. His “so called” friends
always turned to haters and he could never find anyone real, someone besides his
brother, just one true friend he could relate with outside of home. He could not even
have that. And his folks wondered why he never had any friends.
He went to school and earned his grades. All the young ladies wanted to get to “know
him.” He stayed fresh, forever dressed in the latest urban styles. He had the teachers
jocking him as well. Most of the boys his age discarded him regardless and many were
jealous anyway.
When school was over he caught the bus home and stuck to himself, only talking to a
few girls on the ride. He had a cheap G-Shock watch that he fondled with and a MP3
player he used for saving important school files on, not necessarily listening to music.
He walked home from the bus stop, flirting with young women on the way. Game was
never a problem.
He got home and wanted to rest; school was a job by itself dealing with peer pressure
and what not. His stress level was up; his blood pressure high. He fed his dog first then
relaxed with a meal or an instant can of Chef Boyarde. The house always had leftovers
too.
Watching T.V. while he ate, usually Sports Center, he'd get done with his homework early
so he'd have the rest of the day to himself. Flipping to news, the only thing he'd hear was
how another soldier died in Iraq, how Osama Bin Laden was toying with the army, or
the latest of the Case against Casey. Sometimes he'd take a nap, sometimes he'd go
outside and play on the courts. Most of the time he liked going to the nearby apartments
to go ball.
Sometimes his mom or dad would come home when he arrived home after school.
They'd just remind him how long he had until he was 18 and what his options were after
high school.
His older brother never went to college. The government handicapped him with an SSI
Check. Attached to the check, he parlayed around the house until his dad ended up
kicking him out. From there his life went south. His brother got addicted on drugs,
liquor, and the nightlife and ended up going to jail. His mother bailed him out and he
often caught moodswings. He became depressed, sick, loss.
Whenever he played basketball he felt at peace. Basketball was his first love. He
dreamed of playing in the NBA. He still needed to tryout for the school team; next year
he would, certainly...
At the Windy Apartments they would play 4 on 4, halfcourt. The ballers there kept a spot
for him on their team whenever he came through. He always balled in Retro Converse,
looking like a young Julius Erving with his “blowout.” This day, 'Cutthroat Pete' picked
him up. Someone on the sidelines called “downs.”
The game started and his team went up by a deuce. Taking the ball out, his teammate hit
him as he reggie bushed the sidelines and layed up point game. His team won. They
would go on to win 3 more games. It turned dark and he left the court with the rest of the
ballers. Bra' got game.
Garbage, the ballers dragged themselves off the court. He was one of the first ones out,
still with energy for 3 more games. He had home to get to. Before he went home he went
to a store. This store was always cautious whenever young minority's entered. They had
run-ins with thieves.
He entered and some Hatian kid around his age almost blindsides him, all his attention
on his Cell phone.
“Bitch FUCK you and your phone Fuck Bitch! WATCH where you going!” he cursed,
sparing the Haitian no mercy. He looked down the rest of his way. He wanted to look at
what new music albums came out. Instead, he was on the verge of giving some fool “the
beat-down.”
His parents had raised him to walk with his head up. But the more he did, the more pain
he saw, stressing him down, sucking away his sole. They'd think he was slow: But who
were They? He didn't have to be fast, he didn't have to be slow. He would just “do him”
for now on and if they don't like it: LMAO.
Looking at the CD's, there were only a few new albums shelved. Despite their fresh
releases, they were all expensive. He started to walk back. One day he'd be successful.
This much he knew. He'd raise a family with a queen and together they would carve out
a different future for their kids. But for now he had “money problems.”
See he walked a thin line. Anyone else tagging along and—BAM! The line collaspe and
he crumbles down along with everything he had worked for—Slam! He needed more
power—more money. This would strengthen the ground in which he walked on. Until
then, it was him against the world.
Where was the unity? The teamwork? The world was like one big room of evil
motherfuckers. He was sorry for the fakeness, the racism. So forget these niggas and
never mind all these fake motherfuckers. And they all fake.
No Mr. Nice Guy.
Fuck America. You feel me. Fuck the Earth, you feel me. Fuck Africa, Fuck China, Fuck
Asia. Feel me? Forget anyone that gets in your way and tries to stop “the grind.” The
world is cold, an oblivious lifegaurd to if you sink, if you swim.
Find comfort and love from God's “Fruits of the Spirit” in “family” and nothing else
matters. Be happy for you.
Fuck The World.
Money Problems
Debut Short Story Collection coming 2012.
Fuck wit a nigga Bra
Man These Bitches
