Love and a Gangsta (15 page)

“I hear that, I’m gonna definitely check it out.”

“Omar, you need something, especially if I’m pregnant.”

“America, I’ll be down there tomorrow afternoon and I’m gonna take care of us, you hear me?”

I hugged him tight and we both had a relaxing Sunday afternoon despite the small turbulence.

“Wear something nice. It means a lot to me,” I said.

The following
morning, I found out that I was three weeks pregnant. Omar held onto my hand and was beaming when we both heard the news.

“It’s a boy, right doctor?” Omar clowned.

The doctor chuckled and said, “It’s really too early for all that. Let’s just pray that the baby is healthy.”

“Thank you, Doctor Bryson,” I said.

“It’s a boy, I know it,” Omar boasted again.

We walked out the private physician’s office proud, expecting parents. Omar already had plans for a son.

I thought about my family and just wanted a healthy, loving family. We were already married, and Omar had a possible job lined up—even though it wasn’t much, it was something, and something was always better than nothing.

Excellence is never an accident.
It’s always the result of high intention.
Sincere effort, intelligent direction,
skillful execution and the vision to see
obstacles as opportunities…

 

 

 

It was a quarter to four when I walked up to this community center on Merrick Blvd—it kind of looked like a low budget YMCA. I was still happy from the news I’ve received this morning. I was going to be a father and the feeling that I had inside of me was so overwhelming, that I felt like an entire new man. Now I needed to do something with myself. I needed a job. I needed to get paid and help support my wife during her pregnancy.

I was having a boy, and immediately I wanted the best for him. I became a husband, and soon I was going to be a father. A month or so out of prison, and already two positive things happened in my life.

Greasy was trying to bring me back into the game. He was pushing a burgundy Mercedes CLS550 coupe and dripping with diamonds and platinum. Him and Omega were popping off with crystal meth. He told me of their Mexican connections. Looking at my cousin caused a bit of envy in me, but I shrugged it off. I owed it to my family to change my ways.

I stood outside, asking myself if I can really do this. I’ve never done a job interview before. Everything felt brand new to me during my first few weeks back home. I was seeing my Parole officer on a regular basis and trying to stay out of trouble.

Walking into the building, I was greeted by children running back and forth and a few counselors trying to maintain order.

“Can I help you, sir?” a young lady asked.

“I’m here to see a Mr. Jenkins,” I said.

“Hold on for one minute,” she said me, getting on the phone.

I observed the place and noticed some folks watching me—probably judging me already. I stood in my slacks, button down shirt and stylish loafers, my baldhead glistening like I just polished it with wax.

“He’s busy in the gym. C’mon, I’ll take you there,” she announced, coming from around the desk and guiding me through the place.

“I’m Cindy and your name is?” she asked.

“Omar.” I smiled.

She mirrored my smile and then asked, “Are you one of his students?”

“I’m here to see him about business,” I said. I didn’t want her in my business and thinking that I was some broke nigga coming into the center looking for a job, even though I was.

She walked ahead of me and I admired her backside. Her figure was banging. We came to the gym, and I heard some commotion going on inside.

“Nah, fuck that. He a ball hog, Mr. Jenkins,” a young boy shouted.

“You ain’t shit anyway, nigga. You can’t handle the rock, with your scrub ass,” another boy shot back.

“Now you two stop all this carrying on. And what did I tell you about cursing and using the N-word in this building,” a man shouted.

He stood between the two feuding young men. “Young black men should respect each other. You two hear me? We work as a team in this center.”

“Tell him to start passing the rock then, and it’ll be all good,” the first young boy shouted.

The second boy sucked his teeth and sneered.

“I want you two to shake hands and act like men in here, you hear me?” the man said. “What’s the first rule in this building?”

“No fighting or cursing, Mr. Jenkins,” both answered in unison.

“Okay, okay. I want the two of you to take a timeout from the gym and basketball, and do something more constructive with your time here. Go upstairs and see Ms. Tony, she’ll give the two of you assignments that y’all can work together on. Until I can see the two of you work on something together without fighting or arguing. I’ll allow y’all to come back into the gym,” he said.

“C’mon Mr. Jenkins, I got a game next week,” one said.

“I suggest y’all get it done quickly and prove to me that you both can work together.”

With a show of attitude, they moved along without further beef.

“Mr. Jenkins, this is Omar, he came looking for you,” Cindy introduced.

“Thanks Cindy,” he replied.

“Not a problem,” she said and walked out the gym, leaving me alone
with Mr. Jenkins.

“Omar… America’s husband right?” he asked incredulously.

“Yeah,” I replied dryly.

“Nice to meet you young man. We’ll talk in my office,” he said.

I followed him down the corridor that was decorated with multicolored arts and crafts from all different ages, along with a towering glass trophy display case that was filled with awards, medals, plagues and certificates, the awards and medals for basketball and volleyball. There were pictures up of young men and women involved in different activities.

“America’s been telling me so much about you,” he said when we reached his office door.

I kept quiet. His office was cluttered with stuff. He had over a dozen framed pictures hanging on his wall. I noticed a picture of him with Al Sharpton, one with 50 Cent, Mayor Bloomberg, and LL Cool J. There were basketballs, bags of sports equipment, and other sports paraphernalia cluttered all over the place. His desk was chaotic with papers, books, folders, and more pictures. There was an old TV set with a VCR on top that sat catty corner near a closet. He had a bunch of folding chairs for furniture—some wood and other metal.

“Excuse the place, please have a seat Omar. I haven’t had the time to clean up. I’ve been so busy with these kids, and I’m sorry that you had to witness that small incident in the gym. Kids will be kids,” he chuckled.

He took a seat on one of the folding chairs near his desk.

I took a seat and said, “Nah, it’s all good. I’ve seen worse.”

He smiled. “So, America tells me that you’re interested in finding work.”

“I’m trying, but you know how it goes, black man just came home after a bid, ain’t no company trying to give me a chance. They too scared of a brother.”

“Are you ready to work?” he asked.

“Yeah, I’m ready to do something.”

“When I mean if you’re ready to work, I mean are you ready to work on the way you think, on becoming a positive brother for the community?”

“Where you going with this?”

“I hear so many great things about you, Omar… that you’re talented, gifted with words and music and I’ve also heard some other discrediting things about you. My kids in here they talk, and some are very familiar with your past,” he said.

“I did me a few years back, but that was years back,” I explained to him.

“So have you changed the way you think?” he asked.

His approach was kind of irritating. I came here for a job and this niggas was talking to me like he was my fuckin’ P.O.

“No disrespect, but I thought that I was here for a job, not for some evaluation of my life.”

“I apologize. I don’t mean to pry into your business, but I do care. And I do respect that you became a husband to America. She loves you so much, and can’t stop talking about you in church. Not too many brothers are willing to get married, especially right after coming out of prison. We need more men becoming husbands and fathers to their kids, and stop becoming a baby daddy to multiple women. So I commend you for that.”

“No doubt,” I returned.

“Now, as for the job, it pays seven dollars an hour, part-time, six hours a day, and you’ll be working Monday through Friday from three to nine at night. You’ll be working mostly with Jim our head custodian, probably mopping and sweeping, and doing minor repairs. You’ll be around a lot of kids too, and sometimes, they can be a handful,” he explained.

Mr. Jenkins seemed to be a cool dude. He kind of reminded me of Morgan Freeman with short grayish hair corresponding with his grayish goatee. He had a distinguished demeanor that went beyond his cluttered office. He was about mid-fifties.

“You interested in the job?” he asked me.

“Yeah, I definitely need it. It’s something right, and I can get my P.O. off my back about finding a job,” I said, staring at him.

“It is. The money may not be good from the start, but if you work hard and improve yourself, you can go a long way,” he said.

There was a sudden knock at his door. “Come in,” he shouted.

Cindy stepped into his office and informed him, “Mr. Jenkins, they
need you on the second floor.”

“What would this place do without me?” he said, smiling. Before he stepped out, he asked, “Can you start next Monday, three o clock sharp?”

“I’ll be here by two-thirty,” I told him.

“That’s what I like to hear.” He then walked out, and I followed behind him.

“New job, huh?” Cindy asked.

“Sump’n like that.”

“Good luck, it’s cool here. Everybody’s nice. But the pay could be better.”

“Thanks for the info,” I said and kept it moving.

I knew Cindy was flirting. Smiling like she already had a crush on me. I had to move away and fast. I am a married man and needed to keep reminding myself. The best way to resist temptation was too stay away from it early.

Feeling like the sky blackened the day he
was born. Been a pain in his mother’s wound,
Not too soon till he’s poison to the world…

 

 

 

The past month been sweet for me, meth exploding on the scene so quickly, the fiends couldn’t get enough of it. Tripling my investment by still pushing crack/cocaine and weed. With meth the money poured in like a waterfall. Within a month, I’d already sold twenty-five pounds of the stuff. I needed to re-up four days after receiving the first four- pound batch from Rodriquez.

He was on point with his, setting up shops through the hoods. Rodriquez put my peoples on how to set up and run a meth lab, without the explosion. Greasy was in charge of the labs. He took care of mixing, preparing, and overseeing the product.

When it came to receiving certain chemicals or ingredients like Pseudoephedrine, Iodine crystals, Red Phosphorus, cold decongestant, anti freeze bottles, and Coleman fuel we got it in bulks from the Mexicans. We supplied the gas cans, laboratory equipment, Bunsen burners, mason jars, glass tubes, and our time.

The product was easy to make, but time consuming and dangerous. It wasn’t crack and not as safe to produce. One fuck up and you can find yourself in the burn unit suffering first-degree burns all over your body.

I had five meth labs set up throughout Queens within the month. Two in a basement near Guy R. Brewer, one in a garage over on Supthin Blvd, and two in a private house by Merrick Blvd. I stayed away from complexes and apartment buildings. The reason, too confining and it wasn’t as easy to dispose of certain waste products in large quantities. Then there was the greedy or patriotic landlords to payoff, either way I’d have them killed for being in my BI.

Certain chemicals have a distinctive odor when mixed together. Sometimes there’d be a strong smell of chemical solvent lingering, tenants became suspicious. Private homes were discreet, with garages, driveways, and yards to get rid of trash. The disposal of waste like the type we had would be suspicious to the sanitation department, neighbors, or cops.

We hauled our own trash in vans and the Mexicans took care of the rest. The houses were a good distant from each other, and we tried to limit the amount of traffic throughout any one location.

Crystal meth was a drug that was potent and could keep you high for eight to twelve hours. It was beginning to become popular in the city. I went from a re-up of four keys, to fifty keys in one month. Just $500 worth of ingredients can yield a kilo, with a street value of $15,000.

The Mexicans were on point. Rodriquez was the number one guy in New York. You needed something you went to him, nobody else. Falco was the number one man coming from the Amezcua Cartel. He was from Tijuana and so was his organization.