What's Really Hood! (23 page)

He looked at me as if to say,
Bitch, when I catch you by yourself, I’ma fuck you up!
before turning his attention back to Nina. He started begging, “Yo, ma, lets handle this like adults. Just give me a minute.
Let me talk to you for a minute.”

“It’s over, Cream. It’s a wrap! Do you, nigga, ’cause I’m damn sure gonna do me from this day forward.” She turned on the
engine, backed up, made a wild-ass U-turn in the middle of the street, damn near running niggas over, heading to her crib.

I can’t believe this nigga! Here I am catching cabs and buses while he joyridin’ hoes around in my shit. He got me fucked
up! But you know what? Everything happens for a reason. And that shithead nigga is officially dismissed. I don’t need no dead
weight. Shit! I’m tryna come up. This is a new day.

Oh, by the way, I’m Nina Coles. I’m twenty-one, your typical ghetto girl. I was an honor roll student, prettiest, most popular
chick in school. I’m a five-four Janet Jackson look-alike. All the niggas was and still is sweatin’ me. But for some reason
I just have to settle on the dogs. The lowest of the low. That’s how I got hooked up with Keith. He was the high school jock,
most popular and most wanted fine-ass basketball star. You know the
type, had all the hoes sweatin’ him. But I was the one most determined to make him mines. What a stupid-ass mistake that
was! My hot ass got pregnant with my daughter Daysha the first time we fucked. I would have gotten an abortion but Keith promised
me the world: marriage to an NBA star, ticket outta the hood, stability, house with the white picket fence, you know, the
all-American dream. Sheeitt! That nigga got ghost as soon as I began showing. My meal ticket outta the hood—gone. My plans
for college—gone. My plans for becoming the next wife to an NBA star—gone. My moms even had the nerve to put me out. Here
I was on my own, forced to survive with a baby and the few little clothes we had and armed with a high school diploma. Luckily
for me I had Michelle, and my aunt Sheila worked for the Mercer County Board of Social Services. She got me an apartment with
Section 8 and helped me get put on welfare and food stamps.

Speaking of Michelle, that was my girl Michelle Martin y’all met earlier. She has been there for me since day one. She even
talked her moms into letting me move in with them when my evil-ass mom first put me out. We grew up together. We have been
in the same classes since the first grade. She doesn’t have any children and still lives with her ma dukes. I don’t know what
I would have done without her, especially when my moms cut me off.

I have three big-head brothers but they are doing their own thing. I’m the baby of the crew. First, there’s Derrick, who’s
a crackhead, then there’s Blue, who’s doing
a bid in Northern State Prison, and Peedie. He’s the only sane one outta the bunch. He got a wife, a chick on the side and
two kids. He is also cheap as hell.

So anyways, after I get on my feet and get kinda used to this being-on-your-own-with-a-baby thing, here comes Jermichael.
Fine-ass nigga. My prince in shining armor. Bam! I get pregnant again. And once again I get promised the world, stability,
the house with the picket fence, the all-American dream. I really believed in Jermichael. He was a hustling-ass nigga. Everything
was going well, and all the way up to my seventh month, Jermichael was right there. Then one day I get a phone call that Jermichael
got robbed and wet up by some stickup kids. By the time I catch a cab up to Helene Fuld Medical Center my second baby daddy
is dead. He never even got the chance to see his first son, Jermichael Jr. So now it’s me, Daysha and Jermichael Jr. Once
again here comes my aunt to the rescue. She helps me get a two-bedroom Section 8 apartment and now I get a bigger check and
more food stamps. Wow!!! Yeah, right!! That shit is for the birds.

After I get situated and accept the fact that I now have two mouths to feed, here comes Supreme. Once again, fine-ass nigga,
full of charisma and could fuck a bitch into a coma. But this nigga was jealous as hell and would beat my ass if I even looked
at another nigga. His temper was wicked. So when I got pregnant with my third child I was devastated. I feared that I would
be tied to this mean-ass nigga for life. So I explained to him that I wasn’t ready for another baby and didn’t want
to keep it. No surprise to me, he flipped the fuck out and threatened to kill me if I ever thought about killing his seed.
Needless to say, I was stuck; I didn’t get the abortion so he didn’t kill me, but he did kill some other nigga he was robbing.
At least that’s what I heard. To this day I still don’t know what the real deal was. Now he’s in East Jersey State Prison
doing seven years. Wow! Seven years for killing a nigga? Fuckin’ unbelievable! If he got caught with some dope he would be
doing twenty-seven years instead of a measly seven. But hey, that’s how fucked up the system is. Meanwhile, I gave birth to
his daughter Jatana while he was locked up. Not one of my babies’ daddies was present for the birth of his child.

Now here I be. Twenty-one years old, three kids, stair steps at that, three babies’ daddies and on welfare. Believe it or
not, Supreme, the baby daddy on lock, is the only one who offers some help. Keith, Daysha’s father, is working and in the
free world but don’t do shit for his seed and is an expert at dodging the child support people. Some niggas are just plain
triflin’! Jermichael, may he RIP, I wonder what he would be doing and how different my life would be if he were still alive.

Anyways, Supreme introduced me to his cousin Charli. An older sista, fly as shit, from Brooklyn. He told me she would teach
me a hustle that would be so good, I could tell the Board of Social Services to kiss my ass. His only request was that I break
him off a little sumthin’-sumthin’ for the commissary every now and then and bring Jatana down to see him. I said, “Bet.
What do I have to lose?” Having three kids, broke as hell, and on welfare definitely wasn’t my original game plan. Living
check to check, month to month is for the chickens and I’m far from being a chicken.

I had to pick Charli up from the Trenton train station at five p.m. She instructed me to alter my appearance. I had to dress
in business attire, put a wig on, makeup, the whole nine. She emphasized, “Don’t let a hair be outta place! You are on your
way to being independent for real.” I was excited, curious, anxious and nervous all in one. I was about to learn just how
slick this sista really was.

To get my feet wet we drove to Philly, where some outlet stores were. On our way there she gave a crash course, lecture style.
She explained that our weapons were an ink pen, checkbook, credit card and driver’s license. She said the strongest weapon
was confidence. She also told me that most stores will have a personal check limit sign posted and if not to ask one of the
employees or even the manager what the check limit was. The homeliest, most naïve and friendliest worker was whom we were
to seek out to service us. I was like, “All righty then!”

Our first stop was a Toys “R” Us. In the car she showed me a driver’s license, employee ID, credit card and checkbook. Everything
was inside a Coach wallet. All the identification read Kathleen Dixon of Matawan, New Jersey. She even had a home and work
telephone number that she had me memorize.

Once inside the Toys “R” Us she told me to grab a cart and she did the same. We began cruising the aisles and she told me
to get what I wanted. I filled that bad boy up with pajamas, underwear, socks, winter clothes, Pampers and a toy for each
of the kids. She grabbed a couple of things but my shit filled up both of the carts. When we finished she told me to pick
a cashier. I looked around and chose the one who had the shortest line.

She snapped, “You’re not paying attention! If you’re not going to pay attention, I’m not going to waste my time on you. Remember
what I told you in the car? Try again.”

Needless to say, I axed the one with the shortest line. My eyes went to a young, snobby girl, who looked like a high school
student. There was a black woman who looked as if she would take a bullet for her job, an old white lady with cat glasses
on and finally there was a doofy-looking nerdy dude.

“Which one?” She was testing me.

“I guess we can go to the old lady or the nerd.”

“Which one?” she shot at me again.

“The old lady who seems nice and can barely see,” I humbly answered, while praying that I was right.

“Nah.” She shook her head no. “But not bad. My gut is telling me the nerdy-looking fella.”

“Why? So we can flirt with him?” I was now beginning to pay attention and peep game.

“It always works for me,” she said as she maneuvered the shopping cart toward him. “I’m glad you learn fast. Just make sure
you
always
pay attention.”

When we made it up to the register Charli put on her Ms. America smile and sang, “Good evening, Bob! How are you?”

Bob flashed a yellow grin and said, “Fine.” He immediately began unloading the cart and ringing up the items. When he was
almost finished Charli diverted his attention by asking for a price check on a pair of jeans for Daysha.

As he did, the customers behind us were getting fidgety as they impatiently moved around and let out sighs that screamed,
Hurry the fuck up, Bob!
This caused nerdy Bob to rush. Charli whipped out her Coach wallet filled with someone’s stolen identity and began to fill
the check out. I watched her as she expertly and swiftly wrote in the home phone number, the job number, the date and Toys
“R” Us and then signed it.

“Seven hundred ninety-four eight-nine,” nerdy boy anxiously said as he grabbed a rubber stamp and twirled his ink pen. “I
need a major credit card and your driver’s license please.”

“No problem.” Charli wrote in the amount of the check and handed him the check and two pieces of ID. I watched Bob stamp the
back of the check, then fill in the blanks with her info. I was holding my breath, my right eye was twitching and my palms
were sweaty. Shit, I really wanted, as a matter of fact, I needed all the shit that was in both carts.

I let out a sigh of relief as he passed back her credentials, stuck the check inside the register, handed her the receipt
and said, “Thank you, Mrs. Dixon. Have a nice
evening.” We grabbed the bags, loaded them into the carts and strolled out.

That was my first experience. By the time the stores closed for the night we had so much stuff in the car there was hardly
any room for us to be seated. Charli taught me to always hook the babysitter up first. You gotta keep the babysitter happy.
I picked out some leather boots from Nine West and a leather trench from Wilsons for Michelle. For me, a comforter set from
Bed, Bath & Beyond, a couple of outfits and then we went grocery shopping. All on a book of stolen personal checks and fake
ID.

At this point, my new motto was, “Fuck welfare! Who said crime doesn’t pay?”

That lesson with Charli was two years ago. Now I am a master of the check game. I even train people to go out and do what
I do, how I do it, for a fee or percentage of course. Daysha is now five, Jermichael is four and Jatana is three. I live in
a three-bedroom house that I rent, still taking advantage of Section 8, of course. No more barely makin’ ends meet from month
to month. I’m actually ballin’.

B
itch, you should have killed that ho!” Michelle spat as soon as Nina finished the wild U-turn in the middle of Hermitage Avenue.

“I wasn’t messing up my shit! You know how much money I’m wearing? I’ll catch that bitch another time.”

“I’m talking about Cream! He’s the one who needed his ass stomped!”

“Girl, fuck him! It’s over. And you know what? I’m glad the shit went down the way it did and how it did, because now I have
no ties here. I’m getting ready to put my dough to good use. I can stack for real now and get the fuck outta Dodge. I’m sick
of Trenton. I’m sick of these ghetto-ass streets. Look at this shit!”

“Say word?”

“I’ve got almost enough loot saved. I just need to go on a couple more missions.”

“Where to? Why you ain’t never say nothing?”

“Charlotte or Atlanta. I’m getting my kids outta the fuckin’ ghetto. Gonna find them a good private school, get a house with
a backyard, a white picket fence so they can play without a stray bullet hittin’ them. I’ma
fulfill that all-American dream for my own damn self! Fo’ real. I’m out!”

Michelle got quiet as Nina parked the car. She had never even thought about leaving the hood. But then again she didn’t have
any children. It had always been about her. Hell, she still lived with her momma.
BOOM!
The sound of the brick cracking the front windshield broke her out of her trance and scared Nina half to death. Neither had
seen Cream coming.

“Nina, let me talk to you,” he ordered as he snatched the door open.

“Call five-o, Michelle, now! Nigga, what the fuck is wrong with you? Look at my shit!” Nina screamed. “You done lost your
damned mind?” Nina jumped out of the car with her fists balled up.

“Where was you at, Nina? Why you just getting home at three in the damn morning?” Cream had the audacity to grill her.

“Nigga, don’t try and flip the script. I had already told you I was going out with Michelle. So don’t even try it. Just because
you got busted with some ho in my car don’t try to snake your way out of this. You busted, nigga! So accept it. It’s over!
That was your last chance.” Nina got all up in his face now that a police cruiser was pulling up. She was like,
Nigga what?
The two officers were getting out of the squad car.

“What seems to be the problem, ma’am?” the taller of the black officers inquired. The shorter one rested his hand on his nightstick
and kept his eyes on Cream.

Pointing at her cracked windshield she said, “He
threw a brick at my window and he’s now threatening me.”

They both were now focused on Cream. “Sir, step over here.” The short officer pointed to the tree as his hand rested on his
holster and his fingers twitched. Cream walked over defiantly, wearing a fuck-the-police smile. “Place your hands up over
your head and spread them. You got any weapons or firearms in your possession? Any drugs or paraphernalia?” he rattled off.