MEMORIES BY KHALID STRICKLAND a.k.a. BLACK PACINO
Journalism is my savior.
Four years ago I was on a path to nowhere. Then Ma Dukes introduced me to journalism and I never looked back. Now I’m a writer who contributes to popular newspapers, websites and magazines.
Sometimes I pass through my old hood and marvel at how it’s been gentrified. Gambling spots have been replaced with coffee shops and alien occupants rollerblade down the blocks niggas used to hustle on. While perusing these once-familiar streets I see my name, along with those of former hood denizens, etched into the concrete like a ghetto walk of fame. My crew and I left our marks while the cement was still fresh; long before the block was snatched from under us.
As I puff a Marlboro on the corner of Fulton and Fort Greene Place a ghost from the past approaches me with a missing-tooth smile. His name is Freddy and once upon a time he was a fiend with a serious drug-habit. He looks coherent and seems to have his shit together now. I crack a grin and shake his hand, happy to see a familiar face amongst the strangers.
“Whassup, Kha?” Freddy exclaims.
“I’m good, my dude. You look well. Been taking care of yourself, eh?” I respond.
“Yeah. I’m clean now. But I have you to thank for that,” he says with gratitude. “You scared me straight.”
I barely remember shit that happened fifteen minutes ago and can’t recall what he means. Freddy notices the puzzled look on my mug and attempts to jump start my memory.
“Back in the day. Remember when…”
While Freddy recaps the story, details emerge from the cloudy haze in my brain. Weed-scorched memory cells fire up and begin to work again. As the clock rewinds, the neighborhood slowly deteriorates around us to morph into what it once was…
SUMMER, 1999: 10,000 BLUNTS AGO
Locale: Fort Greene Brooklyn, Pre-Gentrification
The block is hot and buzzing with activity; a dice game here, a blunt session there. I give a pound to every hand within reach as I mosey down the strip, stone-faced and in a zone. Niggas speak to me but I don’t absorb their words; there’s only one thing on my mind right now.
My good friend X is a hustler and I’ve got to see him. We’re like brothers but I put in work for son and need to be paid. X is already in front of his building as I approach and he greets me with a pound and a hug.
“What’s good, Kha?” he asks, as if he doesn’t know what I’m there for.
“Remember that thing I took care of for you?” I reply. “You said you’d bless me at the end of the week. Well, it’s Friday. I need that bread, bro’. Shit is real right now.”
X raises an eyebrow and exhales wearily.
“I don’t have it.”
That ain’t the answer I need to hear.
“But,” he continues, perking up a bit. “I know how you can get it. You know Freddy, right? He lives right up there.”
X points upward at a window one floor above his apartment.
“Yeah, I know him,” I reply. “What’s that got to do with anything?”
“I gave him some work to flip weeks ago,” X laments. “I been tryin’ to collect the bread he owes me but every time I go, he claim he ain’t got it yet. That’s why I can’t bless you right now. Basically, Freddy has your money.”
“Oh yeah?” I say, eyeing the second floor window and licking my chops.
“Maybe you can get it from him,” X urges with a smirk, knowing me all too well.
In kind, I reply with a smirk and storm into the building without hesitation. I jog up a flight of stairs and make a beeline for Freddy’s apartment door. This muthafucka probably bumped off the work and then smoked up the profit. Or maybe he ain’t even sell it, he just used it himself. Either way the repo-man is here.
Fuck the bell; I use the skull-shaped nugget ring on my finger to bang on Freddy’s door. Over the sound of bodega music, I can hear him inside giggling with his boyfriend… Freddy swings that way from what I know. Footsteps shuffle towards the door and he inspects me through the peep hole. He recognizes me and up until today, our limited hello/goodbye relationship has been cordial. Still, being that I rarely visit and knowing my affiliations, he’s a bit cautious. He opens the door partially with the security chain on.
“Hey, bro,” Freddy says with a smile. “Whassup?”
The security chain is a bit too long… providing me with just enough daylight to snap Freddy’s head back with a single and accurate punch to the grill. Not the most powerful blow… the space is too narrow to KO him… but it’s enough to let him know I’m serious.
Immediately, Freddy cuts loose with a high-pitched shriek like a panicked woman and tries to lock me out. I ram my shoulder into the door, trying to break the chain. It doesn’t give, so I hold the door with one hand and use the other to grab Freddy’s wifebeater.
“PAY X HIS FUCKIN’ MONEY, NIGGA!!! NOW!!!” I shout maniacally, yanking Freddy by his shirt and pulling his face against the metal doorway. “When you fuck with X’s money, you fuck with my money!”
Freddy is frightened and shrieking loud enough to break glass. Lord, please don’t let the cops come… there’s already a warrant for my arrest. All of a sudden Freddy’s sugar daddy, clad in nothing more than a bathrobe and boxers, runs out of the bedroom and is shocked at what’s transpiring. In the face, he resembles Frank Zappa.
Sugar Daddy trots to the door as fast as he can to assist his bitch. Midway, Sugar Daddy takes a flying leap towards the door like Jordan jumping from half-court. Foreseeing what comes next, I release Freddy’s tank-top. Sugar Daddy’s slim body impacts the steel door and along with Freddy’s crackhead strength, they manage to slam the door shut hard. But there’s one lil’ problem…
My hand is still in the fuckin’ doorway.
Despite the hard times and misfortune I’ve been suffering, for once I get lucky. The door bangs against my heavy skull ring, preventing my finger being chopped off Yakuza-style. As I remove my hand from the door, they close it quickly and snap multiple locks into place. I pound my fist against the door and holler one last time at the top of my lungs:
“PAY THE FUCKIN’ MONEY!!!!”
“Alright, I’mma pay!” Freddy sobs from behind the door as he is no doubt being consoled by Sugar Daddy.
After checking to make sure my finger is still attached, I jog downstairs and hope Five-O isn’t waiting for me outside. When I exit the building, there is a small crowd of residents gathered out front… they heard Freddy squealing through his open window. All eyes are on me while I breath heavily and the adrenaline exits my veins. As I come back to my senses I hear X laughing uncontrollably to the left of me.
“What’s so funny?” I ask, turning to face my amused friend.
“You,” X darts back with a smile. He hands me one of those Cognac-dipped cigarillos I like so much; he always kept a pack. After sparking it up and taking a long drag, I finally smile. With smoke rising from my mouth, I look at X and we burst into hysterical laughter, slapping five.
A day later, Freddy gives X the money he owes and I get my lil’ share.
Here I am suppose to be doing my Flash homework and I see your post. I try to ignore it but I know you got me at the title “10,000 Blunts Ago”.
Kha this is the lost art of journalism. Your writing pulls me in and creates a world I can see through your eyes. You are so very talented. Love the story and that you can scare somebody sober. Black Angel you are.
leahunter
You put your homework aside for me, L? Whoa… I’m moved lol. Glad you felt it was worth your while. And when your class is done, I’ll call you “Grand Master FLASH.” Heh heh. I crack myself up sometimes
Thank you so much for blessing this post, L. I always love your company.
DOPE post Strick. Feel like I was there son! You’re a king with words indeed
Shit, I wish you REALLY woulda been there, fam. I could’ve used some back-up that day LOL.
I appreciate the compliment, fam-o. Coming from one king of words to another, it has special meaning.
Right back at ya’, sunshine
XOXO
As usual my dude I thoroughly enjoy your writing- I relate as this brings me back to NY in the 90′s. just being in Fort Green park and doing shoots before I moved was a trip to me as I recall puffin’ Beef n Broccoli I copped from Beford Ave and puffin’ it in the park before the stick up kids came around or the cops made their routine run- anyway keep up the great work! glad to see you took the path of journalist/ writer to share ya knack with the world.
Peace
Ha! You know the drilly, bruh. The REAL 50 Cent and Killer Ben were on the prowl waaaay back in Fort Greene, stickin up everything on Myrtle Ave, so you had to vacate the premises to keep your shit. Nobody wanted to run into those niggaz lol.
Glad we can relate, sir. Spreading luv is the BK way.
My favorite kind of writing is Literary Journalism. Gay Talese has it downpack. So does Joan Didion. Apparently you do too, Mr. Strickland. I’ve been peeking in all week to see what awaits me for the weekend. But the contents of that box of Keep Moving Quality Cigars and the c-note(s) next to it tempted me to read an excerpt of this piece. Well, I ended up reading the whole thing
You had me at “savior.” I knew it was going to be heartfelt.
VERY WELL WRITTEN!!!! Your father would be proud…maybe he can play the Frank Zappa (read: Sugar Daddy) gentleman if there’s ever a movie. Lol
LMFAO!!!! Word! Imagine Al Pacino’s old ass taking a flying leap into that door. He’d break into a million pieces LOL. He may not want to be reduced to a bit role in my flick, but being a deadbeat dad he owes it to me.
Gay Talese. Wow. That’s heavy praise, fam. I’ve got a ways to go before I’m worthy but you’ve made my day LOL
*Bowing respectfully* I am humbled, bruh. This story is just a piece of a much bigger puzzle.
For all the “upgrades” BK has seen over the past decade, it sure feels like a tragic-comedy compared to the BK we grew up in. I was just driving through Fort Greene tonight on my way home from the “plantation” bumping Biggie Smalls thinking, “shit done changed” as I made a right turn off of Lafayette onto Fulton St. SMMFH.
I think there’s some kinda coffee shop/internet cafe on St. James & Fulton now, where the liquor store used to be. Folks sittin out there sippin cucumber lattes or whateva the fuck they be drinkin. How niggaz supposed to play cee-lo when there’s a bunch o’ hipsters sittin around pourin tea & eatin alfalfa sprout sandwiches?
Biggie must be rollin’ over in his grave right now.
hahaha I ‘m checking on that warrant you got.
HAHAHAHAHA!
I’ve already paid that debt to the system, famlee.
this was hot, I love the way you narrated it, I felt like I was there with you
Then my mission is accomplished
Thank you kindly, infamous R-Dub.
Definitely a ghetto narrative. I definitely was there wit you bro! Keep up the good work! Holla!!!
Good looks, fam-o.
To me, reality makes for the best material. The words come a lil’ easier when you ain’t gotta dig deep & make shit up, na’mean?
Glad I could take you on a trip for a lil’ while, like an acid tab LOL
Your blog is a gem on the internet!
That’s Brooklyn for you. It’s nothing like it used to be but time and chance, or I’ll say, time and change are given to everything. BKC till R.I.P. I left my heart in Brooklyn.
You can take the dude outta BK but you can’t take BK outta the dude.
The Spizzy appreciates your patronage, my G. And I was checkin out your site, by the way. Nice layout & you’ve got some tight designs in your gallery. Graf is my shit so I’m glad you give it some shine. Keep it up.
BK ALL DAY E’RRY DAY!!!!
One Hunnid.