I was up in Harlem. Deeper than 125th, somewhere beyond there in the thick of it. I’d been living around that neighborhood with a guy named Akeen. Akeen and I were staying in this little crib behind a subway entrance. He was a crackhead. Used to smoke it up next to me. I’d take a lil hit every now and then, just to keep my face flushed. But he took to it like a pro. One day, Akeen showed up with his face all bloody, his arm busted up bad. I said, ‘wassup Akeen,’ he told me to shove it. Cook him up some, he couldn’t move his hands properly. So a blazed up a pipe and got him goin. He spilled the beans, said this dealer, T-mac, was workin 125th and caught him selling his own rocks down there. T-mac didn’t like that. Him and his boys that drove a 90’s lincoln kept drivin drivin drivin until Akeen had to stand to em and say ‘what’ and I guess they fucking told him because he wasn’t right after that. From there on in, me and Akeen decided it was time to move. We hopped it to an actual subway, where the Amtrak ran, they sometimes had guards come through there but for the most part it was just us two. That’s when I developed a liking for cocaine and baking soda. Cook it yourself and you got something. Make more than your cheeks red. Damn. Me and Akeen lived down there like that, pan-handlin and sometimes, cause it was before Gulianni, robbin, we’d get a mint, take it back down and smoke it up. Thanks to Akeen, I became a master. Started selling the stuff myself, but I’d go up to Washington Heights. Akeen kept gettin his ass busted around 125th by the boys in the lincoln. That was his dept. Let him rot, I say, let him.
I got rich, moved out, lived in a brownstone for 25 years and died of a heart attack.
AHHHHHHH in the subway.