in this piece. But Evette’s money situation isn’t up-to-par. After she bought me some clothes and gave me pocket money, she’s pretty much tapped out until her next payday.
In the meantime, a nigga needs to buy weed on a daily basis. I like to chill at the corner bar, and hang out with my new friends—Blake and Munch—a couple of West Philly dudes I met at the barbershop a few days ago.
Munch is a bulky nigga. He’s built solid—not chiseled like me. Blake is a light-skinned, curly-headed, pretty boy. Lean frame. Blake ain’t nothing but a featherweight, but he thinks he’s God’s gift to women.
So far, both Blake and Munch have been cool with me, sharing their weed and liquor. But how long can I keep freeloading off these dudes? If Evette wants to keep me interested, she should befiguring out a way to get her money right. She’s gon’ have to step it up, and do better by her man.
I didn’t tell Blake and Munch too much about my past, but they do know I just got out of the pen. I didn’t tell them I did a long stretch. If I give out that kind of information, they’re liable to start snooping into my past.
When I admitted I’ve never been to a strip club, they both fell out laughing, thinking it was hilarious.
It’s not my style to deliberately make myself a laughing stock. There’s a method to my madness. If I confessed about never seeing or touching a stripper, they’d volunteer to take me to a strip club and even treat me to some lap dances.
So here I am, wearing the new sneakers and new clothes Evette bought me, waiting for Blake to roll up in his Chevy. The whole time I was locked up, I always envisioned myself riding around in a Benz, a Beemer, or an Escalade…something fly and luxurious. But what the fuck. Riding in a Chevy is better than riding the bus.
Everybody from my old ’hood is frontin’ on me. It’s all good, though. I’ma be up one of these days.
The car horn honks and I run out of the crib. I lock the door with the set of keys Evette gave me. Shit, I’m liable to put her ass out now that I got my own house keys.
“Get in the back, Munch,” Blake says when I approach the car. Munch doesn’t hesitate. He gets right out and hops in the back.
I’m riding shotgun while my man, Blake, is steering with his knees while he rolls up a blunt. Hanging with these niggas, I’ma have to develop a taste for tobacco leaves; they don’t fuck with rolling paper at all.
Blake passes me the blunt. Power 99 is blasting from the speakers and I’m smoking, enjoying the city sights…feeling nice.
“Yo, that ain’t your personal; pass that blunt back here,” Munch says from the back.
“My bad.” I turn to pass the blunt to Munch.
“Hell, no. Don’t let that nigga put his mouth on my weed,” Blake intervenes.
Now I’m in a quandary. I’m holding the blunt in mid-air, not knowing what to do.
“Man, why you always drawlin’?” Munch asks.
“Hmph! We both know where your mouth been.”
“The same place your mouth been.”
I shrug my shoulders and help myself to another puff, figuring I’ll keep on smoking until these niggas come to some kind of conclusion.
“That’s bullshit. Nigga, I told you last week, I’m not smoking behind you no more.”
“You smoked behind me last night, so why you frontin’?” Munch argues.
“I must have been so high that I forgot about my new rules,” Blake suggested.
“You frontin’ for Kaymar.”
“I’m not frontin’ for nobody. I’m keeping it one hunnit.”
Now, I’m high as a kite and curious about what they’re talking about. “What’s wrong with his mouth? Why can’t he smoke some of this shit?”
“Because this nigga’s nasty.”
“No, I’m not,” Munch grumbles half-heartedly.
Blake reaches for the blunt, so I have to give it up. He puffs and turns around and blows a cloud of smoke in Munch’s direction. “Get high off that,” Blake says, laughing.
“That ain’t even funny,” Munch
In the meantime, a nigga needs to buy weed on a daily basis. I like to chill at the corner bar, and hang out with my new friends—Blake and Munch—a couple of West Philly dudes I met at the barbershop a few days ago.
Munch is a bulky nigga. He’s built solid—not chiseled like me. Blake is a light-skinned, curly-headed, pretty boy. Lean frame. Blake ain’t nothing but a featherweight, but he thinks he’s God’s gift to women.
So far, both Blake and Munch have been cool with me, sharing their weed and liquor. But how long can I keep freeloading off these dudes? If Evette wants to keep me interested, she should befiguring out a way to get her money right. She’s gon’ have to step it up, and do better by her man.
I didn’t tell Blake and Munch too much about my past, but they do know I just got out of the pen. I didn’t tell them I did a long stretch. If I give out that kind of information, they’re liable to start snooping into my past.
When I admitted I’ve never been to a strip club, they both fell out laughing, thinking it was hilarious.
It’s not my style to deliberately make myself a laughing stock. There’s a method to my madness. If I confessed about never seeing or touching a stripper, they’d volunteer to take me to a strip club and even treat me to some lap dances.
So here I am, wearing the new sneakers and new clothes Evette bought me, waiting for Blake to roll up in his Chevy. The whole time I was locked up, I always envisioned myself riding around in a Benz, a Beemer, or an Escalade…something fly and luxurious. But what the fuck. Riding in a Chevy is better than riding the bus.
Everybody from my old ’hood is frontin’ on me. It’s all good, though. I’ma be up one of these days.
The car horn honks and I run out of the crib. I lock the door with the set of keys Evette gave me. Shit, I’m liable to put her ass out now that I got my own house keys.
“Get in the back, Munch,” Blake says when I approach the car. Munch doesn’t hesitate. He gets right out and hops in the back.
I’m riding shotgun while my man, Blake, is steering with his knees while he rolls up a blunt. Hanging with these niggas, I’ma have to develop a taste for tobacco leaves; they don’t fuck with rolling paper at all.
Blake passes me the blunt. Power 99 is blasting from the speakers and I’m smoking, enjoying the city sights…feeling nice.
“Yo, that ain’t your personal; pass that blunt back here,” Munch says from the back.
“My bad.” I turn to pass the blunt to Munch.
“Hell, no. Don’t let that nigga put his mouth on my weed,” Blake intervenes.
Now I’m in a quandary. I’m holding the blunt in mid-air, not knowing what to do.
“Man, why you always drawlin’?” Munch asks.
“Hmph! We both know where your mouth been.”
“The same place your mouth been.”
I shrug my shoulders and help myself to another puff, figuring I’ll keep on smoking until these niggas come to some kind of conclusion.
“That’s bullshit. Nigga, I told you last week, I’m not smoking behind you no more.”
“You smoked behind me last night, so why you frontin’?” Munch argues.
“I must have been so high that I forgot about my new rules,” Blake suggested.
“You frontin’ for Kaymar.”
“I’m not frontin’ for nobody. I’m keeping it one hunnit.”
Now, I’m high as a kite and curious about what they’re talking about. “What’s wrong with his mouth? Why can’t he smoke some of this shit?”
“Because this nigga’s nasty.”
“No, I’m not,” Munch grumbles half-heartedly.
Blake reaches for the blunt, so I have to give it up. He puffs and turns around and blows a cloud of smoke in Munch’s direction. “Get high off that,” Blake says, laughing.
“That ain’t even funny,” Munch
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