Gettin' Paid

Preface

My original intent, when I began writing this story, was to capture a snapshot of life, as I knew it growing up in my hood, Washington Heights, New York City, from 1970 to 1993. This story was supposed to be short, but the flow would not stop and my pen kept moving. The story then would be a novella, but that also did not suffice for the pages kept accumulating. At some point, after a hundred pages or so, I discovered that the story could not be limited and would play out until complete. This implies that the story wrote itself, and to a degree, this is so. Often, when my pen touched paper, I would not stop writing until my hand cramped and I could no longer continue. The characters directed the scenes, events developing without design or anticipation by me (at least not consciously). This may sound far-fetched, but it is true. This story was simply meant to be and so it became.

The idea to write about the criminal life of an inner city youth is not original or unique, however this piece, written in two vernaculars that blend and switch with the scenes, offer readers a different approach and may even question some perceptions. I have intentionally blurred which city Nat and Poodle live in. This is based on my belief that a ghetto is a ghetto and the reader should be able to pick the city and even the neighborhood in order to maintain the realism and understanding necessary to fully appreciate the story.

Of course, there are a few hints that suggest the city I refer to, but my intention is to not limit the imagination, but rather allow you, the reader, to provide the background with your own streets, scenes and memories.

As to the language of the novel, it is natural for me to write in urban slang. The dialogue between the characters and some of the narrative are true to the street language of my generation, as I know it to be. One glaring discount is the exclusion of the slang term nigga, derivative of the hateful and offensive word nigger. In its place, I have chosen the almost equally disturbing term motherfucker. This may seem asinine, but only for those of you who do not know inner city culture. The following explanation may not be acceptable to many of you, but then this novel may not either. Regardless, my reasoning is sound and my foundation is solid, for the culture of which I speak is my culture. Allow me to enunciate: motherfucker and nigga are synonymous in inner city neighborhoods. They are interchangeable and quite often neither term has any negative connotation when spoken within a particular group, or if referring to someone others in the group know. What many consider degrading in a broader sense is simply the way people speak in the hoods and ghettos of America. Not specifically from ignorance, or lack of education, but from a developed inner city culture.

In this sense, I no longer consider the term limited to Americans of African descent; nor do I consider its sub form, when used in the inner city, particularly offensive or negative. Up until the mid 1980’s, I would agree that the term in any form was very specific, with crude and derogatory meaning. However, in the past twenty-five years, through an inner city Cultural Revolution spearheaded by Hip Hop, the term in its sub form has evolved into common hood slang for person, guy, or kid. As for motherfucker, many conversations in the inner city that refer to a specific person switch between nigga and motherfucker just as if someone in the burbs was switching from dude to guy. And for many reasons, to include the overall commonality of the term, motherfucker is actually more palatable for persons outside the inner city, and even more, for those who are trying to sublimate inner city culture.

I want to make it perfectly clear that I do not disregard the history of the word nigger in any written or spoken form, or the impact the use of the word invokes in many people. Nor do I condone the use of the word in any form by any group. However, progress requires society to overcome its painful history, not to forget, never forget, but to move constantly forward. If used archaically or by any persons to denote less value, for denigration or prejudicial purposes, then the term holds the shameful power of its origin. Nevertheless, as I've described, when applied in the cultural language created in the inner city, the word is commonplace with minor if any negative connotation.

If while reading this, you're reminded of that other often used derogatory word bitch, yes, that term is also frequently used in the inner city, again though, without the specific negative inflection that may be attributable in other settings. However bold and controversial this piece may turn out to be, I purposely replaced nigga with motherfucker for these reasons. And whether you accept what I am saying or not, those who grew up in the hood, know the truth of the matter, but it is not my place to throw it in your face and I will not provide an opportunity to detract from this story because I happen to be white.

As for the other vernacular, standard literary prose, Nat speaks to you from a podium, he challenges you to think, agitates you to question your beliefs, your perceptions. He is a teacher, one with personal experience to support his position. It is not remarkable that intelligent minds in our prison populations spend a great deal of time reading and studying. And for the greater part of his life, Nat has been acquiring and retaining all sorts of knowledge. He can engage any crowd on any level. It was very entertaining watching Nat switch back and forth between vernaculars (even pointing it out when he fancied) and I think these transitions are seamless, and that in itself indicates something very profound.

There are many points in this story, too many to cover— not that I would anyway, but I hope that readers from different backgrounds: racial, cultural, socio-economic, religious, age . . . will gain something from this story. I think some will gain more than others will, but Nat's message is meant for the street thug, the ghetto kid, my inner city brothers and sisters. It is you Nat is speaking too. You need to realize that if you remove every negative influence that can cause you to make a bad decision, if you can reverse it even, and make every influence positive, the bottom line is and always will be choice, your choice. No matter how bad it seems, or how grim it looks, you will always have to reconcile your decisions. Don’t live with regrets.

Nat and Poodle are a blend of people from my past. They are as much a part of me as they are a part of this story. As for the fantastic events that occur— it is up you to decide which are factual and which are not. There are many Nats and Poodles in our society, along with others that might not fit a convenient stereotype. Nevertheless, they are routinely labeled so that the public can point fingers with accusations and condemnations.

Throughout my life, I have listened to experts explain why inner city youth commit violent crimes. These experts usually focus on every reason other than the individual to explain the behavior. They are quick to highlight exterior influences and claim these are the principal factors for criminal behavior. Over the years, I have reacted in many different ways: shaken my head, snorted in derision, laughed, but most often I just walk away or turn it off. I finally asked myself why am I dismissing my own experiences, why am I standing by while these fools convince people that children in the ghetto are somehow unable to rise above diversity, that the external factors are so over-whelming that they can't escape, that those poor kids got no chance.

So Nat and Poodle came to me and said, J, we got to explain some shit, we got to let them know that we choose, just like everybody else. So instead of looking around us, look at us.

Nat and Poodle want someone who got the creds to say to you— choose right motherfucker— in your language for your future. They want you to get paid.

Crime in the ghetto, as crime in any other environment, is based on individual choice. If you cut away all the excuses, a person who is truly guilty will lay down each night and no matter how hard he tries to point to other reasons, he’ll end up realizing again and again that he fucked up by choice. So, regardless of your circumstances, regardless of how far down you are, the choices you make will determine your future. Stop the excuses— J

Chapter One

Name's Nat, Nat T. Johnson. The T is for Turner, though some say it stands for Terror. They also say I’m a reincarnation of my namesake, 'cept I ain’t selective, don’t got much religion, and care only about gettin’ paid. My father named me, mom tried to change it to Nathan, but the ol' man wasn't having it.

Fuck that yuppie name, my boy gonna be named after a bad motherfucker, a proud motherfucker, a motherfucker befo’ his time. He gonna know that name too! He gonna love it, respect it, man he gonna be that fuckin’ name!

I wonder sometimes, why mom wanted to change my name. What’s a name anyway? Lucifer, Adolph, Mao, does it matter? And Nat T, he wasn’t evil or nothing, maybe a little nuts thinking he was talking with God and all, but just a man who didn’t like his circumstances and tried to change them. What’s wrong with that? Balls if you ask me. Had he been another color, fighting a different struggle, he’d probably be a few monuments 'bout now. Besides, if you’re bound to be a bad motherfucker, then your name don’t really mean shit. Whatever her reason, I’m sure she didn’t push it too much, just putting on airs. Mom had more important things to think about— Heroin. Yeah, she was all about getting high to forget who she was, let alone worry about who I was gonna be. As I understand it, all she really cared about was how to score her next hit, a blowjob here, a hand job there, whatever. I heard she was a sight too, a walking wraith, hopeless, miserable, and surrounded by misbegotten burdens.

I’ll never know why she wanted to name me Nathan, but I wonder sometimes if it would have changed things. I doubt it, I seriously do, but thinking about shit like that, helps pass the time. In any event, I carried my namesake down a real bad path, or maybe my namesake carried me, whatever the case, this story is my testimonial, my tidbit to society, a special message for my brothers and sisters living in the ghettos where I cut my teeth.

Pop was a crazy ol’ bastard, purposeful in a singular way, like the Terminator. His only goal, at least the only one I know of, was to have himself a son. He wouldn’t give up. Try, try again, he was gonna have a boy no matter what. He plowed that wasteland, my mother, over and over again like a mad farmer. And when it was harvest time, year after year after year, he’d shrug off the disappointing yield and start all over again. He tilled that beaten earth silly to plant his boy child. Can you imagine? I mean can you really imagine. He was fifty-three when I was born. Some say 53 ain’t old, but he wasn’t no daisy, and he worked hard to see my dangling balls. Fate is a funny motherfucker sometimes; he likes to mess with stubborn folk, stupid folk, like Pop. Some shit just ain’t meant to be, but if you push hard enough, Fate just might throw you a bone, but that don’t mean it’s a wishbone. Pop got what he worked so hard for, and maybe he felt like he earned it, all that toil and trouble and what not for his posterity. But the price was high, some say the price was too high, and they know who really paid, and it wasn’t Pop, it was only his sweat. His efforts became society’s burden, cause Natty was havoc from the get-go and that’s the truth!

Countless people have crossed my path, one way or another, and all of them probably wish I had never been born. They curse a stubborn motherfucker for chasing a dream that became their nightmare. Shit makes me giggle when I think about it, what his effort brought into this world.

I was number seven in a string of eleven, but not in that order, let me explain: I was the last child seeded by the ol’ bastard who lived beyond the age of two. Ten popped out before me, but four died. I would’ve had an older brother (actually, I probably wouldn’t have been born), he was number four, but he never tried his lungs.

Dead on arrival, Pop would say.

He was like that, Pop, always cracking witty phrases to explain shit. He'd say to me, Nat, you my lucky seven! Four ain’t no lucky number Nat, but seven, seven’s the shit and everybody knows it!

So I was the seventh surviving child and the only son, seven hungry mouths for a crazy old man and his junkie girlfriend. That’s right, they never hitched— Mom and Dad. She spit out eleven puppies in fifteen years, each one another grimace for the ol’ bastard, another grimy tear for her wasted ass, and another fucked up reality for society in general, but he wouldn’t marry her, who would?

She stuck around though, at least for a while. I can’t say it was for love, actually, I could probably guarantee that it wasn’t. I can’t say it was responsibility either, or honor, or anything else that might stroke your notion of maternal commitment. She stuck around because she was hopeless. She didn’t give a fuck. She was just a lost drug addict with no place to turn, and no love to give. She hated us. She really hated me.

I guess her hold on any hope for a decent life slipped away after number eight bit it from crib death. That was when she started popping heroin. Number 8 was three before me, and the third dead kid before I made my run through her wasted body. I’m sure that nine, ten, and yours truly, were just farts attached to afterbirth (ten didn’t make it either). She never cared much for Natty, I was the ol’ bastard’s goal, and likely in her mind, the shovel that dug her grave. I guess she didn't see the bright side, I mean had I not been lucky seven, she might have dropped baby girls until she had a whole Amazon tribe.

I guess she might have cared had I been number four. If that had been the case, the old man would’ve had his prize, and stopped his maniacal tilling. But that didn’t happen, another seven grunting sessions before a pair of balls hung by the umbilical cord. So, she was bitter, a drug user, and a bad mother. It don’t matter. Some like to say it does, some like to say if you’re born in piss, you’ll likely piss on people. I don’t know, maybe so, I sure done pissed on plenty of people, but I can’t say I was created that way, or became that way cause I didn’t have no tit to suck. I can’t even say that I’m a product of my environment. And like I’ve said, names make no difference. Nah, I was that bad motherfucker pop ranted about by choice, my choice.

Now I can bore you with heart breaking accounts of my infant years, but this ain’t no sob story, and I ain’t looking for no sympathy. I just want to give my piece. Suffice it to say, my two oldest sisters, numbers One and Three, raised me in infancy. After I took root, they both bounced, and I raised myself.

Number 1, Gwen, was fourteen when I was born and by all accounts, she was my real mother. Number 3, Kabira, was a sweetheart, a soul of honey, and she helped well enough, but Gwen, man, Gwen was Mom. I like to think of them at night sometimes when I’m staring at dark corners and remembering. They were warm and caring, and seemed to give a fuck, but we all got to live for ourselves eventually— wait for your set, your moment, and then you escape— just like that! That’s what they did, Gwen & Kabira, and I’m glad, and I smile when I think about them.

My old man was a proud motherfucker. He liked his little posse, most especially his number 7. When he came around, we ate well enough, and had fun and shit, but pop liked to stray. Sometimes he’d be gone for months, and then show up for hugs and kisses. Don’t get the wrong idea, he wasn’t that bad, at least not for the twelve years I knew him. He was like that song— a rolling stone— but he found his way back a few times. My sisters told me pop was a truck driver and that was why he’d be gone all the time. Funny thing though, I never did see no truck. Like I said, he fed us well enough when he was home, but when he was gone we were forced on a diet, fasting like them crazy motherfuckers who think they see God in hunger visions. It ain’t God jackass, it’s just your brain screaming for food.

Maybe Pop sent money while he was on the road, maybe he thought we were all set, but then again, maybe he didn’t give it any thought. I wonder about that too, but my memories are dim that far back.

He never made comment on how thin we were every time he came home. He never remarked on how we ate his pizza (he always brought pizza with him); like a pack of ravenous dogs. He never asked, he never questioned. If he did send money, Mom probably used it to get high, at least up until the moment she couldn’t get high no more. I never found out. It didn’t matter though, my sisters figured out how to survive without his money and without a mother. My sister’s adapted and little Natty adapted too. We became good thieves, my sisters and me, at least those who stuck around.

Gwen left as soon as she turned eighteen, and she took Kabira with her. It was surreal how they left. One day I’m in a park playing tag with the both of them, and the next, they’re gone— just like that! I remember sitting on the kitchen floor playing with some broken matchbox cars. Gwen came in the room, picked me up and held me in her arms for a long time. She squeezed me so hard that I felt her heart beat into my chest as if she was giving her life to me. Then Kabira walked in sobbing uncontrollably, and kissed me on my forehead fifteen times (I know cause I counted, and I count them still, every night, 15 kisses). After her last kiss, she shuddered, grabbed her mouth and bolted out the door.

Gwen whispered something in my ear as she held me tight. Her words, to this day, I cannot recall, even though I spend hours trying. I watched them leave, crying myself, but more out of confusion and a child’s sense of empathy. I was confused and worried, but went back to my toy cars believing that they would be back. But they never did come back and I was too young to understand forever.

As the days passed without either of them showing up, I grew increasingly anxious. I became sick with grief and stopped eating the morsels provided by my remaining sisters. I shut down inside, my stomach cold. I asked God every night to bring them back, but He never answered. My other sisters tried to comfort me as best they could, but with a loss like that, you always go through the motions. In time, my bitterness lessened, and my heart forgave.

I was four when they bounced, and I haven’t seen either of them since. I’m glad now, after all these years, cause they escaped. They were the only ones who truly escaped, and I’m proud of them, cause that had to be some hard shit to endure. And like I said, I smile when I think of them, and on many cold nights, their warm hugs still cuddle me.

They left two years after mom finally smoked herself. She jumped off a train platform during rush hour one dark November night. She splattered her ass all over the inbound. Kabira was there, so was I, in a rusty stroller that I still hear squeaking in my mind. I don’t remember none of it; don’t care to either. My sisters said that mom would take me to the train station to panhandle, displaying dirty little Natty for sympathy change. I guess on that day, she chose to highlight herself. So, since the age of two, I was mother-less by the flesh, and since the age of four, I was mother-less by the soul.

But I still had the ol’ bastard, and when he was around, he told me all sorts of shit that made me mad. Shit about the Man and about how we get nothing, no respect, no equality, just crap and plenty of it.

He said to me, Maybe you won’t put up with that bullshit Nat; maybe you’ll be a bad motherfucker!

He was right, and I was, but I didn’t lash out at anyone in particular, I went after everyone instead. He didn’t get to realize his creation though; Fate had other plans for him. Pop died right before my teen spree. I call it my teen spree because that was when I evolved.

Chapter Two

As said, my remaining sisters and I became good thieves. We learned how to shoplift. We learned how to survive. We began to fuck the Man! Our game plan was simple: Hit a store, any store, and spread out like fleas— five desperate, don’t give a fuck hoodlum kids. We’d scoop up armfuls of shit: clothes, shoes, food, whatever, and beeline for the door. Getting caught was a joke, nothing was done, just a lot of shit talking. Even when the cops showed up, just more shit talking. At first, being the smallest, I was the one who usually got caught. Each time I was bagged, I'd throw a tantrum and put up such a fight that the guards would finally let me go. We learned through repetition that the Man is hesitant to correct hopeless little ghetto kids like me. What would be the point? They would just waste time and energy and maybe some business too. We used that prevailing attitude as part of our game plan, and it always worked. Throw a loud fuss over a little hood kid getting roughed up and see how fast liberal do-gooders start bitching and pointing fingers. It’s comical, and it helped us get away with mad loot.

Initially, I would get caught because I wasn’t quick enough. But after we figured out how easy it was forcing them to let me go, we decided that I'd always take the fall. If any guards tried to flex, I jumped in the way. My sisters would bank out, stash the goods, then come back and make a scene.

Meanwhile I’d be hollering and crying and making all sorts of noise; not the sort of thing a department store wants the paying public to see.

More times than not, management would tell the security guards to let me go as the crowd thickened and my sisters started making accusations. I’d walk away sniffling, wiping my nose between winks at the security guards. We took our stash back to the hood, sold it at big discounts and felt very good about it. We were urban Robin Hoods, making money while our customers got sweet deals. Designer jeans, sneakers, sports gear, etc. What the Man sold for $70 we gave away for $30— our own version of capitalism with a touch of urban benevolence— the American dream, ghetto style.

As I got older, I got bolder, nothing new in the inner city; progress where I come from, like a coming of age. Shoplifting to stick-ups, stick-ups to burglary, burglary to house jacking and finally, at least for me, robbing drug spots. Shoplifting was prime, and the perfect crime to wet my appetite, to fuel my ambition. I gradually moved up in rank during those early years of shoplifting, our family practice. Nadine, my eldest remaining sister (number 5) was sixteen when we started our thieving. Gwen and Kabira had been gone about two years by then. Pop was in and out as usual, so Nadine was in charge. She founded our shoplifting enterprise, and we never went hungry again. Nadine held the reins on our operations for about three years, and we tuned our skills under her guidance. Those were good years, and I learned a lot, but Nadine never really got the thrill of it. She would say it was necessary, but that was all, just something we had to do. But me, I loved it! It was much more than necessary to me- - it was exciting.

Nadine bounced one night unexpectedly with some kid named Eric. She didn’t escape like Gwen and Kabira; she wasn’t that lucky, all she did was move to another ghetto, in another city. She was still with us, just living on a different block.

Eventually, our local notoriety forced us to branch out into surrounding neighborhoods.

The play never failed though, whatever the store, wherever the location, we were unstoppable, invincible. I was pushing nine by then, and I was sprouting like a bad weed. I was becoming more and more violent as I grew, and let me tell you, I GREW. When I was eleven, I looked sixteen, and by then I was running the show. Too big to play possum anymore, I began to confront the rent-a-cops. Instead of running, I’d be swinging, and my blows weren’t shy. This eventually became counter-productive, so I recruited young bucks from around the way, taught them the role, and things went on as usual. Except instead of waiting for liberal shoppers to cry foul, Nat would simply snuff the security guard. Hard to picture, isn’t it? An eleven-year-old recruiting little kids, thumping grown men, sounds ridiculous, I know, but fantasy in your world is reality in the hood, so believe it.

Sheryl and Audrey were numbers 6 and 7. They were twins and they did everything together.

They were not identical twins, they were that other kind, but I’ll tell you what, they were connected in more ways than looks could express. They were bad motherfuckers too, toughest girls in the hood, and I was proud of them.

No kid ever expected a one on one if she, or he, had beef with one of them. They fought like men, and they always fought together. I’ve seen some serious beat-downs by them, they were ruthless and they were feared. You could say they were my inspiration. When Nadine left, they took over, but only for a short while, maybe two years. They preferred hanging out with the older kids in the hood, dealing drugs and shit like that. They kept tabs on us though and they always got their cut.

Tasha was number nine. She was the closest in age to me, but the farthest in attitude. Tasha was quiet and timid. Some would say the odd one in the family. She ran with us because we gave her no other option. I feel bad about that because maybe, if we had let her, she could have escaped too. Tasha stayed with me when the twins stopped boosting. She was scared of the older kids and she knew if she hung out with the twins, she’d be used and abused. At least with me she was a player. Funny thing though, sticking with me landed her ass in juvee. Maybe she would have ended up there anyway, but with me, it was a guarantee.

So, by eleven I was the man. I even had older kids working for me. The twins made sure my crew stayed in line, at least when I was trying my wings, but soon enough they didn’t have to. Age in the streets doesn’t mean shit. What matters is experience and by eleven, I was full of it. Kids 14 and 15 followed me like puppies. And we rolled like a wolf pack with me in the lead, the alpha male. We’d rush a place hard, like a blitzkrieg. I’m talking fifteen to twenty kids in drawn up hoodies, sporting backpacks, and wielding mace. The Ghetto Column, call us number six, storming into your evening shopping hour taking everything we wanted.

We'd clear out a store in thirty seconds flat; five, ten thousand dollars worth of gear, just like that! Anyone stupid enough to get in our way got maced or stomped, and sometimes even slashed with a razor. Then we’d be out, like a flash, laughing and joking and hauling away mad loot. What we called gettin’ paid.

Before I continue, I feel it is necessary to stop my narrative and offer you some insight that may, or may not, be gnawing at you. It depends on whom I’m addressing. If you happen to be a reader familiar with the inner city, a former ghetto kid, or thug, please skip the next two paragraphs, they are unnecessary for your reading pleasure. If however, you are foreign to the mean streets, a person who has only seen ghettos on television, or driving down a highway, allow me to clarify some things for you. The ghettos, the hoods, those scary inner city slums in this, or in any other country for that matter, hold many children who are fatherless, motherless, homeless, hungry, lonely, angry, bitter, et cetera.

Kids that seem to have the cards stacked against them. Kids that learned men would say don’t have a chance in hell. This is rhetorical bullshit because anyone could be dealt a straight flush and everyone has a chance. Choice is the motherfucker though, not the chances you get. The problem with choice is perception, and perception is strongly influenced by environment. What one person considers a winning hand, or a good choice, isn’t necessarily the same for another.

Kids like my sisters and I are doing just fine in the hood. However, instead of counting fluffy bedtime sheep on clean flannel sheets, we go to sleep counting gunshots on piss-stained mattresses. But what we got, instead of soft dreamy bubbles floating over our heads, is a keen respect for survival, street survival. The skill sets we develop aren’t geared toward careers in management consulting, accounting, or computer programming. They are meant for survival, and they’re based on getting paid at any cost.

So the next time you’re mugged, or your house is robbed, or your car is missing, understand that we all want to better our lives, and perhaps the choice of some to get paid is chanced upon meeting someone like you and becoming your very own nightmare. So instead of feeling sorry for the inner city youth, you should count your blessings, watch your own back, and shut the fuck up. Cause you don't really want to do anything about that far away ghetto problem, preferring to limit your interest to an occasional comment when you're chatting with your golfing buddies or snipping roses at the garden club.

Chapter Three

I learned about my old man’s death one lazy summer day. I was hanging out on the corner sipping a 40oz and shooting dice. I was twelve and full of Mac-daddyism, preening myself because I was catching some sweet rolls. There was about seventy dollars in the pot and I was smoking hot. Audrey appeared right when I was rolling for the bank and I watched snake eyes bite my streak in the ass. Audrey's face was stone and she spit the news without any tears. Pop was never coming home again. She said he died in an accident somewhere on the west coast. She said his truck took a wide turn around a tight bend on a cliff without a shoulder. I guess he sailed down the backside and caught some snake eyes of his own. I remember feeling bitter, I remember the heat, and I remember the warm beer I poured down my throat, washing away nothing. I don’t think about pop much anymore.

My first arrest took place when I was thirteen, about six months after my father died. I like to think of it as my christening. Thirteen, the danger year, the unluckiest number, appropriate for the beginning of my teen spree. Lucky number 7 bagged at 13. By that time, I was running a lucrative shoplifting business. My operation was so tight and organized that I rarely went on missions anymore, didn’t have to. My crews would rack up and bring the score back to me. Local businesses would buy my shit wholesale and sell it in the back of their stores. This arrangement saved me time and effort, all I had to do was kick back, wait for the daily catch, divvy up and make some bank. The kids who worked in my crews took their cut in gear, which was what impressed in the hood, your clothes. It’s funny, in a sense, every kid in my neighborhood was decked out in the best threads: top brand sneakers, leather coats, designer jeans, they dressed like royalty but they all lived in tenements— Kings and Queens sleeping in crumbling castles.

I feel it is necessary once again to add some more