Damon
Two weeks have passed, and thanks to
scary ass corporations' fear of a black prez, there's no jobs. Pussy
ass people are pulling money out of investments, banks, and what-
have-you, because they think their money isn't safe.
What the fuck ever.
I'm grateful that my last check covered
the rent and bills, but very little for food. Good thing I still have
a mom who likes to help her kids out now and then when they need it.
Believe me, it gets to my pride and fucken ego whenever I have to ask
her for help, because she's still taking care of a kid at her house
in the form of her husband. And I've been on the job hunt since I
lost my last one.
Nada.
Places like Target and Starbucks have
flat out told me they're “reserving jobs for returning students”.
Ain't that a bitch!
My hope picks up when I come home in
the afternoon from job hunting and see the flashing red light on the
phone. It's a message, and hopefully with good news for a half-breed.
It's a message from my uncle Duval (that's all I've ever known him
as) with an offer for work, but I'm not sure if it's what I want. Duval is into “shadier” dealings, which usually means cops and
trouble. Duval asks me to meet him at Cafe Loco at five o'clock for
drinks and to hear him out.
I take a deep breath, look at the
ceiling, and exhale. It's only for a minute, I mumble to
himself. Only until I find a job, and I'm done. Call it
desperation, call it stupidity. Hell, call it both, but damned if I
sit back and lose my house for lack of a job or stupidity. My fault
for telling my boss exactly how I feel about my job, the company, and
his manager skills. Then again, the half-pint bitch asked me, so I
obliged his ass. I loved my job, but didn't like his impersonal
Napoleon dictatorship. You don't make your employees feeling like a
bunch of niggers, working for a slave wage without any thanks.
Whatever, I'll show their asses.
I look at my cellphone, it's ten til
five. I go to the closet and pull down a red shoebox from the top
shelf. My 9mm sits pretty in its holster, and I get flashbacks of all
the dirty shit I did with this gun. Shakedowns, shootings, pistol
whippings. I take the gun out the holster, and stick the gun in the
small of my back. It's like welcoming a friend who you kicked out
your life, knowing you shouldn't let their that sorry mu'fucka back
in, but stupidity and pity clouds your judgment.
I'm out the door and headed to the car
in a rush. I don't know what the fuck for, because I know what this
nigga is gonna ask me to do. I'm just wondering who the fuck let him
know I'm not working. I feel like I'm sixteen again. He did this shit
to me when my brother and I were kids, asking us to do “favors”
for him. And we did our job well, and he actually didn't have to
twist our arms much, with the money he paid us.
We made bank for his black ass, and we
stayed with fat pockets. Not to mention little hoes who did anything
we asked them to for a hit, money, or dick. We had it like that.
Times were easy back then.
Rolling up to the club, I keep telling
myself this will only be for a while until I find a new job. If I
know Duval's game, it hasn't changed...make your hustle, make that
money, keep your mouth shut. Same formula that's worked for years for
him, but everyone else pays the price while he stays free. Following
his rules are easy.
Then I remind myself, that things in my
life are never that easy.
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