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.
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.