...GET STITCHES?

Thugs and me, we just have an understanding.

And apparently there is no shortage of them on my block. Y’all remember this guy, the one who helped me “put together my dresser.” Yeah, Thug Love, about that…

So anywho, what can I say? They like to confide in me, tell me their life stories and plans. Maybe they sense that I may one day immortalize their shit for all the world to enjoy. I doubt they were expecting this bullshit ass blog.

So there’s this guy who lives in my building, and by lives, I mean he staying there with his peoples. We bonded one evening when we were both parking our cars on the block. Did I mention he drives a cab, but kinda didn’t seem like he was a cabbie, you feel me?

“You from NY?” he asks, eyeing my tags. “I didn’t know you were from NY.” We had always said hi and byes and chit chatted before, but nothing formal, and I was only familiar enough with him by face. No name.

“Lemme guess, you’re from the Bronx,” I respond. “By way of Puerto Rico.”

“Ya know it. That obvious, huh?”

“Lucky guess.”

From that day Papi and I have had many convos, mostly in the stairwell of our building, or him calling down to me from his apartment window. He’d hear me trudging up the stairs with grocery or shopping bags and he’d always come out and help, or just say hi, or ask me how I’m living.

I learned that Papi just got out like 3 months ago (this would explain the random letters left on the common mail area from the Dept of Corrections), and he’s working and just staying out of trouble. I never ask what they did to go in, cuz aint it always the same shit? Plus they usually tell me anyways. I don’t recall Papi ever going into detail about anything past tense. Mostly just future.

I did ask however, why he left the Bronx, and he just said, “Too much shit up there. But I do miss it though.”

He told me about how he got in a fight the weekend prior, how some big dude (Papi’s kinda thick, but only like 5’8” or so) punched the shit out of his homegirl at some BMore club. So Papi stepped in and did some heavy lifting. I admonished him not to get into shit. He shrugged it off. He regretted it, but had no qualms about defending a woman, and definitely none about the bruises on his knuckle.

“So what y’all be smoking down there?” I ask. “I be high as shit up here from the contact.”

“I don’t smoke nothing.”

“Yeah right.”

“Straight up.”

“They make you piss?”

“Twice a week.”

“Damn. I don’t even go to the gym twice a week. And there’s probably not two days a week that I walk by your door and don’t smell weed.” I’m incredulous. But Papi appears so damn well adjusted, if not thoroughly apathetic and detached.

“Be good. You better stay out of trouble.” That’s always my parting word to him.

“Stay beautiful. And eh, don’t forget I got this Dominican rum for you.”

So the other day I’m sleeping real hard right? And my buzzer goes nuts. This happens sometimes, like when the door is locked and my neighbor Barnyard is passed out and his people can’t get in. They buzz me. Or once a month or so my editor Fed.Ex’s me some shit…but wait, I’m not on deadline. And…hold up, it’s 7 in the effing morning. At 7 in the effing morning on a weekday, I am subconsciously clinging to my last moments of pass outedness. Anybody who should need access to my crib at this hour either has a key or has my damn number. I check my phone. Nothing.

But whoever is downstairs is laying on the damn buzzer. I open up my window to look down onto the sidewalk below and it’s a chick who looks like her…

“What is it!?!” I yell down.

“Police. Come open the door.”

I get real humble real quick. My ass is AAAAAWAKE!

I go splash some water on my face, and with every step I’m running in my mind what the hell I done did that’s finally caught up with me.

Omg, what I do? What I do!

My license?? Did I not pay my taxes?? I KNOW I paid my damn taxes! I ain’t steal nothing. I aint run no red lights on the blocks where they have the cameras. I aint beat nobody ass. I aint even got no internet porn in my possession! Ok, whatever it is I hope to God in heaven that it’s something I can explain. I hope they just here to talk, not cuff. WTF?!

I get downstairs and look out the window. Standing next to Kima is a look alike of this guy…

I nearly collapse to the floor. To make matters worse my eye catches his sleeve…

WARRANT POLICE

So uhhhhh, NO, they not here to do no type of talking. SHIT!

“Ma’am, do you live in apartment C?”

“Y-yes.” [editor’s note…it’s actually #3, but whatev. I was neither coherent nor equipped to be a smart ass]

They ask me this at least 5 more times. Then they both step inside the building and pull out a file. My head is spinning and my stomach tightens, afraid of what transgressions are held within.

“Do you know this gentleman?”

Papi’s gentle face stares back at me from the bad boy bin. My heart sinks.

“No.”

“He doesn’t live with you?”

“No he doesn’t.”

“Do you live in Apt. C?” again, they repeat the inquiries as if about to conclude that 2+2 is obviously 4.

“Yes! My name is So Wise Sista and I live in Apt C. But I live there alone!”

“Have you seen him in this building?”

“Yes.”

RECORD SCREECHES…

*sigh*

“Where have you seen him?”

“I don’t know. He just looks familiar.”

“Who else lives in the building?”

“A kid Barnyard lives on the second floor. Tall light skinned kid with long dreads. And I don’t know who lives there anymore,” I spill, pointing to the apartment ahead of us. “Used to be a white kid.”

My ears are clogged, my heart is effing pounding in them. All I could hear was that they thought I was housing a fugitive and I couldn’t believe they were gonna try to pin this shit on me.

So I spilled. Not on Papi (per se)…but definitely on the Barnyard muhfucka on the second floor with the Psycho White Broad girlfriend who be yelling and crying at all hours of the night, and who moved my effing laundry one time too many.

“Thank you.”

I sprint back up to my crib and slam the door behind me. Confused as shit.

I hear the jakes knocking on Barnyard’s second floor apartment door, but I can’t make out the convo. I also can’t recall if they smoked the night before. I know Papi’s not there, but still. Who knows what the Psycho White Broad might tell. Shit, I kinda told, didn’t I??

I crawled back into bed, got under the covers and called my sweetie, (who will from here on be affectionately known as DatNucca). I hung up feeling reassured that I didn’t sni.tch, but still sad. Dammit Papi…why!!!!