RIPPED & READY (PART LXI)
The closer Peewee got to me, the more my heart began to race. Once we were face to face and he smiled, I breathed a sigh of relief. I asked him what brought him to Stanford Hospital and he told me he was there to meet his cousin for lunch. In that I knew several people there I couldn’t imagine who he was related to because I prided myself on being in the know.
We did a soul-brotha shake and I told him that I was sorry about his brother getting hurt at my apartment. He told me that Darrius’ injuries weren’t that serious, and thanked me for taking the high road in the matter. I told him that I wasn’t going to press charges, but I couldn’t speak for the San Jose Police Department. He said he definitely understood.
“Marco, my brother has been a pain in my ass ever since we were younger. I told him long ago that he didn’t have the street-smarts to get into the business I was into, and he sure as hell didn’t have the temperament for it. He’s an asshole and he’s lucky he didn’t get himself killed,” he said.
It shocked the hell out of me hearing him talk about his little brother like this. I never would have guessed he felt like this about him (Lord knows damn near everybody in the neighborhood knew Darrius was a wanna-be-baller).
“Peewee, I appreciate your honesty and have a new respect for you, bro,” I told him.
What I didn’t tell him though is that I didn’t have any respect for his line of business (drug dealer/gangbanger), but I wasn’t about to press my luck with that one.
“Hey, dude, you need to pull your pops’ coat tails, because he is living a foul ass life. I stopped a few of my boys from getting up in his ass for messing around with their women, but I can’t control every nigga in the area,” he told me.
My father was like a thorn in my fucking side. Loving him was a true test of patience because, ever since the divorce, he has acted so nasty towards my mother until it was starting to affect her mentally. Danita told me that she cries a lot and refuses to go to a counselor. My sister says that our mother thinks that counselors are for crazy people.
Hell we are crazy. (LOL).
A lot of black people think that way, that’s why so many of them are walking around with so much inner turmoil and excess mental baggage. I cannot speak for all families, but the ones I know have nothing but sorted histories, filled with everything from incest, molestation, and domestic violence — I could go on with the list but you get the just of what I’m saying.
Peewee and I finished up our conversation, and I thanked him for looking out for my pops.
“Hey, cuz,” he said.
“Nigga, your ass is looking old as hell,” the familiar female voice said.
I turned around and sure enough, it was her. How in the hell could I be friends with this woman for over two years and not know she was related to PeeWee. Talk about six-degrees of separation. As it turns out, Anita’s uncle, Rodney, was married to Anita’s mom for ten years (they had been divorced for five).
Anitta looked at PeeWee and me and asked, “You two know each other?”
“Yea, cuz, this brotha grew up in my neighborhood, I didn’t know you two knew each other either,” he said.
“Now ain’t that about a bitch,” She said, shaking her head with her hands on her hips.
“Well, you two enjoy your lunch,” I told them.
“You wanna roll with us?” PeeWee asked.
“No, thank you, I’ve got some more patients I need to check on,” I said, grateful I could use that excuse to decline. I mean, let’s face it, I didn’t need to be getting too chummy with a drug dealer. Lord knows, I didn’t need to be riding around in his car. What if he had drugs on him? What if somebody did a drive by on his ass?
Yea, I know, I might be a tad bit paranoid, but you know something, better safe than sorry. I had to get Anita’s perspective on that. I wondered if she even knew what her cousin’s real occupation was.
I was just about to head into Mrs. Weatherly room when my cell phone started to vibrate on the belt of my trousers. I stopped a few inches shy of the door way to her room, looked down at the Caller ID screen, and when I saw the name, It took me back to Claim Jumpers and the fight.
“Hello, what’s up, man?” I asked.
“Regardless of how you may be feeling about me, dude, I just need to know, are we going to get this shit straight between Tootchie and Collin?” He asked, skipping all formalities.
I knew this nigga didn’t call about that, he wanted to check in with me. I pondered over whether to trip his ass up and point blank ask him why he felt it necassary to use the “F” word whenever he got annoyed, and why he just didn’t come out and expose his true feelings.
“D’Andre, I’m not sure I even want to get into that one,” I said.
“He’s our boy, Marco,” he said, trying to convince me to join him on his Maury Povich journey (You know, blank-blank, you are not the father — that ghetto ass talk show).
“Hell, are you still there, Marco” he asked.
“Yea, I’m here, D, but like I said, that baby business is none of my business and I’m tired of making everybody’s business, my business,” I said, sounding a bit redundant.
You know something, I was so sick of this motherfucker treating me like a damn telephone solicitor. He hung up on me again, but this time, I wasn’t about to let it go.
I dialed his number.
It started ringing….
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