Cracked Dreams
Authors: Michael Daniel Baptiste
DEDICATION
This book is dedicated to the one person without whom I would never have been able to complete my first novel. With your love, influence, and support, I have done what I would've assumed was impossible before I met you. Your guidance and advice is worth more to me than whatever proceeds I'll ever receive from the sales of this novel. Your title is girlfriend (a.k.a. Wifie), and your name is Yolanda, but to me you are “The Sh*t.” I don't know where I would be in my life without you, and I'll love you to the death, mommy!
First and foremost, I'd like to thank who I owe my existence, my mother, Marie Lourdes Baptiste. I want you to know that you taught me the value of hard work and persistence. Even though I can't recall any
“Mom always said”
quotes from my youth, what I do recall is the sight of you working with every bit of energy in your body to make sure that my siblings and I always had food in our stomachs and clothes on our backs. Without words, you taught me a lifetime worth of invaluable lessons. For that, I owe you my life and every accomplishment that I make. Thank you and I love you.
To my sister, Rachel, witnessing the trials and tribulations you've experienced and how victorious you've become through it all made me realize that every cloud does have a silver lining. You
are
definitely your mother's daughter, and this fact is shown time and time again with every goal you concurânot to mention having three beautiful children, Andrew, Craig and Saintulia a.k.a. Tuli (the youngest of which shows the most character and promise [wink, wink]).
To my big brother, Junior or
“Supreme,”
thanks for the support in this project. Your assistance only lets me know that you believe in my work and you want to see me succeed. If and when I reach the goals I've set for myself, I can proudly say that you were there from the beginning and that you helped along the way as best you could . . .good lookin' out!
To my cousin Wise . . .“
peace to the Gods!”
I know you know that success for me equals success for us. I see you making moves out there on my behalf and I appreciate it like you'll never know. If I can take this thing as far as I
“vision,”
you have nothing to worry about . . .I got you!
Ricardine, you know we'll always have twice as much love as cousins should have one another, and that will never change. All I hope is that I can be the positive influence you need to follow your dreams. You can have anything you want in the world, just remember that first step will be the hardest. Love ya! What's up to OJ, Vanessa, Justine, Ralph, Sherlie, Valerie, Christian, Stephan, Barbara (Bobby), Jordan, Nikia, Bianca & Beatrice, Garren, Ricardo, Mimose, and my cousins that I missed, sorry but you're in my heart.
A
nother “Bronx Tale.” There was never one like it, and there never will be. This should just bring you mu'fuckas up-to-date; that's all. For the most part, you don't hear much of the Bronx. Anyone that doesn't grow up here would imagine that there's a constant war in the streets. In a way, they're one hundred percent correct, but it's not at all as serious as most would believe. One thing is true though; you don't want to fuck with the Bronx. Any of these other boroughs, like BK, the Q-borough, or Harlem World, they may permit mu'fuckas calling them all kinds of faggots and bitches and pussies, but not over here, dog. It can get very ugly for you in these streets. It's not the place for games, for real. As much as you don't hear about us, our streets house the most criminals. Before you get it twisted, just ask yourself one question. Who has the highest crime rate? Robbery, murder, drug traffic, prostitution, etc . . ..it's all here. As much as you don't hear about us, whenever you ask a nigga from the Bronx where he's from, you twist up your fuckin' face when he tells you. You know what? We don't give a fuck! You ain't got no friends over here either, pussy. Whatever you got to say about the Bronx don't mean shit. These niggas know how to get money, these niggas know how to bubble the right fuckin' way, and these niggas know how to stay the fuck out of jail. Unless, of course, you get some nigga flappin' his lips. There's always an occasional bitch-ass nigga that slips through the cracks, but that's how the game goes. When it's your turn, you gonna get it, too. You can get it from
behind or dead center of your chest, eye-to-eye. You could get it from your man, or some lil' nigga, tryin to make a name for himself in these streets. There's a thousand and one different ways to get it out here, mu'fucka. So anyway you put it . . .a lot of niggas get killed in the Bronx!
YEAR â 2000
I
t's kind of quiet tonight . . . Traffic's moving slowly. No movement could be recognized in the distance. Hard to believe that the first day of the new millennium had just come to a close. The streets were filled with fireworks, loud people and Y2K tension all throughout the city only a day ago. Now, there was no evidence left of the celebration that had taken place only twenty-four hours ago. No champagne bottles or horns, no confetti or balloons; just stillness. All that could be noticed through the darkness of Bronx Park up on the North Side were a few cigarette butts, empty beer cans, and the slightest scent of marijuana. Then, out of the silence, “Fuck!” said a young brother sitting on a wooden bench in the park before relighting a small blunt he'd previously put out. “Ain't shit moving out here tonight,” he said, blowing smoke into the air.
Directly across from where he was sitting was a highway that had very little traffic at that time of night. On his right were stairs that led to an overpass that contained even less vehicle traffic. Ironically named Gun Hill Road, this is where only hustlers, addicts, prostitutes and pimps would dwell after a certain hour. Directly behind him was the Bronx River, also where hustlers, addicts, prostitutes and pimps could be found, but more than likely on the bottom of that shit, or floating atop.
“Damn, it's cold out here,” he said, blowing into his hands before rubbing
them together for warmth. This was Michael Banner, or known to the streets as “Spits,” a name he'd picked from his reputation as a battle-rapper. He was what you called your neighborhood street pharmacist, pusher, hustler, or plainly put, drug dealer. He stood about six feet one and weighed about two-forty, but his baby-face could throw you off a bit. Brown skin, light facial hair and long braids described Michael to the tee.
More than anything, Michael enjoyed music; from the standpoint of a producer, writer or a vocalist. But one thing about the music business: it's not
what
you know, it's
who
you know. And then it's not even
who you know
, but
who knows you
. So Michael didn't pick music as his primary career goal. He didn't like the fact that he'd have to depend on anyone but himself to get ahead. Nope, he chose drugs. Once he'd made his first sale on the streets, it was a wrap. This is what was up. Even before then, he was always attracted to the street life. Growing up in the streets of the Bronx was considered a never-ending battle to him, and he needed to win.
“Yo, what's up, ol' timer? You i-ight?” Spits asked an older guy walking past him.
“I'm fine,” he responded confusingly.
“Mu'fucka, don't you look at me funny. What you want, a dime? A twenty? How much?” Spits said angrily.
The old man, now realizing Spits was a hustler, went into game mode. “I don't even know you, young man,” he said, showing a devilish grin. “How can I be sure your stuff is class A? If you give me a sample and it's good, I can make you a rich man.”
Spits looked at him as if he was containing himself from exploding. “Nigga, I look new or something? I'm on grind-mode pussy, and I ain't out here to be gamed out of mines. Besides, I
been
rich, nigga,” Spits said, spitting flames at the old man. “Fuckin' custees, man. They always trying to gee off!” he said walking away.
You see this was all new for Michael. He'd lost the flavor in his mouth for direct sales long ago. He'd since moved up and never once looked back. In a little over four years, Michael had turned a small-time nickel-and-dime venture into a notorious drug ring known all over the streets, up and down
the East and West coasts. But now, after all of that, he was on his grind again, ready to hug the block until the early hours of the morning if necessary. That's just how the game went, according to him. Ups and downs ain't shit. Take the loss and apply some pressure of your own. But it wasn't just by chance that all four of Michael's “drugstores” got raided on the same day. It wasn't a coincidence that this happened to occur on a re-up dayâof all days. Between all four spots, there was about ninety-six bricks uncut, valued at 5.7 million on the street. You goddamn right he should've been fuckin' mad. You see, all was good and money was rolling in faster, and more abundantly than was predicted, right up until his man got a murder charge.
The repercussions of these events were reminiscent of when Michael got his first taste of the street life. Even more so, he was reminded of the years prior to then, when everything was all good in the hood.
YEAR â 1996
Every morning like clockwork, Michael's three best friends, Peter, Chris and Mikey, would pick him up for school. And every morning like clockwork, Peter, Chris and Mikey would ditch while Michael went to class alone. It seemed odd, but that was the daily routine for them. They would all stop by Michael's crib because, for one, he lived the closest to the school that they attended, and two, so that they could try and convince him not to go. They did this knowing that they wouldn't all be attending class that day. While Michael was in school falling asleep in the classes that were too easy for him, the rest of the guys were running the streets trying to scrounge up paper the only way they knew howârobbing and stealingâjust to support their marijuana and alcohol habits. Don't get it twisted; every so often Michael would cut with them and it would be the same ol' thing. They would go up to Yonkers to rob white kids on their way to school, just to go back down to Intervale Avenue on the 2 Train where they bought dime bags of Skunk Weed that were as fat as twenty-sacks. When they'd had enough weed to last them the day, they'd get a few St. Ides forty-ounces to sip on, and then make their way either to the park, or to whomever's home
was available. This was a regular day for them. Whatever they did to get the money, they could accumulate up to thirty or forty bucks, and it would all be gone by the time it hit two o'clock when school really let out.
Michael came from a single-parent home, and all he saw growing up was his mother breaking her back to provide for him and his younger brother. He also had an older sister, but they had different fathers. She lived with her father in California, so they didn't see or speak to each other often. All Michael saw was the struggle and knew that he didn't want that for himself, so at first, he leaned toward education to rescue him from hard times to come. He figured that his mother not finishing high school, in the least, contributed to her having to work so hard for a living. So school became his out. This was how he would prevent himself from the backbreaking work he saw his mother perform to put food on the table. This went on all through Michael's life, but his views started to stray once material things became of some importance to him.