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The Street Life is No Joke

for reasons that will be apparent, this True Story is

Anonymous

The "streets" are not the way. Gun fire waking you up, families hollering, because another child is lost.

I learned my lesson first hand, because I've had a friend blown away right in front of my face.

Things were not going right for my best friend, Tone (pronounced to nee) and I. Both of us had family problems. We were getting into fights, just to earn respect. We didn't have money to buy the things we wanted.

I had been in New York City for just over a year. I was beginning my sophomore year in High School and I didn't want to continue school. I felt stress all over the place. So, to solve these problems, Tone and I were going to plan a robbery. A robbery that was going to be big, I mean so big that we wouldn't have to worry about any more problems in the ghetto.

We were planning to rob a big gambling place in Harlem. Everyone knew about this place. But you couldn't go in unless you were known. It was a place where the biggest drug dealers in Harlem went to play cards, dice, the whole nine yards.

It was a hot and sticky Friday night in July. We sat on the black and beige rug on the wood floor of an apartment belonging to an older man, a man who drank a lot, but who let us hang out at his place when we wanted to get away and chill.

Tone was talking and shining the 9 Millimeter gun. We also had a 22 double barrel and two other guns, but I don't recall what they were. You'd be surprised how easy it is to get guns, despite the supposed crack down by the police.

We were talking. I saw Tone's eyes go wide looking at the nine millimeter gun. He said, "I'm going all out tonight," pointing the gun everywhere.

I said, "Yo! Stop pointing that shit over here." I was very scared because these were the biggest known drug dealers we were planning to rob. My heart was racing and my conscious was going crazy. All I can remember hearing is one side of my brain saying, "Don't do this," and the other side was saying "We need the money, too many problems, man."

My head was down thinking. I didn't want to show Tone I was scared. I was thinking to tell him that this was no joke, that if we go through with this, they'll come after us. They'll know who robbed them. Right as I lifted my head, to tell him this, I heard . . .

Click. Click. BOOOM!

Blood and pieces of flesh were running down my face. I started to freak the hell out. Tone started to shake. My first reaction was to give him CPR. I began hitting his chest telling him, "Don't leave me! You're the only person in this world I can trust."

He said, "I'm not." Then, less clearly, he said it again. I picked him up, cradling him like a baby. I ran outside calling for Help! I tried to catch a cab, but no one would stop. I yelled like crazy. Suddenly, I saw a friend's car skid right in front of me. The guy inside said, "Get in, 'nigga'. Get in. Get in!"

While we were in the car, Tone said, "B., don't let me die."

When we got to the hospital, the doctors and security guards took him from my hands. I was in the waiting area for a couple hours, hunched down, rocking back and forth, thinking, "Please, God, don't let him die."

Then, a doctor came out. I asked, "Is he all right?" The doctor said, "He is in critical condition." I asked, "Can I see him," crying while I was talking.

"Sorry," he said, "No."

I grabbed the doctor by the chest and said, "He is the only one I have. If I don't see him, I don't know what I'm going to do."

So the doctor let me see him. I was crying like crazy, talking to Tone. I could remember every last word I said. "Don't leave me. I know you could hear me, you mother fucker. We're suppose to rule the world, man."

Slowly, I heard something. He said, "Sorry P," and that was all I heard. He closed his eyes. Some medical instrument made a sound. Many doctors ran in. I knew Tone was gone.

I didn't know why this had happened to me and why GOD let that happen to the both of us. I felt like I was being punished, but for what? I had no clue. After that incident happened, I didn't believe in God any more, because so many things had happen to me. If there was a God, he wouldn't have let this happen. I didn't care about anything, I mean ANY thing. I felt like I was cursed.

I started to go to school regularly, hoping that it would make my life better because I figured that the streets were not for me. I needed a better way out. To get an education was the way. However, the memory of this incident has hurt me for the last three years.

This one male teacher noticed I had a lot of talent, but that I was not expressing myself. He told me to see him in his office after school. I had wanted to talk to someone about everything, family problems the way I was living, and especially what had happened.

When I went to him, he talked to me and I realized that a lot of what I had been through he had done in his life and survived. So I told him everything and while I started telling him, I started to cry and he said it was all right to let it out.

Now I feel a lot better about everything. Thanks to him. Thanks to God.

Rest in peace Tone.

 

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