YNs

1987

Cortina and Noland Bryerson named their son Crimson because they wanted him to attend Harvard one day. He didn’t pass the classes. In fact, he dropped out of high school at the age of fourteen.

He had been in advanced classes in Newark, Delaware, but had grown weary of what the teacher taught. She harped on what remained popular during the Victorian age. Shakespeare, Marlow, and the rest. He received teaching on this level in third grade. By the time he hit ninth, he had it all together. His math and science reflected the same story. It amused him, though, when he joined church on Sunday and learned about Darwin’s theory of evolution on Monday in AP Biology.

One day, he just stopped going. He played soccer for a little while and then hit the libraries. Hard. College level knowledge seeped into the crevices of his consciousness. He looked at microfiche of various news articles regarding the hard cocaine people were calling crack. He scrolled through entry after entry of murders and attempted murders. He scanned articles regarding thefts and break ins which occurred on a daily basis in Wilmington, Delaware.

He snickered and said aloud to himself but not too loudly, “It won’t happen to me.”

Crimson didn’t bother coming home until late. The school never notified his parents of his whereabouts. He just came in and said he had work. That “work” was down at the lumber yard. His task remained to stack the cords in neat piles. They didn’t think anything of it. So the kid worked late? All of his meals had been prepared and he heated them and ate and slumbered. This whole time, he mapped out his destination for Wilmington and picked a place to pitch. He needed a mound….

With $1,300 in savings from two years’ labor, he put in a deposit on an apartment. Welling up in him, he could feel the pride and resentment tangling with each other. Pride because he had worked so smart in order to earn the funds and bitterness because he had been overcharged for the apartment. The true price of the apartment stood at $450, not $650. He would not know this, however, for another six months. Nevertheless, he put his hands on his hips and nodded.

He traveled back on the DART bus to his home in Newark, Delaware. Again, under the cover of night and his parents fast asleep, he just crept in with the agility of a ninja and found rest in his bedroom.

When he woke the next day, they both had already been at work. He stretched and dressed. All black everything covered his body. He wore a hoody and jeans and Reeboks. He journeyed to the apartment and noticed that the pathway towards the entrance had been fraught with clientele looking to score the baking soda concoction. Crimson strolled right past every ashy face and those that looked like the last glow of a jack-o-lantern. It seemed to hit home as that time of year came around once again. The brown and golden and red leaves littered the court yard along with vials and Ziploc baggies.

The street called to Crimson. His answer? Discover the man that would cause a seismic shift in the way he did business. He learned from one of the customers the secret name to find him. He learned that Rashomon had evaded enemies and had gone by a password to bring young men like Crimson into his realm. He sought out his manager. Rome “Rashomon” Serdon controlled six blocks on the East Side. This same territory encompassed Crimson’s apartment. He walked over to the West Side where Rashomon lived. There existed complexes that looked like cigarette burns, the blight so thick. Yet, where Rashomon lived, it appeared palatial. An empty pool, gated and locked for the season drew Crimson’s attention. Then he saw Rashomon. He stood six foot three inches tall and wore attire that a general manager at General Motors would wear. He had a crisp white shirt, tie, and khakis and patent leather brown shoes.

“Kurosawa,” Crimson almost whispered.

“I heard you were looking for me,” Rashomon smiled and sighed. He folded his arms.

“Yes. I need consignment.”

“Look at you…. You can’t be more than….”

“I’m old enough to put money away for both of us so we can retire on the US Virgin Islands with fine ladies,” Crimson mentioned.

“Okay. A plan already in place. I’ll bite. I’ll give you four kilos. If you sell that, you’ll make $3,000. If you fumble it, you get nothing. You’re going to need this.” He handed him a pistol.

Crimson nodded his head almost as a salute to a colonel in the streets.

Rashomon signaled to two of his associates to retrieve the bundles. Rashomon led Crimson to a hallway and then into his studio apartment. Stereo systems looked like glowing towers of sound ready to pulsate rhythms throughout the room. A woman walked by. Galina Bonilla looked like she was in last place before being cut from the cheerleading squad. Her angular face and green eyes complimented her olive skin.

“I didn’t even catch your name. Everybody just said ‘the boy.’

“It’s Crimson. This is Galina.” They shook hands.

He saw the portraits and landscapes on the walls painted by Jean-Michel Basquiat. Galina and Rashomon journeyed into the bedroom. Crimson smirked and shook his head ever so gently. They took fifteen seconds tops to get a bonus bundle that she intended to move. Rashomon came back to the teenager.

“Here’s another brick. I know most people don’t like to keep their work at home, but I don’t sell around my place, that’s the real kicker.”

Crimson understood and took all the kilos. “I can set you up with these men right here who will escort you over to the East Side. You’ll be selling where you stay, but East’s block is not as hot for beginners. I’ve gotta change location every seven months. So, go out there and hustle some things.”

Crimson gave that little gesture again, acknowledging Rashomon’s stature in the streets. He walked over to the car and opened it. It was a moss green Mercedes that didn’t look too flashy but just signaled someone having wealth without screaming it. The bricks had been taped tight and the men carried them into the apartment.

They dropped off Crimson and continued to go to the car. They left with an air of “alright, let’s see what you’ve got, kid.” Crimson looked around the bare apartment. A surge coursed through his body as he took in a deep inhale and exhaled as if finishing off a tasty beverage. He took out a pocketknife and cut along the baseboard. He found a small space between the apartment below and his and hid the bricks. His next move consisted of going on the DART to Newark. He sold a few packs to make some cash by some light hand-to-hand activity.

His parents sat eating dinner. Crimson rolled by then, or at least tried to do so. “Uh-uh, young man. Where have you been?” Cortina Bryerson asked, her tone low and pointed.

“I went in town.”

“To do what?” Noland Bryerson asked.

“Start a business.”

“Boy if you don’t….” Noland started and then looked at Crimson’s face and then his hand.

“I’m selling crack on the streets.”

Cortina and Noland looked at each other and laughed. Crimson shrugged.

“Okay, okay. Good stuff. Next you’ll be saying you’re a comedian. Get outta here, boy!” Cortina exclaimed, holding a glass of red wine in her hand.

“But before you go, make sure you eat this plate of food.”

“I gotcha, Ma.”

He trudged up the stairs glad that he could say anything and they would just pass it off as nonsense. A glance in the mirror showed his almond brown skin. He felt the weight of not being able to say it forthrightly: I’m going to sell drugs. Nonetheless, he carried forth the torch in his mind to get up in the morning and go in town and distribute the weight. Another spark coursed through his frame as he looked at his prospects in all of this.

Before he found his way to Wilmington, he went to the lumber yard. He met up with his boss Humphrey Goss. He wore a blue shirt with his name on it and black trousers.

“Hey, Crim, you’re not supposed to be in until next week. Remember I cut your hours?”

“I know, I’m actually going to the supply store to pick up a few items.”

Goss appeared dumbfounded and certain at the same time. His mouth held slightly agape as the young man breezed off calmly to the main store.

Zipties, scales, currency straps, baggies, electrical tape, wiring, a monitor and a money counter all totaled about $89. He took the bag and threw it in his larger satchel. He caught the DART bus and found his apartment. When his satchel slammed against the grand he heard the kilos shift slightly. He could feel it. The thud sank into his bones and he sensed the work move. He then went down to a payphone and opened up his book of phone numbers and started warm calling. These calls consisted of friends he had made over his career in school. They would have their beepers on them and ready to call him back after the bell rang.

They did.

“Hey Crim! What’s up man?” Kee Vecker asked with enthusiasm.

“If you want to make $500, tell five girls our age to meet me at the corner of West Fifth Street on Saturday at ten am.”

“That’s tomorrow, but okay!” Kee shrugged and hung up the phone. After about forty-five he called twelve people before he exceeded the designated total. Kee never stopped at the bare minimum. He planned on being a Marine after school. He reached Crimson via his beeper.

“Hey, I’ve got ‘em all plus more.”

“After I see bodies, I’ll make sure you get a bonus.”

“Roger that…I mean okay.”

Six people showed up which meant that Kee still earned his bonus because he placed another person on the corner that might not have been there.

“Alright, follow me and I’ll give you a glimpse into money that could be had if you give 100% of yourselves every time,” Kee had already positioned himself as the lieutenant to Crimson’s captain. They walked single file into the apartment building. Crimson opened the door and showed them the blank space.

“I need two females to get tables, chairs, sheets, an iron and stickers. There’s a Murphy bed already here. You’ll be working in shifts so some will sleep, some will be handling product. That means the kitchen has to be spotless and the stove….” He broke off his sentence. Crimson just thought of it. He walked over to the white and black appliance, looking like a panda bear pressed against the wall. He struck a match and lit the pilot. Then, he switched the dial and heard the ticking sound and then gazed at the blue flame and the next audible euphoria, the phoom! of the same flame licking at the black stove fixtures.

“Now, we set up the wiring, don’t worry I can do that, the TV monitor, and the bed and someone who can keep the refrigerator clear for the product. We’ll be great.”

When the electricity coursed through the TV and the lights flickered on and the girls sat around chatting, Kee stood up and commanded them to set up the money machine.

The women stood in the kitchen looking at the instructions on how to mix the various ingredients and how to prepare them.

“What are we in Home Ec?” Tricia Bannington quipped. Her blue eyes and blondish hair would have to be covered as she would be an easy target for cops. “Let’s put some in our purses,” she started but then looked at Kee with his arms folded.

“Ung-ugh. We will have none of that. If you want to do that, you can carry yourselves home. No pay.”

Tricia and three more girls sulked. The two other girls talked with Crimson after they had been given the money to buy all of his wares. Kee helped set up the tables and change the bed. Kee and the two other girls waited for the product to dry. Once it had been properly labeled with a thumbs up. After about three hours on the block, the chill from the late October afternoon led them to the apartment. They had sold two and half keys worth of product. Kee looked unshaken by the crisp air or the hours spent with grinding on the corner.

They poured the money out like hail, a sloshing sound arose with bills, mostly in fives and tens crashed against the table. Farrah “Fila” Vartolli set up the money counter. She began feeding bills into the apparatus. Each one had to be uncrinkled and sometimes ironed out to go inside of it. The shuffling sound seemed almost as great as the ding.Then it stopped.

Kee shot over to the money counter. “This can’t be….”

“Is it battery powered?”

“No, it’s electric. I can fix it,” Kee claimed. He shook it with a violence usually reserved for breaking the necks of geese. He struggled. He took it apart and put it back together again. He snatched a handful of dollars and forced them into the machine. He struck the button and it seemed dead to the world. He reopened it and looked for a way to change the mechanism. All of the cash spilled out onto the table. He tore open the whole thing and emptied the guts like a Zino cigar.

“Kee, it’s cool. We can get another one…” Crimson reminded him.

“Huh?! You don’t understand. It’s supposed to work! Everything is supposed to flow smoothly!”

“This is a hiccup not an upchuck, friend,” Crimson assuaged.

“Alright! Alright. I just want this operation to go without a single flaw.”

“We’re ready for greatness. Nevermind all the speed bumps okay?”

One of the girls screamed. “I think I just saw a roach!”

“It’s okay. We’ll have an exterminator in here in a day,” Crimson waved his hands slowly in a downward motion, finding himself putting out fires.

“And I knocked over the stuff onto the floor,” Vorelia Ucher admitted.

Crimson squatted down on his haunches. “That’s about $800 of work right there. You know what…everybody go in the living room area and find your stuff and go. If you want to stay the night, that’s on you. I’ve gotta stay here and go to church in the morning somehow.”

“I’ll stay here, Kee volunteered,” He canted his chin up some.

Crimson shook hands with his friend. “If you ladies want to keep him company, you’re free to stay as well.”

“No. Just me.”

“We better get back.”

“Fair enough, good night to all.”