Free Unruly by Ja Rule Page B

me a break . If they hadn’t shot me when their gun was at my temple, those boys weren’t going to take me out at all. I was relieved but my feet kept running, just in case. I ran like someone running away from the past. I ran like someone searching for what was missing.
    The beef continued for a couple more weeks. It seemed that every day more shit popped off. There were several more shoot-outs and conflicts. A few people got shot. Flakes got killed. There was always shit going on in the hood, just like when my man Gee was paralyzed.
    Then, after a couple of weeks and too many casualties, the 99th Avenue beef just quieted down on its own.
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    WITH BAD, THERE’S always some good. The streets in Queens were popping. I would see all the big-time rappers. I remember LL Cool J just riding through in his BMW. In fact, he dated a relative of Aisha’s at some point. I recall Run DMC in 192 Park. They were freestyling “Here We Go,” and it seemed like three weeks later it was a hit record, playing on the radio. I would see Onyx in the neighborhood. Seeing these dudes around made me feel like I could make it. I would even freestyle in the 192 Park and folks would cheer me on. Deep down the cheers made me feel I could make it.
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    I WAS AFRAID OF AISHA loving me too much. I was a young Black man in the game who had already been arrested for drugs and guns. It was a life that I had chosen and it would be complicated to get out of, even if I tried. You see, thugs don’t care if you have made a decision to better your life. They still see you as the thug you were and always will be.
    â€œI should love you more than you love me, because you could lose me,” I said to Aisha one time.
    â€œDon’t say that, Jeffrey! We all have something to live for now. We have each other.”
    â€œI know. I know. I want to live, but brothas are out there losing their lives . . . there’s just no guarantees in these streets.”
    â€œDon’t say that again! You sound crazy, Jeffrey. I’m not going to let you die. The men who are dying are dying because they have nothing to live for. You have me.”
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    THE POLICE KNEW US. And we knew them well. We had all figured how to coexist in the hood. Our same officers were assigned to patrol our block every day. We had nicknames for them like Tango and Cash and Robo Cop. The lines between reality and cop dramas were blurred. We named our cops after the characters from the movies that entertained us after school and on the rare nights we stayed home. We watched the shows late at night through bloodshot eyes. During the days, on the block, we’d become actors, laughing and jeering at cops and running from ourselves. To each other we called the cops by their nicknames and I could hear the cops calling me “Left” from behind.
    In the winter, I would dress for the weather while sitting on my black milk crate waiting for the corner phone to ring. I was bundled up in a wool cap, a lined Carhartt jacket and my 40 Below Timberland boots. We each had a cell phone and a pager but we also gave out the corner phone number to friends and family as if it were our private line. It made sense to us because the corner was where we were when we weren’t at home.
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    THE SKILLED HUSTLERS were invisible and visible at the same time. We wanted to be invisible to the cops, but visible to our customers. I wanted the other hustlers to know I had heat, so that they would have respect, but I didn’t want the cops to know, so I had to hide it. As I stood on that corner, I sometimes had rhymes rolling around in my head.
    Listen up, I got a story to tell
    On the streets we got guns and drugs for sale
    And you hoes know the game that we play is real
    Keep your mind on the money and your weapons concealed. . . .
    Holding the work on our person made us targets, which made guns a necessity. Hiding them on top of the tires of the car parked in