I never saw the drugs, never touched any money.
That was for the gophers – kids young enough that cops wouldn’t grab them when they rolled our corner. Cops went for those that worked the grind first, guys like me,.
But, like I said, I never saw any drugs, never touched any money.
My corner was boarded up and burned out section of Klondike. Close enough to the projects and schools, far enough from the cops.
“Shit looks like Fallujah.” My supplier had told me when I’d set up here. “Straight outta Call of Duty.”
I recognized the Volvo coming down the street. It belonged to a rich white kid in his early twenties. He’d gone from being an infrequent user to one of our best customers in a matter of months.
“White boy, you gonna smoke his brains out if you don’t slow down.” I said as the window slid down.
Filth crusted around the blood-shot eyes that stared vacantly up at me as a hundred held between scabbed fingers was extended to me.
“We’re out man,” I said without thinking. Then, “Get the hell outta here.”
First time I ever took a moral victory over an economic one.
I haven’t written about it much because I don’t think I can do it justice, but Memphis’s drug problem is just as prevalent and dangerous as ever. There are whole neighborhoods that are ruled more by the rules of the drug game than the rule of law. But, the Memphis police have started to push back against them, and the crime statistics have finally started to come down.