fifteen | antonio
Since that night at Club Five, I've had to re-earn my stripes.
That included being harder on the niggas I was superior to. That included picking up extra work.
That included annihilating anybody that so much as mentioned Maceo and Club Five in the same sentence during a cypher. It included having to deal with being challenged, whenever and wherever I was outnumbered.
They must've forgot who I was.
With a father who was a respectable force and an uncle who's influence controls the borough, I wasn't to be messed with. That didn't keep niggas from doing so, especially back when I was still coming into my own.
I got in a lot of fights back in the day, mostly as a result of jealousy. Niggas was mad that I was laced with the latest fashions or because their girl was lookin' to level up.
But very rarely, it was to see what I was made of. The only person who truly did that was Uncle Huey, who'd heard about my winning streak in the borough.
He was impressed, especially since my pretty boy façade led him to believe I wouldn't have any grit, any heart. Imagine his surprise when his nephew could hold his own against five others.
It was one of the gifts I'd gotten from my father— an ability to stick and move. An ability to think on my feet.
And to this day, I constantly tap into the skills instilled in me.
Even when my character is questioned because one sucka nigga got lucky, others are quickly reminded that they shouldn't try their own luck.
With a firearm constantly tucked and my fast-flying iron fists, my reputation was quickly healing, but the wound would always be there.
Even so, retaliation wasn't my game. Had it been, Maceo would've been laying cold the same night he had guns drawn. Had that been my steez, I would probably have feds on my trail the same way he does right now.
I didn't need the drama. Besides, I was playing the long game. The game that would take me out of the hood in silk shirts rather than in the silk linings of a wooden box.
That's why I was building a brand new clientele, and the product was "Cristal's Joint."
With no one's blessing but my own, I made copies of Crystal's one and only tape.
With Will and Ishaan's feelings still hurt, they've already washed their hands of Crystal.
They made a good point about her not being as serious as the rest of us. They also made a good point in saying that she came with more drama than a telenovela.
As good as those points were, they didn't make any bit of difference to me.
While they'd continue to sit and pout, I'd be out selling our most profitable asset, and when they see just how much the streets are starving for an emcee like Crystal, they won't be able to deny her spot in the group.
Every talent comes with their own bullshit. Ishaan and Will ain't so perfect themselves.
Just like everything else in life, you gotta' take the good with the bad, and when you have something as phenomenal as Crystal, there's bound to be a whole lotta' crazy to come with it.
Besides, if she decides to really start applying herself in the midst of Will and 'Shaan being stubborn, she could end up signed as a solo act.
I'd rather have her on our team, splitting profits, than to have her as a competitor, taking away from our profits...
Or even worse— having her on top of the world while we're lookin' up, still tryna' get on.
Stargazing isn't in my plans.
Even if it means that I gotta' keep slingin' rocks, success will be the only thing in my cards. I'm gonna' make sure of it.
"Yo, you ready for the cypher?" Will asked upon his arrival.
With him was Ishaan, fresh from a class he'd probably been goofing off in.
The two took seats in my guest room while I finished counting up the money I made today.
"Yeah," I answered, feeling the extra eyes that rested on my hands.
"You went on a run today?" Will inquired.
"Nah."
"Aim must've had you cookin' today," he nodded while referring to our process of making our usual product. "You know you were always the only one who could cook without gettin' nauseous."
While he chuckled, I shook my head.
"Nah, I was out pushin' Primadonna," I replied with a casualty that caught both men off guard.
I could see Will and Ishaan look at each other out of my peripheral vision.
"Cris's joint?" Ishaan questioned.
"Yeah."
They looked at each other again.
"That reminds me— here's your cut," I wrapped one-third of the profit in a flimsy rubber band.
The stack was tossed into Ishaan's lap.
The next question was "How much did you make?"
I shrugged.
Will scoffed. "What, you don't wanna' give up a dollar amount like you ain't just give 'Shaan his cut?"
I remained silent while banding my cut.
"You must've been all over the city just to get that much... How many copies did you make?"
"A lot," I said, looking for an envelope.
"What's a lot?"
I scoffed. "I don't know, nigga. As many to fill up a box."
"And you just went out and sold 'em?" Will's eyes were narrowed as he continued his interrogation.
"Yeah... That's kinda' how it works." I slid the rest of the profit into the envelope.
"How?"
"I.V. got a lil' buzz with us bein' in the cyphers, and y'all havin' all these other tapes out... but the streets really been feenin for a fresh voice— a new female voice... Crystal's joint got it all. It practically sells itself."
Will was mad— Mad that I'd done something like this without consulting the group.
If one of us wasn't here, there wasn't no group as far as I was concerned so I could do whatever I pleased.
He didn't agree.
He was mad— Mad that I was risking the group's image.
He was mad that I was right about Crystal being a must-have, a hot commodity.
He said that I was risking Crystal's safety— that I was fanning the flames of Maceo's rage— that it wouldn't be long before Maceo would be poppin' up and poppin' off and bustin' caps.
"I'm supposed to be scared?"
Will was silenced, but his eyes did all the screaming that his pride wouldn't let be verbalized.
"All I'm sayin' is that this is bigger than rap," his teeth were completely gritted when he finally did speak.
"You're right... This ain't just rap— it's my way out," I calmly responded.
Will's jaw clenched while his eyes darted into mine. I didn't back down.
"And it seems to me like you aren't as serious about makin' it out as I thought."
"We gotta' live to make it out, Tone."
"We ain't livin' to do shit, if we're playin' it safe."
He scoffed as if he couldn't believe me.
"If you ain't willin' to put it all on the line, the fuck are we doin' this for? I'm doin' whatever is necessary to make us stand out— to give us an edge over every other crew tryna' get on. If I gotta' play with fire to keep myself warm, then it is what it is,'' I shrugged.
"Yeah, keep playin' with fire, and yo' ass is gonna' get burned, Tony."
I almost laughed. "Look... I get it. I—"
"No, I don't think you get it. You're playin' a dangerous game."
"Well, playin' it safe ain't gettin' us nowhere."
"Tony, are you fuckin' ser—"
"Ayo, can we just get ready for the cypher? You niggas are wasting my time right now," Ishaan reminded us both of his presence.
"Wasting your time?" Will's face scrunched up. "We're talkin' about the group right now, but if you got somewhere better to be instead of with your group members, you can step."
Ishaan stared at him momentarily before glancing at me. I gave a half-attempted shrug.
He looked back at Will before standing from his seat. Putting his backpack on one shoulder, he began to exit.
I halted him. "Yo, 'Shaan."
He pivoted with a bored expression on his face.
I held up the envelope. "Give this to Cris, when you see her."
He took the money, and without another word, he left.
There was nothing more to be discussed between Will and I. The tapes were out, and nothing could be done about it. Whatever came as a result would be dealt with later.
Will exited shortly after Ishaan did.
While the two of them found better ways to spend their time, I decided to continue investing in the group— nobody else was gonna' do it, evidently.
So, I went out to Jersey to meet with a new connection for beats.
Will had a guy in Queens, who supplied him with tapes of newly released instrumental singles— remixes, throw-aways, any and everything producers made. And, once in a blue moon, there'd be something exclusive— something like that Saint tape he gave Ishaan to rap over.
But I didn't want us to have blue moon raps. We deserved exclusive shit just like real rappers because that's what we are. We shouldn't have to settle for scraps, when we're four of the best emcees in the city, just because we don't have a deal.
Besides, if we were gonna' get on, we needed to show that, with the proper resources, our starpower would reign supreme.
So, after talking to Lonny at Club Five, who introduced me to the resident DJ, who directed me to the person that books shows, who put me in touch with some of the DJs of the signed acts that previously performed at Club Five— I'm getting a nice list of producers together.
Most of them are DJs who produce for whatever crew they roll with, most of which are signed. For the past week and a half, I've been cultivating relationships with them— getting on their good side, putting them on to my crew, and as a result, getting the best of them.
We were given first priority on whatever beats were overlooked, first priority on beats that weren't "on brand" for their crew. We were even given copies of beats that were proven hits on the radio, sometimes even before the original song would be spun on-air.
The way I saw it: we had the opportunity to knock these big, signed, "real" rappers off the radio before they even got a chance to hit the airwaves.
Some would say that it was a dirty game, with producers giving the same material to different artists, but nothing in this world is simply black or white. All waters are murky, even when they don't appear to be.
But if the people think that a remix is better than its original, who are we to question them?
Given the skill of my crew (when they're more invested in their rhymes than their pride), our remixes will always be better, and our takes on music will always be interesting ones. A lot of niggas can't say the same.
Shit, a lot of producers couldn't say the same. And, that's why I was headed to Jersey to meet with Ice.
Of the other beatmakers that I've been forging a working relationship with, Ice had the clearest vision of I.V. that took us to the next level without taking us completely out of our element.
He saw where I wanted the group to go, and musically, he knew just how to take us there.
He was a kid, probably closer to Ishaan and Crystal in age. He had the face of a baby, the hair of a Das EFX member, and the skills of a veteran.
With a studio space in the basement of his mother's home, there was enough space to lounge and write as well as record and engineer. I admired it a lot, and although it wasn't completely upper echelon, it was a lot more put-together than the home studio I had.
With styrofoam stuck to the walls and equipment that costs more than all of my designer apparel combined, his space was one that would become the main creative space for I.V.
As long as they didn't fight me on it.
He played me some beats that were still in progress, some being made with other local acts in mind. I played him a few tapes that I'd yet to even present to the group.
"These are dope," he nodded, pausing one of my raps before standing to thumb through his own tapes.
"Yeah, thanks... They still don't sound as clean as I want 'em to though."
He scoffed. "Gritty is what's in right now."
"But gritty ain't my style."
He chuckled. "What about your group's style?"
"We might be all over the spectrum with our personas, but one thing we all got in common is that we're polished," I nodded.
He continued sorting through a plethora of cassettes. A few that were previously set aside were gradually shuffled back into the collection.
"I don't know, Tony," he apprehensively shook his head. "You know niggas like that raw shit, right now."
"And, we can still be raw, but our sound— it's gonna' have a little more soul to it. You follow?"
"Soul," he murmured.
"Yeah. Hard but with some soul," I confirmed with a nod.
Almost immediately, he began to pull out tape after tape. Within seconds, there were four tapes in my grasp.
"Give those a try. Let me know what you think," he plopped back down in his seat.
"And, what are these?" I scoffed, glancing down to see if any of them were labeled.
"Whatever your pen says it is," he shrugged.
My eyebrow rose. "We can just have these?"
"For a fee, of course," he nodded.
"Of course," I gave half of a shrug.
"A'ight... so, whenever you choose which ones you wanna' keep, you come back with the raps, and I'll give you the price," he mirrored my action.
"Bet," I started to stand from my seat.
We shook hands on it.
"By the way, if you wanna' get a cleaner sound on the vocals, you might wanna' get a windscreen for the mic or some foam panels or somethin'."
"What's that gonna' do?"
"The sound of the room won't be as loud... or you could just record in a closet or some shit," he nodded.
I was quiet, reclaiming a seat as he turned in his chair.
He hit record on his system, staring at the red button for several seconds before stopping the system.
He hit play, and within an instant, the once quiet hum of the A/C was louder than ever before.
You could hear cars rolling from outside, the subtle movements of only me and him sitting in these chairs. You could hear everything.
"That is the sound of the room," he said.
"Word," I nodded before standing once again.
We slapped palms, saying goodbyes and deciding to take each other's feedback into account.
I drove home, playing Ice's tapes along the way. A variety of concepts for each beat circled my head, even as I climbed the staircase of my apartment building. Deep in thought, I mumbled potential rhymes while pulling out my keys.
My focus was broken when I witnessed a figure pacing in front of my door.
Crystal.
"Mace know you here?" I asked while approaching.
She shook her head.
I unlocked my home, pushing open the door and leaving her space to enter. She did so, and I followed. The door was closed and locked behind us as I placed my belongings on my kitchen counter.
"What'chu doin' here?" I walked toward my fridge.
She held up the envelope I'd left with Ishaan, except it was now folded up. "My sister gave me this, sayin' that Ishaan gave it to her."
"Yeah, that's your cut for Primadonna," I grabbed a beer and closed the fridge once again.
"I didn't know there was a cut to be had... I didn't even know that y'all put it out."
"We didn't... I did," I cracked open my bottle before taking a swig.
A brief staring contest was had before she sighed deeply and glanced away from me.
"Will and 'Shaany... They're through with me," she shook her head.
"Yeah, just about," I nodded.
Her eyes narrowed while I broke into a chuckle. "Come on. Cheer up."
"No, Tony... I think I really fucked it up, this time," she said.
I sighed while pulling out a seat at the kitchen table. I sat, taking another swig of beer before I motioned her to sit as well.
Slowly, she did.
"It's not your fault," I told her.
"But, I flaked—"
"Because of Maceo... Not because you just didn't feel like showin' up,'' I reminded her. "Right?"
"Yeah, but—"
I interjected once again. "If you came here just so I can help you blame yourself, you're about to be disappointed."
She sighed, leaning back in her chair and running a hand over her tiny curls.
Upon inspecting her a little closer, I could see that something had happened to her eye— something that had healed quite a bit since whenever it first happened.
Not to mention how tired she looked— how exhausted she looked.
"Why'd you come?" I rephrased a previous question.
It took her a moment to look at me, and it took even longer for her to speak. I was in no rush.
"I came to get my spot back," she answered.
"I ain't the one you should be talkin' to."
"Oh, please, Tony," she scoffed.
"What?" I smirked before drinking more of my beverage. "We're a group, right? I ain't the only one you should be pleading your case to."
"But, you're the only one on my side," she noted.
I didn't bother refuting the statement. It was the truth.
"So?"
"So, you could help convince Will and 'Shaan to let me back in."
"Maceo had a nigga pull a gun on Will. I don't think Will is down for risking his safety," I shook my head.
"I'll make sure nothin' like that happens again," she assured.
I almost laughed. What was she gonna' do to ensure that?
"Even if you had that kinda' power, I don't think Will is down for risking your safety either."
"Well, I'm willing to risk it."
"Hm," my eyebrows briefly shot up before I drank again.
"Antonio, please," she sat up in her chair, forearms resting on the table now.
"'Shaan said you weren't rollin' wit' us no more. What made you change your mind?"
I could see her debating on what to say, what to disclose to me.
"That money I got today... I usually gotta do some other-level shit for that kind of money... I gotta sacrifice the only things I have in this world— my dignity, my pride, my peace of mind— for that kind of money...
"But this time, I didn't have to... and I don't wanna' go back to that other shit, Antonio."
I looked at her for a long time, searching for anything that contradicted the determination in her voice.
I wondered if she'd play me like she'd played Will and 'Shaan. I wondered if she'd let other forces deter her from the opportunity that knocked on her door time and time again.
I knew she didn't take her word as seriously as I took mine. Yet, the desperation in her eyes, and the misery that appeared in the form of bruises on her skin, sold me on her promise.
There would have to be some terms and conditions set— guidelines that would bind her to her vow to be a serious and committed team player. There would have to be a stronger effort to get back in the group.
After all, the main reason she lasted as long as she did with 'Shaan and Will was because of her sob stories. I needed more than "I don't wanna' go back to that other shit."
I needed to see her work ethic strengthen. I needed to see her rewriting raps on her own, not just because I told her the shit was wack. I needed to see some initiative.
I was on her side, but I wasn't sold— not on the level that Ishaan and Will would need to be sold.
So, I told her, "We got a lot of work to do."
She released a breath as if she'd held it for as long as it took for me to speak.
It only took seconds for her to find the words to say, and when she did, it sealed our fate as I.V. and marked our true beginning as a crew.
"Let's get to work then."