Pusha

I'm finna give the people what they want

photo by me.

My sister calls La Brea Avenue “the Mid-City 405,” and she’s not wrong. 

No matter what time of day you are traveling on La Brea, it is always packed with cars. Day or night, moving down La Brea takes patience. 

La Brea is Spanish for “the tar,” and I've always thought it was super dumb and American to call it The La Brea Tar Pits since “the” is already part of the name. 

I was sitting at the red light at the junction of La Brea, Stocker, and Overhill thinking about this when a call came through on my phone. 

It was a Las Vegas number, but not one that was saved in my phone, so I was surprised the call made it through. My phone is always on Do Not Disturb, and only certain people in my contacts can break through that, and all of their numbers are saved. 

I have another setting that allows others to get through if they call more than once within a specific timeframe, and this person had obviously done that. I have that setting in place in case of emergencies from people I don’t have saved in my phone. 

Hoping I wouldn’t regret it later, I answered the call on the fourth ring. 

“Hello?” I said quickly, a question in my tone. 

“What’s up, pretty?” a voice asked back. 

I knew that baritone. I’d heard it many times before, including when it was whispering in my ear and talking me through it. 

A blush warmed my cheeks, and a grin spread across my face. I couldn’t help it. It was him. 

“Well, hello there, good sir,” I said casually, trying to pretend I wasn’t giddy.

“What color panties holdin’ in all that good pussy today?”

I laughed. Without fail, in every exchange we have with each other, he always slips in a question about the color of my underwear, and I always answer. 

“I can’t remember,” I said, as I made the left off of La Brea and onto Slauson, heading toward Simply Wholesome. 

“You not gon’ check for me?” he asked.

I laughed again because I was definitely going to check for him as soon as I pulled into the parking lot. 

“I’ll check for you in a second,” I said. “I’m driving right now.”

“Where you goin’?”

“To get something to eat. What are you doing?”

“Nothin’. Just checkin’ on my smart and pretty friend. You good?”

“I’m good.”

“I can hear that big pretty smile. You still writing?”

“Every single day.”

“What you always tell me? You out here slanging words like dope?”

I laughed. I say that to everyone. It’s true, though. 

“Yeah,” I said. “Slanging words like dope.”

“Damn. I remember you sitting in the spot with your little notebooks, taking notes on everything and everybody like a little spy. Some of the homies thought you was the feds.”

I laughed loudly at that one.

“I guess I can see how people might have thought that shit if they didn’t really know me.”

“Yeah,” he laughed. “Little did they know you was down as fuck in them days.”

“I’m still down, nigga.”

“Are you? What you down for?” he asked, a playful edge in his tone. 

“Sir.”

“Aight. I’m just fucking with you.” He paused for a moment. “So what you be writin’ now?”

“Opinions and commentaries mostly.”

“I know you have a lot of opinions.”

“As we all do.”

“You ever write them stories about us kickin’ it at the spot?”

“No, not yet.”

“What you waitin’ on?”

“Time, mostly. Most of my writing is for pay these days”

“Man, if you wrote them stories in a book, people would buy it, and you would be rich.”

“You think so?”

“I know so. I’m an interesting ass nigga.”

I laughed so hard at that, I snorted. 

“You think it’s funny?” he asked.

“I think you are fucking hilarious,” I said.

“OK, but when you gonna write my story?”

“You and everyone else including my mama keeps asking me that.”

“See? You already got a demanding audience. If you ain’t learn nothing else from kickin’ it with me, I know you learned how to recognize demand for a product.”

I thought about it for a moment.

“You know what?” I asked. “You right.”

“I usually am,” he said. 

The conversation continued in the normal way our conversations usually do – lots of nostalgia, lots of flirting, lots of memories holding together over twenty years of friendship mixed with intermittent episodes of loving on each other in a way only he and I could understand. 

When we hung up, I thought about what he said. I thought about how everyone who read what I used to write back in those days has always asked if I would turn those stories into a book. 

And then I said fuck it. 

I’mma serialize this shit, one chapter a week, on my blog.

You welcome. 

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The Pusha Tales

Back in the day, I used to write about a guy I was fooling with who was heavy in the game. I was around him a lot, and I saw a lot of things. I used to write about them back in the day when the social web was comprised of weblogs, and people would come to my page and eat these stories up.

I have been told so many times over the years that I needed to make them into a book.

That subject has come up again recently with multiple people, and I guess it’s time to either shit or get off the pot, so here we go.

I will be serializing this first book on this here blog. You will get a new chapter each week, likely on Fridays.

I welcome your feedback, questions, comments, etc.

Much like the long ass disclaimer that shows every time an episode of BMF airs, all of this is based on a true story, real people, and real events, but some names, situations, and locations have been changed, and other elements have been dramatized for effect.

Call it autofiction. Call it biomythography.

Call it whatever you want; just make sure you enjoy the ride.