1 Search Result for "pimpin"

• PERSONAL: A Dead Man Walkin' PERSONAL: A Dead Man Walkin'

  • From: Chakazuluu
  • Description:

    I'm in San Diego, I'm walkin around in town I come to this corner there is a group of obviously homeless individuals with there one liter water bottles tied to their backpacks, their mangy dogs and one or two of 'em eating out of cans. I casually walk in their direction, tryin not to be too obvious. I barely notice one old man sitting on a stoop slightly away from the group. My intention is to start a conversation and find out what services are offered to them in town and compare those services to the ones offered in Tucson Az. While acting like I am waiting fo the light to change I nod to one and he says "what's up". This is my chance an icebreaker has occurred. I am about to say something trite about surf and sand to start a conversation when something momentous occurs.

     The old man on the stoop says "hey pimp", I look over at him and he moves his head to beckon me over. There is a vague hint of familiarity in his voice but it triggers nothing in my memory. I start to walk over to him and suddenly I am down wind from him and the stench form his body odor is overwhelming. Well I have smelled decaying bodies before so I can get past this. He is wearin on his shirt and pants a piece of every bit of food and drink he has probably consumed in the past ten years. His clothes are stiff from the lack of cleaning for who knows how long. His face and exposed skin is matted with dirt and scum from what seems millennia. But his eyes, those eyes (something familiar about them) are clear and bright, they are green (a piece of memory surfaces just barely out of reach) as if he is peeking out of a prison made of bone, skin, muck and yuk. "What's up pimp' he says again. I said "do I know you"?  He drones on oblivious to my question, "I can see ya ain't a pimp no mo wearin them $2 jeans and PF Flyers.

     Suddenly the lilt in his voice, the intonation, pronunciation and the emphasis on the first letter of the word "pimp" as that letter explodes out of his mouth dragging the rest of the word with it triggers other pieces of memory that float up to the original one, they combine illogically, rearrange themselves several times and finely settle them selves in cohesive order and they float into reach and realization stupefies me.

     He was a motherfuker, that pimp was. Every time I turned around he was snatching one of my girls and had them locked up in his stable. What was his game mine was the very best crack that ya could get anywhere in the world. Once I hooked a bitch with my shit and had her totally strung out she was mine forever 'cause she couldn't get shit like I had anywhere. But he always managed to steal the cream of my crop whenever he chose. What did he have going that I didn't. They called him Sweetmeat, The Woman's Treat. His shit was tight, he had a cadre of highly dangerous and capable men and women around him that would die fo him at the slightest command. He was like the Hashhishin that would have his followers demonstrate their loyalty by committing suicide in front of the masses.

     "You ain't no pimp, no mo" he said. Yeah ya right, I'm not. You ain't either obviously. He said No, I am an old decrepit, straight razor toting, spiteful shadow of myself now. I told him ya always did have a good grasp on whom ya were and where ya was at. Ya wanna know how I was able to beat ya at yo own game? Do ya wanna know, I'll tell ya religion. You had crack the very best crack that there was a highly persuasive drug once hooked. But I had invented my own religion one that I was the center of. Once you were indoctrinated and vowed yo fealty to me at that point no drug or other inducement could sway ya 'cause I had ya tightly in my grasp.

     Suddenly in the middle of his talking to me he broke off and his mind when some place else, he started mumbling as if orating to a group of people, gesturing in the air. Just as suddenly after a minute of that he would pounce back into reality. He would start talking again as if there had not been an interruption taking up his conversation right after the last word he spoke.

     I learned from him that after a time he realized that he was getting older and slower and his mind was getting more befuddled. He made the decision to quit the streets and marry one of his girls. Fortunately he had bankrolled a lot a money none of it in banks (he didn't believe in banks). There was some under the floor boards of his house, some in the attic, in a 10 can buried in a park and some in a box buried in the woods somewhere. All to the tune of $200,000.

     His wife became very expensive she wanted and got furs, diamonds, expensive clothes but when he started buying her cars that is what broke him. Ya see he never had to worry about money before in his life he started out in the streets at age 13 and from then on he never was without plenty of money so he didn't have to learn about being frugal. What ever he wanted he bought or stole.

     While he was allowing his wife to drive him to the poorhouse he was getting sick. He was a heavy drinker and his liver was going out on him. He had always been a very big man until now and diabetes had caught up with him. He also admitted to me that he didn't have much feeling in his extremities. He never in his life went to doctors, a good drink was all he thought he needed and sometimes he would take these medieval concoctions of garlic cloves, red peppers, egg yolks and of coarse liquor. He was dieing and he knew it.

     Just before parting with him he said "pimp we did it, we had our time we were the cock of the roost, no one was better than us we had the money, the women, the good times we ruled the streets you and I".

     I look back in time and I ask my self "how did I make it this far" how did I ever break away from all that chaotic shit? I look back at him as I am leaving his mind has gone to that other place again and I think had it not been fo time and circumstance I would also be a dead man walkin'.

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  • 2 years ago
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