Shareef couldn’t argue with that. He had been overachieving his entire life, and he’d become comfortable with figuring his way out of jams.
Polo asked him, “But now, how you really feel about this Jurrell shit you involved in? I mean, I know you, man. You don’t like a ma-fucker telling you what to do. And he already acting like he your boss now, so imagine how he gon’ act if these books become bestsellers. Or not even if, but when. Because I know everybody gon’ feel this book.”
Polo hit the nail right on the head. The forced partnership with Shareef’s childhood nemesis, of all people, looked like a slow cancer that was sure to kill him.
Shareef took a deep breath and tried to explain things as best he could.
He said, “My grandfather had to remind me after all this shit went down that I’m not alone in this world, man. And no matter how independent I like to be, or we all like to be for that matter, we still owe allegiances to people whether we like it or not. So, with that in mind, it’s like this whole thing has become a life lesson for me. I gotta look out for my family. I gotta look out for my grandparents. I gotta look out for your family. I gotta look out for the women who read and support my books. And now I gotta look out Jurrell and his family, and all the street niggas who need to understand more about the consequences of that lifestyle.”
He said, “So, if this Underground Library imprint ends up employing another ten, twenty, thirty people, and giving them a better way to live, then who am I to complain about having to write these books. I mean, don’t get it twisted, I’m still getting paid from all this, and that’s good money for all of us. Because if I got more money, and I know who I’m responsible to, then we all in good shape. The same thing goes for Jurrell. As long as he’s connected to people like he is, then he got money to get, and he can’t chance not getting that money. So he knows how much he needs me, if just to get this shit started. But if he finds someone else to write shit for him, or to do business with him, then we’ll have to make a decision of where we go from there.”
Polo nodded his head and cracked a slow smile. Then he extended his hand across the table. When Shareef took it in his, Polo told him excitedly, “Shareef, you my nigga, man. That’s word to my whole fuckin’ family. You know why? Because you always figure the shit out. No matter what it is.”
He said, “And niggas can hate on you all they want, B, for going for yours. But at the end of the day, we need niggas like you. Straight up and down. Because if we don’t have anybody of our own, who can figure shit out, then who do we have? You know what I mean, Shareef? Who else can we count on?”
Polo released his hand and added, “For all them people who like to front on you, man. ‘Shareef think he the shit. Shareef think he know everything. Fuck Shareef!’ Nah, fuck them niggas, man! Fuck everybody who think that way. Because if we didn’t have no Michael Jordan, no Puff Daddy, no Damon Dash, no Spike Lee, Suge Knight, or Martin Luther King and Malcolm X, then who would the people look up to to be inspired by, man? Fuckin’ Muhammad Ali was important out this bitch.
“And I see you in the same way that I see them, man. You just doing it in the book world,” Polo told him. “So, no matter what, Shareef, you just keep doing you. Don’t slow your roll for nobody. Make them catch up. And if they can’t catch up, then that’s their problem. But if you slow down…”
Polo looked at him intently and pointed with his index finger. He said, “If you slow down, on purpose, and know you ’sposed to win, and you don’t, then you just fucked up for all of us, man. That’s how I see it.”
He said, “If you got a gift in this world as a black man, then you ’sposed to use that shit. Don’t stop your shine for nobody. ’Cause what niggas need to understand, man, is that, as long as one black man is shinin’, then we can all shine by supportin’ him. But if nobody’s shinin’. I mean, like, nobody. Then what the fuck we get out’a that?”
Polo stared across the table for Shareef to take it all in. And when he did, Shareef just shook his head. He was surprised by it all. Polo had his back, all the way to the graveyard.
Shareef looked at him and said, “Damn!” He paused for another minute and said, “Damn!” a second time. Polo had blown him away with his words.
Polo laughed and decided to help him out.
“Yeah, B, I picked up a li’l something from being around you all these years. You ain’t expect me to say something like that, right? You think I been sleepin’ all these years?”
Shareef laughed and said, “Obviously not, right? But, um, I thank you for saying that to me, man. Word. ’Cause sometimes I start to feel like I’m wrong for pushing forward. I start to feel like I’m wrong for wanting more, for all of us. You know? Sometimes I ask myself, ‘What’s wrong with what you have right now? What’s wrong with just getting by?’”
Polo shook his head before he even finished. He said, “Man, fuck that just-gettin’-by shit. That’s for them other niggas. You a winner, Shareef. You always been a winner.”
He chuckled and added, “I wanna be on a yacht in five years, and you the only one who can get me there. You feel me? And I want my son to be right there with your son.”
He said, “But all jokes aside, it’s not just the material things, man, but aspirations, period, that you go for in life. For most successful people, it’s not really about the materials anyway. They got ’em all. You already got shit down there in Florida. So shut up, man, with all that everyday-black-man-struggling shit, and tell me your big plans for tomorrow. ’Cause see, that boy Jurrell ain’t gon’ let you slow down anyway. He ain’t try’na hear that shit. That ma-fucka gon’ want a private jet off ya’ ass next year. So let me get you back home and back to work.”
Polo looked over and yelled, “Hey, waitress, my boy Shareef is ready for the bill now and that autograph you want.”
Shareef smiled at him and laughed it off. He was ready to pay another bill, as the weight on his brown shoulders continued to increase. But it was all right. He had been gifted with enough energy and smarts to deal with it. And even if others failed to understand him, he realized that he was born to do what he had to do and be who he had to be, and there was no turning back from it. The game of life goes on with more wins to get.
About the Author
New York Times bestselling author Omar Tyree is the winner of the 2001 NAACP Image Award for Outstanding Literature in Fiction and the 2006 Phillis Wheatley Literary Award for a Body of Work in Urban Fiction. His books include What They Want, Boss Lady, Diary of a Groupie, Leslie, Just Say No!, For the Love of Money, Sweet St. Louis, Single Mom, A Do Right Man, and Flyy Girl. He lives in Charlotte, North Carolina.
To learn more about Omar Tyree,
visit his website at omartyree.com.
Omar Tyree, The Last Street Novel
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