YNs—Jerseys

2002

Edward Vessen, 52, looked at his fingernails and toenails. He felt a sense of cleanliness as noted by his manicure and pedicure. He owned the shop, so he didn’t pay but he tipped the twenty-year-old Vietnamese woman named Hah $100 nevertheless.

He rose from his seat and slipped into his loafers. He wore a silk shirt on this sunny early summer day.

“Thanks, again,” Vessen announced as he headed toward the door. He stepped to a Rolls Royce and his chauffeur, Smith Linkmire opened his door.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Vessen,” Leonard Drexel announced.

“Good afternoon, Smith, would you take me into town? The office. Thanks,” Vessen acknowledged.

Once they arrived, Vessen journeyed up to his desk. On his Apple computer, he could see an encrypted set of names. These select few remained his captains in the streets. He selected a name….Felix “Cot” Cotton. He was twenty-years-old and had been dealing crack cocaine for eleven years. A veteran of Wilmington, Delaware neighborhoods, he would be the perfect choice for this next shipment. Vessen checked his name and clucked out of the encrypted section.

He called Cotton after viewing his profile.

“Mr. Vessen,” he uttered into the receiver. He stated this with a sense of anticipation, knowing this call would mean money for him.

“I’m going to need you to come up with a system to deliver the product.”

“Okay, I’m working on something right now.”

“What is it?” Vessen asked.

“You know those Mitchell & Ness throwback jerseys?”

“Yeah….”

“We can use those as ads for the prices.”

Vessen’s eyes widened. “That’s brilliant. It feels like someone may have started it before, but it’s still a great idea. Keep going with it.”

“Roger that, sir.”

Cotton took to the store and bought about ten thousand dollars worth of jerseys at Al’s Sporting Goods in Wilmington, Delaware. He bought throwback jerseys in the four major sports, all corresponding with the quote that would be identified amongst the other runners in the streets.

By distributing the jerseys, the money-making couriers on the corner delighted in the fresh gear and almost telepathically knew what the meaning behind this new attire represented. He stood in a plush basement with a fireplace and a plasma television. A koi pond with plenty of fish burbled in the distance from where Cotton commanded his foot soldiers.

“Okay,” Cotton chimed, “We’re going to go forward with the idea that this can be done.” He took one fresh jersey and held it up in the air. “This is twenty-three. Jordan and this kid that’s going to be a superstar named Lebron share this number. We’re getting it for the low out here. By the oh-zee, we will have our curb swerving as we transport in various rental cars. Bossman said that we’re supposed to move three hundred kis before the end of summer. Let’s see if we can’t move four hundred!”

The group dapped each other up and motioned for Cotton to finish handing out the different jerseys. Then a young man named Harvin Davos with a Sunni beard stepped up and spoke. He looked the color of a coconut shell.

“But J just came back in the game for the Wizards and this kid has yet to prove himself. He hasn’t even been drafted yet. What about other players? Like Iverson? That’s just three. That’s $3,000. And forget about throwbacks….” He overlooked the blue Jordan jersey and the green and gold James attire.

Cotton shook his head. “I know they’re not technically ‘throwbacks’ but they’re crisp shirts with a team. We’re not going to get prices that low. Not yet. If we move five hundred thousand units, then we will be able to do it definitely.”

Davos nodded and grabbed his jersey.

When they met along the street in their fresh jerseys, they automatically signaled the eyes of the other crews with whom they harbored tensions. As sun baked on this June afternoon, they felt a rush of excitement as the other runners approached. One of them, Parish Steelson, 24, the boss of the eighteen and nineteen-year-olds, walked over to Cotton’s navy blue Beamer M3.

“Cotton. These prices are draining us. We respect your side, but what are we going to do with these numbers?”

“It’s very simple. Go to your connect and ask him to front you four hundred bricks. Chop them down, cook them up and hit the block. It’s simple, Parish.”

“Okay. But I’m not going to be the one stranded out here.”

“That’s fine,” Cotton retorted. “What you have to do is your business. I will not stop my men from advancing. We all put in work. Stay focused on your side of the block and there won’t need to be any vicious street action.”

Steelson looked up at the sky and back down at Cotton.

“You’ve got it figured out. We’ll see if your boys will move those units.”

“Yes, they will.”

Parish crossed to the other side of the street. Cotton put the car in ignition and then skated off down the block onto I-95. He rode clean. Nothing on him. Only the rental cars had work in them and he ensured that his runners kept a low profile. The AC felt like a blast of arctic air amidst a sun-drenched desert. He positioned one hand on the steering wheel and another on a satchel full of five and ten dollar bills. He journeyed to the bank and deposited $40,000. That was just after one night of hustling. Once he returned to the block, he could not believe his eyes. The jerseys had been cast down to the street. Sullied, they sat in the blazing sun. He looked for his couriers. They had been reduced to wearing their crisp white tees. Cotton looked on, bewildered.

He walked up to Davos. “What the hell happened?”

“They took our shit. They said the prices were too high and that they wanted to fulfill their quota,” Davos explained.

“Well, I’ll be goddamned. Alright, gather the troops and have them assembled in order of their ages.”

“Roger.”

Cotton looked at his Rolex. It was seven thirty and the humidity made it seem as if he had been trapped in a sauna. He walked over to Parish sitting in his beige C-Class Mercedes Benz.

“What’s the matter with you, man? Don’t you know we’ve gotta rule these streets?”

“Hey, your runners were food, so we dined on their carcasses.”

“Now, you know we haven’t had a shootout in over two years. Are we bracing for a war again?”

“Do what you must. We’re going to be caking up.”

“We all can flourish out here. There’s no stopping us from getting at this bread. What I’m saying is, you trying to stop our shine only breeds envy. We must not do this,” Cotton argued.

“Pfftt…it’s all in the money, Cotton.”

Cotton narrowed his eyes. He looked about him and placed his gaze on the jerseys lying in the streets like clumps of used tissues. He looked at one of his runners named Odom Vin sitting in a Toyota Celica rental car and motioned for him to clean up the athletic apparel.

“We’re getting this by the ounce just like you. We’re living day by day by the gram, just like you. When we push this weight down to Kent and Sussex counties, we’re going to create a feeding frenzy amongst the fiends. We’ve got the product, now we just need a place to pitch. Parish, what you’ve done can be excused. I know you.”

“Yes, we know each other.”

“So, don’t ever cross me like this, again,” Cotton’s tone seemed icy and like it had been tinged with venom.

Parish drove off. Cotton called for Vin and Davos to pile the jerseys in the back of the rental car and take them to the cleaners.

While Parish’s block swerved, Parish felt like he had been dealt a mighty blow. He kept envisioning what Vessen would say to him in regard to the entire matter of the jersey idea failing. He reorganized. He re-strategized. He looked at a map of routes for the rental cars that he printed off the Internet. He noted that all of this had to be done in the next ninety six hours. He had just enough time for the remaining bricks to be cooked and sent to the doorsteps and mailboxes like FedEx and UPS.

A call came to his phone. Vessen. “Hello, sir.”

“Hey. How’s the life of a hustler?”

“It’s going well. We’re doing our due diligence.”

“That’s good. That’s good. Make sure that you move all of the weight and look out for those orange, giant men.”

“I’ve heard about them. I’ve never seen them.”

“That’s good, because if you do cast your eyes upon them, it may be the last thing you will see,” Cotton addressed.

“Absolutely.”

“I just wanted to check on you. See how everything’s working on your side. I just got word that two people ran off on the plug in the same week so you’re really going to have to stretch it before the next re-up date.”

“Roger that.”

“Okay, I’ll be talking to you.”

“Roger.”

Cotton closed his flip phone and pondered. Yes, he just thought for a little while, concerning his team and how they had been trespassed against in the street. This defeat in battle felt like a lieutenant colonel who had just seen his sergeants and captains alike strive for something and have it slip away like reins sliding from their hands. They had focused on a mission and it spoiled right in their viewpoint. Everything he had been building seemed to be crumbling just because of a rival crew. He didn’t want bloodshed. What he wanted was money. But the way the street system had been set up was if you do me dirty, I have to muddy you. Your blood becomes a clotted mess because of your actions. Cotton smartened. His way of dealing with the matter drove him to be creative.

“Hey, Davos!”

The young man ambled over to Cotton’s vehicle. He looked him in his eye.

“I’m going to need you to move those packs down to Dover overnight. Camp out there until it’s completely clear of any police presence.” He sighed. “And look out for the orange men.”

“The what?”

“Exactly.”

“Alright, I’m going to leave now. Vin and I will make sure the jerseys get cleaned, as well.”

“That’s all I need to know.”

Cotton pulled off once again into the night. Heat still clung in the air despite the sun’s ill appearance. His mind revolved around the ideas of the money getting made from the various vehicles in motion. He went to his favorite sports bar and sat down. He sipped some Bombay Sapphire, a double. To just get his head right would be a sign that he could relax from the day’s tension. He looked at the screen and noticed the baseball game playing. The Phillies ran the bases to complete two runs. He sipped more from his glass. Cotton noticed that messages poured into his phone.

“I don’t know what’s going on but there’s something crazy out here,” Vin sent.

“It’s wild out here.”

Then Davos picked up the phone. “They’re out here! I’ve seen them! You gotta help us!”

“Keep the crack sales rising. I don’t know what’s crazy. I don’t know why you need help,” Cotton shot back.

“You don’t understand. They’re monsters!” David Screeched into the phone. “I’m—“

Something seemed amiss in all of the trafficking. No police presence, just some wording about the giant, orange men descending upon his runners. “Goddamn, Vessen wasn’t bullshitting,” he mentioned to himself. He let the alcohol numb him to a state where he could not even know the ramifications of the presence of these beings. He walked out into his car. He was drunk. He didn’t even start the car. He got out and phoned a taxi. Who else but Vessen showed up in his Rolls Royce. Drexel let him out of the car.

“I knew you’d be here. Your spot on Fridays. Maybe you should switch it up so you’re not predictable. Word got around. I know about the jerseys. If we stay out of Wilmington and focus on Lower Slower Delaware (LSD), we’ll have a chance to recoup what happened earlier.”

“Sir…I can explain….”

“No need to do that. It happens. You tried something out and it went left. That’s all. Once we get the proper bearings on the neighborhoods up here, we’ll be on our way to a cool pay day.” He whisked the taxi away.

“I’ll have an assistant pick up your vehicle and drive it to your residence,” Vessen said. “I’d have a drink, too, if I knew that this whole situation would be such a hassle.”

“Thanks, sir.”