hood rich in a capitalistic society

Gator Boots, with the pimped out Gucci suit
Ain't got no job, but I stay sharp
Can't pay my rent, cause all my money's spent
but that's ok, cause I'm still fly
got a quarter tank gas in my new E-class
But that's all right cause I'm gon' ride
got everything in my mama's name
but I'm hood rich da dada dada da
- Big Tymers, Still Fly

A Long Day At Work
Working in a call center is no joke. When call volumes rise, you don’t have time to regain your composure between assholes and it can make the minutes seem like hours. Compound that with about nine hours sleep over the last two days and you can catch a glimpse into my world. Of course I started my day with a Quad Venti Non-Fat Vanilla Latte so I was running off caffeine for the longest. I didn’t start to come down until it was almost time to go home. The funny thing is you can be tired all day at work feeling like you want to play sick so you can go home and catch a nap, but as soon as quitting time comes you get a second wind. I’ll get back to that in a minute.

During the lulls I browse web pages, talk to my neighbor, write notes to myself in word and stare at the eye candy. We just got a brand new piece of eye candy at work and he is delicious I must say. I’ll call him Muscles because he has plenty of them, though not in that disgusting, I-chew-steroids-like-Flintstone-vitamins kind of way. You can tell he’s into good health. He let me feel the rock today (not that one you pervs, the one in his arm) and let’s just say I have no doubt of his strengths. He came to work with a sleeveless sweater on and no shirt underneath and you know he knew what he was doing when he did it. He told me he likes having his bald head licked. I know some girls that are exercising their tongues right now.

In between staring at/feeling on Muscles, I watched other girls feel on/stare at Muscles and browsed web pages. I ran across this link (via Jason, via Tracy) to an article on PlayerHata.com regarding capitalism. If you don’t read anything else this week my people, please read this. It put a heavy load on my mind. I have to agree with Jason though, for all its faults I would rather stick with capitalism. There’s something about it that goes with my shopaholic ways. Which is probably the only reason I go to work. So I can shop. Okay, so it’s not the only reason. It’s a big part of where my money goes though. I work a lot of extra hours not because I need the money but because I like to increase my shopping budget. There are 168 hours in a week and I generally spend 52 of them at work. Capitalism at work.

So I’m sitting at work and by the time six hits my stuff is already packed up, the computer is signed off and I’m heading for the door, waiting on my partner in crime who was riding with me tonight.

Parking Lot Pimpin’
We leave the parking lot with no particular destination in mind. I want to go get something to drink and just hang out. I work 4/10s and have Friday, Saturday and Sunday off. The schedule leaves me tired for 4 days a week and I do the most the other three days. Thursday nights are a free for all because I don’t have to get up for work the next day. So what’s cracking? I call Shorty up to see what she’s doing and she tells us to come over to the bar and have a drink with her. We oblige her and thirty minutes after leaving work I’m sitting on a stool drinking an apple martini and watching the pool hustlers go to work.

We are on the west side of Las Vegas, otherwise known as “the hood.” All sorts of characters are walking in and out of this bar as we sit there. The chronic man comes in, stands by the jukebox and casually gives that look that lets everyone know he has sacks. He stands there for a few minutes making eye contact with anyone that may be a potential customer. A few people approach him right in the bar but he’s too smart to let it go down like that. He’ll sit at the bar and play it off, having a beer and smoking a black and mild while people come up to him and casually ask what his prices are. Once he establishes who is buying and who isn’t he strolls out of the bar, taking one last look over his shoulder to make sure everyone sees the direction he’s heading in. Pay attention. No more than two or three minutes later people start to drift in and out of the bar. I go to the door and take a peek. Old boy is handling his business across the street in the parking lot of 7-11. He was selling eighths. Fifty dollars a bag but you get some good chronic (kind bud for the white people) and about five nice blunts (rolled in cigarillos) out of the sack. I saw at least ten people walk outside and subsequently come back into the bar. It was obvious where they were going. He was only out there for thirty minutes. You do the math.

We sit there a little while longer and finally one of the pool hustlers has made a killing. What his white mark is doing on this side of town no one knows and no one bothers to ask. He came to the wrong area of town and got hustled out of his freshly cashed paycheck. Anyone from the west side would have just sucked that shit up and kept moving but he actually tried to talk the hustler into giving him his money back. That gave me a good laugh. What part of the game is that?

A little while later the booster comes in. You know this man when you see him. He prefers to think of himself as a businessman and a purveyor of fine goods, but when you get that shit it’s so hot your fingers are burning so you know that either this cat is a booster or he is working with a network of boosters to sell the stuff they rack out of Macy’s, Dillards and any number of department stores and specialty shops. Whatever it is, he'll never tell it. Not too many of his customers will ever bother asking about item origination.

He usually frequents the beauty salons, barber shops and nail shops in the area. Occasionally he will walk into other businesses and announce to all present that his has some things for sell and if you are interested you are welcome to take a walk out into the parking lot and look in the trunk. My man today comes in talking about Coach bags. I had to step outside when he said the magic words and he was selling this saddle bag in black for $125. I wasn’t the only one interested in what he had. One brother picked up a pair of Louis Vuitton sneakers for $75 bucks. A sister bought the new pink Coach bag for $150. The booster was out there for forty-five minutes before the bar’s security guard came and asked him to leave. It didn't matter. He made $2000 while I waited patiently for my turn to take a peek. He was still out there for another twenty minutes after I went back inside.

We decided to leave at this point to. We were a hungry group of people and we had another person to go pick up so we went riding into North Las Vegas in search of good times and good food. Someone said we should visit the Hut and since I hadn’t eaten there since last summer I felt nostalgic enough to agree.

Hole in the Wall
The man who owns The Hamburger Hut used to be the cook at Stop and Shop. Or Stop and Get Shot as the locals call it. Stop and Shop is a gas station/food mart on the corner of Las Vegas Blvd and Pecos in North Las Vegas. They have cooks in there who fry chicken wings and burgers and make tacos and burritos and all sorts of good greasy food that you can only get done the way you want at a hole in the wall joint such as this. When Stop and Shop switched from being a late night snack destination to a death wish, the head cook bought a small building about 2 miles east and took his cooking staff with him. Hamburger Hut was born.

“The Hut” resides in a building that used to be a barbershop. It is in the middle of the hood, bordered by a rowdy apartment complex (complete with chalk outlines) on one side and a dangerous alley and gas station on the other. No matter what time you go in there, there will be a nice sized crowd gathered for the food. They make everything they made at Stop and Shop and then some. Tonight our mission was for fried chicken wings. ‘

You never wait less than 20 minutes at the Hut. During that time you can stand on the inside and sweat like a pig or you can walk outside and sweat like a pig plus risk being the victim of a drive by. We take our chances. We alternate standing inside under air conditioning vents that feel like they aren’t blowing anything and standing just outside the doorway of the store (putting ourselves in a position to run back in and all the way through the back if necessary) soaking in the warm desert air at night.

The Hut is exceptionally busy tonight and we end up waiting almost 30 minutes for our food. During that time we watch people come and go. No one buys less than 25 chicken wings (the most popular item at $7.45) and everyone wants fries, drinks and beer. There are slot machines in one corner for anyone who wishes to play, but most people just stand around waiting to be told their order is ready. In and out, in and out, I watched 30 people come in while I was sitting there. It was hot and I was bored, so I was counting. No one bought less than 15 dollars worth of food. There was still a large crowd of people waiting when we came out. We took our food to go.

Winding Down
I was sleepy and ready to call it a night but the others had other plans. They wanted to stop here and stop there and we did this driving around thing until 9:30 and finally I decided it was time to start dropping mother fuckers off cause, well shit, I am driving right? I think my partner in crime could tell I was tired because she followed my lead and suggested it was time to end the carousing.

By 10:30 I was sitting in front of the computer, a hot plate of fried chicken wings beside me, glass of Kool-Aid sitting on the desk and my brand new Coach bag in my hands being examined under the light. No sensor tag holes, nicks in the leather or spots on the fabric. It’s going to look good with that new skirt I just got.

da da dada dada dada