My old corner on East 10th street was always hot.

Reefer, cocaine, and heroin were the action, but the dealers and I had an understanding. No one dealt off my stoep and I didn’t call the police.

If someone dealt off my stoep, I still didn’t call the police. I fucked with them myself.

The dealers and I had a truce for many years. We were friends. When Franklin went to prison, he gave me his season tickets to the Nets. They sucked, but I got to see NBA basketball played by the other team.

When I left my bike on the street during my trips around the world, they watched it.

Not all of them were cool.

One night I came home and found a young dealer on my steps. Rakee wasn’t from the neighborhood.

I told him to push off.

“Fuck you, you don’t tell me what to do.”

“You’re an asshole.”

“Asshole. I’ll show you what kind of asshole I am.”

Rakee showed a 9mm tucked in his waistband.

“Okay, now I know what kind of asshole you are.”

I went inside to my apartment, filled a trash bag with water, and climbed to the roof.

“Rakee was dealing from the steps.

“I took aim and dropped the bag. It hit him on the shoulder, but the impact knocked him out. I went back downstairs, took his piece, and dumped it in the sewer. Later I came home and stopped in the bodega. Rakee entered with about 10 other sinse brothers.

“This is the motehrfucker who called me a niggah.”

“Niggah. I never called you a niggah. I called you an asshole.” I looked to his back-up. “You ever hear me call anyone a niggah.”

They shook they heads. They knew me. They didn’t really know the accuser.

“Asshole.” was his name from then on.

They were cool, some of those dealers back then.

But Rakee was an asshole.