He wipes the coals from his eyes with his forearm and kicks at the bunched up sheets by his feet. A long sigh steams out of his nose. He sucks his teeth and kicks his legs over the side of the bed. He hacks up and spits a clam out of the open window. He couldn't give a **** if it hit someone down on the street. He didn't have any time for feelings like that. He saved whatever emotions he had left for his work. Don't get me wrong, most people work to live, but he lived only to work. He was broke, hungry, and depressed. His son was a year old and didn't know him. His brother and mother hadn't heard from him in months, and they only lived in the next borrough. He was a loser and he knew it. But even losers have dreams, and sometimes dreams become opportunities. And for the right opportunity who wouldn't risk it all?

     A half-smoked blunt and a few sips of water from a dirty styrofoam cup made breakfast. He'd have a cig for lunch. For three weeks this had been his mornings, or should I say, his afternoons. He didn't see mornings unless it was a court date. And sometimes not even then. Everything he owned was in this studio apartment, and for people like him, everything wasn't much. He tossed on his grey sweats and slippers, a fitted cap and a chain that was worth its weight in melted nickles and stepped out into the hallway. Yeah, it smelled like piss and was louder than ****, but would you really notice it if this was your everyday routine? Yeah, neither does he.

His mouth slips into cotton and he lights up a Camel. It burns his throat and lungs, but that's what he likes. The stoop is empty and he's happy with that. The concrete is rough and digs at his **** because of his sagging britches, minor discomfort but in his fog its cool, everything is cool for now.

One hour. Two hours. He waits. He's waiting for his reason for waking up. The reason that he breathed at all today. He needed this. After this meeting he might never have to wait again, for anyone. On the third hour, the face he was waiting for came up to his stoop.

     "What's happenin, cuz?" calls the approaching man, his dark skin shining in the heat.

     "Can't call it, homie. 'Bout'chu?"

     "****. You hear Jay Tepe got shot?"

     "Word? When?"

     "Last night, on the roof."

    The both look up, "It is what it is, homie. So what's the word on your man? He got that?"

    "Yeah, he got that. How much you want?"

    "A bird if he got it."

    "Oh, so its like that, huh? Aight. I'l let him know. be by around 1."

     "Aight, my brother. Bet."

     "Aight, Beach. Respect."

     With a pound and a nod his visotor leaves. Beach, short for Beachum, heads back into his cluttered apartment. Not dirty, just tussled. He lifts up his mattress which rests on the floor, and reaches under it. He pulls a wad of bills and the ever popular .32. A .32 was the generic gun of choice for most people like him, workers.  He checked the shells and there were enough. It was five O'clock, he had another seven to wait. Once again he lifted the nearly ashed-out blut and lit it. He smoked till his nose hairs were singed. And then he fell asleep.