TYCE

Text copy written 2010 by Shareef Jaudon

All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher or the Author.

WRITE NOW BOOKS

First Paperback Edition: March 2011

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead is coincidental and not intended by the author. Real places or people is only intended to make the story more authentic and entertaining.

Jaudon, Shareef, 1978-

TYCE : a novel / by Shareef Jaudon.---1
^st
ed.

Summary: A gritty coming of age story about a young man who was found in a dumpster as a baby. Growing up on the streets of Los Angeles, he matures and sets out to find money by staging three heists with new and old friends. He’s blindsided by trouble and love as he battles to get the upper hand on his life and his enemies.

Printed in the United States of America

~For everybody that had to be cold sometimes to survive but always kept a warm heart~

Me

      Nobody ever gave a fuck about me. Who's my momma? Where's my daddy? That's what I would ask myself when I was old enough to wonder. I was pushed out my mother’s warm womb and abandoned. A female police officer was chasing a purse-snatcher down an alley one night, when I announced to the world, that I was here. She was sprinting as if she was the one being chased down the dark alley, when she heard my cries bouncing off the high brick walls of the buildings. I must've been sounding off something fierce, ‘cuz she forgot about the nigga she was after and stopped dead in her tracks. The officer shifted her attention to the direction of the high-pitched screams and approached with curiosity her gun leading the way. My cries were pulling her toward the back of a Chinese restaurant. Her blue eyes danced back and forth, as she scanned the area for any signs of danger. She finally found the source of the noise and peaked over the crusty edge. She was horrified as she saw a heavily soiled used to be white pillowcase wiggling and moving. The officer immediately holstered her weapon and started swatting away greasy take-out cartons and thick slimy noodles and then she snapped the rubber band that was clinching the dingy pillowcase closed. With trembling hands, she reached inside and lifted me out of the filthy dumpster.

      When she found me she immediately began checking me over to make sure I wasn't injured. Pamela was a nurse before she decided to become a cop, so she had a quick career relapse right there in that shadowy alley. Pamela had just returned to active duty after being pregnant. Unfortunately her son died inside of her at six months...she had to deliver and bury him in the same week. Therefore, when she held me in her arms, she just couldn't bring herself to let go. In some ways, I think we helped each other, I feel like we saved each other. She wrapped me tight in her police issued coat and put me on the floor of her patrol car. Pamela kept me in her home for two weeks before turning me over to social services. Nobody claimed me…there was no picture of me on the back of a milk carton. No missing persons report filed with my description on it. During that time, she gave me my name. While giving me a bath in the kitchen sink one night she said to herself,

"He is a tough lil' boy, he's so young and cute," She gazed at me lovingly, “Listen lil' man...a million dollars in a trashcan is still worth a million dollars, you are exceptional, and don't you forget it," Tears slid down her vanilla cheeks.

She washed my tiny brown body and dressed me in the clothes meant for her son. She prayed silently while she fed me from his never used bottle, tears continued to fall and she made no effort to wipe them away, she just let them run.

“You’re a miracle baby.” She declared. “You are tough, young, soooo cute and exceptional!”

“Tough, young, cute, and exceptional

TYCE!”

When I was child, the state was my mom and the county was my dad. I liked it that way tho, ‘cuz couldn’t nobody take credit for shit…I was a self-made man. Foster homes and substitute parents couldn't hold me for long, at 15 I hopped the fence of the boy’s group home I was in and landed on the streets. I had one pair of jeans, and an Addida’s jacket stuffed in a backpack. I had 300 hundred dollars in my front pocket that I'd won playing pool and shooting dice. It was me against the world, and I held a record of 1 and 0. I was supposed to die in that fucking dumpster...but I didn't. One thing I knew about me was that I hated losing. I found my new home in a boarded up warehouse. I bought the most expensive space heater I could afford, a cot from the army surplus store, and a two-burner hot plate. I lived there for a year, just the mice, my thoughts, and me.

Like I said…nobody gave a fuck about me.

Fresh Out The Gate

"What up my nigga?"

"Aint shit, was hatnin?" I reached out and gave Omar a pound.

 "Man it's hot as a mafucka out here, I'm sweatin' n shit." He huffed as he grabbed a white towel hanging from his back pocket. He wiped his black beaded forehead and draped the towel over it. "Ay, when this nigga said he gon be here?" He asked looking down at the hot sidewalk.

"Biz told me he'd have his man here round four." I said scanning the block.

I looked down at my watch it read 3:55p.m.

"What man?" Omar asked suddenly irritated. "What happened to Scoop?"

I glanced over at Omar, "Scoop had a hot

date”.

Omar slowly nodded, he knew what that meant. Scoop's hot date was a bullet, that nigga was a memory. Omar pulled his 9mm from underneath his “
Lakers”
jersey and tucked it behind his back so he could sit on the steps in front of the corner store. Omar was the kinda nigga that stayed ready; he blocked the entrance on purpose. He was secretly wishing somebody would tell him to move. A fine ass female or an old ass woman got a pass, but niggas would have to show some respect to get by. That's just the way he was, and that's why I hustled with him. Omar squinted from the sun as he looked up at me,

“That nigga Biz is cold, I'm sayin’ how tha fuck you kill ya nephew?" He asked as he spit out sunflower seeds. “That nigga Scoop aint know ‘bout Angelique. All he did was push up on her...and shit, who wouldn't...she a bad ass bitch! Shit, every nigga I know wanna fuck her."

I nodded in agreement, "Yea, you right...but niggas know to keep tha dick zipped when Biz is playin’ with his new toy”.

Omar and I been hustling together since we was 16. I met him when I was jacking gear at the “
Crenshaw
Mall.”
I was being chased all through the mall by security. I was leaving them fat ass niggas in the dust til' I had to avoid a damn baby stroller. My legs were pumping as I sprinted toward the escalator. Omar was talkin’ to some girls when he noticed the commotion coming his way. As I raced by him, we made brief eye contact. He saw they were gaining on me, so he stuffed the phone numbers in his pocket and stood by a trash barrel. As the two officers sped by him, he picked the barrel up and hurled it. The full trashcan smashed into one man knocking him down, the other tripped over him, and did a face plant on the newly waxed floor. As I reached the bottom of the escalator and jumped over the side of the stairs, I looked up and gave him a nod, silently thanking him. Omar said he kicked the dudes front tooth as he ran away laughing, he caught up with me a few blocks later.