Tre Crinack

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I often wonder about the monotonous lifestyle some people live and encounter. I consciously ponder more about women that inherit Sisyphus Lot and how heavy the weight of reality must have been for my neighbor Tracey, a single mother of three and pregnant, again. This woman played a vital role in my youth from a distance. I would only pray that I didn’t inherit such a burden nor cause such a horrific situation for another person to endure.

Tracey can be seen pushing her youngest baby stroller while carrying another child and telling her oldest, a 5 year old to walk faster before mommy leaves her slow walking ass. Tracey’s sarcastic tone is short to say the least. I could tell she must have had a bangin body in the past but from the years of crack & alcohol abuse it must have paid its toll.  I was told that her head game was vicious and once she got a hold of you-you was coming back for more. This was a common reaction from men when they experienced a woman who submitted and worshiped the glass pipe.

Tracey had champagne taste but lived on a cheap beer budget. Her job was tedious and cynical enough juggling the proverbial ball and chain. Full with scorn and resentment she became frustrated from being uncertain who her baby’s father are. Not one child of hers had the same daddy.

Tracey lived across the street renting a run down one-room kitchenette apartment. The rooming house was a bathroom share with strangers and all her babies were little girls.  On some days as I sat looking out of my brownstone window I witness Tracey going off on her kids yelling and smacking them complaining that they play too much.  I thought that’s what a 2, 4 and 5 year old suppose to do, which is play all the time. From Monday to Saturday, during the summer, one could find her sitting on her front stoop waving at cars as they drive by, holding & guzzling down a 40oz of Ole English with sliced lemons in it and passing a loaded blunt with her girlfriend as her babies run up and down the Harlem sidewalk, bouncing off parked cars, high from the contact.

Ernest the neighborhood crack man walks by Tracey and slaps her five and says wuzup which is nothing more than a transaction going down.  Ernest aka E-Crinack sells red tops for $3 and blue tops for $8.  The combination of weed and crack (Wooties) was the taste that Tracey savors to void her pain. Whenever Tracey’s eyes bled from smoking we already knew she’s on that shyt.

She loves men whom are not available and she plans to keep the system of welfare as her man for life. Some say that E-Crinack is the unborn child’s father.  Needless to say, he’s doing 25 years to life for something about the Rico Act, whatever that means.

When Tracey’s stomach was gone nobody ever seen the newborn some people said she gave it up for adoption.  My boy Raheem, a chain smoker of Newport’s, was reading the Daily News and on the front page was a caption about a baby found on the number 3 train. Rah was shaking his head saying, “That bitch is crazy”.  I asked him what he was talking about and he replied mumbling “Nothing”.

Heaven is at the foot of Mother….

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