“Last Friday,” the alleged final film to Ice Cube’s heralded Friday movie franchise, has been an industry, as well as in-the-streets rumor for years now.
The end of the work week is here. It’s Friday. Enjoy some classic cinema at your desk. Because you deserve it.
Words by Tony Grands
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It may not come up in conversation often, but the Friday franchise is one of the most entertaining in Hollywood history.
First & foremost, I want to shout out Dallas Penn for inspiring me to keep writing. If y’all don’t eff with him, do yourself a favor. & tell him Grands sent you.
Suffice to say, I’ve always been around some criminal element, just never had the cajones to go in. Well, not wholly in, like plenty of my friends. A little bit, though. Just the tip, if you will.
Some years back, one of my less intelligent friends decides he wants to go into the weed man business. It only made sense that my spot become the base of operations, since his bedroom at his mom’s house wouldn’t facilitate traffic. & she was a mean ass woman. I’m fairly convinced that she beat him, well into his mid 20’s. Around this same time, he’d picked up a nasty addiction to Acid tabs. Seriously, my nigga was washed clean of any & all logic & common sense rationale. So what does he do to supplant his lack of cognition? Team up with the sloppy drunk dude. Priceless. For a period of roughly 3 months, we literally lived a Dave Chapelle movie. Plus, up until about a 2 years before I stopped drinking, my house was “the spot.” At any given moment, regardless of what, I had between 5-10 dudes just hanging out. The good thing about being the proprietor of a “spot” is that somebody will bring weed. Somebody will bring alcohol. These things were considered rent payment for my rendering of services as a homeless shelter, or a halfway house, depending on who was there at the time.
So my buddy had a buddy, who knew a guy, that had a hook up. One day, he walks up to my house, & I see him standing on the porch, backpack & skateboard in tow, mumbling to his chest. I opened the security door & asked him why didn’t he knock. He looked up & said he thought he did. I should’ve known where this was headed right then. He walks in, turned way the fuck up, & opens his backpack, removing one of those big Ziploc freezer bags, full of marijuana. My eyes lit up. We decided, of course, that we needed to sample the product before we separated it for resale. I’m a little cloudy on what happened after that, but within the hour, we had fluffy bags & a house full of niggas. In-house customers, so to speak. Prior to that day, this would be when they’d stop by, ask me if I had Blunts, & proceed to the weed spot. Now, the middle man had been eliminated, & I began my so-called hustle.
I’m almost positive we didn’t even count out what we had, how much we stood to make or what was needed to at least break even. Boston George & Diego, we were not. Hell, we weren’t even Craig & Smokey. We were Grands & J, two goofball douchebags just asking to get arrested for possession with intent.
I’ll be the first to admit my stupidity. I had no idea what the hell I was doing. We never discussed splitting the money or anything. What I did, like any good pothead/bottle jockey would have, was “readjust” the bags, so I’d have blaze for myself, & a few bucks to pocket. For liquor, of course. In hindsight, I don’t even think we made money. By my math, we lost money overall, even though weekly it evened out, & we got high regularly in the process, which to a couple of idiots equates a win-win. I at least had the wherewithall to smoke with my “customers”, though. Bonus score.
Hood rule says: if your homie has weed, you buy from him. So, after a week or so, business picked up. At first, I let cats inside, but figured it would be better to step out on the porch, then realized I’m in plain view, “dealing drugs”. Needless to say, I was out of my league here. It even got to a point where I’d end up buying weed from myself. Talk about an abuse of authority. J would come through to pick up the re-up cash, & I’d pay him out of my own pocket. That’s when I figured out that I smoke way too much pot to be productive. & that I’m no hustler.
I decided one day, I was going to contract my hustle out, give a healthy portion to an associate, & have him do the work. Kind of like what Smokey did for Big Perm. I mean, Big Worm. I’d throw him a free bag, or a hot meal or something & all would pan out nicely. The first couple of times worked according to plan, but as I always say, never trust a Black man without a mustache. Or a job. Or a permanent residence. This cat disappeared from the block. What was once a daily smoke partner had become an apparition, over $25. He waited so long to come back around that I honestly forgot he even owed me that dough until I decided to write this. I just saw that asshole on my birthday. Bastard. But I digress.
After 3 months of this charade, & having paranoid delusions of my phone being tapped (these were the prehistoric days, when people had landlines in their homes), & patrol cars watching my pad (as if), I decided I was done. In fact, I owed J $30. He was entirely too fried to care, but it was the principle. It’s was pricipality involved. I still owe him that shit, but soon after that fiasco, he hooked up with a White girl, whom I offended one night at their house, & we don’t really speak anymore. I made a comment about her nipple rings & how gross I thought the food was, & she’d had enough of me 2 hours upon meeting me. Go figure.
You always hear about the two extremes of hustling. You either make money, or get caught up. Rarely does anyone speak about that 3rd eyesight needed to even logically put together an operation, no matter how big or small. Clearly, everybody’s not built to make money that way. My set of Lego’s were from a different box, I guess.
& to think, I have a relative who earned, before earning 7 years federal time, lived good behind doing this type of thing. You’d think I would’ve picked up a few tips over the years, huh?