“Let her make it. Shorty trying to do right.”
“Fuck that bitch and we not giving her equal parts.”
“You sound bitter.”
“Bitter as fuck,” Al snorted, pulling from the blunt. “Bitch better be lucky she came through with a lick because I was about to blow up the spot.”
Logic chuckled, but Al was dead serious. He didn’t give a fuck about Brandi wanting to be loyal to her baby daddy. All she had to do was keep sliding him the pussy on the side and they could’ve been great.
When Brandi initially approached them about robbing Amazon trucks, Logic told her to get the fuck on. First off, he wasn’t a stealing ass nigga, and second, he wasn’t trying to get caught up in the system and leave his siblings to fend for themselves. Brandi had to break down the entire plan before he agreed to step in. With her working behind the scenes as a dispatcher, the plan was simple. She found a truck with a big load and passed the information to Al and Logic. The plan was to rob the truck, sell everything, and give her a nice cut.
“Here we go.” Logic nodded toward the big blue Amazon truck pulling out of the warehouse.
“I’m on it.” Al passed him the blunt and slowly pulled off as all the Amazon trucks started to exit the lot. He didn’t have to worry about losing the truck because Brandi had sent them the live tracking.
???
For thirty minutes, Al followed behind the truck while Logic stared out of the window. It amazed him to watch the city go from urban to suburban. His stomping ground was filled with liquor stores, rinky-dink gas stations that weren’t safe depending on the time of day, and car washes with run-down equipment that stole your quarters. Weed dispensaries were popping up like pimples, forcing all the dealers to find other hustles, which made them desperate.
The further they drove out of the city, the more the scenery changed. Starbucks, yoga studios, art galleries, Ikea’s, and other fancy ass restaurants occupied the clean streets. Logic couldn’t help but wonder if someone invested in the inner cities, would they look the same? Politicians spent money fixing Downtown Detroit to attract more tourists, but none of that love was extended to the inner city, where it was really needed. Government funded programs for schools were cut, but parks on the River Walk were restored.
“Shit so fucking backwards,” Logic vented, shifting in his seat.
“What?”
“Life just fucked up and it’s really a case of the Haves versus the Have-nots. I gotta hurry up and get my paper together to move my troops out the hood. I don’t want them stalking Amazon trucks and selling pills for a few dollars.”
“I mean you can always get a 9 to 5…you know, show them the right way...the American way.”
“Fuck outta here. I wish the fuck I would go slave for another muthafucka just to have taxes and all that other bullshit took outta my check. Niggas be working 60-hour work weeks and coming home with dust. Nah, I’mma keep doing what I’m doing until my music pops off. I’m going to build a legacy, so they don’t ever have to work for nobody but themselves.”
“Then get the fuck in the studio and make some shit shake. I been telling you these Hollywood ass niggas ain’t fucking with you. The best lyrics come from niggas who lived that shit, from niggas who felt the struggle, you feel me.”
“I been fucking with Duce at The Studio,” Logic uttered.
The Studio was located inside of Duce’s kitchen. He had all the equipment set up on the kitchen table and the microphone hung from the cabinet. The sound wasn’t perfect, but Duce was a pro at manipulating the outside noise and erasing all the background sound. Usually, while he was recording, it was a no-talking zone, and for the most part, people respected his space. Logic was probably his only artist who didn’t like a room full of people when he recorded. Most times it worked out, but other times Duce’s baby mama and her friends posted up and turned their sessions into a party. They’d fry chicken, pass around Tito’s, and smoke whatever was being passed around if it was free.
“I know, he told me you be over there choking up and shit,” Al smirked, glancing out the corner of his eye.
“That nigga talks too much. I just don’t like doing my thing in front of other people. He be having the whole west side of Detroit packed in that bitch.”
“Fuck is you saying right now?”
“I just do better when it’s not so many people watching...you know what I mean?”
“I don’t. Sounds like a bunch of excuses if you ask me. How the fuck you scared of your own potential?” Al quizzed. “You talking about change, but you sitting on talent niggas wish they had. You wanna change the hood? Save the troops? Then go harder, be consistent, show the world you ain’t just another wannabe ass rapper. You do this shit for real.”
Logic didn’t respond. Al was right and he was the only person besides his siblings who would call him out on his shit. Logic was a master at his craft but allowed overthinking and imposter syndrome to deter him from exploring his truepassion. Negative thoughts stole the show when it was time for him to perform, and he couldn’t shake them.
“Be the change you wanna see nigga,” Al continued.
“I didn’t ask for a pep talk.”
“You ain’t got no choice, and as your manager, I'mma start setting shit in motion and push yo ass since I see you too scared to do it yourself.”
“I’m not scared of shit,” Logic growled. “I just, I don’t know,” he sighed.
“Then you better figure it out before I start lip syncing your shit,” Al jested, pulling his ski mask down, prompting Logic to do the same. “Let’s get this shit out of the way and then we can finish this unpaid therapy session.”
