“Nahhh . . .  one a them bad cops. Just took my shit. Probably making bank on his own. Been doin’ it to all the runners on the block.”

“We talking weed?”

“Rock.”

“Fuck you doin’ in that life, Andy?”

“Gotta get paid.”

“So, what’s the plan?”

“Gonna get more, sell at a lower profit for a bit. Pay back my man. Get back on my feet.”

“No. You ain’t. I hear you, but you ain’t stayin’ in the life. Not on my watch.”

“You callin’ Cop?”

“Hells, no. I’m callin’ Coach. We’re gonna find a way out, but you gotta promise you out. How much you owe?”

“Two-Fifty.”

“Aaight. I’m calling Coach after practice. We meet back here end of the day tomorrow. Cool.”

“Cool. Thanks, T. You da man.”

“But one thing, Andy. You tell NO ONE about this. Feel me?”

“I feel you. T. I feel you.”

So, I called Coach. We did put together the $250. We made Andy promise that he would pay off his drug debt, and he would stop dealing. He was cool with it. Both his coach and I were tight with him. That was all based on respect, and honesty. His only question to me and Coach when we met after school to talk and give him the cash was, “Can I still smoke a little weed?”

We laughed and I said, “Yeah. You’re stupid, but you can still smoke a little weed.”

Andy was good to his word. He quit dealing and even graduated high school later that year. We got him into Sullivan Community College, outside of The City, hopefully away from the life. I don’t know what happened to him after that, but it was a moment when I felt it right to risk the “Crazy Teach Helps Drug Dealing Leech” headline. Andy was cool. Just a little misguided. Okay. A lot misguided. Life’s a gamble. Choose your odds.

I thought that was the end of it, until a few weeks later when Tae Kwon Dan showed up at my office door.

“Yo, Sensei.”

“Wassup, Dan?”

Tae Kwon Dan always called me Sensei and bowed when he came into my office. He was one crazy-assed kid, but I loved him.

“Sensei, I was talkin’ to Andy . . . ”

“Close the fucking door, Dan.” My voice was straining with rage. “And when you see him, tell Andy I’m gonna kick his muthafuckin, loud-mouthed ass.”

Dan gave a “why you yelling at me?” look, complete with upturned palms and a pained look on his face until I gestured at the chair next to the desk. He closed the door and sat down. I could just feel this was not going to be good.

“Okay, I AM gonna kick Andy’s ass, but wassup? You got problems?”

“Yeah, Sensei. Big problems. I need money.”

“How much?”

“Two.”

“Two what?”

“Two hundred.”

“You dealin’, too?”

“Nahhh, Sensei. My body is a temple. Never touch that shit.”

Dan was pretty serious about his physique. Maybe he was telling the truth. I asked him to continue.

“What you need two hundred for?”

“Sensei, I’m sorry. But I jumped my nigga’s hooker.”

Now, I’m from Upstate New York. My familiarity with urban slang, while conversational, is not fluent. I wracked my brain to try and decipher this gem.

“You what?”

“I jumped my nigga’s hooker.”

Still nothing on my end.

“The fuck that mean?”

And he told me the story. Dan, while a well-built, stout young fella, with charm as deep and eyes as dark as the Gowanus Canal, was not one of the best looking kids I’d ever met. Yet, he was 18 and wanted, needed, to get laid. He was always on the hunt, but the sweet gazelles of Bensonhurst were too swift for his skills. So, he and a friend decided upon the simplest, and perhaps the oldest solution to their problem: hire a couple hookers.

They saved their money, I chose not to inquire from whence that money came, and arranged for a party the previous weekend, as Dan’s parents were out of town.

“Yo, Sensei, they was HOT. I’m talkin’ Porn Star HOT. One was Shantel. The otha just went by Peach. And I mean, Damn, Sensei!”

Tae Kwon Dan, being Tae Kwon Dan, took to the action swiftly upon the ladies’ arrival. He brought his prostitute up to his room, and received her services. But when he’d finished, he came out to find his friend nervously smoking a cigarette in the living room, the young man being of a more indecisive make. So, Dan went into the kitchen, gathered the other hooker, took her to his room, and completed their transaction.

Ahhhh, it dawned on me . . . He jumped his nigga’s hooker. Just like it sounds.

Unfortunately for Dan, and his nervous friend, it turned out that the women worked on a fee-per-service basis, not an hourly rate.

Penny wise, pound foolish, Lads.

The hookers packed up and left under the charge of a very large, very unfriendly looking body guard.

To put it mildly, Dan’s friend was seriously upset. Not only was he out $200, but he felt humiliated and STILL hadn’t gotten laid. Bottom line, he wanted Tae Kwon Dan to pay him back.

I could see the friend’s point, actually.

“So, Dan, you’re asking me to pay your hooker debt?”

“Yeah, like you hooked up Andy.”

I tried to explain to Dan that the situations were a bit different, ethically.  That the deal with Andy was made with his assurance, and at least the hope, that he would get himself out of a dangerous life of crime and violence. Dan promised he’d stop going to hookers. I again tried to convince him that, still, even with his promise to never again pay for sex, there was a difference.

After another half an hour of profound argumentation, Dan finally gave up trying when I told him, “It’s all about finding your ethical boundaries. I didn’t know it before, but mine is right in-between paying off Andy’s drug debt and your hooker debt.”

And I have my father’s counsel to thank for that decision. It’s all about the front page of The New York Post, and I was not going to go down as “Terrible Teach Buys Brooklyn Boy a Peach.”

Thanks, Dad.

Read more stories from Terrible But True

This article was written by Michael Tallon on Sunday, June 13th, 2010

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