I called Agent B…

...and said, “Hey, there’s been a couple of things I’ve been meaning to ask you. Have you been down 93 lately and when was the last time you saw T.eaze?”

In the short period in-between me asking and him answering the question I pictured myself back on Mission Hill, in an apartment that was thick with heads and smoke, while working on what could have been my second major in college. T.eaze walked in with a small crew of jeans, boots, spraypaint and backpacks. They still had a smell and crispness to them that reminded me of the first day of school or picture day. I reached out and silently gave him the peace offering. He nodded once and accepted it. By the time the offering had come back my way I had made up my mind about T.eaze. I liked him. He was humble, eager to learn and more importantly…he had heart. So, I told him to look in the cooler on the back porch. There he’d find a few Heinekens submerged in the ice. And maybe a few women along the way that were not as cold.

After that night T.eaze and I talked occasionally, sometimes about art, sometimes about music, but always about life. To minimize the chances of people mistaking him for a toy he was determined to reach the status of an all-city king and have his name become a landmark like the two buildings that formerly graced the New York City skyline. One time I pulled him away from his crew and over a few bottles told him a story about the different roads and life paths people traveled. My story had four main points. One, getting up, getting seen, and getting fame is an incredible feeling, but ultimately that feeling, inherited hardships and wasted years are the end of the road. Two, he should start thinking about what his next step will be and exactly how he can wake up everyday doing what he loves and get paid for it. Three, if you are blinded by fame there are unseen hazards such as toy envy, the pressure from crew loyalty, and the sentinels on the Vandal Squad who are also looking for fame in the Area B precinct. And lastly, I left him with this thought, “A person’s life path is determined by the small decisions they make on a daily basis.”

At the end of our talk, he gave me a pound to signify that he had heard and respected what I had to say…but in the end I don’t think he heard me. Over the next several years I would continue to see the markings he left along his life path. Some times they would be in very lonely places where I wouldn’t expect the most mentally disturbed homeless person to go and other times in places that were distant like RI, CT, and NY…where I wouldn’t expect a mentally disturbed White boy to be. But each time I stumbled upon his trail of breadcrumbs I could tell he had been working on his craft, in his way, and in his own style. And when I last saw him at the Hip Hop Convention displaying his artwork it was apparent that although he had not gained the worldwide recognition of the Twin Towers, he did in fact tower over the Boston Metro like the Prudential Building. I was happy to see him and meet his new girlfriend that was more on the cute side than crazy. He looked good and extremely focused, especially for someone who suffered from extreme ADD among other things. Reaching in his denim pocket he revealed the same peace offering I had extended to him and his crew several years back and asked if I wanted to go outside. I declined, but stayed long enough to crush several plastic cups and talk with him about his art’s newly framed and hung direction. It was a good night….and I was glad that we had crossed paths once again.

Agent B brought me back to the present day by replying, “Oh man, T.eaze is dead, dog.” Then he spent the next few minutes giving me details of his last days. I told him that when I was driving down route 93 I saw a gra.ffiti tag that said, “RIP T.eaze” and that I was hoping it was a mistake. But after I hung up the phone I found out that ultimately it wasn’t the paint that brought his life path to an end. It was the oxycotin.

RIP T.eaze

*********

“This is for new jacks trying to decide where they fit...get busy!
Destroy city walls when you spit.

For writers with a Krylon image brain print...translate it!
Leave your name dripping from bricks.

For cats who come for fame with my name on their lips...re-think it!
You're sucking poison milk from fake t*ts.

This is for kids worried about the apocalypse...do something!
Prepare yourself and stop talking sh*t.”

- El-P