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Jay needs both hands to handle the merchandise. Make the transfer with the left, take the cash with the right.
A year later he'll do the same thing with his side hustle; selling tapes out the back of his car, sometimes with Dame's help, and other times without his own participation.
Jay knows people, of course - knows enough to sell his tape at different locations. He knows enough people to be his eyes and ears at his main gig so there’s no disruption. He’s always surrounded himself with resourceful motherfuckers, and it’s nearly seamless.
It's only music, right? Jay’s said it enough times to almost believe it himself, but rhymes stay collecting in his head and he needs to get them out somehow, do something with his idle hands so he keeps out of trouble. His mom’s always worried a little less when he was pounding out beats on their kitchen table instead of hanging on the corner, making trades and avoiding the police.
He remembers the look on her face once, years ago: “Shawn,” his mom had sighed, like she was defeated, and regardless of everything Gloria Carter had been through it’d been her baby boy who’d delivered the final blow. “I wish you’d put as much effort into school as you do selling drugs.”
Jay couldn’t do shit about it at the time, but that moment stayed with him. Through the multiple arrests, through the house parties where he was given a mic and a few minutes to prove himself as a rapper, his mom’s words and her defeat, cycled through his mind.
It’s only now that Jay let’s himself want more out of life. Rapping could be his way out, and truth be told, this drug shit is getting old.
Jay slinks down in the passenger seat while Ty Ty drives, pulling down the bill of his baseball cap further over his eyes. It's no use trying to get some sleep, but at least he can let his eyes rest a bit.
He curls one hand into a fist, remembers holding the mic in his hand the previous night, hyping the crowd of the club before Big Daddy Kane came out onstage.
One of the best fucking nights of his life, thus far.
They drive mostly in silence, Tribe's "Electric Relaxation" blaring from the speakers, and Jay zones out, enjoying the quiet.
It lasts about 15 minutes. Ty Ty picks up Ced and the car seems to get smaller with their back and forth. Jay sits up, tipping his hat back as he bumps his fist against Ced's in greeting.
"Where we going?" Ced asks.
Jay shakes his head and looks at Ty Ty, who mouths already. "I thought you agreed to just ride. Do it matter?"
"I might have shit to do later. Can't be playing in the streets with y'all niggas if my girl wants to kick it."
"Whatever."
A few minutes later they pull up to the corner near Ricky's neighborhood and he jumps into the backseat, slamming the door behind him.
"Yo," Ty Ty grounds out, "Why are you always slamming my door?"
Ricky stares at him, mouth gaping. He makes a show of opening the door carefully and stepping out, then climbs back in, closing the door with a soft snick. "Better?"
Ty Ty drives off, the four of them howling with laughter.
"See, rap ain't lucrative, you feel me?"
"This fool said lucrative," Ty Ty says, looking over his shoulder briefly towards the back seat. Ced's cracking up laughing.
“Man, fuck you." Ricky flips him off, looking both amused and offended. "I know more than a few words.”
Jay waves his hands, laughing with the others. "I’ma need you to pause on that shit. Go no further."
Ricky turns his attention back to Jay. “Look, I'm just letting you know what I heard. Them niggas ain't making no money. You already know."
Jay sighs in annoyance, but it's not anything he hasn't heard or seen before. Emcees don't make shit in comparison to what he's bringing in now. But that's not his only reason. He's got a small notebook at his mom's place full of rhymes that says it's not just about money. For now, they're stuck in his head until he can settle down long enough to write them out.
And that's not happening as long as he's in the streets.
Ricky interrupts his thoughts, saying, "That don’t mean you shouldn't make a tape anyway. I'll play the hell out of a Jigga album."
Jay nods but ends up changing the subject, and their night continues without incident. Before he finally drops into bed at 2:41 a.m., he scribbles down a quick reminder to hook up with Dame the next day. It's time to take this music thing to the next level.
He sits with Biggie in the studio, listening to the final version of "Brooklyn's Finest", calmly taking it all in one moment, and wilding out the next.
He's making a fucking album. The idea of it is almost too big; feels larger than anything he could've ever prepared for in his life, coming from the projects. At the time, slinging dope had been considered a step up. It may well be for others, but it wasn’t for him in the long-term.
The initial recording session was also unlike anything he's experienced. Jay and Big have been boys for years, so he's already familiar with how Big works, what makes him good at what he does. They're similar in that way. Still, it's a little surreal to see it in action. Both their talents lie in freestyling, in being lyricists without pens. Rhymes are created and refined on the fly, and they keep it moving.
For Jay, it's an adrenaline rush, not unlike that feeling he used to get just narrowly escaping a charge. Now he just gets caught up in the beats and the tales, in creating music for his friends - something that'll last long after he's gone.
Collaborations like this are just an added bonus.
Hip-hop, man. Hip-hop brings out the over-invested and the haters; his enthusiastic fans and his haters; the people who don’t give a shit, and his haters. It’s probably the same for artists in rock and pop. This isn’t a new development, but the hits are more forceful from his own people.
Jay remembers having this exact conversation with Ty Ty years ago, when Reasonable Doubt took off and he couldn’t look over his shoulder without niggas trying to get in his face like they were familiar.
He was already prepared for it, in a way. Marcy and the drug game had taught him well. If they're not in your business, they want to be.
Somebody once asked him, "why hip-hop?" Aside from the smart-assed answer of, "why not hip-hop", it's always the same for Jay. He's good at it, but it's not just about the skill of his flow, or clever wordplay. It's the storytelling element, and he'll always consider himself old school for that reason. There was no one representing Marcy Projects, or making music from a perspective people in the hood found relatable. Once there was, he wanted to be part of the chorus, to lend his voice to speak on behalf of hip-hop, of his people, his culture.
Jay thinks about the responsibility of it, of representing an entire culture, and it's a little overwhelming. He wonders if he's ready for it. Maybe not, but he believes someday he will be, that he'll want to own that role. Hip-hop is love, it's business, it's entertainment, it's life.
So, yeah, he's ready for that responsibility. First it was Roc-A-Fella; now it’s Def Jam; next, the crossover.
Flyer than a piece of paper bearing my name. Got the hottest chick in the game wearing my chain. That's right, Hov.
Jay's been in love before, has had long relationships and commitment and all that shit. He's definitely had his share of the in-between - the side chick and the jump-off; and he's been that emergency dick in a glass.
With Beyoncé, he quietly pursued her. He took his time, they became friends, and then one day they weren't. They both knew that once their relationship was made public it would never be as simple as the labels they chose for themselves. To their friends and family, he’s Shawn or Jay, and she’s B.
He jokes sometimes, that he knew it was love when he started dropping her name into his songs. The references felt - still feel - organic and normal, but they also feel like drops of intimate knowledge, like he’s exposing another piece of his life he’d once vowed to keep private. What Jay chooses not to say in interviews, he says in his music, leaving his words open to interpretation. At the end of the day, Beyoncé doesn’t need to hear how he feels about her in the media because he tells her every day.
Shouting out, "what up B," at an awards show seems like a small gesture in comparison. Small, yet appropriate.
When Jay retires, The Black Album feels like the penultimate record, and it's enormously satisfying to go out on top. For a while he's content to run his company and produce, take up that mantle of responsibility to the hip-hop community.
It's arrogant as hell, but also the truth as he sees it. Not to mention short-sighted on his part, to not realize how much he'd miss stepping inside that booth to record music.
Nearly two years later, he's back in the studio for Kingdom Come. It's just after midnight, and they're taking a short break from listening to samples. He ends the call with B and looks up to find Kanye staring at him. Like Ye often does. Jay's given up on making any kind of sense of Kanye’s actions.
"For real," Ye says, pausing for effect. "The next time you get the idea to retire for the good of hip-hop, miss me on that announcement. Please."
Jay laughs hard, because goddamn. "Fuck you," he replies, and they get back to work.
He’s awake before his alarm rings at 6 a.m.
Jay likes to get an early start in the studio whenever possible. More often than not, that translates into long hours and a period of time where his hair doesn't get cut.
He sits up and runs his hand over his head, noting the few inches of afro he's grown since he started working on the new album with Kanye.
"How long, do you think…" B's voice was soft, drowsy over his shoulder. Her fingers chasing after his in his hair, her nails massaging his scalp.
"Not too much longer," he murmurs, dipping his head low until his chin touches his chest.
This is the first morning they've had together in a long while, and for a moment Jay wants to push back the studio time so he can fuck his wife good morning. If they were in New York, he would, but it's not every day he gets to put in work at Peter Gabriel's studio. From Marcy to Bath, go fucking figure.
Jay startles at the feel of B's lips on his neck, warm dry kisses against his skin. Fuck.
He groans and reaches for his phone on the bedside table. "Baby, what are you doing?" B's protest is faint, becomes muffled by a hard kiss on the mouth.
"Gimme one sec." The back screen light glows on his skin as he types a quick message to Ye.
<Meet you @ studio later. Somethings come up.>
Kanye's response follows a few seconds later.
<LOL yea ur dick! Luv to B.>
Jay chuckles and places his phone back on the table. When he turns back to Beyoncé he can barely make out her sleepy smile in the dark, but he knows it’s there.
“What did Kanye say?” she asks, then shakes her head. “You know what, I don’t care. C’mere.” She hooks her arm around his shoulder, drawing him closer, and Jay forgets about studio time and Kanye’s corny ass jokes.
He pulls her into his lap and falls back into the messy sheets, and everything save for B fades away, as it should be.
The way Jay sees it, hip-hop saved his life. He owes it to himself - to those before and after - to make sure it's better after he leaves than it was when he first arrived on the scene.
"We in the Garden, nigga. That may not be a big deal for pop acts or rock acts. They sell out the Garden a couple of nights in a row. But for hip-hop, we wasn't even allowed in the building."
Jay-Z, “Fade to Black”
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