Turf Talk stands in the knee-high grass of the front-lawn of a dilapidated house in the ’hood of Vallejo looking completely at ease. The house is long since abandoned (there’s a padlock on the door), but it isn’t characteristic of the entire block, which is very much alive in the fading sun of the early evening.
As his crew, the Cabinet, mill around him about 20 feet away, Turf says, “Y’all don’t know how shootings and all kinds of shit went on over here in the past two months. It’s so fucking hot over here, for real. This is the cool spot, ’cause my man’s grandma lives on this block over here. A little bit around the corner, it’s hot as fuck.”
Then he adds with a sheepish grin, “Everybody that makes it hot is us. We the motherfuckas that make it hot. But it’s cool on this block because my homie grandma lives here. You can’t shit where you sleep.”
Turf has struggled with the “street shit” that has often engulfed his life.
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