A dark, dirty bit of sidewalk outside a south-side Red Line station doubles as the office of Chris and Henry*, partners in a small-time bootleg CD hustling operation. It’s ten o’clock the Friday night before Independence Day and scraggly fireworks blossom over the roof of a high-rise across the street. The bootleggers are planted between the Plexiglas station doors and the bus stop at the curb, barking at strangers making their way to the train. “Get your Lil Wayne get your Young Jeezy get your R. Kelly while it’s hot! Cheap CDs, cheap CDs, cheap sex–I mean cheap CDs!”
“No–that’s a fabulous collection right there!” Chris shouts as a woman in tight pink pants walks into the station. His friends burst into laughter and trade insults about who spends the most time masturbating. “We call Henry ‘Obi Hand Kenobi’ down here,” says Chris. “You can’t love someone till you love yourself,” Henry shoots back. The girl hands over three dollars for a Lil Wayne album–the summer’s hottest seller by Henry’s count–shoves it in her backpack, and saunters down the sidewalk.
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Sudden shouts explode from a nearby liquor store. Three guys run out, swing into a rusty car, and peel off. Chris hollers, “If some of you ain’t seen your cousins in a minute, you can find ’em at county tonight!” Henry rolls his eyes. He kicks away a burger wrapper and sits down heavily on the sidewalk, shaking his head as the white T-shirt posse whoops and high-fives at the getaway.
Chris’s merchandise is stashed downstairs, in the CTA booth by the turnstiles. He says he’s made friends with all the guards; they exchange friendly hellos with him throughout the night. “See, they know that it’s to their advantage to keep me around,” he says. “‘Cause when I’m here, no one’s gonna try to start any bullshit.” He bobs and weaves like a fighter while he talks, elbows up and knees cocked. The white T-shirt posse laughs, but no one contradicts him. “Security, they get paid by the hour, they don’t give a fuck about me selling on CTA property. If nobody gets hurt, they don’t have to do anything.”
“Me and him, it’s like we’re intertwined at the hips,” says Chris, pressing his palms together hard, knotting the fingers. “We both love weed and we love women.” Chris figures he smokes a dozen joints a day, significantly less than Henry, but they’re usually high while they work. Chris turns to give his partner an affectionate smile, but Henry is shuffling down the sidewalk along the overpass, his duffel bag swinging heavily at his waist. “Bathroom,” Chris says, shrugging. “That’s the only thing he walks away for. Pop and piss. The two Ps, the fundamentals. Oh, and pot. Me, I also believe in the three Bs: beer, blunts, and burgers. Get high, get head, and go home. The necessities of life. This is why me and Henry go together. We believe in the simple things.”
As a kid, Henry was in and out of foster homes, and right before high school he was diagnosed with a learning disability and put onantidepressants, which he still takes. Freshman year he was sent to a special-education high school and the kids in his group home picked on him about it. He struggled to bring his grades and behavioral marks up, and by junior high he was back in a mainstream school. He still sees a therapist, and he gets nearly $800 a month in disability for a heart condition, diabetes, and depression. Between his and his girlfriend’s disability payments and his bootlegging money, their rent and bills are covered.
