Is that it?
He thought his "cheat code" had finally awakened, but it turned out to be nothing more than a voice in his head calling him "scum" before unceremoniously shutting down.
Refusing to believe that was all there was to it, Leon slapped himself hard across the face twice. If percussive maintenance works on a washing machine, maybe it works on a broken brain.
He waited ten minutes. Aside from the muffled sound of some high-as-a-kite local spitting improvised bars nearby, he heard absolutely nothing.
Finally accepting defeat, he shouldered his beat-up acoustic guitar and headed for the Brownsville subway station—his usual "office."
The New York City subway is legendary worldwide for being a shthole. Built over a century ago, it shows its age.
But the station in Brownsville? That was a special kind of hell.
The infrastructure was ancient, the lighting flickered like a horror movie, and the place was decorated with fresh vomit and human waste. The air was thick with the pungent, skunky reek of weed.
The city knew exactly how bad it was, but they couldn't be bothered to fix it. They only serve taxpayers, and in Brownsville—where the streets are paved with hustlers—nobody pays taxes.
In New York, every industry is a rat race, and street performing is no exception.
If a busker isn't packing a Glock or doesn't have a crew of gangbanger homies watching his back, he's not getting a prime spot in the station.
Luckily, Leon was born with the gift of the gab. Over the last two weeks, his silver tongue had charmed the local heavyweights who usually ran the station.
"Yo! Bro! What took you so long, you bastard? Lucky for you, I saved your spot. I even chased off two blind idiots from Chester Street who tried to set up shop."
"Fk 'em! They need to recognize whose turf this is!"
As soon as Leon walked down the stairs, a short Black kid called out to him, puffing out his chest to look as intimidating as possible, like a rooster that just won a cockfight.
Since when did this kid go full gangster? Leon wondered.
He set his guitar down next to him. "Thanks, Davis. Without you, I'd be going home empty-handed tonight."
Davis was only twenty, but he had a lifetime of street smarts. He dropped out of school at thirteen to live "the life." Despite his short stature, he was ferocious in a fight—knives and guns were just part of the daily routine.
Because of that, he'd earned the nickname "Bully" (after the American Bully dog breed) around the station.
"It ain't nothing. But yo, check this out." Davis rolled up his sleeve, showing off a fresh patch of ink among the chaotic tapestry on his arm.
In the hood, tattoos are a diary. Having ink doesn't always mean you're in a gang; a lot of guys just carve their life story into their skin. Davis, for example, tattooed the name of every girl he ever slept with.
Leon squinted at the mess of ink until he spotted the new addition. "Another tattoo?"
"Yeah... this is the most important one of my life."
Leon gave him a look of disdain. "That's what you said last time when you tattooed that hooker Anisa's name on your arm... stop messing around with this nonsense, man. Making money is what matters. In New York, if you're broke, you're worth less than a stray dog in Manhattan."
"Fk that, bro! Look closer! This time it's different. This is the official brand of the Brownsville Bloods. If you get this without permission, you eat a bullet!"
Leon suddenly understood. After years of running the streets, Davis had finally been initiated.
It wasn't surprising. In Brownsville, joining a gang was like compulsory education—it was a required course.
"Suit yourself, man. I just don't want to see your body on the pavement one morning."
"Fk! What kind of stupid talk is that? I'm telling you, I'm getting out of this hellhole. I'm about to blow up!"
"What are you talking about?"
Looking at the excitement in Davis's eyes, Leon realized the kid wasn't joking.
Honestly, Leon didn't care if Davis made it out or got shot in the street. But if Davis left, Leon's protection at the prime busking spot would vanish.
"The Big Homie, George... he's been looking for potential rappers. He picked me! He promised to introduce me to T-Ray—the guy who produced for Nas!" Davis grabbed Leon by the shoulders, shaking him.
"Whoa... that is actually a huge opportunity."
Like every other kid in Brooklyn, Davis dreamed of being a rap star. He'd been surviving by spitting freestyles in public spaces, waiting for a break.
As the birthplace of East Coast hip-hop, this city had birthed legends. Jay-Z, Nas, Biggie, Foxy Brown.
By 2010, grooming rappers had become a legitimate business model for New York gangs. Compared to the high-risk drug trade, the rap game was safer and had higher margins.
A rapper who could crack the Billboard charts was a human money-printing machine for the gang.
But the competition was insane. Most wide-eyed kids dropped one mixtape and then disappeared forever.
Leon didn't have the heart to crush Davis's dream.
"Congrats, man. I hope you really make it big."
"It's too early to celebrate! T-Ray promised to come to the station tomorrow to watch me perform live. I don't know if I've got what it takes to impress him..."
"You definitely do..."
As he spoke, Leon glanced at his broken guitar and a thought struck him.
Wait. The voice in my head said the "Inspiration Refresh" happens on the 11th of every month.
Tomorrow is July 11th.
Maybe the cheat code was real?
"Bro, tomorrow night at 8 PM, you gotta be here to back me up. I'm gonna show you the best rap performance in the history of Brownsville!"
Seeing Davis so fired up, Leon didn't have the heart to tell him the truth: Davis's rapping was mediocre at best. It was fine for talking trash on the corner, but for a record deal? Unlikely.
This wasn't the 90s anymore. Audiences were getting sophisticated; they were getting tired of hearing about nothing but dicks and psy.
After laying out his plan, Davis flashed a Bloods hand sign and took off. With stars in his eyes, he couldn't be bothered to beg for pocket change anymore.
Leon was left alone.
After singing his heart out for nearly two hours until his voice was hoarse, Leon counted his earnings: a pathetic 15 dollars.
"Damn it."
He suspected he was in the wrong market. The people here were broke, and the only thing they wanted to hear was aggressive, violent hip-hop.
Nobody was going to pay to hear a busker sing old-school Beatles or country rock. To the locals, that was just noise.
Leon packed up his guitar to head home. Bonnie would be off her shift at the club in an hour.
Thinking ahead, he slid the 15 dollars under his shoe insole. If Bonnie raided his pockets later, she wouldn't find a dime.
If she asked about money, he'd just tell her, "Another dry run."