Neighborhood.

[Soapy]

Call Me If You Get Lost - Episode 15
"We got denied anyway so it don’t matter."

“That’s not the point,” Loraine snapped, holding up her phone in frustration. The screen displayed the email she had received that morning.

Even before the arrest and subsequent bankruptcy, she had always monitored their credit report. While the business may have come down Elijah’s family tree, she had just as much of a hand in managing it. He handled operations; she ran the finances—ironically hiring Muncie, the accountant now serving time, in an effort to clean things up.

The business loan Elijah had recently applied for had appeared on this month’s credit report, sparking Loraine’s fury in the early morning hours. She had waited until Keshawn left for his usual early workout before confronting Elijah as he got dressed for work.

"We didn’t discuss this, we didn’t apply for this loan," Loraine continued.

“I told you about the food truck idea, and you said you liked it.”

"That doesn’t mean you should just go off half-cocked and apply for a loan!" Loraine fired back, "What if you had gotten it? Now what? We’re still building ourselves back up, Elijah."

"And why do you think I applied for the loan? Why I busted my ass with this? We’re not going to build ourselves back up with shifts at the fucking Dollar Store!”

They both fell quiet, standing in the kitchen of their three-bedroom house—not as spacious as their Craftsman in Baldwin Hills, but far better than the cramped extended stay in Village Green. Loraine chose her next words carefully. Elijah, meanwhile, thought about the ones he’d already said. It pained him to see her in that green uniform every morning—a reminder of where their lives stood now. But it also made him proud. She hadn’t complained once. She’d held everything down while he was locked up.

"I don’t want to just survive," Elijah finally broke through the silence, "Right now, we’re just surviving and that ain’t living."

"Baby, our son is about to get drafted into the NBA," Loraine sighed, "I know that’s hard for you to accept but…"

"Exactly," Elijah cut him off, "He is about to get drafted, not us. I’m not trying to be one of those parents that their kids retire them. Their kids are taking care of them, giving them a stipend like I’m one of his homeboys or something."

"It’s not a handout, Elijah,” Loraine tried to reason with him, "I’m not asking you to put your feet up and act like you hit the lottery but we don’t need to do this! Let’s not burry ourselves a bigger hole. Who do you think is going to dig us out anyway? It’d be Keshawn so you’re just adding more to his plate by trying to prove something to you or him or anybody else.”

"It was a good business idea," Elijah shifted the conversation, "You said it was."

"I did and it is," she softened her tone, "Give it some time, okay? Let Ke get his footing, get adjusted and we can approach him about…"

"I’m not asking my fucking son for no seed money," Elijah scoffed.

"What’s wrong with that?”

"That ain’t how it goes," Elijah was short.

"I’m sorry but how exactly did this family business of your start?” Loraine’s tone shifted towards an incredulous one, crossing her arms, knowing she was armed with the answer, "Ratting out the Panthers for some loose change from Johnny Law ain’t exactly honorable.”

“It was more complicated than that, and you know it,” Elijah said, looking away. The truth was too bitter to swallow. He often regretted sharing that part of the family history with Loraine when they first took over the business—but once she started digging into the books, the truth had become unavoidable.

"It don’t got to be is what I’m telling you," she placed her hand on his shoulder, "No one cared about how the store got started once it got going. You competing with Keshawn for some meaningless title of breadwinner? He’s a Chase, you’re a Chase. It’s the Chase fucking family business, no one in thirty years is going to give a damn who the money came from. It stayed in the family and it built a legacy for that family.”

…

"The storage place closes at three today," Vic took a peek at his phone as he finished off his third taco.

"I know," Angela tried her best to hide her wry smile but couldn’t.

“I don’t get it,” Vic laughed nervously.

“Babe, I don’t have anything else to get from storage,” Angela said, picking at the tray of tortilla chips in front of them. “I just knew that if I wanted you to not pick up a shift somewhere today—our only day off together this week—tacos wasn’t gonna get it done.”

“You’re a sneaky one.” Vic held a chip up to her face, breaking into laughter. “That was a good one. Not gonna lie, you got me.”

The busy hum of La Cienega Boulevard served as the backdrop to their impromptu lunch date on the patio of a popular taco spot. Vic rarely found himself on this side of the Hills—he didn’t have a reason to, or the wallet for it. When Angela suggested it on the way to the storage unit, he’d been ready to hate the place the moment he saw its trendy grass walls and neon signage. But two bites into his pork belly tacos had silenced all criticism.

"How’s working at the Death Star?” Vic teased, leaning back into his chair.

"I’m not going to lie, I see why folks love themselves some capitalism," she scoffed, "I can get use to the free breakfasts and sponsored lunches."

“You can’t get that off with me,” Vic said, tilting his head. “For real—how is it? I know working for a corporation like that ain’t exactly your bag.”

Angela found comfort in the fact that Vic had picked up on her reservations without her even voicing them.

"I don’t know, it’s not exactly the community outreach that I want to do or plan on doing," she began, "But like one of my tasks right now is organizing events throughout the summer that allows for our corporate partners to get their brand out there. Maybe I can try to get one of the local business or I don’t know, something that isn’t a fucking white-washed company with wiz kid fucking 30-year old CEO that just has a hard-on about getting an IPO or fattening his stock options."

"I’m not one of your Howard friends," Vic laughed, "You lost me about three times there, Ang."

“Stop it.” Angela playfully punched him in the arm. Vic often downplayed his intelligence—something Angela found charming compared to the other guys who had tried to impress her. Vic was simply Vic. He was comfortable with who he was, but not allergic to growth.

“I feel you, though.” Vic leaned in, sipping his drink. “You’re trying to make some change from inside the motherfucker, but it’s like—the motherfucker is the way it is for a reason, right?”

“Yeah.” A smile crept across Angela’s face. Vic had managed to sum up all her complicated feelings in a single sentence. “Something like that.”

…

“You get a little more square footage—just a different layout,” the realtor, a heavyset woman whose wardrobe choices didn’t shy away from bold prints, led Keshawn into the open-style living room connected to the kitchen. “You cook much?”

"Not really," Keshawn shrugged as he looked out the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the city.

“I know some people don’t like the food smell lingering in the living room space,” she explained. “If that’s not an issue, or if you’re not doing much cooking, it doesn’t get better than this. It comes as-is, but we can make some upgrades if anything jumps out—or if you’ve got something in mind for furniture.”

Keshawn nodded although he didn’t know much about furniture or interior design. All of the apartments they had visited, all owned by Richard’s real estate company, came fully furnished with their own distinct flavor. They were temporary apartments, available to the city’s elites and now Keshawn, at least until he signed his rookie contract. He had wanted to lean on the taste of the fairer sex when it came to selecting one but his mother was working that day and flaunting his potential new skyrise apartment while they still lived in their modest home didn’t sit well with him. He considered inviting Gloria, her style usually impeccable while not relying on high-end fashion brands but inviting her could send the wrong message. He’d be heading to a new city in a few weeks and he wasn’t sure where that would leave the two of them.

He looked at his phone, Nadia’s latest text remaining unanswered as the tables had turned. She had agreed to come check out some of the spots with him only to text him early that morning that she’d be running late and to get started without her. She missed the first two places, then said she probably couldn’t make it at all. No reason. None needed. This was becoming their rhythm—Keshawn waiting for her availability, uncertain if it would come.

“I’ll let you get a feel for the place,” the realtor said, breaking him from his thoughts.

Keshawn smiled politely and nodded, turning his gaze back to the window.

From the top-floor penthouse, he could see both Baldwin Hills and Baldwin Village—and chuckled quietly. The two neighborhoods were close in miles but worlds apart. And now, he stood above them both—physically and metaphorically—in his rearview.

[Caesar]

Nadia’s latest text remaining unanswered as the tables had turned. She had agreed to come check out some of the spots with him only to text him early that morning that she’d be running late and to get started without her. She missed the first two places, then said she probably couldn’t make it at all. No reason. None needed. This was becoming their rhythm—Keshawn waiting for her availability, uncertain if it would come.

Stand the fuck up bro. He ain’t even get the pussy yet.

[Captain Canada]

Every time you unironically use the phrases "horizontal activity" or "fairer sex", I laugh.

Daily "Vic is a hoe" post, as well.

[Soapy]

Nadia’s latest text remaining unanswered as the tables had turned. She had agreed to come check out some of the spots with him only to text him early that morning that she’d be running late and to get started without her. She missed the first two places, then said she probably couldn’t make it at all. No reason. None needed. This was becoming their rhythm—Keshawn waiting for her availability, uncertain if it would come.

Stand the fuck up bro. He ain’t even get the pussy yet.

Sometimes it be like that. You should know

Every time you unironically use the phrases "horizontal activity" or "fairer sex", I laugh.

Daily "Vic is a hoe" post, as well.

Vic is literally hanging out with his actual girlfriend in the last post

[Soapy]

Call Me If You Get Lost - Episode 16
"You know," Angela said, arms folded and eyes scanning the makeshift set, "If I knew she was gonna level up like this, I might not have steered you wrong. Can’t lie, Ke, you might’ve fumbled this one."

Her teasing, once annoying, now grounded Keshawn as the sun dipped behind the Baldwin Village skyline where Gayle’s music video was about to begin. She leaned against a weathered picnic table, eyes following the growing crowd drawn to the shoot. Beside her, Vic stood with a tight jaw and relaxed eyes, soaking in the neighborhood sounds—kids running around, friends laughing.

"Hardy har har," Keshawn muttered with a dry smile.

"At least you didn’t knock up a white girl your first semester," she added, raising an eyebrow. "Woo, chile—I would’ve lost my damn mind."

Vic stared off, avoiding eye contact. If only she knew. At least Jessica was Chicana, he mused.

"But for real," Angela turned toward Keshawn, her tone shifting, "Girlfriend? Situationship? What’s going on in the world of Keshawn Chase besides basketball?"

"I can’t call it," he shrugged, offering a bit of truth without opening the whole door. "Just focused on the draft. Doesn’t make sense to start anything serious when I don’t even know where I’ll be living next."

"Shit," Vic finally chimed in, "I know where you’re living now, and goddamn—it pays to be six-foot-fucking-eight."

"Six-nine, actually," Keshawn corrected with a smirk.

"I would suggest throwing you a housewarming party but you’re only there for like two more months, you said?" Angela asked, using her hands to shield the piercing sun from her eyes.

"I still got Summer League and stuff after the draft but yeah," Keshawn answered, the rough timeline Coach Bronstein had provided him going through his mind.

"Could still be a nice off-season spot," Vic said. "Unless you’re done slumming it with us broke folks."

"Never that," Keshawn chuckled, glancing toward the crowd now thick around the center of the park.

He couldn’t see her face, but the gait was unmistakable—it was Gayle. The flurry of assistants and producers following her confirmed it. They hadn’t talked in a while—not from bad blood but the natural drift of people entering new worlds. They still liked each other’s posts, shared congratulations when milestones hit, but that was it. Nothing deeper.

...

Jessica’s fingers froze on her phone as she scrolled past a story from some rapper or influencer, then stopped dead. There it was — Vic’s profile reposted Angela's story. Heart pounding, Jessica zoomed in and squinted at the image—an unmistakable shot of palm trees lining a busy LA park.

Her stomach twisted into knots as she stared at it closer. Angela in Los Angeles? He hadn't mentioned her being out there; he’d said he had work all day, errands to run, the kind of things that explained away his absences and growing distance the past few weeks.

Her jaw locked as she bit down on her lip. She gripped the edge of the blanket draped across her lap, knuckles whitening. Had she missed the signs? The excuses, the silence, the weirdly timed texts—was he really at work?

She exhaled, hot and sharp, eyes burning with more than just anger. She tapped out of the story before the tears could rise again.

...

“Gayle, wait!” Lamont’s voice strained behind her, but Gayle didn’t slow as she walked towards the production van.

A small crowd of men—dark hoodies, baggy jeans—had gathered near the back. Fat Stacks leaned against the van like he owned it, a crooked grin on his face, flanked by his crew. The smoke from one of their blunts curled lazily in the air.

“What the fuck is this, Stacks?” Gayle snapped, her voice low but hard.

“Ain’t nobody shooting nothing on my block without paying the tax,” he said, calm and confident.

Rommel's death had effectively tipped the scales. There were still other old heads and factions of the East Side Bloods that remained loyal to Dro, the rightful leader of the crew, but with his top lieutenant out of the way, most recognized that the war had already been decided and that it would only be a matter of time before Dro either met his faith or tucked his tail and ran. In either case, Fat Stacks no longer needed to be hiding away. In fact, he needed to show face, show that the war had indeed been won and that he wasn’t in hiding anymore while Dro still was.

She felt her pulse quicken. "What’re you talking about?"

"What I’m saying is, if you want to film here, you gotta talk to me first. Ain’t nothing happening in these streets without my cut. That’s just how it is.” His eyes flicked around at the others, sharing a silent, dangerous understanding. "Either come up off that chili or get the fuck on. It’s simple."

She glanced toward the trailers, where her crew sat idle. Kandi had been waiting for over an hour. The director, the gaffers, the stylists—all burning money by the second.

“I don’t mean no disrespect,” she said, her voice clipped. “We don't got no money to pay you. I'm not fucking Beyonce, nigga."

"I don’t got no problem with you, baby girl, you know. This is just business. You see, in my city, we only do business. So I suggest y’all get to talking and figure some shit out."

...


“Is that Stacks?” Keshawn asked, squinting toward the commotion near the vans.

"It can’t be nothing good," Vic shook his head, "Trust me, you don’t even want to get caught up in what’s been going on in the city."

Angela leaned in. “It’s that bad?”

Vic nodded. “It’s internal beef shit. That always gets uglier.”

Keshawn felt the guilt settle on his shoulders. He’d never left L.A.—but he’d left this. The neighborhood. The heat. The politics. And now here he was, back on the edge of it.

“What’s it got to do with a music video?” Keshawn asked.

Vic shrugged. “You tryna find out?”

Keshawn hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah, I guess."

Angela followed a beat behind them as they approached the barrier separating the shoot from the crowd. Two security guards stepped in front of them, blocking them off.


“I know Gayle,” Keshawn said, correcting himself. “GiGi."

The taller guard didn’t flinch. “Yeah, so does everybody here. Keep it pushing, bro.”

...

"Who’s Mr. Tall, Dark and Fine as Fuck over there?” Kandi nudged Gayle, nodding toward Keshawn beyond the barricade.

Gayle turned—and paused.

She hadn’t seen him in person in months, and now here he was, arguing with her useless security guards giving that Fat Stacks had no issue getting through. She sighed, more annoyed at the timing than the visit.

“They’re with me!” she shouted. The guards, clearly embarrassed, moved the barrier without a word as the three passed through.

Kandi grinned. “You gonna tell me who that is or should I guess?”

“He’s just a friend,” Gayle muttered, already stepping toward Keshawn.

"Hey," Keshawn said softly, unsure if he should go in for a hug, settling for a polite smile.

“I didn’t know you guys were coming," she said softly, her voice still edged with nerves. "Thanks for coming through though, I know today has been a shitshow.”

Keshawn looked her over, noting the faint line of sweat on her brow and the way her eyes kept flicking toward Fat Stacks in the distance. "Yeah, of course."

Angela nodded. “Congrats, for real. When someone from the city wins, we all win. And I can’t believe you got Kandi out here. That’s major.”

Gayle pressed her fingertips to her temple. “Yeah. For no reason it's looking like."

Keshawn shifted, feeling Kandi’s eyes trail him. He kept his tone steady, trying not to let the unease show. “What’s going on here?”

Gayle sighed. “Stacks wants a ‘cut’ to let us shoot as if we're not already losing money on this shit."

Vic looked toward Stacks and Lamont, whose conversation was clearly getting tenser. “We can try to talk to him. Maybe cool it down.”

"Yeah," Keshawn added, "Like Ang said, we all win, right?”

Gayle nodded slowly, a flicker of relief in her face. “I’ll take whatever help we can get."

As Keshawn and Vic passed Kandi, she tracked him with her eyes. Vic leaned in.

“That’s fucking Kandi, bro,” he whispered. “Goddamn.”

Keshawn didn’t respond. When they reached the van, Fat Stacks lit up at the sight of him.

“My dawg!” he shouted, pulling Keshawn in for a hug. “What’s up, champ?”

“All good,” Keshawn dapped him up and nodded to Lamont.

“Vic!” Stacks grinned. “Everything good with you and the fam?”

"Yeah, it’s all straight, Stacks," Vic replied flatly, "Just trying to figure out what’s going on here. The people here to see Kandi fine ass shake some ass or something. What’s the hold up?”

“Ask your man right here,” Fat Stacks pointed towards Lamont, "He need to come up off that currency. Streets gotta eat, it’s summertime. You know that, Vic."

"Come on, bro," Vic tried to reason, "This like Gayle’s first video, ain’t no fucking money. She was just from around the way just the other day. Shit, she probably still stays over there by the apartments.”

Stacks nodded, but his grin didn’t drop. “Yeah, she do but this nigga right here don't.” He gestured to Lamont.

"We just want to see her win bro," Keshawn finally spoke up, "The same way I support what you got going on, we got to support her shit too."

Stacks paused, weighing the words. The star basketball player had already been generous in funding his war chest. That kind of relationship was worth more than whatever cash Lamont could cough up today.

"No doubt," Fat Stacks nodded, "Can we at least be in the video or some shit?”

Lamont exhaled. “Yeah, we can work something out. So… we’re good to shoot?”

Stacks grinned and gave a lazy two-finger salute. “Do your thing.”

[Captain Canada]

Every time you unironically use the phrases "horizontal activity" or "fairer sex", I laugh.

Daily "Vic is a hoe" post, as well.

Vic is literally hanging out with his actual girlfriend in the last post

Literally after hanging out with his pregnant sidepiece who is begging him to leave her. You ain't slick.

[Soapy]

Every time you unironically use the phrases "horizontal activity" or "fairer sex", I laugh.

Daily "Vic is a hoe" post, as well.

Vic is literally hanging out with his actual girlfriend in the last post

Literally after hanging out with his pregnant sidepiece who is begging him to leave her. You ain't slick.

the versatility.

[Soapy]

Call Me If You Get Lost - Episode 17
The air was thick with the scent of grease and the distant clamor of cars as Quincy rounded the corner, a worn grocery bag swinging gently in his hand. Just a few days into sobriety, he felt almost light-headed beneath that weighty burden—every step towards Eleanora's home seemed both familiar and gnarled by an unshakable tension. But then he stopped.

Fat Stacks lounged against a lamppost at the intersection—a guard dog surveying his territory—and all warmth dissipated from Quincy. The two men locked eyes; history crackled between them—the kind edged in blood, scars barely hidden beneath layers of bravado.

"Unc," Stacks called out casually yet pointedly, pushing off from where he'd leaned languidly just moments before—an act too theatrical not to be intentional. A play for dominance right there on this cracked sidewalk bathed in California light. The newly crowned King was back outside, that much was evident.

“Khalif,” Quincy subtly but poignantly reminded the youngster that he saw behind the chains and tattoos.

Stacks observed his face, noticing the clearer skin and whiter eyes, the steadiness in Quincy.

"I’ve been meaning to holla at you OG," Stacks smiled as he peeled himself off the lamppost, "You came through in a major fucking way, Q. Never got a chance to thank you for that, OG."

"I don’t know what you’re talking about," Quincy replied coldly, "What do you want, youngin’?”

As Quincy observed his surroundings, the parked Escalade no doubt belonging to Stacks with likely a few of his boys inside, he tried to figure out the play. Was Stacks cleaning up after himself? Tying up loose ends? No, it wouldn’t go down like this. Not in broad daylight, not on this block.

"You don’t fuck and tell," Stacks nodded with a smirk, "I respect that about you, OG, I really do.”

"Then you should respect my time," Quincy fired back.

"I just think there’s something here, man," Stacks leaned back onto the post, "I’ve found myself in need of, let’s say, some veteran counsel for my organization."

"Boy, you done smoked yourself crazy," Quincy scoffed, "That’s what you calling it now?"

"Don’t give me that," Stacks shook his head, "Yeah, I know about you, Unc. You a real Damu, ain’t enough liquor or dope in the world to change that about you. You handled business with that…situation and I just think a nigga like you don’t need to be wasting away drinking forties all day."

"I appreciate your concern," Quincy flashed a smile as he resumed his journey, walking past Stacks.

"Just think about it, OG," Stacks told him as Quincy walked away, "I could use a motherfucker like you on my counsel."

…

Elijah tossed back the last of his third shot, the burn in his throat a familiar comfort. He slid the empty glass back to the bartender, who quickly refilled it. The pulsing music and gyrating bodies around him provided a temporary escape from the reality of his diminished circumstances.

Here, his lowly paycheck that wouldn’t cover a fraction of his previous overhead, still commanded attention. He could feel the wandering eyes of the other patrons, watching him with envy as he peeled off bills and stuffed them into the g-strings of the scantily clad dancers. He never understood the allure of strip clubs, wasting money on overpriced liquor and the fleeing attention of loose women.

But now, he did. For those few hours, he was the man. No one knew or cared about his arrest record. No one judged him for throwing it all away, destroying his family’s legacy. His paycheck, $1,320 after taxes, made him a king in here.

As he threw another pair of dollar bills into the air, he knew that the brief rush of power and machismo would eventually fade away, leaving him hollow and ashamed. Elijah signaled the bartender for another round, determined to numb the pain, even if just for tonight. Tomorrow, he'd have to face Loraine, face himself in the mirror. But for now, he'd lose himself in the flashing lights and thumping bass, trying desperately to feel like a man again.

…

"I'm thinking we go with the bone-in ribeye for two," Coach Bronstein said, scanning the menu through his reading glasses. "Unless you're more of a fish kind of guy."

Keshawn smiled as he glanced around the upscale steakhouse in downtown Salt Lake City. The restaurant's dark wood paneling and ambient lighting created an atmosphere of understated luxury—a far cry from the utilitarian hotel dining rooms where they usually ate on the road.

"Sounds good to me, Coach," he replied, taking a sip of water. His muscles still ached from the morning's workout with the Jazz, his fourth workout with an NBA team in the past ten days.

"You made quite an impression today," Bronstein said, setting down his menu.

"I felt good out there," Keshawn admitted. "Legs are a little sore but definitely catching a rhythm the more we do these."

"That’s going to be life in the league, boychick," Bronstein nodded, "You can forget about ever feeling good going into a game. Sore is your new normal."

The waiter arrived with a bottle of red wine, pouring a glass for Bronstein before looking questioningly at Keshawn.

"Just soda water for him," Bronstein waved dismissively. "Kid's not even nineteen yet."

As the waiter walked away, Bronstein leaned forward. "So, the draft invite came through."

"Yeah," Keshawn nodded, fidgeting with his napkin. "I saw the email after the workout.”

"That's a big deal," Bronstein said, studying Keshawn's face. "Not everyone gets that call."

"I know."

"But you don't look excited." Bronstein took a sip of his wine. "What's going on in that head of yours?"

Keshawn hesitated, organizing his thoughts. "I know my mom wanted to do something at the house, with my family and stuff. I don’t know, I feel like that’s more important than being in some green room for God knows how long."

"I can see that," Bronstein agreed. "But the NBA Draft? In New York? That's a once-in-a-lifetime moment, boychick. The handshake with the commissioner, the hat, the cameras—that's how legends begin. You have start thinking for more than yourself or what you feel like doing in the moment."

"I know, I just—"

"You can do both," Bronstein suggested, "But skipping out on the draft? We need eyes, you need eyes on you. You don’t have LeBron’s boy doing your dirty work for you or some big agency like CAA, you’re doing it yourself.”

"I thought that was a good thing?”

"It is, in the long run," Bronstein explained, "But it also involves more work, more sacrifices. Being at the draft is not just about being in a green room waiting for your name to be called. You’re right, you can do that anywhere. It’s about the week leading up to it, all the media you’ll get to do. You’ll get to tell your story, do interviews and when you do get drafted — pretty early, I might add — the world will be introduced to you, your story and that’s how you get them, alright?"

Keshawn paused for a moment before nodding, "Yeah, you’re right."

Bronstein's laugh was short and sharp. "I know I’m right.”

The waiter returned to take their order, and Bronstein ordered for both of them—the bone-in ribeye for two, medium rare, with mashed potatoes and asparagus.

[Captain Canada]

Bronstein aint slick either

[Caesar]

Going to a booty club to throw $1,320/$1,320 is CRAZY.