Kevin and I are dumb-founded. It was actually a good rap, despite the disturbing subject matter, and Lil’G seems to have some talent. I’d much rather listen to him rhyme than watch him tear the place apart.
“Lil’G man, you got some talent, you write that when you’re in prison?” I’m honestly curious.
“Nah man, I gots too much to do when I’m in the joint.” He’s dismissive with a wave of his hand.
“Too much to do? What, you working out all the time? Gotta build up those guns?” Referring to his biceps. Yet a tickling on the back of my neck reminds me that we didn’t exactly search him before he got in the ambulance with chest pain a few minutes ago. I hope Kevin did the “EMS pat down” as he put the monitor leads on him.
“Nah, I don’t work out in the joint. I’m too busy keepin’ an eye on all those niggas. Don’t never know when some fool’s gonna come up and try to stick me. Gotta be ready for a smack down, you know?”
After what seemed like an eternity PD shows up. Fortunately they pulled up to the front of the rig and I’m able to brief them before Lil’G notices they are here. The officers walk around the back of the rig so Lil’G can see them and it’s obvious by his expression that he’s not surprised. He knew this was happening all along. He’s been in this situation before and knows the drill just about as well as we do.
After a quick conversation and some paperwork the green sheet is finished and we can start to transport to the Emergency Psychological Services (EPS). Lil’G will get a psych evaluation and maybe stay a day or two for observation. It all depends on how he answers the questions.
It’s Kevin’s tech so I’m up front driving to EPS while Kevin finishes off the paper work. It turns out that no restraints or sedatives were necessary as Lil’G seems to want to go to the EPS. I can only imagine the life he’s led up to this point and how it may actually be comforting for him to rest in a relatively safe institution for a few days.
Growing up in the hood he presumably had few positive role models. He must have been in harm’s way often and exposed to some traumatic events. Just as a soldier comes back from a war with PTSD, I can imagine that life in the hood can create the same effect. Then at a formative age he’s placed in prison with its strict routine and lack of freedom accompanied by the ever-present danger of prison violence. Past traumatic experiences have created at least as many mental/emotional scars as physical ones.
Yet even with these obstacles this man has made it to his forth decade of life, which is rare for people in his situation. He seems to focus his energy on his rhymes, which he presents in all modalities of communication, with a harmony of visual/kinesthetic/auditory artistry. A man with limited education and vocabulary is able to access his inner emotions and express his feelings, dark and violent as they may be, to others and himself.
Pulling into EPS I hear the disturbing rhymes from the back of the rig.
I chop your head off… let it roll in a buck-et.
I punch your eyes out… so I can skull fuck-it.
But I aint trippin’ nigga… I won’t beg.
I drink the blood… from a bull dog’s left leg.
I told you once nigga… I ain’t even trippin’.
You get found nigga… by three old men fishin’.
We can do some shit… I might bust your brain.
But on the tip of my shoes… I’m leavin’ doo-stains.