Once I got past Garrison things went into steep decline, though – every third building was dark and boarded up, roofs falling in and yards all gone to seed. Fern bars and antiques, all empty and quiet that late at night. It wasn’t too bad, even if the revitalized riverfront cafes and art shops were a little kitschy for my taste. I got Troy’s order ready, a real party pack, and then napped for an hour before I started biking my way across the bridge, past the University and along River Street. “Okay, it’s filed away in my Memory Palace. “Over in French Hill, huh?” Pretty ramshackle neighborhood, if I recalled correctly, rundown shops and old houses, all from a time when the city had had a little more business and a little less trouble. You gotta come down South tonight – corner of River and Powder Mill, no number you’ll see from the street, but you can’t miss it, big place, nice wide porch, two big maples out front. “You still up on Thurber?” I said, finalizing the details. Nothing but amiable agreement coming down the line through the theremin-laced static whining over his voice. We worked the logistics through the bad reception, me suggesting an amount and Troy basically agreeing to whatever I said, and then I tacked a 20% Annoyance Fee to the price, but he didn’t even pause. “I don’t wanna haul this shit over only to carry it all back ‘cause you just wanted a little smoke.” “Surprise me,” he said, his voice suddenly loud and grating. “That’s it,” I thought I heard him say, although it was so quiet I couldn’t be sure. E, K, 357s, fenty, tabs, weed, coke, I got it all right now.” You caught me on an inventory day, so I can hook you up. “But other than that, I can take care of you. “Sorry, I don’t sell cough drops,” I said. “Big one, and I wanna laaaaaaaay out a spread.” His voice dragged and there was more static, followed by a wet, hacking cough. I leaned forward and squinted, concentrating on his words. “Z’party tonight,” he whispered on his end. His words echoed and there was a weird sibilance behind them, something crawly in his voice that made me shiver. “-ry,” was all I heard, then a burst of stinging static in my ear. “Sounds like you’re calling from the goddamn Moon.” “Shit reception man,” I shouted down the phone. “Hey man,” he answered, tinny and distant. So when my phone rang and I saw it was Troy’s number, I shrugged and answered. None of that quarter-ounce bullshit like most college kids. But, before he’d dropped off the radar a few months back, Troy been one of my best customers, no haggling, no bullshit, cash in hand, and always in good quantity. I’d been selling pretty good lately and could afford to let some business slide. Will he make this a reality? If you ask him, he’d tell you “I have no choice”.Anybody else and I’d probably have just ignored the call. His goal is to build confidence in other formerly incarcerated individuals which will allow them to rightfully own parts of their neighborhoods. Over the next 7 years, Vick hopes to help One Thousand (1,000) formerly incarcerated individuals see the finishing line in becoming a homeowner by holding homeowner brunch workshops for interested and prepared parties. Moom believes that by helping others establish homeownership milestones, the people that once were considered “lost causes” could thrive and become positive pillars of their communities - and thanks to his team, the 1k2030 initiative plans to reduce the recidivism rate in the country and nudge young individuals without guidance to lean towards investing at a young age. As a native of Dorchester, MA, a former inmate at FCI Fort Dix in New Jersey, and creator of the 1k 2030 Initiative, Moom is a hands-on leader who focuses on increasing the levels of financial literacy within his hometown with optimal efficiency – which reduces the need for criminal-like activities that lead to recidivism. Eric “Moom” Vick is most known for his “I have no choice” demeanor.
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