Scotians & Jamaicans

A few months later, I was living with my man in Vancouver. He was a magnet—very popular, and a lot of people looked up to him for advice and guidance. He was gone from Toronto now, living in Vancouver. Slowly but surely, people came out to Vancouver to visit him and check shit out. Everybody wanted to go where the grass was greener, and it was out west—in every way. We always had company of some sort. I actually hated that.

I was meeting people up close and personal—people that I used to see around in the After Hours were now in my house. We always had company. These characters were scoping out what was good. I met all kinds of different people—all hustlers.

We ended up leaving that small two-bedroom suite and got a bigger two-bedroom in Burnaby. Burnaby, Queensboro, New West—it was all Vancouver to me. Sections of the city like East York, Beaches, and Danforth Village in T.O. The place we had was tight for three, and because it was a new development, in the beginning, we pretty much had that house to ourselves. But once the other suites in the house filled up, it was time to move.

We always had company coming to see Chet. It was like he was their uncle or a godfather to them—all of them! They all came looking for his advice, his words, his vibe.

The company—these people—were mostly Scotians, including my man. Let me tell you about the Scotians I was around—they were smooth, they were sly. They were deceptive and manipulative. They had game and swag for days—hard to resist. Some of them were downright beautiful, but every Scotian man that I ever had the pleasure of getting to know—had anger issues.

After living in Burnaby for a year or so, we moved back to Queensboro into a house—the whole house! A big-ass house it was—five bedrooms, three upstairs and two on the lower level. It looked like a Californian house from the ’70s or ’80s, with a big veranda, all the way around on the second floor, glass sliding doors, and a huge backyard. I loved that house.

Pic of a pic—gotta love that 90’s hair!

This was the mid ’90s—East Coast–West Coast rivalry was going on. Tupac got hit, and the Death Row–Bad Boy shit was in effect. I don’t know what was happening on the East Coast those days, but Vancouver was live.

People were constantly flying out from Toronto or Halifax to visit us—or, more accurately, to visit Chet. They’d rent cars, stay at hotels, scope out the scene, do what they do, and leave. They would always pop in for a word from the wise and to say hi on the way in and bye on the way out. Everyone who came out west went back home and raved about the advantages compared to Toronto—how it was all good over there.

One day, this dude we knew brought a friend with him—Boz. This guy was not like the others. He wasn’t Scotian. He was from a hood in Toronto that I wouldn’t even fuck with, walk through, or even go to—ever.

He was in a whole different game. His presence alone would give you the chills. Boz had a crew and was making a move to B.C.—and fast. He wasn’t coming out and going back, talking about it. He came out, he saw, and he never left. A few days later, there were 8 to 10 of them. They were setting up shop, and they asked if they could stay with us for a night or two. I wasn’t down for it. I was nervous because I knew what they were about.

These guys were Jamaicans, not Scotians. Big fucking difference. The Jamaicans that I’d interacted with in my teens, hanging out in Regent, were straight gangsters—aggressive. There was no con, nothing smooth or subtle about them or their actions.

I was probably 24 or 25. These guys were like 21 or 22. Their vibe was relentless. They had a powerful and menacing existence that couldn’t be ignored. Boz was sweet, easy on the eyes. He was the General, in charge. The others—straight soldiers. I only ever heard three of them speak—the three that were housebroken.

Boz and I got to talking, and when I first saw him, I kinda felt like I had seen him before. Turned out, I had. Ironically, I knew his sister from one long night of partying in his hood. I had been in that hood one time and one time only—when I was 16. His sweet face was the same, but he was a man now—a fucking General! His presence carried an unspoken threat, an unwavering focus that sent a chill through the air. They knew what they were, and they knew that I knew exactly who they were, what they were about, and how I felt about it.

We got to talking. He showed me respect and kindness. He put me at ease—I felt safe. They were fresh, fresh. They had just arrived. They weren’t making any moves yet; they were just starting out, getting established.

The decision was ultimately mine. We agreed to let them stay for a night or two—well compensated, of course. They were fully aware of their presence, the weight it carried, and that what they were asking of us was a lot—it was intrusive. They stayed in a different section of the house, completely off to the side, interacting minimally. They were quiet as kept. I never saw them in the common areas during their stay. They were all tight-knit. Wherever they were in the house, they stayed together in one room—just like soldiers packed in a huddle.

They were very respectful and polite. I saw a side of those guys that no one ever saw. For a very short time they relaxed their vigilance. They spoke softly when talking to me.

After allowing them to stay for that short time—well, that was it—we were fam.

Living in Vancouver taught me the many differences between the West Coast and the East Coast. Big—huge difference, especially in the world I was living in.

They left and set up shop far away from us. They were like a huge boulder—not going anywhere.