The Orie Story: No Risk, No Reward

By Orie Anderson

This is a story of a man who gained everything just to lose it all striving to fulfill his dreams.

Most of you may know him as Poppi from The Street of God 2 book by Christian Hayward. Now read the complete life story of Orie Anderson told by the man himself.

This is the story of a kid who grew up in one of Cleveland, Ohio's most dangerous neighborhoods and who had to face poverty, violence, drugs, racism, and even police brutality--all while suffering from a severe bipolar disorder.

Then one day, he discovered his gift in rap music. As he fought to escape his harsh reality, in search of a better life for himself and his family, he fell victim to the allure of the drug trade. He suddenly found himself trapped in a lifestyle of drug deals, violence, sex, and money. On his mission to gain it all, he would eventually lose everything.

After being falsely accused of the murder of his own friend, he would stand trial for a crime he didn't commit. "For every artist such as Jay-Z who was fortunate enough to make it out the game, there is an artist like myself who couldn't escape the traps!" This is the true Orie story.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Feb 14, 2023
• ISBN: 9781662485817

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The Orie Story

No Risk, No Reward

Orie Anderson

Copyright © 2022 Orie Anderson

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING

Conneaut Lake, PA

First originally published by Page Publishing 2022

ISBN 978-1-66248-572-5 (pbk)

ISBN 978-1-66248-581-7 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 1

Growing up in the ghetto family meant everything. We didn't have a lot of material things. However, we always had each other. Life in my household was often crazy. There was seven of us living in a small three-bedroom house. We had our good times, bad times, and even ugly times. Still, we always made it through. My home was filled with dramatic characters with large personalities. My mother was the queen of our household. She was intelligent, beautiful, and very opinionated. She had a great sense of humor along with a warm heart. She took her religion as a Jehovah's Witness very seriously. She believed in working hard and earning an honest living. When I was a kid, my mom started her own home-cleaning service. Sometimes she would have to bring me along. One day, her client was my elementary school teacher Ms. McGee. I remember arriving at her huge home. I marveled at all the large rooms with expensive furniture. Their home felt like a museum to me. It had so much space. It had big glass windows that gave you a clear view of their backyard. Each one of her kids had their own rooms. Her son had so many name-brand shoes. They had their own closet. The daughter was as beautiful as the girls I saw on TV. I spent most of the day sitting next to her watching music videos. I was having so much fun. Then suddenly, something happened that completely stole that feeling. Reality has a way of sneaking up on you then slapping you right in the face when you least expect it. My reality was about to alter my mindset forever.

In the middle of their kitchen, on her hands and knees, drenched in her own sweat, there was my mother, sponge in hand, scrubbing their floor. I was instantly filled with anger. Everything that seemed so wonderful about this place suddenly sickened me to my core. I resented the idea that this family lived so well while my mother worked her fingers to the bone and barely got by. At that very moment, it became clear to me that life wasn't fair. Right there on that couch, I made myself a promise. I would change our fortune one day. I had absolutely no idea how I would go about doing so. I just knew I was willing to do anything it took. That day was a defining moment in my life. Seeing the woman I loved so much working so hard for so little lit a fire inside me. Ironically, humble living never affected my mother. She did whatever was necessary to make ends meet. She was always stellar in public. She never let the world see her crack. However, she had a very sensitive side as well. It often came pouring out of her at home. She was both strong and fragile at the same time. I saw her tears when money just wouldn't stretch through the month, the embarrassment when the utility company came to our house for disconnection. I watched my parents go through a financial roller coaster my entire childhood. Anytime they made any sort of progress toward a better life, there would be some inevitable setback that would keep them scratching and surviving. I was determined to change that no matter what it took. My mom was a woman of great pride, so she never let me help her clean homes. She said I would only get in her way and slow her down; however, I knew the real reason was because she was worried I would steal something when no one was watching. She didn't want me to cost her to lose money she desperately needed. Honestly, I couldn't blame her. I was a thief, and we all knew it.

I spent the rest of that day on the couch with Ms. McGee's daughter. We watched more music videos. We ate snacks and drank from juice boxes. She was extremely nice to me, and I was grateful. I was just a little poor kid, so hanging out with her was a big deal for me. Salt-N-Pepa had just dropped a new video to their hit single Shoop. My eyes were glued to the TV. If you're old enough to remember the Salt-N-Pepa era, then you know how quick a boy could become a man watching one of their videos. I was completely captivated with the way they looked, the way they dressed, especially the way they talked. I was too young to fully understand everything they spoke about. However, I knew they were talking about sex for sure. There was one specific line in that song that stuck with me—Nine inches to a yard will have you sounding like a retard. I was young. Still, I knew they were talking about a man's penis size.

As soon as I arrived back home, I grabbed my ruler out of my book bag. I then locked myself in the bathroom. I located nine inches on the ruler. Then I looked down at my own naked body. I thought to myself, How could I ever grow this into that? I wondered if that type of growth was even physically possible. I grabbed my penis by the tip then stretched it forward as far as I could. I picked up the ruler then measured myself. I was disappointed to say the least. At eight years old, my body showed no sign of growing nine inches. Then I remembered the part of the song that talked about a yard. I knew that a yard was the size of three rulers. I couldn't imagine any human penis being that long. I pictured my penis growing like Stretch Armstrong's body parts did in the cartoons. How would I carry all of that around? I would never be able to fit all of that in my underwear. I was so confused. It's amazing how one line in one song had such an impact on my mind. There I was completely naked in my bathroom with my ruler in one hand and my dick the other. As I grew into my teens, I continued to measure my erections. It became my secret obsession. I literally prayed every night I would reach nine inches. Around the ages fourteen or fifteen, I had a serious growth spurt throughout my entire body. Suddenly, my prayers were answered. My erections surpassed nine inches. Won't he do it? :-) Salt-N-Pepa set the standard for me at an early age. Since I was able to meet that standard as I matured, I developed a certain level of confidence with women. I most likely would have never had if not for Salt, Pepa, and Spinderella.

Music was a big deal in my home growing up. Every Saturday morning, my mom would play her Anita Baker or Patti LaBelle records, dramatically singing along as she cleaned the house. Her taste in music was extremely diverse. She listened to everything from En Vogue to Randy Travis. That is where I got my love for music no matter the genre. My father was a music lover as well. However, he mostly listened to reggae music. He had his two or three favorite songs that he always played. He would pull into our driveway blasting Telephone Love by Shabba Ranks or Boombastic by Shaggy. No matter where I was or what I was doing, when I heard that music, I instantly knew that my father had arrived. My father was a smooth-talking country boy from Arkansas. He did a lot of traveling before he finally settled his hat in Cleveland, Ohio. He even had a daughter in Chicago, who would visit in the summers. In true country-boy fashion, my dad chewed tobacco and smoked marijuana. I would steal any unfinished joints out of his ashtray and sell them to the older kids in the neighborhood for change. That was my very first hustle. My father didn't really like to bring people to his home. So he mostly smoked alone. Sometimes he would get together with my aunt Lou. The two of them would smoke and joke together.

My father was the truest definition of a hustler. He did any and everything imaginable to provide for his family. Finding a decent-paying job was difficult for black men in the 1980s. Still, he never let that stop him from making a way. He went out every night and sold perfumes, oils, incense, and even costume jewelry at random locations. He hustled at bars, stores, and Laundromats. He went anywhere there was a crowd he could sell to. He had a real charm and charisma about himself. Everywhere he went, people were happy to see him. He took me with him most places sometimes because he chose to but mostly because he had no other choice. It was simply too much trouble to leave me at home unattended. Either way, I enjoyed myself. A day with my father was like an adventure. All the different people we would interact with, all the extra attention I received—they were all so exciting to me. The thing I loved the most about being with my dad was watching him hustle. The way he used his personality, the way he would have people eating out of the palm of his hands—it was almost as if no one cared that he was selling cheap oils and costume jewelry. They wanted to spend their money with him regardless. I learned a lot from watching my father hustle. I realized that the salesman was more important than the actual product he was selling. My dad wasn't just selling perfumes. He was selling his personality and charisma. He made people buy into who he was, which made them want to spend their money. That is a strategy I've used countless times in my own hustles, one that I still use to this very day.

My dad never gave up even when things got ugly. He taught me my most valuable lesson in life. I remember him telling me that a man was put on this earth to provide and protect for the people he loved. I never forgot his words. Not only did he talk the talk, he also walked the walk. Late in the spring of 1995, I was at Kmart with my parents. I was trained not to ask for anything when we went shopping. I knew we lived on a tight budget. However, when I saw this roll-away basketball hoop, I couldn't contain my excitement. Although I didn't bother asking them to buy it for me, my parents could see how much I wanted it. Once we were back in our car heading home, I started to talk about that basketball hoop. My parents told me that if I behaved at home and at school, they would try to get me that basketball hoop. I knew that it would never happen. No matter how much I behaved or how much my parents wanted to buy it for me, I was fully aware of our financial situation. I knew it was just too expensive. My parents had better things to spend their hard-earned money on—like bills and food. Still, I knew having that basketball hoop would make me the most popular kid in my neighborhood. At eleven years old, I didn't have many friends. I was too little, too weird, and too poor to be a part of the in crowd.

One day in early July, as I played with my dog in the backyard, my father's car pulled into the driveway. He was playing his usual reggae music. He got out of the car then asked me to help him grab something out of the car. I sluggishly walked to his car. I was irritated that I was being asked to do some work. When I made it to the car and saw what was inside, I was overwhelmed with joy. I was completely speechless. My greatest wish had come true. Right there in the back seat was a huge box that read Roll-Away Basketball Hoop. I dragged the giant box into the backyard. My father asked me if I knew how to assemble it. I immediately said yeah. I had no clue how to put it together. However, in all my excitement, that minor detail was irrelevant. I knew I would figure it out. My older brother and I had that hoop up in no time. I gathered every kid I knew to join us in my backyard. The news spread like wildfire. Eventually my backyard was the hottest new hangout in my neighborhood, exactly as I hoped. It was crowded, and I barely got picked to play in any games myself. However, I didn't care. For the first time ever, I was popular and important. I wanted so badly to be accepted by the other kids. So even though I knew most, if not all of them, were only there for my hoop and not me, I was on a natural high, and the minor details didn't matter. I had no idea that in the weeks to come, while my new basketball hoop had me living on cloud nine, reality was about to smack me right in the face. I was about to come crashing back down to earth.

Chapter 2

One early Saturday morning, my dad prepared to go out hustling. He yelled from his bedroom upstairs for me to bring him his shoes. When I leaned down to pick up his shoes, I noticed there was newspaper stuffed at the bottom of both shoes. I lifted the newspaper from one shoe. Underneath the layers of paper were holes in the sole of his shoe. My father needed new shoes badly. Still, he chose to buy me a basketball hoop instead. Was my happiness that important to him? I put the pieces of newspaper back in place. Then I delivered his shoes. I was completely hurt by what I just discovered. I sat quietly on the stairs of my back porch. I stared intently at my basketball hoop. At that very moment, I started to gain clarity about what was truly important in life. Seeing my father's shoes put everything into perspective for me. My parents worked hard to provide for me. I vowed to never take that for granted again. Moreover, I couldn't shake the feeling of guilt that was burning within me. Knowing the sacrifice my father made simply so I could be happy, I felt as if I owed him a much better life one day. At eleven years old, I was ready to do something about our situation. I didn't know for sure that I would sell drugs one day. However, looking around my neighborhood, I definitely knew that it was an option. After that day, my basketball hoop took on a whole new meaning. It was no longer a means to friends and popularity to me. It was a symbol of my father's sacrifice and love. It was a constant reminder of our true struggle in life. I knew we deserved better than the hand we were dealt. I was ready to reshuffle the deck. I was ready to get us a better hand.

Ironically, my basketball hoop would not be the only highlight of my summer. This would be the summer I finally stood up to L, the neighborhood bully. He was extremely athletic. He had muscles like a grown man. He boxed, wrestled, and even ran better than every kid on our street, which made life even worse for me. I couldn't beat him or run from him. To this very day, I still have no idea why he disliked me. My neighborhood was weird in that way. People didn't need a reason to dislike you. They simply did, and that was that. I was never much when it came to fighting. I had the courage. I just never really had the skills to match. So I was an easy prey for a bully like L. Harassing me was his favorite thing to do. He made fun of my Goodwill clothes and Payless shoes. He made jokes about my gap teeth and big nose. I usually just sat quietly and accepted my humiliation. I did my best to avoid him at all cost. However, we lived in a very small neighborhood. I had to pass his home on my way to the playground and even the corner store. He made my life a living hell. No matter what I tried, his hate for me only grew stronger. To make matters even worse, the girl he had a crush on had recently asked me to be her boyfriend. Her name was Taire. She stayed in the house directly across the street from mine. She was beautiful, light-skinned with hazel-brown eyes and a big bright smile. Every boy my age wanted her, especially L. For some reason, she chose me over everybody. I was proud to have something that everybody wanted. However, in the ghetto, there is an unwritten rule. Whatever you have, you have to be willing to protect it. There is always someone waiting to take it from you. I knew that the day would inevitably come when someone would challenge me for my girl. However, I never imagined that challenger would be L, the one kid I feared the most.

One day, while playing on my street, L spotted me then ran off his front porch in my direction. This was an everyday thing for the two of us. I would try to sneak past his home unnoticed. Somehow, he would always catch me then harass me. However, today would be different from every other day. As he made his way toward me, other kids followed him. It was almost as if the people in the hood had some special radar for drama. By the time L made it to where I was standing, a full crowd of spectators had formed around us. My adrenaline was pumping. I knew what was to come. Still I knew my days of running and ducking were behind me. Today, I was going to stand my ground. L walked up into my face. I could smell the hot Cheetos on his breath. He spoke directly at me. His words were calm and cocky. He said, I like yo girl, and I think you' too soft to have a pretty girl. He then went on to call me a sucka and tell me how bad he will beat me down. I didn't say a word. I knew without a doubt that this was my moment. Right here, right now, I had to make my move. If not, I would be labeled a coward and lose all respect in the neighborhood. So before he could say another word, I reached back as far as I could then I swung with as much force as possible, and I slapped him right in his mouth. I chose to slap him because it is the ultimate disrespect. Everyone was completely shocked by my actions including myself. L charged at me like a raging bull. We locked up like two vicious dogs. We fought in the bushes, on the grass, and even on the concrete sidewalk. I felt no pain. I was fed up. Midfight, I thought to myself, I'm doing pretty good. He isn't as tough as I thought. The crowd started to separate the two of us. I jumped to my feet ready to celebrate what felt like a victory to me. However, before I could get out one word, I was punched right in my face and knocked back to the ground by another kid named Otis. He lived around the corner on Union Street. I never figured out why he hit me that day. However, as I watched L and Otis walk away, the crowd of kids followed behind them. It was clear to me that I didn't have any friends here. Although standing up to L didn't win me friends, it did stop him from harassing me. Most importantly, I showed everybody that I had heart, which is essential in the ghetto. I did what I needed to do. It was all worth it.

As a kid, I was diagnosed with ADHD as well as manic depression, which is now labeled bipolar disorder. I was all over the place mentally. It was extremely difficult to control my thoughts and actions. I would feel excited and anxious one moment then feel extremely depressed and hopeless the next. I was riddled with uncontrollable highs and lows. I was eventually placed on medications, which made me feel as if I was being held captive inside my own mind. Although the meds may have made me calmer, they also took away my personality. They made me spaced out and disconnected. I hated the way medication made me feel. However, no one even considered how I felt. My school teachers and counselors had my parents convinced this was the best option. Since they had no real knowledge of mental illness or how to deal with it, they simply took whatever advice was given by the so-called professionals. Meanwhile, I was being treated like a laboratory rat. I was prescribed different combination of meds and different doses until I decided to take matters into my own hands. I eventually refused to take any more medications. Although, I started to feel like myself again, I knew my mind wasn't like the other kids. It never would be. I was later tested for learning disabilities. I scored so high on every test it was determined that I was intellectually gifted. I had the IQ of an adult at the age of ten. As smart as I was, I still did a lot of stupid things as a kid.

Once, I accidentally swallowed some kerosene. I thought it was water for some reason. My father had to rush me to the ER. My stomach was immediately pumped. Another time, I was playing with a can of spray paint and lighter. I ended up setting my entire hand on fire. My parents had to drive me to the ER once again. Then