Flip Side of the Game

by Tu-Shonda L. Whitaker

  “I’m not staying here to be by this bitch’s side! Fuck her! What she ever do for me but put me in a trash dump and hide out on the corner ’til the garbage man heard me cry? I gotta go!”

  “You keep on runnin’!” Queen shouted at me, while I was going through the hospital’s roundabout. “You keep on runnin’! She don’t need you. She got me! She ain’t no everyday dopefiend. She my friend, goddamnit! My friend! Fuck you!”

  Taj watched me rev my X5 out of the parking lot and haul ass. Fuck them, I thought. I didn’t need not even one of them. Not Taj, not Queen, and damn sure not Rowanda.

  By the time I tipped in the door to check on Aunt Cookie, the house seemed asleep. All the lights were out, and the only thing shining was the small wicker lamp that she kept on the end table. She usually left Marvin Gaye playing softly on the CD player, as she made her way up the stairs to sleep.

  “Marvin was my nigga,” she used to say when I was little. “That was my man, and the day his daddy shot ’im straight fucked Cookie Turner up.

  As I walked toward my old room, I heard the crushing of the orange speckled industrial carpet that Aunt Cookie got on sale at fourteen cents a square yard in 1972. She refused to change it, because she said that she hadn’t gotten her money’s worth out the shit, and the man she bought it from said that it was due to last a lifetime. She also kept the plastic on her red crushed velvet living room set, because she said that people were always touching her shit, and she didn’t want them messing up her “bad-ass furniture” that she regarded as a classic.

  The stream of the light from the wicker lamp reflected off the windowpane and led a valley of blue down the dark hallway.

  Peeking in Aunt Cookie’s room, I saw Uncle Boy’s feet hanging off the side of their queen-sized bed. Aunt Cookie was sitting in the dark, staring out the window, with a silk scarf tied around her head, smoking a cigarette.

  “Aunt Cookie, what you still doin’ up?”

  “Waiting to see what time you was gonna come tippin’ in here.”

  “How did you know I was coming here?”

  “’Cause of what you did. How you showed yo’ ass at that hospital. How you was up there cussin’ like a mu’fuckin’ fool.”

  “How did you know that?”

  “Taj.”

  “I ain’t have to be there! Queen came to get me. I didn’t have to go. I could have let her die!”

  “You could have let her die? You got some nerve playing God, Vera!”

  “To hell wit’ Rowanda! What she ever do for me?”

  “What she ever do for you? Every goddamn hustle she ever had was because of you! She ain’t have to take care of you for the little time she had you. She could’ve let you die, but she didn’t, and when she lost you, she still fought for you. The day they took you, she walked all the way from Lincoln Street to my house. She said she saw you bangin’ on the car windows hollering and screaming, but she kept walking, because she needed to do something, something to save you.”

  “Really? That’s interesting. I guess that in between her sessions of sniffin’ dope, she placed me in a trash dump. That’s sure to get her Mother of the Year.”

  “Say another word and I’ma slap the shit outta you! Now, you shut the hell up and listen, and you listen good! Rowanda ain’t never had nothing from the start. All she ever known was them drugs. Ain’t no life like the one for a dopefiend.

  “She came and she got me. She told me ’bout you, and I ain’t wait. I came for you, and this the bitterness that you show my love. This is it?”

  I just stood there. Tears rolled down my cheeks.

  “You keep goin’, Vera, and you keep killin’ yo’self ’cause you hatin’ yo’ mama. Keep it up and you gonna die long before she does. You better wake up, ’cause everybody has got a story, Vera. Everybody.”

  All night, I lay in the bed and fought off memories of dopefiends. The crack pipe played in my mind like an eight track, or a scratched-up record with a stuck needle. I could hear lingering clinks of silver belt buckles across porcelain sinks as I made my way outta the bed and to the face of the toilet.

  I stared at the water going around and around as I flushed the routine evening sickness of my stomach down the drain. The circles of water raced through my mind, and each time I heard the faucet drip, I would jump. I refused to move and let anybody in, because nobody knew what it was like to have lived all your life feeling like a newborn in a trash dump.

  The phone was ringing, and I refused to pick it up.

  “Nothing is that bad, Vera,” Lee and Angie said on the answering machine. “Nothing.”

  “I’ma just let myself in if you don’t answer the phone,” Shannon insisted.

  I didn’t hear Taj when he came in. Seeing my hand on the side of the toilet, barely hanging on, he broke down and almost cried.

  I slipped to the floor, weak and disoriented, wondering why I could never get over the heartache inside. Taj lay on floor, and there we were, face-to-face, with our cheeks resting on the cold porcelain, laying it all on the line.

  “I always thought that I could live without Rowanda. I always thought I could be me by myself, but she never allowed me.”

  Taj just listened.

  “I love my Aunt Cookie, let me just say that, but she’s not my mother. My mother is some crackhead dopefiend that has me trying to kick her drug habit.

  “There are so many people I have seen in my life who didn’t care about me. I had to learn to survive, and hustling men is what got me through, not knowing that it was that same hustle that would bring me full circle with myself.

  “Until I met you, I didn’t know what it was like to be in love, or how to truly love someone in love with you. I didn’t know how to treat them, because I didn’t know how I wanted to be treated. So, I used men and I played them, thinking that it would make up for me feeling like a crying newborn in a trash dump.

  “I feel like all my life I’ve been pretending that all fifty-two cards in my deck are aces. Shit, life is a mu’fucka.”

  “Life is mu’fucka? Life is a mu’fucka?” he said, raising his head from the base of the toilet. “What is wrong with you? You been living your life out a dressed-up trash dump? So, what you’re telling me is that Cookie, Boy, Lee, Angie, and Shannon don’t mean shit just ’cause Rowanda is crackhead?

  “You got to love you, Vera. Vera has to be Vera’s best friend before Vera can make love, give love, or be about love. You think you’re the only child who’s ever been given birth to but never had a mother? You think you’re the only one that has ever cried!

  “Get yo’ ass up off this floor and get it together! What are we doing at the neck of the shit bowl? Get up! And don’t you drop not one more pitiful tear! Life ain’t a mu’fucka. Life is what you make it!

  “Come on, baby,” he said, holding me. “I know you’re stronger than this. Go see your mother.”

  I spent three hours riding around the hospital parking lot, trying to figure out what to say and what to do. At first, I thought about going to see if she died, but then I thought about what would happen if I couldn’t tell her how I felt. What would happen if I couldn’t tell her that I still felt like a newborn in a trash dump? What would happen if I couldn’t tell her that I used to dream of her coming home and being clean, of her coming to get me? What would I do if she died? Would I die?

  Her eyes were closed when I first entered the room. I stood over her for what felt like hours, but when I checked my watch, only five minutes had past. Her body seemed frail, and she had tubes coming from everywhere.

  “Okay, I’m here,” I said to nobody in particular, and nobody in particular answered. The room was dark, and the only light that came drifting in was from the nurse’s station. Flashes of red and blue filtered throughout the room.

  I stood in one spot and looked around. I puckered my lips and bit the inside of my jaw.

  “You know, Rowanda,” I said to her as she lay there, showing few signs of life. “Life is a mu’fucka, a
nd that’s the God’s honest truth.” I felt my throat welling up, but I couldn’t cry now. I had something to say.

  “You’ve always been my shadow. Everywhere I went, everything I did, there you were. I could never be released from you, and how I prayed that you would die. How I prayed that you would overdose and die. But when the opportunity came, I carried you on my back and tried to save you.

  “You have given me the strength and determination that I have today to be nothing like you. I don’t know who you are or what you are. All I know is that you are my mother, and I’ve never had a mother before. And you know why? Because nobody will let you die! So, I tell you what, don’t fuckin’ die on me now! Don’t fuckin’ go. I need you. I need to hear your story.”

  I lay my head down and pushed my face on the side of her hip and deep into the white sheet. I could almost taste the smell of her skin.

  I thought that I was dreaming when I woke up with crust on the side of my mouth and Rowanda’s hand stroking my hair.

  “I’m sorry, Vera,” she said in a whisper. “I’m sorry I ain’t never been no good. All my life I ain’t been shit.”

  I went to say something, but she asked that I just listen.

  “Larry Turner was my mother’s man, but he loved me. He was the only one that showed me what it was like to be loved and cared for, so I betrayed my mama and I stayed with him. My mother took you ’cause she said you was the child she was s’pose to have with Larry.

  “All I have ever known is dope, and when crack hit the scene, I was a full-fledged fiend. I ain’t never been shit!”

  “Rowanda,” I said, cutting her off.

  “No, you let me talk. All my life, I have had my mother sell me to men, sell me to women, sell me to whoever would give her money for dope. When I was hungry, Mama was shootin’ up the food. When I was down, Mama was high, and when I needed love, I thought I had Larry Turner by my side, but he didn’t care either. And when I told him I was pregnant, he laughed. He laughed and told me I was a bitch, a used-up bitch who wanted his money.

  “I never wanted his money, I just wanted to be loved. My mama used to say, ‘That’s what you get, bitch! That’s what you get!’

  “The only people that ever treated me like somebody was Towanda’s boys, Cookie, and Queen. Ain’t nobody else, including my own child, ever gave a fuck about me. And so, I needed something to get me away. Something that made me feel like I could do anything I wanted to do. The dope needle was dick for me, you understand? The dope dealer was my man, and whatever I needed to do to keep him, I did, no matter what the cost. If I ever crossed over and went to the other side, then that would be a price that I had to pay.”

  “So, what you saying is that you gonna punk out and die on us now?”

  “Us?”

  “Yes, us. I’m having a baby, and I need you. We need you.”

  “Humph,” she said, sounding exhausted. “Am I gonna punk out and die? Hell, no! All your life, I been dead. Now I wanna show my grandbaby what it’s like for me to be alive!”

  THE END

  Coming Soon

  Larceny

  Jason Poole

  Chapter 1

  “When we met”

  SONYA

  It was a cool day in May of 1994 when we first met. As I entered the building most famous in Washington, D.C. for its political scandals and often seen on every news channel after 5:00 p.m., I felt good.

  For some reason, today seemed so good. I woke up this morning feeling more beautiful than ever. As I looked at myself in the mirror of my one bedroom condo on Connecticut Avenue in Northwest, D.C., I must say that I was proud of the reflection I saw. I could tell that the low-carb diet that I’ve been on for the last month was doing my abs supreme justice. My stomach was almost flatter than Janet Jackson’s and my ass was more shapely and fatter than a Las Vegas stripper. Thanks to my mama I had inherited one of her greatest assets. Also, I could see that the Palmer’s Coca Butter that I use keeps my golden brown skin as flawless as Halle Berry’s. If I was to compare myself to someone famous I’d say it would be “Toni Braxton,” but slightly thicker in all the right places.

  In most men eyes I’m considered a perfect ten, a “straight dime piece” is what they call it, and to my surprise not just men but women too, especially the ones who desperately want to sleep with me. I’m always getting indirect invitations from bisexual women, and to tell the truth, these women are gorgeous also. Although it may seem interesting letting another woman lick my pussy, I still decline. I’m not into that and I don’t think I ever will be, I’m “strictly dickly.”

  I opened my bedroom windows this morning to get a feel of the summer’s cool breeze. The weather was nice, it was in the high 70s. As I opened my walk-in closet full of upscale business suits, casual tops and bottoms of the latest fashion; Gucci, Versace, Donna Karan, Prada, Chanel and many more, I thought it would be perfect to wear my new cream Dolce & Gabbana short halter-top dress. I pulled out a pair of medium heel anklelaced sandals by Joan & David, to show off my freshly pedicured toes. Since I felt so good, I planned to wear my hair back and let its tail fall down to crease of my spine, sort of how the famous singer, “Sade” wears hers, and no I do not have a big forehead.

  I stepped into the shower and turned on the radio to the station that plays all the coolest jams. I turned the volume up as they played Tanya Blunt’s new song, “Through The Rain.” Tanya is also from Washington, D.C. and it’s so good to see people from D.C. getting a chance to show their true talents.

  When I got out of the shower, I hadn’t realized that time had flew past so quickly. I had gotten in the shower at 9:30 a.m. and it was now 10:15, damn that shower felt so good I guess I had gotten caught up and lost track of time, sorta like lovemaking, huh? Anyway, I let the cool breeze from my bedroom window dry my golden brown skin off and then I lotioned my body with my Victoria Secret’s Amber Romance body lotion and put on my clothes, pulled my hair back and looked in the mirror one last time. Oh, did I mention I’m also bowlegged.

  Here I am, Ms. Sonya Chanell Dunkin, the Assistant Producer at B.E.T. Studios, with a lavish condo in the upper northwest and the proud owner of a new emerald green convertible BMW 325IC, and for the record, I’m single, sexy, and free. I didn’t have enough time to grab a bite to eat because my appointment was scheduled for 11:15 a.m., so instead, I grabbed a granola bar, got in my BMW and headed for 500 Indiana Avenue, NW, Washington, D.C.’s Superior Court.

  It was this day that I met the man of my dreams, the most gracious and perfect gentleman I’ve ever met in my life. This was the day I met the man I plan to spend the rest of my life with. As I entered the elevator and the door was about to close, it opened back up again and “there he was.” There were two other woman on the elevator also, one who seemed as though she was a nervous wreck. I assumed she was an untrained court clerk getting the run around from her boss. The other one was an elderly woman with a pretty smile who wore the worst perfume I’ve ever smelled in my life. And there he was, just about six feet tall, caramel complexion, jet black wavy hair, which he wore semilow, with the grain. He had a precise shape up, as though his barber had outlined it with a razor, and he wore a light, perfectly trimmed goatee.

  It was as if I had x-ray vision because when I pierced my eyes through his clothing, it was obvious this man was in extremely good shape, he had a body similar to the actor Shamar Moore. His face was very handsome, it reminded me of Denzel Washington when he played “Malcolm X.” As I glanced up and down at him, shoes first, I saw that he wore about a size nine? shoe and he had on a pair of black calfskin slip-on’s by Salvatore Farrangomo with the silver buckle, a pair of thin black slacks by Farrangomo with a matching black belt. His slacks weren’t tight nor too baggy, they fit him just right. When he stood still, the cuff of his slacks would lay over the top of his shoes and when he walked, the cuff would pop up, exposing the buckle of his shoes, which matched his belt. He had made sure that his outfit was perfect. He also wore a thin black
long sleeve mock neck shirt, which enhanced his Movado watch.

  On the other hand, he had on a plain “white gold” bracelet designed like a bicycle chain. He also carried a small notebook case and his walk was a gracious, cool superior walk, as if to say, “nothing or nobody can fuck with me!” It wasn’t a thugged out, I’m trying too much to look hard walk, it was more of a glide with a sense of security, boldness, and assurance.

  The elevator reached the third floor and the doors opened. As I was getting off the elevator, I couldn’t resist the sensational smell of his cologne. I imagined it might have been “Curve” by Liz Clauborne or “Blue Jean” by Gianni Versace. Before the doors closed, he leaped out of the elevator and followed me as I continued to walk down the hall.

  “Excuse me Miss, may I please have a moment of your time?” he asked.

  Although I knew he was talking to me, I still played it off. I looked up and down the hall and answered, “Are you talking to me?”

  “Yes I am. Hello and how are you?” he asked, his voice sounding smoother than he looked. “My name is Jovan Price and I normally don’t go out of my way much, but for you I had to make an exception. It is obvious by my actions that I’m extremely attracted to you. Is there any kinda way that you and I can get to know one another better?”

  Normally, I would have told the average brotha that I was either involved or engaged, but with him I respected his approach so I said, “Well, Mr. Price . . .”

  “Jovan, please call me Jovan, Mr. Price is my father,” he said, smiling.

  “Okay then Jovan, my name is Sonya and it wouldn’t be any harm in us getting to know each other a little better, but right now I’m running late. I have an appointment in about sixty seconds, I shouldn’t be that long maybe fifteen to twenty minutes.”

  “So Ms. Sonya, is it good to say that you’ll have lunch with me?”

  In my mind I’m saying, “Hell yes, with your fine-ass!” But, as always, I’m too ladylike to be acting like my hood rat cousin, Trina, so I said, “Yes, I will have lunch with you.”