by Kiki Swinson
From Baby, You’re the Best
Prologue
Alexis
“Thanks for everything. I enjoyed serving you.”
You? You? Not this shit again! That bitch waited on us for two hours. I’d kept my mouth shut when the “What would you like to drink?” was directed toward my man only. I had to interrupt with my request for a mai tai.
We’d adhered to their protocol by writing our orders on the restaurant’s request forms, meaning there was no need to ask what we wanted to eat. The repeat for confirmation, “So you’re having the fried wings, rice and gravy, and steamed cabbage and the vegetable plate with double collard greens, and fried okra?” was asked of my man as though he was going to eat it all by himself.
Now that the check was here, I was still invisible? Aw, hell no! I pushed back my chair, stood tall on the red-bottom stilettos my man had bought. The hem of my purple halter minidress was wedged between the crack of my sweet chocolate ass but I didn’t give a damn. That working-for-tips trick was about to come up short.
I leaned over the table, pointed at the waiter, then said loud enough for all the people on our side of the restaurant to hear, “My man is not interested in you!”
James held my hips, pulled me toward my seat. Refusing to sit, I sprang to my feet, then told him, “No, babe.”
Nothing was holding me back from the inconsiderate asshole that obviously needed customer service training. I stepped into the aisle. The only thing separating us was air.
“Not today, Alexis. Please stop,” James pleaded.
I extended my middle finger alongside my pointing finger, and my nails stopped inches from the waiter’s face when my man reached over the table and grabbed my wrist. I was about to put both of that dude’s eyes out.
He posed, one foot slightly in front of the other, tilted his head sideways, put his hand on his hip with a bitch-I-dare-you attitude.
The room was cold. I was heated. The guests became quiet. A woman scrambled for her purse, picked up her toddler, then rushed toward the exit. I didn’t give a damn if everybody got the hell out!
“One of these days, sweetheart, I’m not going to be around to intervene,” James said. He handed the waiter a hundred-dollar bill.
I snatched it. “Give his ass whatever is on the bill and not a penny more.”
James handed that jerk another hundred. This time the waiter got to the money before I did. He stuffed the cash in his black apron pocket, rolled his eyes at me, scanned my guy head to toe, then said, “Thanks. You can come anytime you’d like. Let me get your change.”
He stepped back. I moved forward. I didn’t have a problem slapping a bitch that deserved it. I swung to lay a palm to the left side of his face. His ass leaned back like he was auditioning for a role in the next Matrix movie.
“Don’t duck, bitch, you bold. If you feeling some type of way, express yourself.” I shoved my hand into my purse.
He screamed, “Manager! Manager!”
I didn’t care if he called Jesus. “Say something else to my man. I dare you.” If I lifted my gun and put my finger on the trigger, I swear he wouldn’t live to disrespect another woman.
James swiftly pulled my arm and purse to his side, then told the waiter, “Sorry, man. Keep the change.”
The waiter stared at the guests. “Y’all excuse my sister, she forgot to take her meds.” A few people laughed.
“Take your lame-ass jokes to Improv Comedy Club for open mic, bitch. You weren’t trying to be center stage before my man tipped you.”
“I got you, boo.” He pulled out his cell, started pressing on the pad. “You so bad. Stay turnt up until the po-po comes.” He turned, then switched his ass away.
James begged, “Sweetheart, let’s go.”
Some round, short guy with a sagging gut, dressed in a white button-down shirt and cheap black pants, hurried in our direction. “Ma’am. Sir. You need to leave now.”
The old lady seated next to our table said, “Honey, you’re outnumbered in this town. You gon’ wear yourself out.”
I told my guy, “Walk in front of me.”
Shaking his head, James said, “You a trip,” then laughed. “You go first. I have to keep an eye on you.”
That was the other way around. Atlanta was a tough place to meet a straight man who cared about being faithful. The ugly guys had a solid five to fifteen females willing to do damn near anything to and for them. The attractive ones had triple those options. The successful, good-looking men with big egos and small dicks were assholes not worth my fucking with. But these dudes boldly disrespecting me by hitting on my man, they were the worst.
“It’s not funny, James. I’m sick of this shit.”
I knew it wasn’t my guy’s fault that James was blessed eighty inches toward heaven, one hundred and eighty pounds on the ground with a radiant cinnamon-chocolate complexion that attracted men and women.
James opened the door of his electric-blue Tesla Roadster, waited until I was settled in the passenger seat. He got in, then drove west on Ponce de Leon.
As he merged onto the I-85, he said, “Just because you have the right to bear arms, sweetheart, doesn’t mean you should. I keep telling you to leave the forty at home,” he said, laughing. “I’m glad you like my ass.”
“Nothing’s funny. I don’t understand how men hitting on you don’t bother you.”
“The way you be all up on my ass, what the hell I need a dude for? Soon as you finish your dissertation, I’m signing you up for an anger management course,” he said. “You can’t keep flashing on men because your father is the ultimate asshole. Let it go, sweetheart.”
“That’s easy for you to say. Your parents are still happily married. I bet if your dad disowned you, you wouldn’t say, ‘Let it go.’”
I was still pissed at that waiter. I had to check his ass. I was fed up with dicks disrespecting females. I’d seen my mother give all she had to offer and the only engagement ring ever put on Blake Crystal’s finger was the one she’d bought herself.
James held my hand. “You’re right, sweetheart. I know how much he’s hurt you.”
My father, whoever and wherever the fuck he was, was the first male disappointment in my life. Some kids cried because their daddy promised to show up but didn’t. Mine never promised. Before I had a first boyfriend, my heart was already shattered into pieces by my dad. Staring out the window, I refused to shed another tear.
Continuing north on Interstate 85, James bypassed exit 86 to my house. “I know how to cheer you up. I’m taking you to Perimeter Mall.”
“Thanks, babe,” was all I said.
I was twenty-six years old and I’d never met my father. My birth certificate listed the father as unknown. Hell yeah, I was angry. My mama didn’t fuck herself but in a way she had.
My way of coping with my daddy issues was to not allow any man to penetrate my heart or disrespect me. Every man I dated had to like me more. The second a woman liked a man more than he liked her, she was fucked and screwed.
“Sweetheart, I have a question.”
“Don’t start that shit with me today, James. Don’t go there.”
He let go of my hand. “If you answer, I promise, no more questions.”
I knew he was lying. He always said that shit and didn’t mean it. “What, James?”
“Have you had any other men in your house other than me?”
I could lie. Tell him what he wanted to hear. Or I could tell the truth. Either way it didn’t fucking matter! My blood pressure escalated. “I’m not answering that.”
He exited the freeway, parked by Maggiano’s. “Cool, then I’m not paying your rent this month.”
That’s why a bitch kept backup.
From Games Women Play
The Bounce House was not one of those inflatable castles parents rented for children’s parties. It was a small gentleman’s club set in a strip mall on 7 Mile with a beauty supply store, a rib joint, an outlet that sold men’s clothing, and an
unleased space that changed hands every few years. In no way was The Bounce House on the same level as some of the more elite clubs in Detroit; with a maximum capacity of two hundred fifty and limited parking, it would never be a threat to The Coliseum, Cheetah’s, or any of the big dogs. It wasn’t big but it was comfortable and well managed, plus the owner was very selective in choosing the girls, so this had earned it a small but loyal patronage.
The owner, Tuesday Knight, knew that Mr. Scott, her neighbor and owner of Bo’s BBQ, would be waiting in the door of his shop the moment her white CTS hit the lot. The old man had a crush on her and always made it his business to be on hand to greet her whenever she pulled in to work.
She frowned when she saw that someone had parked in her spot right in front of The Bounce House. The canary Camaro with the black racing stripes belonged to Brianna, and she was definitely going to check that bitch because she had been warned about that before.
Since all the other slots outside The Bounce, Bo’s BBQ, and KiKi’s Beauty Supply were taken, she had to park way down in front of the vacant property, and she speculated about which business would spring up there next. In the past five years it had been an ice cream parlor, a cell phone shop, and an occult bookstore. She wished its next incarnation would be as a lady’s shoe outlet that sold Louboutins at a discount.
She shrugged the Louis Vuitton bag onto her shoulder then slid out of the Cadillac.
Up ahead on the promenade Mr. Scott was standing in front of his carry-out spot pretending to sweep the walk but really waiting for her. This was practically a daily ritual for them.
“Hi, Mr. Scott,” she said, beaming a smile.
He did an old-school nod and tip of the hat. “Hey. Miss Tuesday, you sho lookin’ mighty fine today.” He always called her Miss Tuesday even though it was her first name.
“Thank you, Mr. Scott. You lookin’ handsome as always.”
He removed his straw Dobb’s hat and was fanning himself with it even though the afternoon was mild. “Girl, if I was thirty years younger, I’d show you somethin’!”
“I know you would, Daddy! You have a nice day now, okay.”
She strutted by him and since her jeans were particularly tight today, she threw a little something extra in her walk and made the old man howl: “Lord, have mercy!” Mr. Scott was seventy years old and had always been respectful of her and all the dancers so she didn’t mind putting on for him. Plus the harmless flirting made his day and got her free rib dinners. When Tuesday reached the door of the club, she turned back to give him another smile and coquettish wave.
What The Bounce House lacked in size it attempted to make up for in taste. There was nothing cheap about the place despite being a small independent establishment. The design wasn’t unique: a fifteen-foot bar ran against the far right wall, a large horseshoeshaped stage dominated the center with twenty or so small circular tables surrounding it, booths lined the left wall and wrapped around the front, the entrance was where that front wall and right one intersected, and the deejay booth was next to it.
Before Tuesday had taken over, the entire place was done in a tacky red because the previous owner thought that it was a sexual color. The bar was a bright red Formica that was peeling, the stools and booths were done in cheap red leatherette, the floor was covered in pink and red checkered tile, and the tables wore hideous black and red tablecloths with tassels that made the place look like a whorehouse from the ’70s.
Tuesday had brought the place into the new millennium with brushed suede booths, a bar with a granite top, more understated flooring, and mirrored walls that gave the illusion of more space. She even gave it a touch of class and masculinity by adding dark woods, brass, and a touch of plant life.
When she came through the door, the first thing that jumped out at her was that the fifth booth hadn’t been bused. There were half a dozen double-shot glasses on the table, an ashtray filled with butts and cigar ends, and a white Styrofoam food container that had most likely come from Bo’s. She knew that it was her OCD that caused her to immediately zero in on this but before she could start bitching, one of the servers was already headed to clean it up. Everyone who worked there knew their boss had a thing for neatness so she shot the girl a look that said, Bitch, you know better!
Things were slow even for a Monday afternoon. There were only three customers at the bar with eleven more scattered throughout the tables and booths. Most of them were entranced by a dancer named Cupcake who was on stage rolling her hips to a Gucci Mane cut. Two more girls were on the floor giving table dances.
Whenever Tuesday came in, on any shift, her first priority was always to check on the bar. The bartender on duty was a brown-skinned cutie named Ebony who had started out as a dancer then learned she had a knack for pouring drinks. She took a couple classes, became a mixologist and has been working at The Bounce since back in the day when Tuesday was just a dancer.
Ebony called out: “Boss Lady!” when she saw her slip behind the bar.
Tuesday pulled her close so she wouldn’t have to compete with the music. “Eb, how we lookin’ for the week?”
From the pocket of her apron Ebony whipped out a small notepad she used for keeping up with the liquor inventory. “What we don’t got out here we got in the back. We pretty much straight on everythang, at least as far as makin’ it through the week, except we down to our last case of Goose.”
Tuesday made a mental note to send Tushie to the distributor.
Ebony asked, “How dat nigga A.D. doin’?”
“He all right. Reading every muthafuckin’ thang and workin’ out. That nigga arms damn near big as Tushie’s legs.”
“When was the last time you holla’ed at em?”
Tuesday scanned the bar, quietly admiring how neat Ebony kept her workstation. “Nigga called the other day on some horny shit. Talkin’ ’bout, ‘What kinda panties you got on? What color is they?’ ” She did a comical impersonation of a man’s deep voice. “Nigga kept me on the phone for a hour wantin’ me to talk dirty to ’em.”
Ebony poured a customer another shot of Silver Patron. “No he didn’t!” she said, smiling at Tuesday.
“So I’m tellin’ him I’m in a bathtub playin’ with my pussy, thinkin’ bout his big dick. The whole time I’m out at Somerset Mall in Nordstrom’s lookin’ for a new fit.”
“TK, you still crazy!” Ebony was laughing so hard that she fell into her. “The funny part is, he probably knew you was lying and just didn’t care.”
“Hell yeah, he knew I was lying. A.D. ain’t stupid. But when I know that’s the type of shit he wanna hear, I always tell ’em somethin’ good.”
“That nigga been gone for a minute. When he comin’ home?”
Tuesday’s smile faded a bit. She hated when people asked that question, especially when most of them were already familiar with his situation. A.D. was doing life and a lot of times people asked her when he was coming home just for the sake of gauging her faith and commitment to him. If she said “Soon,” she looked stupid when the years stretched on and he didn’t show, but if she said “Never!” it looked as if she’d just wrote the nigga off. Her and Ebony had been cool for a long time and she didn’t think that the girl was trying to play some type of mind game but the question still bothered her.
As much as she hated being asked about A.D., it happened so often that over the years she had come to patent this perfect response: “He still fighting but that appeal shit takes time.” This way she doesn’t commit herself to any specific date while still appearing to be optimistic.
Ebony nodded thoughtfully. “Well, next time you holla at ’em, tell that nigga I said keep his head up.”
Tuesday left from behind the bar agreeing to relay that message.
She was crossing the room by weaving her way through the maze of tables on the floor when suddenly: whack! Somebody smacked her on the ass so hard that it made her flinch.
At first Tuesday thought it was some new customer who didn’t yet know
who she was, and just as she turned around ready to go H.A.M., she realized that it was her big bouncer DelRay.
DelRay was six foot seven and close to four hundred pounds. He was heavy but didn’t look sloppy because it was stretched out by his height. He also knew how to handle himself, possessing a grace and speed rarely seen in men his size. DelRay could be very intimidating when the job required it but by nature was a goofball. While he had the skills to deal with unruly customers physically, he had the game to get most of them out the door without making a scene. This was what Tuesday liked most about him.
She said, “Nigga, I was about to flip!”
“We at four!” he yelled over the music. Lil’ Wayne was playing then.
She shook her head. “Hell naw, nigga, we at five!”
He used his thick sausage-like fingers to count. “Two Saturday night, one Sunday before you got in your car, and one just now.” He grinned and rubbed his hands together like a little kid eager for a gift. “I get to smack that fat muthafucka six more times!”
“Fuck you!” she said but with a smile. Actually she knew it was only four.
He teased her. “Don’t be mad at me, you should be mad at yo boy Lebron! When it get down to crunch-time he always choke.”
Tuesday was a diehard Miami Heat fan who swore that she was going to suck Dwyane Wade like a pacifier if she ever met him in person. At the time Miami had the second-best record in the eastern conference so when they came to Auburn Hills to play a struggling Pistons team, dropping a hundred on them seemed like a safe bet. After the Heat lost in overtime, the bouncer asked his boss if he could trade that bill she owed him for the right to smack her on that juicy ass ten times. Tuesday had no interest in fucking DelRay but they were cool like that, so she agreed.
