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I sat on the edge of my bay windowsill and looked down from the third floor of my Society Hill town house at the snow-covered cars and blinking Christmas lights. I blew an O of smoke from my cigarette, crossed my thick cocoa thighs, and said to nobody in particular, “Fuck Santa Claus! This’ll be the last year that I pray for his fat ass to drop off Prince Charming. I know it’s only Thanksgiving weekend but I’m starting early. And guess what? I ain’t cooking no black-eyed peas on New Year’s Eve.” I took a long drag and tapped my foot. “Won’t be no collard greens, and damn if I’m waiting on some man to be the first one who comes through my front door. I’ma be just like every other old broad. Go to church, make eyes at the pastor, and wait on midnight. Then I’ma come home, pull out Chocolate Thunder, and masturbate myself into a silver bullet convulsion!”
I hopped off the windowsill, mashed the remains of my cigarette in the ashtray, went in the bathroom, and prepared to shower. It’s three o’clock in the afternoon on Black Friday and I’ve been frumpy long enough. Me looking out the window in mis-matched pajamas is not going to change anything. I’ll still be thirty-six with no man, no prospects, and no hint of an orgasm ever returning. I swear, if I stay home this New Year’s Eve, Dick Clark’s ball will be the only one I see drop. And believe me, my four months of involuntary celibacy has been more than enough punishment. Punishment for being in my twenties and too hot in the ass. I was a single ho for way too long. Now I’m paying for it. I should’ve listened to my mother, married the square, David, and been a housewife. At least by now I would’ve had a baby and a dog. But nooooo, not me. I had to complain about him. I don’t like fat men. And I don’t like how he always says yes. I need me a man that can say no sometimes. Well, I had John, Kaareem, Malik, and Sharief. And they all said no. No, I’m not cheating on you, she’s just a friend. No, she’s not really my wife, we just live together. And no, I’m not breaking up with you, I just want to see other people. Believe me, I got a shitload of no’s, and now I’m thirty-six with ovaries that look like Frosted Flakes and three fish that I absolutely can’t stand.
I turned on the hot water and stepped into the shower. Then I closed my eyes and let the jet streams roll all over my body, splashed Victoria’s Secret Apple bath oil on my mocha skin, and started singing Jill Scott’s new song “Whatever.” “How about some chicken wings . . . I’ll hurry and go get it.”
Now that’s what I’m talkin’ about, a mofo that makes me wanna buy him some sneakers!
Ten minutes passed, I stepped out of the shower and onto the towel lying on the floor. Then I stood in front of the full-length mirror that hangs behind the bathroom door and stared at myself. Ever since I entered my thirties I’ve been checking out my naked body from head to toe. I have to make sure nothing starts sagging or magically appearing. The last thing I need is for liver spots or varicose veins to fuck up my Tina Turner legs. Hell, if nothing else, I must always be cute. I’m five-six, a size sixteen, and I have no complaints. I often wonder why people think if you weigh more than a buck fifty, have wide feet, or can pinch more than an inch that you have to complain. Shit, I’m fly, and I don’t need Oprah or Dr. Phil to lecture me into believing it. Not to mention how a Sears one-piece girdle does wonders for the extra fifteen minutes placed on hourglass curves. Let me be the first to tell you, when I’ve been blessed to get my freak on, my brick-house hips have turned tricks, don’t get it confused! Needless to say, India Talani Parker can rock with the best of ‘em.
I let my hairstylist talk me into a Farrah Fawcett flip. He swore to me that this hairstyle should do the trick and I would have Mr. Right knocking on my door. That was two weeks ago and several men have knocked on my door. The mailman, UPS, and Fed Ex, each delivering care packages from my mother in Murfreesboro, North Carolina. She seems to think that I must be miserable staying in Jersey all alone. Well, I’m not alone. I have two miserable-ass girlfriends to keep me company: Joan and Tracy. As for my hairstylist, I got half a mind to cuss his ass out! That’ll teach him never to lie to a horny old lady.
Seeing that nothing new had grown or changed on my body, I grabbed the lotion and slipped on my terry-cloth robe. Afterward I headed into my bedroom, and no sooner than I flopped down on the corner of my four-poster bed did the phone ring. I peeped at the caller ID. Oh no, it’s Joan. I got my own problems. I can’t deal with the complaints about your husband. His ass has been cheating for years, so get used to it. I let the phone ring and decided to pour lotion into my hand instead.
Goddamn! The phone was ringing again. This time I didn’t even look at the caller ID. I simply snatched the receiver off the base. “Yes, Joan.”
“It ain’t Joan, ho. It’s Tracy. I’m ducking Joan’s ass too. She just called you?”
“Uhmm hmm,” I said, rubbing lotion into my legs.
“Yeah, she just called me too,” Tracy said, sucking her teeth, “and she left a message with Ju-Ju that if I speak with you to tell you she wants her digital camera back.”
“Why does she need her camera all of a sudden?”
“She says she gon’ squat in the bushes over at the Garden State Inn on Route 22. She claims her husband got a hoochie up in there.”
“A nasty hoochie if she’s laying up in the Garden State. Tracy,” I said, placing the receiver in the crook of my neck, “Joan is a sick bitch, I swear she is.”
“Well, she did hear the hoochie on his voice mail calling him Big Daddy. Humph, what would you think?”
“She shouldn’t have been listening to his voice mail.”
“Oh ho, don’t try to act like you ain’t never broke the code on a brothah’s phone.”
“Yeah, when I was twenty. Joan is forty-two years old.”
“When you were twenty?!” Tracy screeched. “Paleeze, remember Jamil? Oh, you were checking his messages every five minutes. You were riding that machine like a dick, so spare me. And that was just last year.”
“Whatever. Call her back and tell her to give me an hour.”
“Just go over there. You know she’ll be waiting. Goodbye.”
“Uhmm hmm.”
I can’t stand that I’m knocking forty in the ass; because once Joan turned forty she lost her fuckin’ mind. I met her six years ago when I’d moved to Newark and started teaching at Harriet Tubman Elementary. She was one of the nagging teachers that hung out in the teacher’s room, diagnosing badass kids with ADHD and complaining about their retarded-ass parents. Joan was divorced, had a boyfriend and a son who lived in Brooklyn with her ex-husband. I liked Joan because she said whatever was on her mind, and although she complained, she really cared about the kids. No child in her class ever went home hungry, and for those who couldn’t afford to go on class trips, she always paid their way. Eventually Joan and I started eating lunch together. Soon after that, she confided in me that her boyfriend was actually her ex-husband.
“Your ex-husband?” I asked her with my eyebrows raised and lips twisted. “What’s the point?”
“I can’t leave him alone,” she confessed, taking a pull off her cigarette.
“Why not?”
“He’s got a possessed penis.”
“What?!”
“India,” she sighed, “it’s got a crook in it and I swear it be whipp
in’ spells on me!”
Two years after that she remarried him, and now she swears he’s cheatin’ on her.
I met Tracy the same year I met Joan. Tracy is the school’s secretary and knows everybody’s business; therefore, it didn’t take long for us to click. Tracy is five-four, the color of butter, has freckles and big breasts, unlike Joan, who’s an A cup, five-ten with cinnamon-colored skin. Tracy is ghetto fabulous and acts like Boomquisha from the fifteenth floor, but no matter what, she’s still my homegirl. She’s thirty-four with a five-year-old daughter, Jasmine, and Ju-Ju, the “rent-free live-in.” I told Tracy that I would’ve put Ju-Ju’s black ass out a long time ago! Damn if he would be dickin’ me and doggin’ me. And I’m footin’ the bill while he does it? Oh, hell no! Not India. Knowing me, that mofo would wake up one night with hot oil dripping down his ears.
I stood up and put on fresh undergarments. Looking through my closet, I decided that I would throw on a pair of tight black jeans, a black V-neck sweater, and black Gucci loafers. And, of course, a diva has to do what a diva has to do, so I threw on my three-quarter-length red-fox coat with the matching head wrap and stepped out the door. Damn, I almost forgot the digital camera for Joan. I went back in the house, grabbed the camera, came back out, and hopped in my gold 530i.
I slid in Jill Scott’s CD, listened to my newly claimed favorite song, and sang about fixing a man some chicken wings for puttin’ it down! Damn, I gotta give it up. I’m being downright pitiful. Every other word is about a man. You know what? This is going to be my updated constitution for the New Year: I’m doing me. Period. I’m not going to worry about dying a lonely old lady, I’m not going to worry about if God is punishing me for having an affair with some chick’s husband, or if I’ll ever get any milk to bring my dried-up ovaries back to life. I’m done with that shit! You know what? Forget the New Year, I’m starting my constitution today.
I rummaged through my purse and pulled out a cigarette, popped the lighter in, and turned this damn CD off. I lit my cigarette and took a drag. The next thing on my list is to stop smoking.
I parked in front of Joan’s house and rang the bell. I waited three minutes and nobody answered. I rang the bell again and started tapping my foot. Let me call her and see where she is. I swear, one day Joan is going to be hiding in those bushes and get arrested for trespassing!
Just as I started walking toward my car, I heard Joan’s front door open. I turned around with a screw face on, ready to cuss her ass out for having me ring the bell forever. As I turned around, her son was leaning against the door. He had on a pair of baggy gray sweats with matching boxers peeking up from the waist. A tight and crisp-white wife-beater on; one that appeared to be massaging his defined pecks. And from what I could see, as soon as he stood up straight, he would be at least six-one. Wait a minute; is the onyx color in his eyes sparkling? Oh, this lil’ niggah gon’ cause somebody some problems.
One of his hands was tucked into the waist of his boxers. My eyes caught glimpses of smooth black hair encircling his navel and running down his stomach in a straight line, leading my eyes directly to the imprint of dick. He took his other hand, caressed the waves in his dark faded Caesar to the front, and ran his fingertips slowly over his face. Then he licked his lips, stood up straight, and just as I thought, he was six-one. He yawned a little and said, “I’m sorry, I was sleeping. I was out late last night. What’s up?”
He better stop asking me what’s up. What is he, like seventeen? Humph, I’ll fuck around and be going to the prom with his ass. “Hey,” I said, biting the inside of my jaw, “I didn’t know you were home from school.”
“What do you mean school?” He chuckled, folding his muscled biceps across his six pack. “I’ve been out of college for a little over a year.”
“Really?” Oh, he must’ve dropped out, ‘cause ain’t no way he’s grown enough to have a college degree . . . unless he has an associate’s. “Are you working now? Did you graduate?” I swear I couldn’t remember.
“Did I graduate?” He looked perplexed. “Of course I did. And I do more than work, I have a career. I’m a graphic artist. I design online ads for Time Warner in Manhattan.”
Well, damn, he has a real job. 401K and shit. I know it’s time for me to leave. “Give this to your mother for me, please.”
“Wait a minute.” He grabbed my hand as I handed him the camera. “Ms. Parker, you mind if I call you India?”
“India? Boy, I’m almost old enough to be your mother.”
“Boy? My mother?” He frowned. “I’ll let the ‘boy’ part go for right now. But as far as you being old enough to be my mother, I doubt it. I’m twenty-three, and you?”
“Thirty-six.”
“Naw.” He smiled. Wait a minute, does he have dimples? Oh shit, my panties are wet. I took a deep breath as he continued, “You’re not old enough to be my mother. You’re young enough to be just right.”
Is he flirting with me? He massaged my hand with his soft thumb and I thought the thumping in my coochie would send me into cardiac arrest. “D.J.—”
“India, my mother is the only one who still calls me D.J. It’s Devin.”
“Boy, you better stop playing before I leave here and go buy you some sneakers. What you want, some Jordans?” I laughed. I can’t believe I said that.
“Oh, you got jokes. You’re cute though, but just so you know, I usually wear Tims on the weekend and Prada loafers during the week. Therefore you should’ve bought those Jordans a few years back . . . and, India, stop calling me boy.”
Did he just read me? “Did I give you permission to call me India?” Hell, I didn’t know what else to say.
“When would you like for me to call you?” He smiled.
“Tonight—wait a minute—don’t ask me trick questions.”
“All right, would it really bother you if I called you India? It’s such a beautiful name.”
Am I blushing? Shit, I think I am. “Okay, Devin, India is fine.” I know I’m sounding stupid.
“Thanks, I would like that. I have to admit, you look good as hell.”
“Thanks for the compliment,” I said pulling my hand from his embrace. “But I really should get going.”
He let my hand go and smiled. “Would you like to come in? My mother should be back in a minute. She just ran to the store.”
“No-no. Just tell her to call me.” I almost tripped my fat ass down the walkway trying to get away from this lil’ boy. Oh my God, wait until I call and tell Tracy this shit.
* * *
“Why would I lie, Tracy?” I said, with the cordless phone tucked between the crook of my neck and shoulder blade. I was standing over my double sink, cubing boneless chicken. “He really was trying to get with me.”
“What do you mean ‘trying to get with you’?” she asked, almost in disbelief. “Was he like, ‘Hey, that’s a nice outfit you got on? Your hair lookin’ ai’ight?’ Or was he like, ‘What you got poppin’, Shortie-Roc?”
“He was like, ‘You look good as hell, girl!’ ”
“You sure he said that?” Tracy asked.
“Uhmm hmm.”
“That’s the same shit he said to me the other night.”
“For real?” Instantly I stopped cubing my chicken. Suddenly I felt deflated.
“Psyched yo’ mind!” She laughed. “Hold on, India. . . . Jasmine,” she yelled away from the phone, “say excuse me. And how come every time I get on the phone you got something you wanna tell me? Go sit yo’ ass down! . . . India,” she said, getting back on the line, “a bitch just playing with you. I ain’t never seen him look at me. But word is bond; he was kickin’ some hood shit to you. ‘You look good as hell, girl.’ That’s that bullshit Ju-Ju laid on me, fucked around and got me pregnant and shit. Now look, he got his feet propped up, scratchin’ his balls, and he’s so nasty that he keeps a nose full of buggers.”
“Oh my God, Tracy, T.M.I., for real. That’s entirely too much information. As long as he’s there do
n’t you bring me any more food from your house.”
“Girl, please—I’m puttin’ him outta here! But anywho, Ms. Parker, you about to have a lil’ jump-off. Robbin’ the cradle and shit. Girl, just so you know, Joan gon’ kick yo’ old ass!”
I started cubing my chicken again. “I’m not thinking about his young ass. I need me a grown man, not a lil’ boy toy.”
“Hell,” she said, “my motto is, ‘if he’s outta high school and over eighteen, it’s all good.’ Plus, it’s a lot you can do with a boy toy.”
“I don’t think so.” I pushed the sleeves of my sweater over my elbows and dumped the chicken in the wok. Immediately it started sizzling. “How would Joan find out?”
“ ’Cause an old bitch’s pussy got a distinct smell,” Tracy said, barely getting the words out because she was laughing so hard.
“Fuck you,” I chuckled, “I guess your old ass would know.”
“An old bitch’s pussy!” she screamed in laughter. “I love ya, girl. You know I’m just playing with you. But if you don’t tell, I won’t tell.”
“Please, Tracy, there won’t be nothing to tell,” I said, mixing Chinese vegetables in with the chicken, “ ’cause I’m not messing with him.”
Just then, my doorbell rang. “Wait a minute, Tracy—let me see who’s at my door.” I turned down the fire under the wok and pressed the talk button on the intercom. “Who is it?”
“It’s Devin.”
“Tracy,” I said into the phone, “he’s at my door.”
“Who?”
“D.J. I mean Devin.”
“Doesn’t he know it’s supposed to be a snowstorm?”
“I don’t know. What the hell is he doing here?” I was in shock.
“Hell if I know, open the door.”
I walked into the living room and cracked the door open. I could see that snow was starting to fall. “Yes,” I said to him, through the crack.
“Hey!” He held up Joan’s digital camera. “My mother asked me to return this. She said thanks for letting her use it.”
Whatever It Takes Page 1
