Whatever It Takes

by Tu-Shonda L. Whitaker

  The flame flickering from the tea-light candle on the table lit up Devin’s face. He leaned forward on both elbows, squinting his eyes. “I’m trying real hard to enjoy your company, but for the past hour you’ve been buggin’ the fuck out. What’s up?”

  Hmm, where should I start? How exactly do I say “Your mama called me a wrinkled-pussy, fat-ass old bitch. My period is playing hide and fuckin’ seek and one more thing, ole girl sitting across the room seems to know you. Which must be why she keeps looking over here, giving me the evil eye. But if she sends one more dart this way, I’ma slide her ass!”

  I shot his ass a look and flicked my hand like Psst ma’fucker please.

  “What’s all the hand action?” he asked, backing away. “What are you looking at?” He turned his head and followed the direction of my eyes. Ole girl waved and he turned back around. “Ignore her.”

  “Are you trying to be funny?” I snapped. “Who the hell is she, first of all, and second of all, you ignore her. I’ma gank her ass!”

  “Calm down, India. It ain’t that deep. She’s Monique. I used to date her.”

  “Don’t tell me what’s deep. That’s your ex-girlfriend?!” I was livid. “What is this, teenybopper night? Why do you have me someplace where your nineteen-year-old ex-girlfriend hangs out.”

  “Teenybopper? Don’t play me, India. Furthermore, I never said she was my ex-girlfriend. I said we used to date. I didn’t know she was going to be here, and besides, who cares?”

  “I care, and I swear, if she looks at me one more time and rolls her eyes, I’ma slap her!”

  A sly smile ran across his face. “Is my baby jealous? You’re too cute to be jealous of a chicken.”

  “Don’t call her a chicken.” I laughed. “She wasn’t a chicken when you were bangin’ her.”

  “You don’t know whether I was bangin’ her or not. Stop assuming. And she was a chicken, that’s why I stopped seeing her.”

  I couldn’t help but laugh. “Chill, baby,” he said. “Let me tell you about what I have planned for New Year’s. I rented us the Presidential Suite at the Embassy in Manhattan.”

  “The Presidential Suite?” Damn, either this wrinkled pussy got him whipped or he loves my ass. I looked at my sweetie and smiled. “I guess your mother didn’t know about the presidential part, but she announced to Tracy and me when we were Christmas shopping yesterday that she found a receipt for the Embassy Suites. She thinks it belongs to your father.”

  “What?” He took a sip of his Ketel One martini. “And I called myself eliminating hassle by paying for the suite in advance. I’ll be sure to tell her the shit is mine.” He laughed. “I don’t want her jumping out of any bushes again.”

  I couldn’t believe he knew that. “Who told you that?”

  “Please, who do you think went and picked her up the last time she jumped out and sprained her ankle?”

  I started cracking up. I laughed so hard that I was crying. When I looked up to tell Devin how silly he was, Monique, his ex-girlfriend, was standing over our table and pointing her finger in his face. “You got a problem?” she spat at him.

  “Monique, be a lady and go sit down,” Devin said to her. “This is not the time or the place.”

  “Don’t be telling me what the fuck to do!” She turned, looked at me from head to foot, and rolled her eyes.

  This bitch has officially lost her mind. Should I slam her ass now or drag her outside and do it?

  She turned back toward Devin and grabbed him by the collar.

  Oh, hell no! I nicely reached my hand across the table, knocked her hand off his collar, leaned back, and gave her ass a Fat Joe look that dared her to say something else. “Have you lost you’re goddamn mind?” I asked perplexed. “Trust me; you would want to keep your hands to yourself.”

  “Don’t you worry about it. This is my hand and I can put it anywhere that I want.” She turned back to Devin. “So this is the bitch that you left me for? What is she, like twenty-six? Her old ass!”

  “Thanks for the compliment, boo-boo”—I leaned forward and starting speaking slow—”but you . . . better . . . back . . . the fuck up . . . little girl.”

  “Oh, no you didn’t! Who are you talking to?” She seemed to be in shock.

  “Monique—” Devin interrupted. “I’m asking you again to please go sit down and leave my wife and me alone.”

  His wife? My entire face lit up.

  “You married this bitch?” she spat.

  “I got this, hubby,” I said to Devin. I tapped my index finger on the table. “Are you fuckin’ crazy?” I said to her. “I will take your lil’ young ass and light you the fuck up! Why would you think that showing yo’ ass is going to convince him to want you? You look like an idiot and I’m sure if your mother were here she would beat yo’ ass for embarrassing yourself. But I tell you what, since you want to get in a man’s face and carry on in public, then don’t shed one tear when you get yo’ ass busted. Grow up! This is real life, sweetie, and see me, I’ll drag your lil’ ass, put you across my knee, and fuck you up. Now your best bet is to carry yourself back across the room, so you can stop looking ridiculous!”

  “For your information,” she said, “he ain’t never tell me that he didn’t want me.”

  “What?” I frowned. “He’s sitting here with me, he just told you I was his wife, and you think there’s hope of him wanting you? He just played you.”

  “Damn, Monique, how many hints do you need?” Devin snapped. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

  “Hints?” I snapped. “That’s what’s wrong with her, you’re dropping hints. Tell her ass in plain English.”

  “I’ma give you one more chance, Devin. Who do you want?” she asked.

  “Are you for real?” I couldn’t believe this shit. “Devin, you better catch her. Spell it out, before it all goes down.”

  “I’m not doing that,” he snapped. “I haven’t talked to this chick in months. We weren’t even dating that long. Please.”

  “Devin,” I said, “you of all people know that the length of time doesn’t matter. It’s what you do in that length of time that matters. Now tell her!”

  He cut his eyes. “Monique, I don’t want you. There’s no us, understand? Stop embarrassing yourself. How many times do I have to tell you to leave me the hell alone? Bounce. Beat it. I didn’t want to hurt your feelings but you’re acting real stupid. Now, go sit down!”

  “Comprende?” I said to her.

  She stood there for a moment, tapping her foot.

  Dear God, please make her move, I really don’t want to beat this child down.

  “Don’t call me no more,” she said to him with tearful eyes. “I’m finished with you.”

  “Girl, please,” he said, agitated.

  She knocked his drink in his lap as she walked away.

  “She’s a stupid ass!” he said, taking napkins and wiping his jeans off. “Let’s go!”

  * * *

  While Devin was driving back to my house I asked him, “Did you ever come out and tell her that you didn’t want her, at least before now?”

  “Something like that.” He frowned. “I was trying not to hurt her feelings. So I told her it was me, and not her. That I needed some time. After that, she called the house for a little while, but after my mom told her ass off, that was the last I heard from her.”

  “It’s me, not you? I need some time? Are you for real? You are so typical. How the hell is a woman, or a little girl for that matter, supposed to decipher what the fuck that means? Do you know how much hope that leaves someone who’s in love with you to hold on to? How about telling them flat out, ‘It was nice while it lasted, but we’re done. I don’t want to be in this relationship anymore. Go and see other people, because I will be. Thank you and goodbye.’ How about some shit like that?”

  “Damn, you just want me to keep it gully, huh? I was trying to be nice.”

  “Yeah.” I smirked. “And being nice got yo’ ass collared and a drink
knocked in your lap. See, that’s the problem with men. You say crazy-ass-leave-a-broad-in-limbo shit and expect her not to flip when she sees you with another chick. Say what the fuck you have to say when you have to say it. Don’t play word games. Because they get your ass into situations like this!” I was pissed. “See, what happened tonight is the very thing that I was talking about happening with this age-difference shit.” We made a right into my parking lot. “I’ll get out here!” I grabbed my purse and my poncho. “Good night, go home!”

  * * *

  “What the fuck is your problem?” Devin said, slamming the front door.

  I left it unlocked on purpose; I was hoping he would follow me.

  “You lost your damn mind? Letting some lil’ young-ass girl punk you out of your man.”

  “Punk me out of my man! Don’t even try that reverse psychology shit with me.”

  “I’m not trying reverse psychology with you. I’m telling you what I see. You got mad ‘cause she stepped to me. She could’ve been thirty-three and tried the same shit. Her reaction was about how she felt, not about her age.”

  “Whatever. I don’t have time to be dealing with some little girl.”

  “What the hell, are you feeling old? Shit, she asked were you twenty-six, she didn’t even realize she was giving you a compliment. Fuck her. Keep it moving.”

  “Don’t talk shit to me, you should’ve done that with your lil’ nineteen-year-old groupie!” I kicked my shoes off, but I really wanted to take one and knock him in the head with it.

  “India,” he said, blocking my path. “This is crazy. What else is up? This is not about some nineteen-year-old broad. Now tell me, what’s the problem?”

  “Nothing,” I said, trying to get around him.

  “Stop lying. Spill it.”

  “Okay, you want to know, you really want to know?”I pointed my finger. “Your mother . . . well . . . she called mea wrinkled-pussy, fat-ass old bitch. And that really hurt my feelings.”

  I could tell he wanted to laugh. “She called you a what?”

  “She didn’t know she was calling me that . . . at least I don’t think so . . . but she said that whoever you were dating had to be a wrinkled-pussy, fat-ass old bitch. And I took offense.”

  “Well you’re not fat”—he smiled—“you’re just enough. And the wrinkled-pussy part, uhmm, get naked, spread-eagle, and let me see it. I’ll tell you.” He couldn’t hold it in any longer and he fell out laughing.

  “I’m glad you find that funny, and I hope you laugh at this, but my period is over a week late.”

  “It’s what?”

  “Oh, do I detect a hint of laughter in your voice?”

  “Did you take a pregnancy test?” he asked seriously.

  “No. Not yet. I’ma wait another week and see if my period shows up.”

  “A week? And if it doesn’t?”

  “I’ma cry.”

  “You don’t want my baby?”

  “Yes, Devin, but not today. We haven’t even been together that long.”

  “Everything has to have a time with you,” he snapped. “Why can’t you just let some shit go? You know what?” He reached in his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. “Here you go.” He threw three hundred dollars at me. The money floated in the air and then landed on the floor.

  “What is that for?” I frowned.

  “The abortion.” He turned toward the door. “I’m out.”

  I ran to block his path. “Where are you going? I never said I wanted an abortion.”

  “Well what do you want? I’m tired of this shit and I’ll tell you this, if you’re pregnant and you have an abortion, you’ll be ending this year without me. Tell me, India, did I do something to you?”

  “No . . . sweetie . . . it’s not you . . . it’s me. . . . I just need some time,” I said, using his lines.

  “Oh, now you’re trying to be funny.” He chuckled. “This is serious.”

  “You left yourself open for that. I’m sorry.” I grabbed him around the waist and placed my head in the center of his chest. “I’ll take the pregnancy test tomorrow, and if I am, we’ll talk about it. Okay? Please. I don’t want to argue anymore.”

  I sat down on the couch and pulled him by the hand. “Stand right there,” I said, positioning him directly in frontof me.

  I unbuckled his belt and unzipped his pants, licking the trail of soft black hair from his navel to his dick. I could feel the tension from our argument easing up. He grabbed the back of my hair, pulling it with a firm but not a hurtful grip. I slid his pants down to his ankles and kissed the tip of his dick.

  He closed his eyes and bit his bottom lip. “Damn, India. I need you to know that it’s all about you, baby.”

  “I know, Devin. I know it is.” I grabbed his ass cheeks with both of my hands and started sucking his dick. I could tell he wanted to explode. I slid my hands in between his ass cheeks and let my fingertips run from the tip of his tailbone to his scrotum. A few minutes later, I felt like my mouth was being baptized.

  * * *

  Now what the hell my panties were doing on top of the lamp shade I don’t know. All I know is that my clothes were thrown from one end of my living room to the other. This morning I left Devin sleeping on the floor. As I went to take a shower, I noticed that my period had finally decided to stop playing with me . . . and just when I started thinking that having his baby wouldn’t be so bad after all.

  After my shower, I came back into the living room and threw my purple chenille comforter over him. I picked his pants up off the floor and his wallet fell out. I knew I was wrong but I peeked in it. The first thing I saw was a phone number with the name Cherise on it. Who the hell is Cherise? Immediately I called the bitch’s number. Her voice mail came on and Beyoncé’s “Dangerously in Love” was playing.

  I took his wallet and snuck back in the bathroom. I started rummaging through it to see what else I could find. I’m so stupid. I should’ve known that this was too good to be true. Tears that I couldn’t control fell from my eyes. I felt like I was going crazy. I pulled out phone numbers, business cards, and condoms. We don’t even use condoms. Okay, India, you’re crazy. Is this what you really want? Take yourself in there and be done with the dumb shit. Don’t listen to any excuses; tell him thank you and goodbye. You’ll cry now, but not nearly as much as you’ll cry later. No drama. No stress.

  I walked out the bathroom and back into the living room. “Monique,” I heard him say as I approached the living room. “I’m sorry about last night. Tomorrow I’m off and she’ll be at work.” As I came closer to him I could see him looking out the window and talking on his cell phone.

  When he turned around, we locked eyes. I was trying my best not to cry. “Get your shit!” I yelled. “And get the fuck out!” Damn, that is not what I meant to say or how I meant to handle this. I’m thirty-six, not nineteen . . . or twenty-three . . . I can end this without cussin’ him out.

  I took a deep breath. “I can’t do this anymore.”

  “What is wrong with you?”

  “Let’s not play pretend!” I yelled. “I heard what you just said to Monique.”

  “India, that’s not what you think it is.”

  “I don’t give a good goddamn what it is.”

  He looked at me and then he pointed to his wallet in my hand. “You’ve been looking through my things,” he accused.

  “Don’t even try it!”

  “What the hell do you mean, don’t try it? You’ve been looking through my wallet. Why would you do that?”

  “Don’t try and put it on me,” I screamed. “Ask that bitch Monique and Cherise!” I said, throwing the number at him. “Don’t ask me shit!”

  I could tell in his eyes that he was hurting. But how could he be hurting when he’s the one who’s been playing me? “Fuck you, Devin!” I threw every piece of paper, every fuckin’ phone number, and the condoms he had tucked away at him. “You ain’t shit, but some lil’ young niggah from the block. I should�
��ve known better than to be fuckin’ with you! I asked you from the beginning to leave me alone and you wouldn’t take no for an answer. Well, now you don’t have a choice, ‘cause we’re done! This shit is the fuck over!”

  “India, it’s no problem. Because I promise you that you will never have to worry about me again. Fuck me? No. Fuck you! I gave you everything. Some shit you don’t even know about. I’m a lil’ niggah from the block, huh? Well, it’s all good, because one thing’s for sure. You won’t ever have to worry about this lil’ niggah from the block no more!” He slipped on his clothes, picked his wallet off the floor, and slammed the door behind him.

  * * *

  Fuck him. I cried, sitting on the windowsill in my bedroom, looking at the falling snow and the blinking Christmas lights. I haven’t been frumpy and puffing on a cigarette in a long time, but hell, life is full of surprises. I had the radio on and 101.9 was jamming Tina Turner’s “What’s Love Got to Do With It.” I jumped up and started slow dancing across the floor, moving my shoulders and feet from side to side, taking long drags off my cigarette and singing at the top of my lungs: “ ’What’s love got to do, got to do with it? / What’s love but a second-hand emotion?’ ”

  Don’t look now, but I’m perfecting pathetic.

  Last night, in celebration of Christmas Eve, I killed a bottle of Chardonnay all by myself and brought in Christmas drunk as a skunk. The way I feel, I’ma do the same for New Year’s. The only difference will be that I’ma go to church on New Year’s first, then get drunk.

  I should’ve known this shit was bound to happen. It always does. Somehow, I always convince myself that Mr. Wrong is right on time. I was so crazy thinking that I could kiss this year goodbye and this upcoming New Year would be one of the best in my life. Well, news flash, India, you’ve . . . just . . . been . . . cranked!

  As I mashed my cigarette into the ashtray, the doorbell rang. I walked down the stairs, into the living room, and looked through the peephole. Oh hell no, it’s Mr. Marcus. I don’t care that today is Christmas; he will not be getting up in here. I sat my miserable ass on the couch and put my feet up. I’ll open the gifts from my mother and my sister later.