California Connection (Califronia Connection)

by Chunichi

  Touch’s parents moved their family to Virginia Beach during his high school years to keep him out of trouble, but with my help, he was able to get back and forth to Norfolk on a daily basis. But he couldn’t stay out of trouble at all, which was why he ultimately got sent to the penitentiary.

  My homeboy spent three long years of his life locked up. But since he got out, shit had been nothing but uphill for him. Keeping the truth to his name, he was still turning shitballs to gold nuggets.

  “What up, bay?” Touch answered right away.

  “Nothing. I’m at the nail shop. Meet me here. I need some company. Then afterwards we can go have some drinks.” Drinking wasn’t my thing, but Touch’s borderline alcoholic ass loved it.

  “A’ight. I’ll be up there.” He already knew I was at our regular spot, which was just around the corner from his crib.

  “Hey, sexy,” I said to Touch as he walked in.

  Never the flashy type but always dressed tight, Touch demanded attention as he entered a room. He always wore the latest styles but never any jewelry. You could catch him with a different color Prada or latest Gucci sneaker on each day of the week, but you won’t catch him with an iced-out chain. The most he would have on was a watch. He didn’t even have his ears pierced. No jewels, not even a tattoo, he was the most humble nigga around, with enough charisma to charm anyone. Touch managed to get any bitch he wanted. Now, how many niggas would love to be in his shoes?

  Before Touch had a chance to respond to my sexy comment, another nail technician directed him to sit beside me. “You can sit here.”

  Touch sat down and slid off his Gucci slippers and rolled up his Antik Denim jeans to prepare for his pedicure then focused his attention to me. He looked at me with his thick cornrows and with those big brown eyes as another nail tech grabbed his hand to begin his manicure.

  “What’s up, homie?”

  “I got fired today.” I laughed.

  “Stop playing,” Touch said in disbelief.

  “Yep.”

  “You a’ight?” he asked.

  “Hell yeah. You know I didn’t want to work anyway.”

  “So you gonna look for another job?”

  “I have a job, damn it!” I yelled.

  “A’ight, a’ight,” Touch said quickly.

  “And answer your damn phone.” I said, acknowledging his phone that had been ringing constantly since we began our conversation. “I’m sick of hearing that shit ring.”

  “It’s my baby mother. She on some bullshit right now, and I ain’t into that arguing shit.”

  “Your baby mother is a trip.” I grinned as I thought back to the many stories I’d heard about her. “What you do now, Touch?” I asked, automatically assuming it was his fault.

  “I ain’t did shit. She just pissed about my new girl. They stay into it. My baby mother be calling her phone and all kinds of shit.”

  I couldn’t do nothing but laugh as Touch continued to tell me about his baby momma drama. Normally, I would be the first bitch to snap when he would tell me about a chick doing him wrong, but when it came to his baby mother, it was nothing but love. I had to respect her because she was just so gangster with her shit. Real talk, she reminded me of myself. Everything she did was some shit I would do.

  I feel sorry for the nigga that ever decided to make me his baby mother. A nigga better marry me because, trust me, the shit I would do if my baby father left me would make them give baby momma drama a whole new name.

  “It’s okay, pookie face. We’ll go drink our problems away in a few minutes.” I reached over and rubbed the side of his face, careful not to smear my freshly painted nails.

  Sticking her little-ass nose all up in my business, the one I called Kim said, “You like him. He not friend. He boyfriend.”

  “What?” I balled my face up.

  “You like him.” She pointed to Touch.

  “Go ’head wit’ dat shit,” Touch told her. “Dis my fucking sista.”

  Although I was pissed that bitch was all in my business, I knew where she was coming from. It wasn’t the first time somebody had said that same shit. Hell, all of our friends swore we were fucking. Anybody on the outside looking in felt it was a little more than a tight friendship between us. As crazy as it may seem, they were all wrong. Touch and I hadn’t even held hands before, let alone kiss. That nigga was truly my best friend, nothing more, nothing less.

  “Yo,” Touch answered his other cell phone as I headed to the back of the nail shop to get my waxing done.

  “Don’t make my eyebrows too thin,” I instructed as I lay on the bench to wait for my wax.

  “It not too thin,” the nail technician tried explaining in her best English. “I do nice for you.”

  “Okay. I hope so, ’cause last week you made them way too thin.”

  As a mixed breed, Panamanian and black, my eyebrows were naturally thick, so thin eyebrows did me no justice. A full face, a head full of thick, curly hair, and little skinny eyebrows wasn’t the business.

  “Shit!” I yelled as the nail tech ripped the tape from beneath my eyebrow.

  I knew getting wax was no piece a cake, but I didn’t ever remember it being that painful. For a moment I thought that little Vietnamese bitch was applying a little extra force on some get-back shit.

  Ten minutes later my waxing was complete. I looked in the mirror closely to examine the wax job I’d just received. Surprisingly, it was perfect.

  “It looks good. Can you do it like this next week too?” I asked as I handed back the little woman the hand mirror.

  “I told you, I do nice job for you,” she responded as she headed out the door, and I followed her to the cash register.

  Touch sat in a chair near the register. “You done, yo?”

  “Yep.”

  “Let’s roll.” Touch pulled off four twenties from a stack of money he carried in his pocket and paid for our services.

  “Keep the change,” I said, as though I’d just paid the eighty dollars for our day at the nail shop.

  “See, me told you he your boyfriend,” Kim said, as Touch and I walked out the door.

  “Whatever,” I said, choosing to no longer entertain her foolishness. “See you next week.” I asked Touch as we walked to our vehicles. “Where we headed?”

  “I thought we was gon’ get a drink?”

  “Said like a true alcoholic,” I said, noticing the panic in Touch’s voice. He was like a fiend needing his daily fix. “We are going to get a drink, hon. I was just asking where.”

  “Oh shit. Let’s hit the beach,” Touch said, now much more relaxed.

  “You want me to jump in with you, or should I drive?” I asked, knowing Touch’s tendency to want to stay at the bar longer than me.

  I couldn’t count the number of times I’d left him at the bar alone. And the funny shit was that no one would ever know he was there alone. Being the social type and loving white people, he had no problems mingling and fitting right in at the bars on the oceanfront. You would think they would single out a young black dude with cornrows from Norfolk. But, I guess, when you got something they all wanted, they wouldn’t care if you dressed like André 3000, had hair like Bob Marley, and spoke like Ozzy Osbourne.

  Touch was a real businessman, and knew how to pick his clients, suppliers, and workers. On top of all that, this nigga was just so fucking reserved, never the greedy type. Although it rarely showed, Touch also had a dark side that would come out and show its dirty little head when a nigga got out of line. Even with all that, he still didn’t think like the average dope boy. He had bigger goals like businesses, houses, investments, and setting up college funds for his twin daughters, his pride and joy.

  “Go ’head and drive, ’cause I gotta meet my man there and I don’t know how long this nigga gon’ take.”

  “Okay, lead the way.” I pressed the unlock button on my keychain and headed to my truck.

  I knew exactly what it meant when Touch said he had to meet his man. Touch t
ried his hardest to exclude me from his dealings with the drug game, but I knew him way too well. Although I can honestly say I’d never saw a drug transaction go down or even seen the product, as a matter of fact, I still knew what was up. Of course, Touch had legit businesses, but I still knew he had his ties with the game, quiet as it was kept. I’d have been a fool to think otherwise.

  I hopped in the truck and grabbed my iPod and set it to some riding music. I could kiss the muthafucka that invented that shit. The radio was nearly nonexistent in my world. No time for a bunch of commercials and constantly changing the station, trying to find a song I enjoy. Then when it came to CD’s, I hated shuffling through a big-ass CD case and loading and unloading CD’s into the deck. My heart goes out to those still living in those prehistoric ways.

  Not even ten whole minutes had passed before we reached Atlantic Avenue at the oceanfront, better known as “the strip.” I pulled into the beach parking lot behind Touch as he paid for the both of us. By the time I was parked and getting out of my truck, he was already headed to the bar.

  I yelled at Touch across the parking lot, “Gotdamn, you fucking wino! Slow down. They ain’t gonna run out of liquor before you get there.”

  Touch waited for me at the door of the bar and held the door open for me to walk in. “Do you have to be so damn loud? You used to be a little prissy-ass beach girl; now you ghetto as fuck!”

  I paused in the doorway and looked him in the eyes. “I’m prissy when the time calls for it, and I’m ghetto when the time calls for that,” I said and proceeded to walk past.

  Touch smacked my ass as he followed me in the bar. “Whatever, nigga.”

  “Ugh! Don’t ever touch my booty,” I said, surprised at Touch’s actions.

  “You just started getting an ass. Back in high school, you were straight up and down, miss nasatall.” Touch joked as we grabbed a seat at the bar.

  “Oh, I know you didn’t. You trying to say I had no ass at all.” I laughed at Touch’s taunting.

  Our conversation was interrupted by Touch’s incoming call.

  “Yo.”

  I could hear the person ask from the other end of the phone, “Where you at?”

  “The front,” Touch said, trying to give his location without actually saying the words.

  Niggas kill me with that shit. They act like every phone is tapped and every phone call is being recorded by the damn feds. I grinned to myself as he continued his conversation.

  The overly tanned white woman with obvious breast implants laid napkins in front of Touch and me. “What cha having to drink?”

  I ordered Touch’s usual. “X-Rated and Sprite for me, and Grey Goose on the rocks for him.”

  After ending his call, Touch asked, “You ordered for me?”

  “Yeah,” I lied. “I got you a Hennessy and Coke.”

  “What? Why the fuck you do that, Jewel?”

  I continued to lie just to see how aggravated Touch would get. “I thought that’s what you drink?”

  “Man.” Touch sucked his teeth and called for the bartender. “Yo!”

  The bartender put up one finger as she made our drinks, signaling that she would be right over in a moment.

  “You goin’ to drink that fucking Hennessy too.” Touch pulled out a cigarette.

  I didn’t even respond as I watched the bartender bring our drinks over and sit them directly in front of us.

  “What can I get for you, hon?” she asked Touch.

  “Man, let me get a Grey Goose on the rocks,” he ordered, not even noticing the drink sitting right in front of him.

  “Another one?” the bartender asked.

  Touch looked down and grinned. “Nah, this good,” he said to the bartender then mushed me in the side of my head.

  I busted out with laughter. I teased him, saying, “I told you, you’re an alcoholic. See how mad you got over that drink?”

  “Nah, man. Me and my girl just got into it last night over that same shit. Before I go to the bathroom, I tell her to order me another drink. I come back and this crazy bitch ordered me gin on the rocks. I almost threw up when I sipped that shit. I was like, how the fuck this bitch don’t know what I drink as many times as we been out together? Damn, I don’t drink but one kind of liquor.” “That is pretty bad. Sorry, I didn’t know. She should know you a little better. Next time you’re with her, ask her what color your eyes are.” I figured that would be the true test. There was no way anyone could miss those big brown eyes. Hell, that was one of his greatest assets.

  “My eyes? What? I don’t even know what color my eyes are.”

  Damn, that’s crazy, I thought to myself. “They’re brown, Touch. Haven’t you noticed your eyes are a tad bit brighter than the average black person? I mean, they aren’t hazel, but they are definitely not the average dark brown eyes. Here look.” I searched my bag for my MAC compact then pulled it out to hand it to him.

  He pushed my hand away. “Hell nah. Put that shit up.”

  “Come on, look.” I opened the compact and shoved it in front of his face.

  “Go ’head, man. Stop playing.” Touch struggled to take the compact away from me.

  “What’s the matter? You too cool to look into a woman’s compact at a bar?” I laughed. I finally gave up and put the compact back in my bag.

  “You full of games, I see. Well, I got a game for ya, jokesta,” Touch said in an I-dare-you-to-play-along tone.

  “Okay, what’s up?” I quickly accepted the challenge.

  “We gon’ play a drinking game—”

  “Oh, hell nah!” I yelled, cutting him off. That was definitely a challenge I would lose. I was always up for a fight, but I knew suicide when I was faced with it.

  “Gotdamn! Hear me out, homie. The game is not about who can drink the most. I already know I got your little buck-and-a-quarter ass beat when it comes to that. The game is, you order my drinks, and I order yours, and no matter what the next person orders you have to drink it. Cool?”

  “Okay, but no off-the-wall shit.”

  “A’ight, drink up. After we’re done with these drinks, the game begins.”

  I swallowed my drink down, and Touch threw out the straw from his Grey Goose and took the drink to the head.

  “Yo!” He flagged down the waitress then signaled for me to order when she arrived.

  I looked at all the different liquors that sat behind the bar. “Let me get, uuummmm . . . a shot of piss,” I said. Then Touch and I burst out laughing at the same time.

  The waitress said nothing. She just stood there with a puzzled look on her face. She probably thought we were already drunk.

  “I’m joking. I’m joking,” I said, noticing the waitress was starting to get a little impatient with our foolishness. “Let me get a shot of tequila, the one with the worm. Matter of fact, if possible, can we get the worm in the glass?”

  The waitress shook her head, as if to say okay, then looked at Touch for his order.

  “Let me get a Long Island Ice Tea.”

  “Thanks,” I said, feeling as though Touch had given me a pass on the first round. I was surprised that he’d ordered it. I was expecting something crazy like I’d ordered for him. I knew he only drank clear liquors, so I was expecting him to pitch a fit right away over the tequila, but he didn’t even seem moved by my order.

  The waitress came back and placed our drinks in front of us. We switched drinks, and Touch downed his first. Then I began to sip on mine.

  “Whew!” I said after the first sip.

  “Yeah, nigga.” Touch sang. “Thought you was getting off easy, didn’t you? It’s about five different liquors in that shit. Drink up.” He laughed.

  We laughed and joked as Touch waited for me to finish my drink. I was down to my final sips, and I really felt like I could go no farther. I was really feeling the effects of the liquor.

  As a stall tactic, I decided I’d take a little bathroom break. “I’ll be back,” I said. “I gotta tinkle.” I pushed my stool away f
rom the bar.

  I looked myself over in the full-sized bathroom mirror. My eyes were glassy, a sure sign of intoxication. I made my way to the handicapped bathroom. Of course, I was nowhere near handicapped, but those bathrooms were always so spacious. So whenever I had the option, the handicapped bathroom was my first choice. I hung my purse on the hook that was posted to the back of the door. After struggling to get my pants down, I squatted over the toilet seat. That was the biggest challenge of all. I was so tipsy, I couldn’t even squat steadily.

  With the forceful flow of urine, I got pee all over the seat, and even some on the floor. I couldn’t do anything but laugh as I pressed my hands firmly against the walls beside me to try to hold my balance. Once done, I flushed the toilet and cleaned up the area around me nicely.

  As I stepped out of the restroom, an older white lady shot me an evil look as she leaned against the wall, her arms crossed. Ignoring her, I walked right past to the sink and began to wash my hands.

  I could hear her mumble from the restroom stall, “You don’t look handicapped to me.”

  Neither do you, I thought in my head, but chose to respond, “I’m not.”

  I began to fix my make up and straighten my hair when I heard the toilet flush. I rushed to finish touching myself up so that I wouldn’t have to stand next to the rude lady as she washed her hands. Just as I finished applying my lip-gloss, the lady came limping from the bathroom, one leg shorter than the other.

  She groaned then positioned herself against the sink so that she could wash her hands. “Well, if you’re not handicapped then stay out the bathroom.”

  “Okay, so I used the handicapped bathroom. Sorry—Write me a fucking ticket!” I then pranced out the bathroom, taking extra-long steps like a runway model.

  Normally, I would have felt bad and been very apologetic, but I’d had my share of rude white bitches for one day, and I think, more than anything, the alcohol was talking. Besides, how many times has anyone really been in the restroom using the handicapped stall and someone handicapped was actually waiting? I don’t know about you, but it was a first for me.