Trap House

by Sa'id Salaam

Diache sighed as he put his pipe down and complied.

  Better him than me. Tracy laughed to himself, happy to be sucking on a pipe instead of P.I.G.

  * * *

  Damn! Stripping must pay good, Tiffany thought as she followed Wanda into her small house.

  The two-bedroom cottage was located on Wylie Street, in Atlanta’s Cabbage Town section. That area, like many others in the city, was changing rapidly. Houses were being bought and sold on a daily basis. Some were razed and rebuilt almost overnight.

  Wanda’s house had a “For Sale” sign out front as well. It was owned by her boyfriend Mike, who was looking to add to his fortune. It had quadrupled in value since he’d purchased it, so the time was ripe to sell.

  “Have a seat,” Wanda offered, waving a diamond-laden hand toward a plush blue leather sectional sofa that dominated the small room.

  Tiffany took in all the rich accouterments as she sat down. The carpet was incredibly thick, swallowing most of Tiffany’s sandal. It was a shade darker than the sofa, creating a nice contrast. The room was embellished with glass and chrome, and a huge fish tank filled with several exotic creatures filled an entire wall. “I love your place,” Tiffany said emphatically.

  “Thank you, girl. Courtesy of them trick-ass niggas at the club,” Wanda said as she dumped the guts out of a blunt and went on. “I still can’t understand how they pay so much money just to look at some coochie. They be in the streets all day, taking penitentiary chances, sellin’ dope, robbin’, and killing, just to throw it at a bitch.” She laughed. As she laced a blunt with cocaine, she continued, “I mean, then them niggas be showing off, tryina outdo each other, talking ‘bout they makin’ it rain. Nigga, please!” Wanda laughed again. “God make it rain. Y’all niggas is tricks. We be like, ‘Yeah, Daddy, make it rain,’” she said, stopping to light the blunt.

  The room grew silent as Wanda lit it. The heavy dose of crack sizzled loudly under the flame.

  Tiffany caught herself staring and quickly snapped out of it. “So how much y’all be making up in there?” Tiffany asked, totally ignoring all the rules of grammar in order to sound hip.

  “It depends,” Wanda said between gulps of air. “’Bout a stack on a regular night, two or three on a good one.”

  “A thousand dollars!?” Tiffany exclaimed in disbelief. “To…just to dance? But I could never take my clothes off in front of all those men,” she said, looking repulsed.

  “Shit! Y’all young hoes be doin’ the same shit in a regular club,” Wanda retorted, slightly offended. “Letting them niggas dry hump on y’all till they bust in they pants. Shit. Ain’t ‘nare a nigga getting no free nut off me,” she said, calming back down.

  “I know that’s right,” Tiffany added, embarrassed by the inadvertent insult.

  “Mmhmm, girl,” Wanda said, extending the blunt to Tiffany.

  “Uh-uh,” Tiffany replied, shaking her head, terrified.

  “Scared? You scared?” Wanda laughed before hitting the blunt again.

  Scared to death! Tiffany thought to herself.

  CHAPTER 5

  “What…the…fuck!?” Marcus groaned loudly as the incessant noise grew louder. “Fucking bad-ass kids,” he fumed, realizing that the source of the offending noise was one of his nephews bouncing a ball against the wall in the next room. He covered his head with his pillow, trying in vain to drown out the sound. When that didn’t work, Marcus began to mentally plan his day. The plan was simple: Get high. The only issue at hand was how.

  His thoughts drifted to Tiffany as he felt his morning erection throb. “Damn, I ain’t hit that in a minute,” he reflected as he began slowly stroking himself. It wasn’t as if he’d lost interest in Tiffany, but trying to stay high consumed most of his time, most of his energy, and all of his money—which was really hers in the first place. He became slightly embarrassed at the memory of their last sexual encounter. He’d been smoking crack for hours before Tiffany arrived at the hotel and couldn’t get an erection to save his life.

  Tiffany had enjoyed the extended foreplay, of course, but she was shocked when she reached down to guide him inside of her and found him uncharacteristically limp. “What’s wrong with you!?” she shrieked at the touch of his flaccid penis.

  “Ain’t shit wrong with me,” he shot back defensively, as if she were the problem. “Let a nigga get a little head,” Marcus demanded.

  “Boy, stop.” Tiffany chuckled. They’d only had sex a handful of times since she’d finally given it up on prom night a few months prior. She’d made it clear that oral sex either way was out of the question.

  Nevertheless, Marcus persisted, and an argument ensued. After getting thoroughly cursed out, Tiffany left in a huff. No sooner than she did, Marcus paid a junkie for a blow job. As of late, that was the only sex he was getting.

  Marcus stroked himself until he released onto his own stomach. He used a nearby T-shirt to clean himself off and then tossed it on the floor. He was still shuddering from the climax when he reached for his phone. “What it do, shawty?” he said gruffly into it. His voice was still strained, as they were the first words he’d uttered for the day.

  “Who dis?” Tiffany replied, groggy herself from just waking up.

  “Fuck you mean, ‘Who dis’?” Marcus snapped. “Bitch, how many niggas be calling you?”

  “Bitch!?” Tiffany exclaimed in disbelief, reeling as if she’d been slapped.

  Marcus knew he’d gone too far and was about to try and straighten it out, but there was no one on the line to apologize to. “Shit,” he cursed to himself as he hit the redial button. He expected the call to go directly to voicemail, but to his surprise, Tiffany answered on the first ring, flying into a tirade.

  “First of all, nigga, I ain’t nobody’s bitch,” Tiffany began.

  Knowing it would be prudent to let her blow off some steam, Marcus sat with the phone on his chest while she vented. “I love you,” he said sweetly once the vibrations on his chest slowed, signaling the end of her rant.

  “I can’t tell,” Tiffany responded calmly as the magic word instantly took effect.

  “I heard P.I.G. broke you off real nice last night. I know you saved some fo’ ya man,” Marcus said, smiling through the phone line.

  “I ain’t got nothing left,” Tiffany lied as her eyes instinctively shot to her purse, where the remnants of last night’s package were.

  “Come on now, lil mama,” Marcus urged. “My nigga Pony told me P.I.G. threw you in an extra eight ball.”

  Tiffany wondered silently if nosey-ass Pony told him he’d asked for some pussy. P.I.G. did indeed break her off after she watched another of his sordid shows. A wannabe local rapper called Chieva let Julian suck him off for some coke. P.I.G. taped it, demanding that he meow like a kitten as he got his salad tossed. The dude had the audacity to try and holla at Tiffany once they were done.

  “Ain’t none left. Me and Wanda snorted it all,” Tiffany said.

  “Wanda!? Bitch, fuck you doing with that bitch?” Marcus spat as his anger began to build. He didn’t like Wanda either, especially after she laughed in his face when he hit on her. More than anything, he was pissed to have to start his quest to get high from ground zero.

  “Bitch? Really? Again?” Tiffany asked as if she hadn’t heard correctly.

  “Yeah, I said ‘bitch’, bitch,” Marcus answered. “Dumb-ass bitch, ho bitch, stupid-ass bitch…” was all he could get out before the line went dead. He called back and called her a few more bitch names on her voicemail—every kind of bitch known to man, plus two he made up on his own.

  Marcus looked around his room and cursed its sparseness. It looked like he’d been robbed. In fact, he had been; he’d robbed himself for drug money. Gone was his TV, DVD player, and his stereo. His Xbox, his PlayStation, and hundreds of games were up in smoke. The jewelry he once wore had long been smoked away.

  Hearing his older sister Debbie finally order her son to stop playing ball in the house, Marcus decided to try his luck with
her. He realized it was futile to ask his sister for money, but he was a crackhead, and his entire existence was an exercise in futility anyway. At least ten dollars, he reasoned to himself as he slid into the filthy jeans he had peeled off only hours before. Then he picked up the disgusting wadded T-shirt, complete with drying semen, and put it on as well.

  “Hey, Uncle Marcus,” his six-year-old nephew greeted cheerfully as he passed him in the hallway.

  Marcus grunted a reply and patted the child on his head.

  His other nephew, five-year-old Dontavious, just sneered at him. He wasn’t feeling him one bit after their Nintendo mysteriously walked up out the house.

  “I don’t fuck with you either, lil nigga,” Marcus grumbled as he passed the glaring child.

  “Uh oh, Mama, hide yo’ purse. There go that junkie,” Debbie chided as Marcus entered the kitchen.

  “The village whore speaks,” Marcus chuckled as he hugged his mother and kissed her face.

  Only unconditional mother’s love prevented her from being repulsed by the smell of filth and semen emanating from Marcus. “I know y’all better watch y’all mouth in my house,” their mother warned.

  “But, Mama, he really is a junkie.”

  “But, Mama, she really is a ho,” Marcus replied, mocking his sister’s tone.

  “I swear y’all gon’ be the death of me,” their mother said solemnly.

  “We just playin’, Mama. See?” Marcus said, hugging his sister and attempting to kiss her face.

  “Eww! Get off me, boy. I don’t know where your lips been,” Debbie squealed, trying to fend off her brother’s kisses. She loved her little brother with her whole heart—the same heart that was breaking as she watched him destroy himself, powerless to stop him. Debbie had already witnessed drugs destroy her first two baby daddies. The first smoked himself into a fatal cardiac arrest. The second got himself murdered trying to sell on a block that wasn’t his to sell on.

  As much as Debbie loved Marcus, he loved her more. It pained him when she earned a bad reputation back in school. Always a pretty girl, her pudgy frame killed her self-esteem. Once word got out that she put out, the guys flocked around, the girls gossiped, and her name was sullied. Debbie had always been a big girl, and then she kept an extra twenty pounds after each of her sons was born. Since even good pussy has its limits, guys stopped coming around once she tilted the scales at 250.

  Debbie and Marcus’s mother, Sister Jones, was a hardworking, hard-praying, deeply religious woman. Again, unconditional mother’s love caused her to ignore her children’s shortcomings. She knew Marcus was an addict, just like his father was. She knew her daughter was promiscuous, just like she herself was back in the day. Now Jesus was the only man in her life. She knew He had saved her and could save her wayward children if she could only get them to darken the door and warm the pews of the church.

  As soon as their mother went to the dining room and was safely out of earshot, Marcus cracked on his sister for money. “Say, shawty, let a nigga hol’ something till later?” he asked with a chuckle, even though he was dead serious. The laugh was a self-defense mechanism in case he got shot down. That way, he could claim he was just playing without looking like a fool.

  “Nigga, you must already be high if you think Ima give you some money,” Debbie said and laughed loudly.

  “Come on, sis. Just ten bucks?” he pleaded desperately.

  “Just like you gon’ replace the boys’ game that walked up outta here?” Debbie said loudly.

  “I done told you I ain’t take that, but I got some money coming—”

  “Yeah, I know. ‘Later’!” Debbie laughed. “Nigga, I wouldn’t give you ten cent to put cheese on a Checkers burger, so you know I ain’t ‘bout to give you ten dollars to give to the dope man,” she added, becoming indignant.

  “What y’all fussing about now?” their mother asked as she entered the kitchen.

  “He beggin’ for money again,” Debbie snitched.

  “Money!?” Sister Jones said in mock surprise. “Boy, if you want some money, then go back to work.”

  “Soon, Mama, soon. Things a little slow right now,” Marcus lied. Truth be told, Marcus couldn’t handle both working and getting high, so the job had to go. Besides, Tiffany had a job to support him and his habit.

  His mother shook her head as her mind flashed to all the ongoing construction projects she passed every day on her commute to and from work. “Well, come to the church with me sometime, and things will turn around,” she said wistfully.

  “Come on, Debbie. Just ten bucks?” Marcus begged, ignoring his mother’s comment.

  “Nigga…oops, sorry, Mama. Boy, I gotta spend at least thirty dollars on taxis taking these kids to Walmart, then DFCS, then ShopBrite,” Debbie said.

  Jackpot! Marcus screamed inside his head. He had Tiffany’s car outside, and he was sure he could get all that money. “Give me the money, and I’ll run you wherever you gotta go,” he announced with his hand extended.

  Debbie tried to decline, but Mama wasn’t hearing it. “Let your brother drive you, and give him twenty dollars,” she demanded, knowing it would prevent someone’s property from being stolen…or at least delay it.

  As Marcus loaded his niece and carseat into the car, his mind was racing. He was desperately trying to formulate a plot to get the money first, so he cold get a blast. “You gotta pay me first,” Marcus demanded once they were all inside.

  “Yeah, right.” Debbie laughed. “You ain’t getting a dime until me and my kids are safely back home.”

  Marcus set off for their first stop, ignoring the low fuel light. Even when it began beeping, he intended to ignore the warning.

  “Boy, you ain’t got no gas!” Debbie exclaimed once she noticed it.

  “We straight,” Marcus said, forging ahead.

  “Straight…hell, boy, pull over ahead and get some gas,” she demanded.

  “Uh-uh. I ain’t spending my money on no gas fo’ this car,” Marcus said plainly.

  “Man, I’ll pay for it,” Debbie said ruefully.

  Marcus was calculating how to make the most of the twenty bucks he had coming. He didn’t want any of the bullshit he might find on the street, and he knew he couldn’t see P.I.G. with that paltry amount unless he was planning on sucking dick, which he wasn’t. That nigga will have you sweeping up. He laughed at himself as he pumped the gas. I’ll figure something out, he vowed.

  Three hours later, Marcus was following his sister through the aisle of Walmart, pushing a cart. While she picked out cheap outfits and shoes for her kids, Marcus scanned the store for something to steal. Inspiration struck him when the Electronics Department came into view. “Here, lil man,” Marcus said, giving control of the shopping cart to his nephew. He paced the section, scoping out DVDs and iPods. The busy clerk paid him no attention as he began to load up. It got so good that Marcus snatched the tags off a small tote bag and filled it with loot. He actually got an erection as he stuffed the bag with merchandise. The high-ticket items were locked in a display case, but he still had hundreds of dollars worth of items. “Be easy,” he told himself as he made his way to the front. “Almost there,” he said reassuringly as the exit door came into view. He held his breath as he walked past the sensors. To his relief, there were no alarms, no guards, no problems.

  Marcus had done a lot of foul shit since he began smoking, and he felt nothing—no guilt or shame—most of the time. He did, however, feel a tinge of remorse as he pulled out of the Walmart parking lot, leaving his sister and her children stranded there. “At least she can keep the twenty,” he told his reflection, as if that made everything alright.

  CHAPTER 6

  It was another typical hot, humid summer day in the South. Tiffany thanked God and then her father for the ice-cold air conditioner that cooled the house as she did her household chores. After running the vacuum through the entire house, she went to work dusting and polishing. She felt a sense of pride and gratitude for the nice home her fat
her had provided for his family.

  “Hey, girl,” Tiffany beamed at her mother, who was hard at work herself; she always whipped up a big brunch as the family did their weekend chores, and today’s consisted of scrambled eggs, bacon, home fries, and biscuits.

  “Almost ready, dear,” her mother replied, returning the cheerful smile.

  “Good, cuz I’m starvin’ like Marvin.” Tiffany chuckled as she snagged a slice of crispy bacon.

  “’Bout time you ate something, girl. You been hurtin’ my feelings lately, turning ya nose up at my food,” she slipped in. She’d been looking for an opportunity to address her daughter’s recent lack of appetite.

  “Gurl, you know I love ya cooking,” Tiffany sang, grabbing a hot biscuit to prove the point. She chomped into the biscuit as she headed up to her room. “Call me when it’s ready!” Tiffany called behind her.

  As Tiffany neared her room, she heard the phone ringing. The D-lite ringtone always made her want to dance. By the time she fished the phone out, it had stopped ringing. “Shit!” she proclaimed at the missed call. She didn’t particularly want to speak with Marcus, but she wanted her car back.

  Just as she was about to dial the phone, a folded-up bill in her purse caught her attention. “Psst...” it seemed to say.

  She debated on whether or not she should take a hit for two whole seconds before digging in. A few seconds after she began, the bill was empty. She lay back to enjoy her buzz, just as her mother’s voice drifted upstairs. Since her appetite had vanished, she decided to ignore her mother’s beckoning. She shook her head at the half-eaten biscuit on the nightstand.

  “Tiff, don’t you hear your mother?” her father asked, sticking his head inside the partially open door.

  “Don’t you know how to knock?” she replied curtly at the intrusion.

  “Excuse me, young lady?” her father said in disbelief, a look of pure confusion pasted on his face.

  “I’m sorry, Daddy,” Tiffany whined, using the little girl voice that always proved effective when dealing with her father. “I was about to change. You embarrassed me,” she added. She knew she had her daddy wrapped around her finger, but maintaining that required the utmost respect.