by Meesha Mink
“Turn up the heat and let me tell you the latest shit buzzin’ around here.” She rubs her hands together, her two-inch nails painted with every imaginable neon color and plenty of rhinestones.
“Do you know everybody’s business?” I ask her as I pull out the parking lot.
“Nope, not everybody. Just those dumb enough to let their business get out. Once it’s out it’s like community property. God bless America.”
We both laugh.
WooWoo is the only thing about Bentley Manor that I will miss.
8
Devani
The thing about Koolay’s constantly high ass is that he’s always whipping out his dick and massaging it as if it is the most natural thing in the world. Usually he’s on the sofa with a blunt, a beer, or the remote control in one hand and his dick in the other. In the year that he’s been living with me and Momma, I’m accustomed to ignoring his wrinkly uncircumcised dick.
Sometimes, like today, it’s a little harder than usual. The moment I open my eyes, Koolay is standing at the door of my bedroom, “massaging” and making annoying sucking sounds between his teeth.
“What the fuck are you doing in here?” I yank the top sheet down over my exposed ass cheeks, since my pajamas consist of a pair of Wal-Mart thongs and a short tee that asks: “Got Milk?”
“Yo momma wants you in the kitchen,” he says, rolling his eyes as if he’s hit a particular sweet spot.
“Fine. Now get the hell out of here.”
A second later, he turns and heads back to his beloved sofa. He didn’t cum. In fact, I don’t think the motherfucker ever cums. It’s just hours and hours of rubbing, caressing, and massaging. Like that damn energizer bunny, he just keeps going and going.
Annoyed, I jump into a pair of form-fitting workout shorts and my ratty pair of house slippers and shuffle into the kitchen. My mother, with half of her hair braided and the other half a frizzy mess, is scrambling a skillet of government powdered eggs and pasteurized cheese with one hand and sipping Hennessy with the other. Why she’s cooking breakfast at one in the afternoon, I have no idea.
“You wanted me?”
“Yeah, I need you to go to the store for me. I need a pack of Philly blunts and a box of tampons.”
“What the fuck? How come you can’t send your man to the store?”
On cue, Koolay unlocks the series of door locks and jerks open the front door. “Be back,” he hollers and then slams the door behind him.
“He’s making a run to see M. Dawg,” Momma says, flipping over the bacon in the back skillet.
“Fine. Whatever. Give me the money.” I hold out my hand.
“Spot me and I’ll hit you back later.”
“What the fuck?” My hands grip my waist. “You got money to get some weed from M. Dawg, but you can’t buy your own tampons? What makes you think I got some damn money?”
“Stop trippin’, Devani. I know your NFL nigga broke you off some chomp change. At least he better have. I’ve told you about laying up with these no good bastards and not gettin’ something in return.”
“You’re laying up with Koolay and his ass ain’t got a pot to piss in or a window to throw it out of.”
“Goddamn it, Devani.” Momma shoves the eggs skillet toward the back of the stove and hot grease from the bacon splashes everywhere. “We ain’t talking about me. We’re talking about you. I’m tryna to teach your hardheaded ass not to make the same mistakes I’ve made, but I can’t tell you shit ’cos you run around here like you know every goddamn thing.”
The last thing I’m in the mood for is a lecture. “Fine. Whatever. I’ll buy your damn shit.” Might as well, I’m not going to win the damn argument. “When in the hell are you going to hit menopause, anyway?” As I storm back to my room to get ready, Momma dogs my heels.
“You want to know why I’m with Koolay?”
“Not particularly.” I snatch open my bottom chest of drawers and grab a pair of jeans.
“It’s ’cos he’s simple…easy. He ain’t out runnin’ around here tryna to fuck anything with a hole and he understands me.”
Okay, now she’s delusional. Koolay would fuck me in front of my momma, if I let him.
“When the sun rises in the morning, Koolay is there. When I lay my head down at night, he’s there.”
“Where else is he going to be? The nigga ain’t got a job.”
“You’ll understand when you get my age. When you get tired of believing all the lies these niggas tell you. ‘Ooh, baby. I looove you.”’ She shakes her hips, careful not to spill her drink. “How about: ‘You’re the only woman for me’ or my personal favorite: ‘Sure, baby. Stick with me I’ll take you away from all of this’? That one came from your damn daddy and I ain’t seen his black ass since he knocked me up.”
“Okay, Momma. I got it.”
“Do you?” She steps farther into the room. “You only get so many chances before your looks go and your figure is shot. After that, niggas don’t want shit to do with you.”
Not the first time I’ve heard this speech, but there’s something in my mother’s voice that catches my attention. For a moment, I’m thrown off guard by the teary gloss of her sad eyes and the defeated slump of her shoulders. Vulnerable is not a word that usually describes Momma, but one would have to be as blind as Stevie Wonder to miss her frailty today.
“When you get my age, all that’s left are these stragglers who ain’t never done shit, ain’t doing shit, and ain’t planning on doing shit.” She folds one arm across her body and takes another gulp of her drink. “Which is fine,” she continues without missing a beat. “’Cos all I want now is a warm body and a good buzz to help me forget about all the wrong turns I’ve made.”
One of those wrong turns was a brief stint in jail some years back. One of her many boyfriends hid a gun used in a convenience store robbery in her car. Momma failed to have the good sense to rat the nigga out—despite having two kids waiting for her at home.
Maybe if she’d been home, my twin sister, Dynia, would’ve never hooked up with the wrong crowd, become addicted to crack, and die at fifteen of an overdose while riding the Marta train home.
“I better get to the store so I can get back. I have a date with Tyrik.” I know why I changed the subject. I’m uncomfortable around this “vulnerable” woman. Give me the loud, argumentative Momma any day of the week.
“Tyrik,” she mumbles under her breath and then takes another sip. “That nigga is running a damn game on you and you damn well know it.”
“He’s not like that, Momma.” I run a brush through my hair and bunch it all into a clip at the nape of my neck.
“There you go being hardheaded again. Let me ask you this: has he asked you to move to Pittsburgh yet?”
The question is a punch to the gut, but no way I’m lettin’ my nosy momma in my business. If I do, she’s just going to tryna work the situation to her benefit.
“He hasn’t asked you, has he?” Momma throws her head back with a high cackle. “You’re one dumb-ass bitch, Devani. I swear.”
I kick off my slippers and jam my feet into my Nikes. In the next move I try to bum rush my way past her to get the hell out the apartment, but Momma grabs my arm with amazing strength.
“Don’t let this nigga run over you, baby.”
Her words are slurred, but it’s that damn teary gloss in her eyes that disturbs me.
“If you want that nigga and you want to get out of this place, then you got to play your cards right. You gotta think outside of your coochee, baby. Every bitch on the street got one of those. They come in different shapes, sizes, and flavors. And the sky is the limit with a nigga with some money. You need an ace in the hole if you want to play this game. You need something he can’t walk away from.”
What the fuck is she talking about now?
“You can’t eat off love—but a baby is a good damn check for at least eighteen years.”
Literally my mouth sags open. Not because I would never
think of such a thing or stoop to such a level, but because the advice is coming from my momma.
“Getting knocked up didn’t help you sink your claws into my daddy.”
“That’s ’cos your damn daddy was another nigga without a pot to piss in.” She shoves my arm back at me. “Had I listened to my own momma I could of saved myself from that mistake.”
And I wouldn’t be here.
“When does Tyrik report to training camp?”
I start not to answer but I know she will needle it out of me. “July.”
“It’s February. Not a whole lot of wiggle room.” She folds her arm again and takes another sip of her drink. “Of course, all you need is one night. And tonight is Valentine’s night. I wouldn’t mind being a grandma by the holidays. You just make sure you hook your momma up when you start gettin’ those big checks.”
I knew it. “Your bacon is burning, Momma.”
“Shit.” She takes off for the kitchen and sure enough the kitchen and the living room are filled with choking, white smoke. Because cooking isn’t my momma’s strong suit, that sorry-ass smoke detector doesn’t so much as emit a single beep.
I grab my jacket. “I’ll be back,” I holler and bolt out of the tiny apartment.
The day is cloudy but I can’t tell whether the gray is from the promise of rain or because it’s the general mood at Bentley Manor. But sunshine, snow, or rain, Miz Cleo and Miz Osceola are parked out on their stoop at the center of the U-shaped complex and staring at everyone like two hawks, waiting for their first meal.
Miz Cleo is a handsome, five-foot-seven, Mahalia Jackson look-alike, with stunningly beautiful silver hair. She may be in her seventies but her skin is as rich and smooth as any thirty-year-old and is a true testament that black don’t crack. Miz Osceola is three inches shorter, three shades lighter and with a spray of freckles and small moles over her face.
I tell you, not a damn thing gets past those two old birds and every once in a while they feel the need to wave you over and read your ass like they kin to you or something.
I glance around the complex and spot crackheads and streetwalkers creeping and shuffling around like those goon dancers in that old Thriller video. Ole Eddie, an ex-boyfriend of my momma, is sitting out on his own stoop sipping on his usual cheap Mad Dog and getting fucked up. People say he’s been drunk since the day he returned from Vietnam. If you ask me, there are faster ways to killing yourself than pickling your insides.
I step out onto the glass-littered parking lot and literally have to jump out the way when two kids bolt out from behind a few run-down cars.
“Hey!” I shout.
The tallest boy is thin and lanky with oil-black skin. I don’t know his name but he has the habit of running around like he owns the damn place. In another couple of years he’ll undoubtedly make his grand debut in juvenile court.
“Watch where you’re going,” I tell him.
“You watch where you’re going,” he snaps, looking me over and staring at my titties as if he’s still being breast-fed. I swear these damn kids at Bentley Manor think their asses are grown. Only Lexi Mitchell’s kids act like they got some damn sense. As I turn and head down the street, the boys behind me make crude yet flattering comments about the amount of junk in my trunk.
Goddamn kids.
Junior’s loud-ass hoopty whips into the complex. My pussy muscle twitches a bit at the memory of his beautiful cock, but it isn’t Junior who hops out the car, but his clueless, trophy white-trash bitch.
“Hi,” she says, catching my stare.
I roll my eyes in the opposite direction. I ain’t got time for fake hos wanting a free black pass just because they rockin’ some black dick—even a big, black dick in Junior’s case.
Fuck her.
I walk through the wrought-iron security gate (which is always open, by the way). Down the block at the neighborhood Circle K gas station, niggas are clustered together because they ain’t got nothing better to do.
By the large ice machine, an even larger group of Latinos in dirty, paint-splattered clothing scan the streets for almighty whitey, who hates them for being illegal in the country, but loves the cheap manual labor. In a lot of ways Mexican niggas are no better off than regular niggas.
“Hola, Mamí,” one calls out to me.
I promptly ignore his ass. I’m trying to get ahead of the game, not take two steps back.
Shakespeare, who earned his nickname back in junior high for spray-painting what he called “some serious knowledge” on a few highway underpasses, glides up beside me and follows me into the store. “Whatsup, Devani?”
“I’m just runnin’ an errand,” I tell him.
“Yeah? Where’s your rich nigga at?”
“What the hell are you doing all up in my business?” I ask, cutting a glance over my shoulder.
Shakespeare licks his thick, juicy lips and curls a mischievous smile. “You know I’ve been sweatin’ you since we were in elementary school.”
This is true. I remember back when he had to wear funny shoes and thick Coca-Cola–bottle glasses. He’s definitely come a long way. He has a nice-cut body and since he got rid the weird shoes and converted to contacts, he’s generally considered a pretty boy. Now, if he only had his shit together and had a job he might be worth something. Instead, he’s just another nigga smokin’ his dreams away.
There’s no shame in my game when I grab a small box of tampons. Shakespeare tries his best to suppress a knowing smirk, but fails. I just shake my head and march up to the counter. “A pack of Philly blunts,” I tell the Indian cashier. At least I think he’s Indian—he could be Arab. Who the fuck knows? I just know they own all the convenience stores, liquor stores, and Dairy Queens in the black neighborhoods.
“I’ll take care of that for you.” Shakespeare tosses a few dollars on the counter and I give him a saucy smile as thanks and even sway my hips a little harder as I walk away.
“So you got plans with your nigga tonight?” Shakespeare asks as we walk past his boys.
“Of course. It’s Valentine’s Day.” And I’m gonna fuck Tyrik so good he won’t dare think about moving to Pittsburgh without me.
Shakespeare nods and casts his gaze off in the distance.
“What about you?” I ask. “You got plans this evening?”
“Nah, nah. I got a few chickenheads on standby—nothin’ serious.”
I nod and we both fall silent as we walk down the busted-up sidewalk and pass large patches of Georgia red clay. That’s another peculiar thing; grass don’t grow in the projects. But there are plenty of crushed beer cans, cigarette butts, and everything else that belongs in garbage cans.
“You know I’m going to get out of this joint one day,” Shakespeare says suddenly.
“Oh yeah?” Bullshit.
“Yeah. I got some plans in the works. I just need a good woman in my corner. Someone like you.”
I laugh and cut another look at him. “And what is that supposed to mean?”
“It means I’m tryna get in where I fit in. If things don’t work out between you and your nigga…” He struck a pose so I get a good look at him.
“What the fuck ever.”
“Nah. Nah. I’d like to be the one to take you away from all of this.”
I laugh again and walk through the security gate. The first things to catch my attention are the two police cars. Shit. I swear the po-po spend more time in Bentley Manor than at the police station.
“Who are they sweatin’ now?” Shakespeare asks, exasperated. When he sees his older brother, Smokey (you get one guess on how he earned that nickname), he jets from my side to find out the 4-1-1.
I just shake my head and go about my business. Smokey’s arrest can only mean someone called about him beating his wife’s ass again. Probably Miz Cleo. I don’t why she would do that—Keisha ain’t never gonna press charges.
“I’m back,” I holler out the moment I walk back into the apartment. There’s still smoke, but at lea
st all the windows are open.
Momma and Koolay jet from out their bedroom like I’d announced they were the winners of the Publishing Clearance House sweepstakes. They probably hid when they saw the po-pos’ blue lights through the open window.
“Give me the blunts,” Koolay demands, already pulling the bag of weed from his pants pocket.
Momma pops him on the back of the head.
“Ow. What?”
“Nigga, go close the window.”
Frowning and rubbing his head, Koolay shuffles toward the windows while mumbling under his breath, “Play too damn much.”
I can’t help but laugh, but Momma’s next words sober my ass.
“Tyrik called while you were out.” A sloppy smile curves her lips as she snatches the brown bag from my hands. “He says he has to cancel your date this evening. Something came up.”
“Probably some better coochee.” Koolay laughs.
I slice my don’t-fuck-with-me glare in his direction and make sure I meet his half-lidded gaze. “There’s no such thing as better than this.”
That shut him up. But as his gaze roams my curvy body, he makes the mistake of licking his lips. I doubt he ever saw Momma’s left hook.
9
Molly
Valentine’s Day is almost over and Junior is still not home. Dinner was done two hours ago, more than half the wicks in my army of ninety-nine-cent candles are burned out, and I feel ridiculous in this pink, fake lace teddy I bought from Super Wal-Mart. I keep crying and fucking up my mascara to the point I now look like Tammy Faye Bakker’s stepchild.
How could he do this? He knows how special this day is to me. I know our money is funny and all. Since we’ve been together, we’ve never really been able to go all out like we want to, but Junior hinted that this year was going to be different. I imagined roses being delivered or even a stuffed teddy bear with a big-ass balloon with the words “I love you.” That would have been nice and romantic. But who am I kidding? Bentley Manor is a red zone—meaning no one made deliveries here—except the cops serving warrants, subpoenas, and eviction notices.
