by Meesha Mink
“May I touch you?” he asks, his voice nervous as his hands stop just before my body.
I swallow back my irritation and pull his hands to my titties. They are cold and his fingers squeeze my nipples too tight.
I see the five one-hundred dollar bills laying on the night stand. The sooner this shit starts the sooner it will be over.
“You ready for some of this good pussy?” I ask him with a hot lick of my glossy lips.
My first trick ever shifts one hand down to slap my ass.
I think about Maleek. My marriage. My loyalty.
Now is not the time. Loyalty from him would’ve meant my ass is taken care of. He should of made sure I wasn’t pushed to this shit.
Long after he’s gone back to meet his wife in their own penthouse suite—I douche twice and take the longest, hottest shower ever—I drink the whole bottle of champagne and smoke another blunt, and throw the fuck up, and decide to go home before them nosy hawkeyed motherfuckers at Bentley Manor spread the word that I stayed out all night. I finally look at my reflection in the steam-coated mirror of the bathroom. For the longest time I stand there naked and exposed inside and fucking out.
18
Lexi
“Damn, can she go any slower?”
I hold my temper in check and keep right on scanning and bagging the items of these two wannabe ghetto princesses. I eye the one that made the smart-ass comment. Bright, multicolored hair stacked to the sky, manlike gold jewelry (probably her man’s), gold tooth, neon acrylic nails about a good three inches long (how she wash? Her butt probably funky), and a jean dress short enough and low-cut enough to barely cover everything.
Her and her buddy look like a couple of rejects from that stupid-ass movie BAPS.
I’m on my job and here it is midmorning and neither one them look like they rushing to go anywhere and they stressing me about I’m going slow. Whatever. They start gossiping about this one sleeping with that one.
“Nothing but a no-good bitch would fuck somebody husband.” Funky Butt says this around a piece of gum she is making sing.
“Damn right. I’ll do many things but I ain’t tryna fuck up nobody home ’cause I ain’t want nobody fucking up mines,” Silly Sidekick adds.
I roll my eyes heavenward. These chicks don’t know the half. Life isn’t always black-and-white.
Two thousand. Three kids. Upgraded—if you can call it that—to a two-bedroom apartment in Bentley Manor. Working my ass off as a waitress in Waffle House. Deeply in love with Klinton Jackson. Seven months pregnant with his child. Happier than I’d ever been in my life.
Oh, it took a minute to get happy about being pregnant with my fourth child. I was barely into my twenties and struggling like crazy. My nana stopped speaking to me for a whole month and even WooWoo told me “you a crazy shot-out bitch.” I didn’t miss the looks people gave me when I started to show.
But I did eventually get happy.
This time was different. This pregnancy was different. My Klinton was different.
I met him a year ago when WooWoo and I went to Florida for one of our cousins’ wedding. Klint was driving the Greyhound bus and we eyed each other as soon as I stepped aboard. He was tall, muscular, and that high-yellow fine like The Rock. Suddenly that seat in the front of the bus was looking too appealing to pass up. After a few long glances we started talking as best we could as he focused on the road. As WooWoo slept through the night, I stayed up talking to this man about any and everything. Almost nine hours later, we arrived in Jacksonville and I left the bus with his cell phone number.
He worked on the road a lot and there were times we had to miss all the “couple” times (Christmas, New Year’s Eve, and Valentine’s), but the time we did spend together was good. I even hinted at marriage but his idea was that we wait until he got a job that let him be closer to home on the regular. That made sense to me.
I was sitting in the living room with my kids, talking on the phone with Klinton one day, when WooWoo breezed into my apartment. I watched as she picked chubby Monique up from the floor to spin in the air.
“What’s that noise?”
“That’s WooWoo playing with the kids,” I said, shaking my head as my sister moved to snatch up an even chubbier Danina. “She came over to braid my hair so I don’t scare you in the delivery room looking like Buckwheat.”
“I’m not going to miss the birth of my first child for shit. Even if I have to quit this damn job if they don’t give me time off.”
I smiled, rubbing my hand over my belly. “I know I want you there.”
“Ain’t a damn thing gone keep me from being there.”
“Good.”
“Well, let me go, baby. I gotta get this bus to Columbia before five.”
“I love you, Klint.”
“Love you, too.”
I dropped the cordless phone onto the sofa.
“Lexi, get that roach,” WooWoo said.
I saw Monique waddling past. “WooWoo, I know you didn’t just call my baby a roach.”
“No, I’m talking ’bout the one ’bout to crawl up your damn leg.”
I flew off the chair and the roach dropped to the floor. I stomped his ass and put us both out of misery. No matter how much I kept my place clean, put down boric acid, and sprayed a ton of Raid, them things were a part of Bentley Manor just like the bricks.
“Want me to watch these little buggers while Klint comes over?” she asked, walking into the kitchen to open my fridge.
“Klint’s in South Carolina.”
“No he ain’t,” WooWoo said simply, as she opened a bottle of Pepsi.
“Yes, he is. I just talked to him.”
“Well, I just saw him so that trumps your phone call any day.”
I opened my mouth to protest.
WooWoo held up her hand. “Don’t tell me I didn’t just see Klinton coming out the flower shop over on Spring Street. I know that big-head motherfucker when I see him and I saw him.”
Me and WooWoo looked at each other for a long time.
If Klinton was lying about his whereabouts, the question was why. When else did he lie? Who were the flowers for?
“Time to do a late-night drive-by,” WooWoo said, twisting her waist-long braids around her finger.
“I don’t know where he lives,” I admitted softly.
“What?” WooWoo gasped in that mixture of shock and disbelief—that kind of are-you-stupid? disbelief.
“He always comes here and he ain’t hardly ever home.” I tried to explain but WooWoo’s face said it all.
I picked up the phone.
“What are you doing?” WooWoo asked, snatching the phone from me.
“I’m calling Klint to ask his ass what the hell is going on?”
“Lord have mercy. Lexi, you never tip your hand to a man. Play it cool or you’ll never catch his ass.” WooWoo held on to the phone and started pacing in full plotting mode. The girl knew she could scheme up on some shit.
The rest of the day was a blur, but let’s just say I found a ticket I got in Klinton’s car and WooWoo made a call to this sheriff she knew and boom-bam we were in our nana’s Lincoln pulling up to a nice two-story brick house in Alpharetta. Sure enough, his black Ford Explorer truck sat in the driveway beside a 2000 Toyota Camry. The yard was pretty like a picture with the flowers and green lawn.
“I thought he lived in an apartment downtown,” was all I could say.
Lies on top of lies on top of lies.
“What you want to do, Lexi?” WooWoo asked, biting the tip of her acrylic fingernails.
I didn’t even answer her. I hopped out the car, big belly and all, and walked right up to the door. I rang the bell before I could think to do otherwise.
The door opened just moments later and I looked up into the face of the man I loved. He was just as shocked as I was. Deep down a piece of me was still hoping I was wrong. Stupid me.
“Who is it, Klint honey?” a female voice called out just as my eyes drop
ped and saw the gold wedding band on his left hand.
“That’s fucked up, Klinton,” I whispered to him, hating the tears that filled my eyes.
“Klint?” the faceless woman called again.
“Daddy, Momma said come and cut the cake.”
My mouth fell open to see the little boy tugging at Klinton’s pants leg. He was no more than four or five and the spitting image of Klinton.
I thought mine would be his firstborn.
Lies on top of lies.
“Go home, Lexi.” That’s all he said to me before he picked up his son, stepped back, and closed the door in my face.
I didn’t even know WooWoo was standing behind me until I turned around. “Take me home.”
“Oh hell to the no. It ain’t even going down like that,” she said, stepping up to ring the doorbell and knock like she was the police.
I felt weak and dropped down to sit on the top step. “Just take me home, WooWoo. Please.”
I could hear tussling on the other side of the door and I knew Klinton was keeping his wife from opening it. Their words were muffled but definitely heated.
“Oh fuck no. These motherfuckas done call the po-po.”
As if I wasn’t embarrassed enough. “Just take me the fuck home, WooWoo!” I screamed, my hand pressed to my belly.
I was angry. At Klinton. At his beautiful house and family. At his wife, who was innocent in this shit. At WooWoo. But mostly at myself.
I never saw Klinton again. He never kept his promise to be there when I had my seven-year-old, Montel. Once a month he sent a check from his joint account with his wife but he acted like me or our son never existed.
So these chicks didn’t know the half. Sometimes life isn’t black-and-white. There are shades of gray filled with the lies and deceit of a married man.
I’m more than happy to finish checking them out so they can carry their gossip with them.
My shift is over and ten minutes later I’m in my Lincoln headed home. Luther had a doctor’s appointment this morning so he took a sick day from work. When he called me earlier he was already back home and frying chicken wings for dinner. I just hope his version of frying didn’t mean cooking on high until the grease and the chicken are black as tires.
I was so busy hightailing it from work that I forgot to walk over to the supermarket side of the superstore to get sugar. I stop by the gas station on the corner. The kids go through Kool-Aid like it’s water. I’m standing in line when I get a message alert on my phone. I see it’s from Junior’s number and I delete it.
I’m used to Junior begging for ass, but ever since Valentine’s Day that fool has been putting the pressure on hard like he can just taste my pussy. Even down to coming to get the kids more often than he used to. Not much but more than before.
Luther didn’t like that we live in the same projects as Junior but he’s real cool about not interfering on those rare moments Junior’s sorry ass did more than just wave to his kids in passing. Deep down I know Junior was another reason Luther wants to move. Shit, if I ever admit that Junior’s dick used to have me whipped Luther would really freak out. No need to share.
Luther is lounging on the couch sipping on a can of Budweiser and reading some brochures when I walk into the apartment. He looks up and smiles.
My heart kinda leaps in my chest as I sit my purse, keys, and bag with the sugar in it on the kitchen table. I smile as I move over toward him. “Whatcha reading?” I ask.
“I got these brochures about a program that helps with down-payment assistance on your first home.”
“Really?” I ask, sitting down in front of where he lay. His arm came around my waist as we both look down at the colorful brochures of smiling faces—most of them black—in front of nice homes with yards and fences. A vision of me and Luther and the kids grinning and chinning just like these folks makes me smile. “What’s the catch?”
“Some kind of classes. They’ll even help repair credit.” His hand shifts up to massage my breasts beneath my t-shirt and Wal-Mart vest. “This might be our ticket out of here a little sooner. What you think?”
I shift so that I lay in his arms beside him on the couch. I almost fall off but he holds me close. “I think I love you,” I whisper against his lips as I look into his eyes. “I love you. I love you. I love you.”
The rest of my loving words get swept up in our kisses and I thank the Lord that for once I made the right choice. There is no way my undying desire for a jackass like Junior is going to ruin this.
No way in hell.
19
Devani
Let’s face it. Memorial Day is just an excuse for niggas to get together and have a big-ass barbeque. Bentley Manor is no different. Way before noon (which is amazing in itself because most of us don’t get up before lunchtime) the air is filled with spicy, smoky, and honey barbeque sauces.
The heat in everyone’s apartment nearly triples because of all the cooking going on in the kitchens, and we’re forced to keep the front doors open. The piss and mildew growing out in the halls are quickly overpowered with the scent of chitlin’s, hog mogs, and baked beans. Even Momma is in the kitchen cookin’ up collards and stirrin’ up a thick-ass batch of macaroni that has so many different cheeses in it, it’s amazing you don’t drop on the spot from a heart attack after eating it.
Niggas don’t care. Despite the genetic disposition to high blood pressure, heart disease, and strokes, they won’t give up the sacred hog.
Me? All this shit is making me sick to my stomach. Literally.
Koolay ducks his head into my room without knocking and looks disappointed to see I’m already up and dressed. “Yo momma wants you.”
I run the brush through my hair a final time as I glare at him. “How many times have I told you about walkin’ in here without knockin’?”
“If you really wanted me out of here you’d lock the door.” Koolay chuckles and takes another long look at my thick frame. You’d think his ass would learn his lesson.
“Momma!” I shout out as a threat.
“Shh, gurl.” Koolay jerks a glance over his shoulder to make sure he wasn’t about to loose another tooth.
I just laugh at his retarded ass.
“You bitches play too much,” he complains and finally shuts my door.
I glance in the mirror and pose prettily in my white capris and white baby-doll top. It’s scary how innocent and virginal I look. I just hope Tyrik’s parents buy my act.
Yes. Today I meet the parents. A clear sign that this relationship is back on track and moving in the right direction. It’s also the day my life will change for the better.
My door jerks open again and before I can react my mother snaps, “What’s takin’ you so long? Didn’t Koolay tell you I wanted to see you?” She crosses one arm and takes a sip from her afternoon drink.
“Yeah, but I was busy.” I’m giving her as much attitude as she’s dishing out. “Whadda you want?”
“Watch it, missy. You’re still living under my roof.”
“Not for long,” I assure her.
“What? You gonna pull a miracle out your ass in the next five weeks? That is when he’s leavin’, right?”
“It’s hardly a miracle, Momma,” I say, patting my belly. “It’s talent, hard work, and manipulation.”
“That’s my baby girl.” Her eyes twinkle with pride. “You want me to fix you a plate?”
“Momma, I’m going to a barbeque.” I slip my feet into my sandals. “I don’t need to eat before I go eat.”
“A’ight. But I need you to run to the store before you head out to dat nigga’s place.”
“Momma! Why can’t you send Koolay?”
“Be back!” Koolay shouts on cue from the living room.
“He’s making a run to see M. Dawg.”
“Of course he is,” I sigh. “Let me guess: pack of Philly blunts and tampons?”
“Just the blunts. Spot me and I’ll hit ya back later.”
I don’
t even know why she bothers lying. She never pays me back. “Momma, I’m supposed to be at Tyrik’s at one thirty.”
“What you bitchin’ for? You got a car.”
No sense in arguing.
I hurry out the apartment and barely get two feet before someone else is offering to fix me a plate. Despite the aromatic scent of my mother’s collards, everybody knows her ass can’t cook and likely the collards are tough and gritty.
“No thanks,” I tell Miz Duncan across the hall. “I’m going to my boyfriend’s barbeque this afternoon.”
Miz Duncan holds the record of the most children in Bentley Manor with nine kids, beating out Lexi Mitchell across the way—at least Miz Duncan’s all had the same daddy. “I bet your boyfriend don’t make potato salad like I do. Everybody knows I put my foot in it, girl.”
She does make a mean potato salad. “I’ll let you know tomorrow.”
I jump into my ride and drive down to the Circle K. The usual suspects are lined up outside the store. I ignore both the jobless brothers and the eager-to-work Mexicans as they hoot and whisper about my round booty.
They can look, but they can’t touch.
When I walk up to the counter, I’m surprised to see Shakespeare behind the cash register. “What the fuck? Where’s Osama at?”
“The owner’s name is Manmohan and he’s from India, not Afghanistan.”
“Hell, they all look alike if you ask me.”
Shakespeare laughs. “That’s the problem with all you ig’nant black folks. Can’t see the world outside your hood.”
“Last time I checked you were living in the same hood I do. What—gettin’ a minimum-wage job suddenly makes you better than everybody else?”
He crosses his arms. “I didn’t say that.”
“Uh-huh. Where’s your crackhead brother at? I ain’t seen him around in a while.”
“Rehab.” Shakespeare drops his gaze. “I’m prayin’ it works this time.”
I nod and shift uncomfortably at the sight of his vulnerability. “I need a pack of Phillies.”
He nods and snaps back to his normal self as he reaches for my box.
