The Hood Life

by Meesha Mink

  Humph. Maybe if Miz Cleo had swept in front of her own door her ass woulda known her granddaughter was fuckin’ that preacher last winter. And from what I heard a fuckin’ girl was livin’ right up in this bitch as a dude and lot of people didn’t even know about that shit—until her ass shot and killed her lover’s husband.

  They better stay the fuck outta my shit. That I know for sho. They probably mad ’cause word out that I was fuckin’ other chicks while Shaterica ass doin’ time, but fuck that she got ten years. Who the fuck thought my dick wasn’t gonna get wet in ten years? Shee-it. That’s a bunch of bullshit for real.

  Plus, Shaterica ass is long gone. Sentenced. Done deal. I done moved the fuck on and Shaterica and everybody else might as well do the same. Fuck it. Life is too short.

  I head to the Circle K to lift some detergent and see if any of my friends hangin’ around for me to borrow some money. If I want some more bitches on my roll I had to get some clothes washed, get a haircut, and get my shit back together. One of the main rules in getting’ what you need from a chick is to not look like you need it. Stupid, right? But so true.

  I’m halfway down the block when I see Pop-Pop and Rollo walking toward me pushing some dude in a wheelchair. These two old dudes let drugs and alcohol fuck them up major—that’s why I don’t fuck with nothin’ stronger than weed and Budweisers. I don’t want to wind up like they ass downtown or in front of any corner with a store beggin’ for spare change.

  The closer we all get to each other the more I got my eyes on the man in the wheelchair. Who the fuck is that? His head bobbin’ like a motherfucker. “Whaddup, Pop-Pop. Rollo.”

  “Hey, young blood. You know where a check cashing place at?” Rollo asks, his hands ashy and tight as fuck on the handles of the wheelchair.

  I squint my eyes to keep out some of the sun beaming down on us. “Just the ones over on Piedmont.”

  “That’s a long walk. You don’t think he gone start to stink, is it?” Pop-Pop asks Rollo.

  “I don’t guess so.”

  Stink?

  I bend down and put my hand on the man in the wheelchair and it’s stiff. Dead stiff.

  Listen. I been a hustler a long damn time and it don’t take me long to figure out two and two together to get four. “I know y’all silly asses ain’t trying to cash his check?”

  These gray-hair Grady-looking fools from Sanford and Son both look at me scared as shit. I look back at these fools like they stupid.

  “What?” Rollo asks, his grip back tight on the handles. “We found him dead in his room. Nobody know he dead yet. His check just sittin’ there. We got his IDs. We got him. Our friend wouldn’t want his money to go to waste like that.”

  “Damn straight,” Pop-Pop adds.

  Humph. Crazy shit like this always goin’ down in the hood. Where else would somebody feel free to roll around with a dead body? Man, let me get the fuck from these fools ’fore the cops roll me with they ass.

  One thing this little run-in taught me is to make it in the hood you gotta do what you gotta do. Fuck it.

  I turn and walk back to Bentley Manor. Sweat drippin’ down my chest and nuts but I didn’t break my stride one damn bit. Man, fuck the dumb shit. I’m sick of being hungry. Sick of bein’ broke. Sick of not havin’ more bitches than I can fuck in a week. Sick of playin’ this fuckin’ marry-me game with Shaterica so that she keep her ass in jail.

  I’m sick of all this shit. It’s time for a nigga like me to get back on top and to do what my ass needed to find a backbone to replace Shaterica.

  I gots to do what the fuck I gotta do…for now.

  I run up the stairs and down the hall. I knock before I change my mind. The door opens. Polette sees me and smiles like she won the lottery.

  “Welcome home, lover,” she slurs, already unzipping her dingy robe and letting it fall to the floor.

  Damn. Life is a bald-headed, no-good, raggedy-mouth, stink-pussy bitch.

  15

  The Pimp

  Fuck it.

  I’m a nice man, but from time to time, I have to beat a bitch down. The success of any business centers on the quality of his product: pussy, in my case. Good pussy. Clean and drug-free pussy. After all, any nigga can get a crackhead ho to suck his dick for $20. My rates are $3,500 an hour with a three-hour minimum. Cash only. So when I get a call from a disgruntled but longtime client demanding his money back because one of my girls are so high and fucked up that he can’t even get his dick hard, well, then it’s time for me to put my foot down on a bitch’s neck.

  But then when I learn that same bitch is tryna play snitch, I gotta take things to another level.

  Sabrina has been working for me for close to ten years, so it ain’t like she doesn’t know the fuckin’ deal. She ain’t stupid, slow, or hooked on muthafuckin’ phonics either. So while she’s sobbin’ in front of me about how sorry she is, I don’t fuckin’ want to hear it.

  “You’re a fuckin’ disappointment, Sabrina,” I say as I walk a circle around her standing nude body. It’s a fuckin’ hot body too. Five-eight, slim, with a red beans and rice booty. Three years ago, she was one of my top moneymakers. Now I only get a request for her services once maybe twice a month. The bitch has been seriously slipping.

  This is what happens when you deal with sloppy bitches. I would have caught this shit sooner if I wasn’t constantly dealing with Corrine’s bullshit. The girl has run away from home twice. Each time, she showed up at my momma’s apartment.

  First time I’ve heard of anyone wanting to run to Bentley Manor.

  “C’mon, Sweet. I’m sorry,” Sabrina says; her voice cracking. “You know me. I was just having a bad night.”

  “A bad night?” I laugh. “Client says you were so high you fell asleep and pissed the bed. Call me crazy, but that sounds like more than a bad night.”

  She whimpers a bit, avoids meeting my eyes.

  “So whatcha smokin’, huh? Crack? Meth? I’m sure the shit is stronger than weed if you’re pissing the bed.”

  Sabrina doesn’t answer. She just stands there looking straight ahead with tears streaking down her face. Like I give a fuck. “Whatcha cryin’ for?” I unbutton my jacket and hand it to Fat Joe.

  “I’m sooo sorry, Sweet,” she sobs, trembling like a leaf. “I promise it won’t happen again.”

  “Oh, I know the shit ain’t gonna happen again,” I tell her. “No bitch fucks with my money.”

  Another sob.

  “What the fuck you cryin’ for?” I bark. “Ain’t I always been good to you?”

  Silence.

  “What—I ain’t been good to you? Is that what you tryna say?”

  The crying bitch shakes her head. “You’ve always been good to me. Always.”

  “So why you fuck me, huh? You cost me fourteen large. Now what am I supposed to do about that?” I roll up my sleeves.

  “Sweet, I swear, I’ll get you your money.”

  “How? By fucking someone else? You think another client wants to fuck a crackhead for fourteen K? What fuckin’ fantasy world you livin’ in?” I move in close, notice the subtle swell of her nose. “Oh, you’re a snortin’ bitch,” I accuse and before she has a chance to answer I coldcock her ass dead in the nose and watch her ass smack the floor. “Get yo ass back up,” I growl. When she takes too long I completely lose it and begin wailing on her.

  Let’s keep it real, I don’t force these bitches to work for me. They’re free to come and go as they please. But when they are on the fuckin’ clock, sportin’ that tattooed diamond, I expect nuthin’ less than their A game.

  Instead of taking this beat-down that she’s due, Sabrina dumb ass starts hurlin’ threats at me.

  “Fuck you,” she spats, still trying to cup the blood shooting out of her nose as she squirms away. “You ain’t shit.”

  “Oh, I ain’t shit, huh?” I sock her dead in her mouth and watch in satisfaction when she spits out a few teeth. “Your ass must be high right now. Is that it?”


  “You’re gonna get yours, muthafucka. You gonna get yours!”

  “Bitch, please. You mean that deal you tried to strike this morning when you were arrested for drug possession?”

  She stops squirming to stare at me.

  “What? You don’t think I have my eyes and ears everywhere? You thought you were just goin’ to serve me up and you walk or some shit? Yeah. Your ass has been smokin’ the good shit.” I turn to Fat Joe. “You still got that big Bowie knife I got you for Christmas?”

  Fat Joe’s evil smile hooked the corners of his lips. “Yes, sir.” He reaches into his coat pocket. “I never leave home without it.”

  Sabrina starts squirming again. “What are you ’bout to do?”

  “I’m about to make myself a drink,” I tell her. “Fat Joe, here, is going to get me those beautiful double Ds I paid for.”

  Her hands fall away from her busted face to cover her chest. “Nooo.”

  “You didn’t think you were going to keep those muthafuckas, did you?”

  Now the bitch can move. She’s on her feet and rushing toward the door like that damn cartoon Speedy Gonzales. I guess she was just going to haul off naked down the street. But while fumbling with the lock, Fat Joe catches up with her and snatches her by her long hair. At least that’s real.

  Sabrina screams.

  I laugh. “Fuck me, huh? Fuck you!” My cell phone rings. I scoop it out of my pocket and see my home phone number across the screen. I answer the call. “Yeah, what is it?”

  A pause and then Renee says, “Who’s that screaming?”

  “I’m working,” I say and then glance at my watch. “Wait.” I glance up at Fat Joe. “Take care of that bitch in the bathroom and then clean this shit up. I’ll send the car back for you.”

  “Wait. No, Sweet. I’m sorry,” Sabrina screams and sobs. “Please let me make it up to you. Sweet, please.”

  I roll my eyes at that shit. “Erase that bitch,” I tell Fat Joe, grab my jacket and cane, and head out the door of the high-rise condominium.

  “Sweet, are you there?” Renee screeches in my ear.

  “Calm the fuck down, Renee.” I swear I don’t know how much more of her mouth I can stand. The pussy is good, but goddamn. “What is the damn emergency?”

  “Don’t snap at me, Sweet. I’m not in the fuckin’ mood.”

  “What the fuck?” I pull the phone away from my ear and stare at it as I head toward the Bentley. When I place the muthafucka back against my ear, she finally tells me the deal.

  “The school called,” she says. “Your daughter has gotten into trouble and they want to see you.”

  She hangs up before I can question her further. “Shit.”

  “How the fuck someone get in trouble on the first day of school?” I bark at Destiny as we head out to the suburbs and Corrine’s new school in white suburbia. It’s a rare day that he’s dressed like a man in casual jeans and a Sean John T-shirt.

  I’m already dreading what the fuck I’ll hear once I get to the school. I’m doubly annoyed that this little girl is costing me time and, therefore, money.

  I called Renee back and tried to get her to run up to the school but all she did was laugh and hang up on me. Wait ’til I see her ass when I get home. Is it too much to ask for a little help with Corrine? What the hell do I know about raising girls?

  “Calm down,” Destiny says. “You shoulda known that there would be an adjustment period.”

  I groan.

  When the Bentley pulls up to Alpharetta High School’s half-empty parking lot, I can’t believe my stomach is actually twisted into knots. Is this what the hell kids do to you?

  Sure, in the ten weeks Corrine has crashed at my crib, I haven’t had the chance to get to know her, but cut me some slack. The girl rarely talks. She just eats my food and spends my money. Fuck. The only person she talks to is Destiny.

  Frankly, I think I’m doing good. I’ve cut back on the number of parties at the house, no more porn being produced at the crib, and all my working girls have been instructed to stay clear—well, except for Destiny…and Renee.

  What it all boils down to is I don’t know what the hell I’m doing. But if Corrine thinks that I’m going to be running up to this bitch every day, she better think again.

  “You want me to come in with you?” Destiny asks.

  “Nah. I got this. Wait here.”

  I make my way to the principal’s office rather easily and when I see Corrine sitting in the chair, she has the good sense to look away and drop her head. I take the seat next to her and glance over. “You want to tell me what all this is about?”

  Before Corrine can answer, the principal walks into the office. She’s an attractive midforties bookworm type in a casual brown pants suit with a respectable length of hair weaved into her head.

  “You must be Mr. Johnson,” she says, beaming at me and pushing her glasses up her nose before offering me her hand.

  I accept it with a broad smile. “Correct. And you must be the principal.”

  “Principal O’Grady,” she says and then releases my hand to make her way over to her desk. “Thank you for coming, Mr. Johnson.”

  I make another glance over at Corrine and notice her head is still tucked low. “No trouble at all,” I lie and return to my chair. “What seems to be the problem?”

  Ms. O’Grady takes a deep breath and I catch a flicker of disappointment in her brown eyes. Not a good sign.

  “The reason I called you here, Mr. Johnson, was because your daughter was caught in the boys’ bathroom performing a strip show.”

  I lean forward in my chair. “Come again?” I then look over at Corrine, who still refuses to look at me.

  Ms. O’Grady leans over her desk and carefully braids her fingers together. “I’m sorry, Mr. Johnson, we can’t allow this sort of behavior at this school.”

  I know it’s hypocritical of me, given all the shit I’ve done—hell, the shit I’d done when I was Corrine’s age, but I’m suddenly flushed with embarrassment and shame. Meanwhile, I sense the principal is waiting for me to say or do something. “I see,” is all I can think to say.

  Misreading my silence, Ms. O’Grady jumps in as an attempt to help me out of this sticky situation. “I know this sort of thing can be upsetting,” she begins. “And while I certainly don’t condone what has happened this afternoon, I must stress to you that girls Corrine’s age are very impressionable. With today’s media glorifying the bad behavior of rap and movie stars, young ladies are receiving the wrong messages. It’s my understanding that Corrine hasn’t been under your care long. Is there a positive woman figure in Corrine’s life?”

  “Well, there’s my wife. Her stepmother.”

  Corrine breaks her silence to bark out a laugh.

  I place my hand on her arm and signal for her to shut the fuck up.

  “Well, maybe she can help. Give her guidance in what is appropriate behavior for a young lady.”

  “Of course,” I say, mainly because there isn’t anything else to say. This whole situation has thrown me off my game. “We will certainly talk to Corrine when we get home,” I say, standing. I don’t want to stay in this office another second.

  “Corrine.” My tone makes it clear that it’s time to go. I then return my attention to Ms. O’Grady. “Thank you for your time and for bringing this to my attention.”

  “Unfortunately, Mr. Johnson, I’m going to have to suspend Corrine for two weeks, but I surely hope that you and your wife can resolve this matter and we won’t have to have this conversation again.”

  “Thank you for your time,” I repeat. I move to the desk and stretch my hand across it. We shake and then I lead Corrine out of the office. It isn’t until we’re finally back outside do I take in a deep breath, but my irritation remains.

  “Destiny, ride up front with Anderson. I’d like to talk privately with my daughter.”

  Corrine’s eyes widen. “Damn. You clean up good,” she says to Destiny.

  “Don’t
hate.” He smiles back at her.

  In the car, we roll in silence for a few minutes. I have no idea what to say or how to address this issue. One thing is clear, I have to say something. “What the fuck were you thinking?”

  Corrine stares out of the window.

  “Girl, don’t make me repeat myself.”

  Corrine jerks her head toward me. “I was making money.”

  There’s something about staring into eyes that look like mine that unnerves me, something about the determined set of her chin and her aloof attitude that saddens me. All my life, I’ve been a smooth-talking pimp. I can sell Donald Trump oceanfront property in Arizona.

  Now, twice in the last hour I’ve been rendered speechless. For the first time since Corrine has moved in with me, I wonder about what her childhood has been like up until this point.

  I mean really wondered.

  For me and my crew, I know why we’re fucked up and always chasing the mighty dollar. I hustled pussy out of Bentley Manor until I made something out of my life. What else could I have done? I don’t have any other talents to speak of. I’m not a rapper or a ballplayer. And I damn sure wasn’t a Cosby kid, where college was ever really an option.

  But Corrine?

  Hell, I haven’t even asked her why her momma dropped her off. I have no idea what her short fifteen years on this earth has been like. Damn, I could’ve reached out to the girl a little better than I have.

  During our combative stares, I’m the first to turn away and glance back out of the window.

  “Money ain’t everything,” I say, surprising myself.

  “Yeah, right, said the pimp to the ho.”

  I glance at her again, idly wondering about my daughter’s sexuality. “You turning tricks?”

  “Why? You want to pimp me out like you do my grandma?”

  “What?”

  “I heard you asking her for your money when you picked me up at her place that day.” Corrine’s eyes rake over me with disgust. “What kind of man pimps out his own mother?”