The Hood Life

by Meesha Mink

  I put the phone between my ear and shoulder as I bend down to pick up my son and the bottle sitting next to him. “So everybody and they momma know we got hit. I can tell you heard some shit—in the street—about who did it. So we retaliate and that’s more news hot as hell—in the street—and before you know it we got the po-po deep in our asses for murder and drug charges. Now all of that shit behind twenty-five grand. Hell no, man. Come on. Don’t fall into the trap, kid.”

  “So we just let this shit ride and look like punks and fuckin’ busters and shit to everybody?”

  “No, we chill and let things cool off. So I’m headed to Puerto Rico and you might as well grab a bitch and head somewhere too and just chill, man. Fuck it. The grind grindin’ on me.”

  “Man, I don’t think you should go to fuckin’ Puerto Rico.”

  I start to feed my son his bottle but Usher has me tense as a bitch and I didn’t want Dashon to feel that vibe, so I set him back down. I feel pressure.

  Pressure to not live my own fucking life the way I want to.

  Pressure to be some fake-ass gangster.

  Pressure to stay in the fucking game.

  Pressure to be other motherfuckers’ meal ticket.

  All that pressure had my neck tight as shit.

  Fuck that.

  “I’ll be back next week and nobody gone make a move until I get back. Unless it’s an emergency I’m not even takin’ no calls.”

  “Yo…I understand. I don’t agree but…yo, have a good time, ya heard me?”

  “Peace.”

  I toss the phone onto the bed and notice Quilla standing in the doorway. She’s only dressed in a towel. I flex my shoulders and bend down to pick up my son. “Hurry up and get dressed, Quilla.”

  “I thought you wanted to talk?” she says.

  I smile when Dashon sucks away at the nipple on the bottle like he tryna hurt something. “Naw, I changed my mind.”

  “About getting out or talking about getting out.”

  I just shrug.

  She stands there for a minute but I stay focused on my son. Soon I hear the bathroom door close behind her. I have a lot of decisions to make, but one thing I know for sure is that my son is the best damn thing that ever happened to me. I love him and now I feel how my parents wanted more for my ass growing up because I want more for him. I want him safe. I want him happy.

  I want him to be proud of me.

  18

  The Playa

  Guess who’s back?

  Damn right. Me. Life is back just the way I want it. True, I have to fuck a dinosaur damn near every night but other than that I’m back on point. Polette didn’t even ask for money for bills. Her SSI check covers everything. All she wants from me is a stiff one—be it a drink or my dick. Thank God that if I got her the drink—or drinks—early enough, then her ugly ass would pass out before I had to lay pipe.

  Once I bought the bitch an economy pack of douche and lied, telling her I only love to fuck doggy-style—with her face down in a pillow. Shee-it, the pussy wadn’t half bad.

  I roll over in bed and pick up my prepaid cell phone to check the time. 11:30 a.m. I stretch out all the kinks from sleepin’ in a fuckin’ double. “Polette,” I call out, sittin’ up in bed.

  The bedroom door opens and she sticks her head in, a blunt already blazing from her wet-ass mouth. I snap my fingers and hold out my hand. She strolls her ass right on over and plucks the blunt out her mouth to give to me. I ignore the funky smell of her spit on the tip as I hit it.

  Polette drops her robe and climbs into bed—so that’s my clue to roll out. “It just said on the news that Tweedle Dumb and Tweedle Dumber took a plea for six months for rollin’ around with that dead body.”

  I just shake my head. It was all over the news when them fools, Pop-Pop and Rollo, got caught trying to cash the check of that dead man. Crazy shit happens in the hood all the time, but that shit got to be about the craziest shit ever. “Them drunks probably happy as fuck for them three hots and a cot,” I tell her as I lay out my new black-and-gold Omavi fitted tee and jeans on the bed.

  Polette laughs, showing off her raggedy-ass grill. “Yeah, three hots and a cot but no shots. They ass in that bitch feignin’. Trust.”

  I pick up my new gold-and-black Kashi Kicks as I cut my eyes over at her. Since her ass could fuck up a twelve-pack of King Cobras by her damn self, she ought to fucking know. I ignored her spreading her bony legs to play in her own gray-haired pussy. My mind and my dick is on other things. Better things. Like my new bitch Trina waiting for me at the Knights Inn for a fuckfest to top all fuckfests. She married to this cop, so we sneakin’. That’s the best fuck in the world. And trust me, givin’ it hard to the wife of some fool in blue make the pussy even better.

  “Where you goin’, baby?”

  I start to ignore her ass but since I need to borrow her beat-up Crown Vic and get some gas money, I decided to play it cool. “I’m going to pick up a new shipment of bags to sell,” I lie to her ass over my shoulder as I leave the bedroom and walk down the hall to the bathroom.

  I wish the motor in Shaterica’s car hadn’t broke down or I would be still cruisin’ in that motherfucker. Ever since I moved in with Polette I only went back in Shaterica’s apartment to have a private spot to get my dick blown by Delia. Well, I used to until they evicted Shaterica for nonpayment. I know by now she got to be in that bitch wonderin’ what the fuck goin’ on, since we ain’t spoke in a minute—but what she expect? Shit, that bitch doin’ ten years. Fuck the dumb shit.

  Nosy motherfuckers ’round here talkin’ mad shit ’cause I moved in with Polette, but fuck that, a nigga got to live and until I find me a better set I ain’t leavin’ Bentley Manor or Polette.

  In the bathroom that is way too pink, I use a wet rag to wipe away some of the splattered toothpaste on the mirror. I lean forward to check out my face. My perfect face. I got my whole fine-ass life ahead of me. Did her dumb ass really think I was gonna sit around here waitin’ for her for ten years? I’m supposed to deny all these bitches out here a chance to get at me for ten years? Shit, I’ll be in my thirties by then. Fuck that dumb shit.

  Man, forget Shaterica’s big whop-up ass. She made a choice to cop to the murder and life is about choices. There is no way in hell she coulda convince my ass to do the same thing. A playa like me? I’m too together for that shit for real. Only advice I got for her now is don’t drop the soap. I laugh in the mirror as I walk out.

  After a quick shower, I spray on some imitation Polo cologne and walk out to the bedroom. I am so ready to get to the motel ’cause that trick got a way of sucking my dick that makes me cum so hard that I think she pulling the cord out that motherfucker. Plus, her ass got a little bit of change and a nigga like me need a new pair of kicks.

  “Momma, I need new sneakers.”

  I go still as hell and look at myself hard in the mirror. That voice of a child sounded clear as hell around me. Clear and familiar.

  I tried to shake that shit off as I put toothpaste on my brush. Fuck memory lane around this motherfucker. Fuck it.

  “You want new sneakers. I got your yella ass some sneakers….”

  I can’t help my mouth from curling up like I smell sour shit. It’s all about hate.

  “You better use what your yella ass got to get what the fuck you want.”

  I hate her. I hate all bitches….

  Life was fucked up for me and my momma from jump street. Ever since I could remember, we lived in shit filled up with so many rats and roaches that I felt like we was coppin’ a squat in they shit. Sometimes we stayed in those little-ass studio apartments but never nothin’ bigger than a one bedroom.

  Never.

  I looked out the cracked window of our latest shit hole and watched the drunks stumblin’ in and out of the liquor store across the street. I stared and stared until I saw my momma walk out and I don’t know if I’m happy or not that she headed home.

  She a messy drunk. Not messy in the way sh
e looks, because my momma was beautiful with her long and thick jet-black hair that made her fair complexion seem even brighter, especially when she wore that bright red lipstick of hers. Men was always whistlin’ and carryin’ on when she walked by. Always tellin’ her how pretty she was. Or beggin’ her to let them pay her bills.

  She was still young—just twelve years older than me, making her twenty. Sometimes I wonder why she drink like that. Why she so scared to not be drunk? Is that the only thing that stops her from cryin’ so much at night when she thought my little young ass was sleepin’? What makes her so mad at me?

  I focused my eyes on Momma stumblin’ her drunk ass across the street in her tight jeans, tank top, and heels. Her long hair is blowing in the wind as she tries her best to walk like she ain’t already drunk.

  Soon I hear her makin’ her way up the rickety stairs. I can almost count when she stumbles over that eighth stair that is loose. “Shit,” she swears, her voice echoin’ in the beat-down and battered hallway.

  I was just eight and for me my momma was the only person I could rely on—sometimes that was scary as shit. When she was sober she was always mad and when she was drunk…

  The front door burst open and Momma stumbles in sideways on her stilettos. Momma always wore stilettos. I don’t think I ever remembered her drunk ass in sneakers or flats.

  “Get your red ass out that window,” she tells me while she sit her bag on the scratched metal dinette set with only one chair and walks over to the sink. I guess that’s the way she say hello to me after leavin’ me alone all day and most of the night in a hot-ass apartment.

  “Momma, I’m hungry.”

  She stopped pourin’ that gin she loved into my old Atlanta Falcons mug to look down at me. “Why your ass wait good ’til I get home to fuckin’ chill to talk ’bout your ass hungry? Damn, you know how to blow my fuckin’ high. Shit.”

  My stomach growled and a pain hit my ass that felt like a knife to my gut. I put my hand to it like it would help it from hurtin’.

  My momma just sucked her teeth and stumbled over to slump down onto the bright-red sofa that looked like a big pair of lips. I settled down on the floor in front of our little thirteen-inch black-and-white TV. Really, my little ass was cryin’ and I didn’t want her to see it. I was not going to let her see me cry.

  It was okay for her to sit up all night cryin’ into her bottles but when I shed a tear that meant an ass-whippin’ for me.

  “Sick of this shit,” she slurs. “How ’bout me, motherfucker? How ’bout what I want? Shit.”

  My stomach drops and I close my eyes and wish I could be anywhere but there. I was just waitin’ to feel her hand upside my head or her foot across my ass. Momma liked to take all her drama out on me when she drunk and I got plenty of old bruises to prove it. Plenty of ’em.

  “Gimme, gimme, fuckin’ gimme.”

  Her voice gets louder and louder. A gold shoe goes flyin’ past my head. My heart beats like crazy and I wish like hell I had somewhere to hide. The door to the bathroom was already hangin’ like a loose tooth. I tried to hide in there one time and she kicked that thin wooden bitch open like she was the Hulk or some shit.

  “You know what. Fuck that. I’M SICK OF THIS SHIT. I’M…SICK…OF…THIS…SHIT!”

  I ducked because I knew the feel of her hands, her fists, and her feet wadn’t far off. WHAP! To the back my head. THUD! One to my lower back. Pain darted all across my body as she hit and kick me time and time and time again.

  “Momma, I need this,” she screamed as she bent down over me, the smell of gin so strong on my face. “Momma, I need that.”

  Two punches to my face for somethin’ I asked for in the past. And I only asked for things I needed. I never asked for things I wanted, like games, candy, or some shit. Just the necessary shit: food, shoes without holes, pants that wasn’t high-waters.

  I just closed my eyes and prayed for her to get tired of beatin’ on me. “Look at me! Look at me!” she screamed, grabbin’ my face and turnin’ my head toward her so hard that I thought my neck was gonna snap.

  “I’m sick of you. You look just like you no-good, red-ass daddy.”

  Spit from her mouth sprayed against my face. “Momma—”

  “Momma this and Momma fuckin’ that. Call your no-good daddy and ask for shit!”

  She let my face go long enough to slap the shit out of me. Whap! Tears filled my eyes and my face stung like hell.

  “Don’t ask me for shit. Get your little ass out there and hustle like I do. Give me a fuckin’ break, motherfucker.”

  THUD! THUD!

  Two punches to my jaw.

  I thanked God when she gave me one last hard nudge with her shoe before she stumbled back over to fall back into those lips of the couch. I laid there, fightin’ like hell not to cry, and promisin’ myself I was gonna do what I gotta do to take care of myself from now on….

  When I was twelve and our thirty-year-old neighbor Ms. Hand pulled me into her apartment and offered me a dollar to eat her pussy, I learned my value. Women wanted to be with me and they were willin’ to pay for it.

  I didn’t have no fuckin’ choice.

  My looks and my dick made it possible for me to run away from them ass whippin’s and my crazy drunk of a mother.

  I hated the tears that filled my eyes. I hated them almost as much as I hated my mother. She taught me early that women ain’t shit.

  They don’t deserve love. Trust. Fidelity. Honesty.

  None of that shit.

  I ain’t got nothing for them bitches but what my bitch of a mother had for me. Nothin’ but a hard fuckin’ way to go.

  Fuck it.

  19

  The Pimp

  I’m tryin’. I’m really fuckin’ tryin’, but this shit is workin’ my nerves. After reachin’ out and doin’ that whole father-daughter crap, all I get for my troubles are a bunch of eye rolls. So far private schools haven’t yielded much results. The last time I got called into a school it was because Corrine and some other badass teenager decided to experiment on each other in the girls’ bathroom.

  My daughter, a lesbian?

  Hell, why not, especially when you considered the circus crew she calls a family.

  “Why do you care what I do?” she challenged me yesterday as we rode home.

  “I really don’t fuckin’ know,” I answered honestly, irritated that all my efforts were being wasted.

  “What—you want to kick me out the house now?”

  I turned to her with my face scrunched up. “Why do you keep asking me that? If I wanted you gone, believe me, your ass would’ve been ghosted by now,” I told her for the hundredth time. And just like before, she had a look in her eye that said she didn’t believe me.

  I’m out of my element on how to deal with her.

  It’s late when Anderson and I roll up to Club Diamond. The spot is jumpin’, pussies are poppin’, and money is definitely flowin’. But I get a nice surprise when Fat Joe tells me I have a visitor waitin’ for me in my office.

  I renamed Tracy Jenkins Chocolate Angel the moment she walked into my first strip club. Her skin literally is the color of rich, dark chocolate, but her creamy center is nothing but pure strawberry. She performed in a coupla my first Red Light District movies. She was doing double anal back when the shit was considered taboo.

  Renee never liked her.

  Destiny liked her even less.

  I was whipped. At least for a little while until she just up and quit the business. I was surprised when she left—stunned when she didn’t return. Well, up until she dropped off the kid.

  “Hey, Sweet,” Tracy greets me the moment I enter my office at Club Diamond.

  I’m impressed the body is still bangin’ and her voice still has that hypnotic husk to it. No shit. If she tested clean, I could get an easy five grand an hour off her ass.

  “Please tell me you came for a job interview,” I say, making my way over to the bar.

  “No. Actually, I came
here to talk to you about Corrine.” She draws a deep breath. “I want her back.”

  I try, but I can’t ignore the sudden tightening in my chest. “What you think, I’m runnin’ some elaborate babysitting service?” I ask. “You drop her off and pick her up whenever the fuck you please? Is that it?”

  “No. It’s not like that.”

  I pour a small brandy. “Then what is it like?”

  She draws in a deep breath; takes her time to weigh her words. “I was just having a bit of financial trouble. That’s all. Everything is fine now.”

  “Is that right?”

  She braids her hands before her and twitches nervously. “I just want Corrine to come back home.”

  “She is home—her new home.”

  A lopsided smile hook a corner of her lips. “C’mon, now. Corrine is my daughter.”

  “Then you should have kept her.”

  Tracy’s eyes narrow. “Stop playing. What the hell do you want with a fifteen-year-old girl?”

  I shrug. “I don’t know. Maybe I’d like to finish raising her.”

  She laughs in my face. “What—you want her turnin’ tricks for you? Shit. I thought you had more class than to put a fifteen-year-old on payroll. Let alone your own daughter. But wait. Didn’t you used to pimp out your own momma?”

  I slam my glass back onto the glass bar. “Don’t fuck with me.”

  Tracy closes her big damn mouth, but continues to glare.

  “Corrine is pretty fucked up,” I tell her. “The girl has been kicked out of three different schools in three weeks. Stripping for boys, experimenting with girls, and gettin’ high. What the hell have you been teaching her?”

  “Why the hell do you care?”

  “She’s fifteen!” The office falls silent as I try to get my shit back together. “Look. I did what I had to do when I was her age because I didn’t have a choice. It was either slingin’ pussy or slingin’ dope. Corrine doesn’t have to go down that road. She could be the first in my fucked-up family to get out this bullshit game. I have enough money to send her to the best schools, treat her to finer things.”