by Cairo
Anyway, today, I’ma make this a quick nut. I glance at the clock: 1:47 P.M. I grab the baby oil offa the nightstand, then let it do what it do. Ten minutes later, I spit this nut, then roll over and fall off to sleep, ’cause a nigga’s beat.
7
It’s almost seven-thirty in the evenin’. I decide to swing past my moms to see how she’s doin’ ’n shit since I’ma be outta town for a minute. Besides, I haven’t seen her in a week or so. The minute my phone rings, I suck my teeth. Tamera’s blowin’ the shit up, again. I ignore the bitch. Now she’s textin’ me. And a nigga like me ain’t beat for this textin’ bullshit. I read the message: Nigga, that’s real fucked up how you locked my motherfucking keys in my car. And now your black ass avoiding my goddamn calls. But it’s all good, nigga. I delete the shit. Dumb bitch!
“I don’t believe this shit,” I say, shocked to see my pops’ car up in my moms’ driveway as I pull up alongside the front of her spot, then park. From where I’m sitttin’, it looks dark as hell up in that piece. Not one damn light is on. What the fuck is he doin’ over here, I think, takin’ a hit off my Dutch. And why the fuck are all the lights out? I know they ain’t up in there fuckin’. Mom can’t stand his ass.
Okay, on some real shit. I was kinda fucked up for a minute when Moms and Pops split up. I mean, I was like one of the few cats on my block who had both parents—who worked—under the same roof, feel me? Even if they hardly spoke, unless it was to yell or scream at the other; even if they were both fuckin’ on the side—they were still together. And we were a family. You dig what I’m sayin’?
I lay my head back on the headrest, then turn my head toward the house I grew up in—the same house Moms tossed my ass outta—and stare. Moms’ voice rings in my head. It’s 1988, and I’m ten again.
“Alexander Maples, do you hear me calling you, boy? I told you I had somewhere to be, now hurry your ass on.”
I sucked my teeth. “I’m comin’, Ma,” I yelled down the stairs. I walked back into my room, shuttin’ the door, then finished dressin’. “Dang, I don’t know why I can’t stay home,” I complained, check-in’ myself out in my mirror. “I’m almost eleven. And Daddy said I’m almost a man.” I slipped on my jean shorts, pulled my white tee over my head, then put on my black high-top Chucks.
“Now, Alex,” she yelled. “Not tomorrow.” She was already at the front door wit’ her keys in her hand, tappin’ her foot when I finally came down the stairs, frownin’. “Boy, bring your ass on. And fix your damn face. I didn’t give birth to no ugly-ass child.”
“I don’t wanna go,” I whined.
She squinted her eyes at me. “Alex, I’m telling you right now. Don’t start, okay?”
I stuck my bottom lip out, poutin’. “I’ma tell Daddy,” I snapped, stompin’ past her. Before I could get outta the door, she yanked me by the arm, swingin’ me ’round to face her. She dug her nails into my skin. “Owww,” I winced. “You hurtin’ me.”
“In a minute, I’ma do more than hurt you. Do you want them new sneakers today?”
I quickly nodded my head. I wanted the fresh Air Jordans that had just hit the shelves. They were like a hunnid ’n shit. And I woulda done any muthafuckin’ thing Moms told me to do to rock them shits before e’eryone else got ’em.
“Then what the hell do you think you gonna tell him, huh?” she snapped through clenched teeth. “Half the time his black ass ain’t here, and the other half of the time when he is here it’s like him not being here any damn way ’cause he’s too busy fucking God knows who or what. If he can be out wetting his dick, then damn it, I can be out wetting one, too. I have needs. And you will not have me choose between you or them. So what the fuck are you gonna tell him?” She dug her nails deeper into my arm.
“Owww, Mom, I’m not gonna tell him nuthin’.”
“Just what the fuck I thought.” She let go of my arm, then started fussin’ in my head of curls. “I don’t know why you make me have to get ugly. But I know one damn thing, you had better be glad I love you as much as I do ’cause I swear I feel like smacking the shit outta your fresh ass sometimes. But I promise you this, if you dare open your motherfucking mouth to tell anything on me, I’ma beat the skin off your black ass. You understand me?” I nodded, rubbin’ my arm. She yanked me by the shirt. “Now let’s go.”
For some reason, thinkin’ back on that shit, now, is funny as hell to me. Moms spoiled the hell outta me, mostly to keep my mouth shut. But, Pops pulled the same shit when he took me off wit’ him while he went to get his top spun. E’ery Saturday, he broke his neck to get to the barbershop, and when we were done gettin’ our cuts, Pops would make a pit stop over to some chick’s spot to get his dick wet. And he’d leave me sittin’ out in the livin’ room watchin’ TV or some shit while he did his thing. Then he’d buy me the latest video game for my Nintendo Entertainment system, like the Super Mario Brothers 2 joint that had just come out. Yo, that was my shit back in the day, word up. Mario and Luigi were my niggas. Thinkin’ back the shit has me crackin’ the fuck up.
But on the real, growin’ up and bein’ the only child ’n shit, I stayed laced wit’ all the hot shit—Atari 2600, Sega Genesis, Game Boy, you name it…I had it. And my good fortune was always at the expense of Moms’ and Pops’ lyin’ ’n cheatin’. And I bet they were both fucked up wit’ guilt ’n shit, too.
I remember sumthin’ Pops once said to me when I was like eleven: “They’re all a bunch of conniving, scheming-ass bitches. So, make sure you ram your dick in their asses first, before one of ’em tries to ram you in yours. Men aren’t meant to be chained at the hip to one woman. Men need variety. It’s in our nature to fuck. Bitches! They ain’t good for nothin’ ’cept suckin’ dick and fuckin’, any damn way. So make sure you get as much pussy as you can. You hear me, boy?”
Mouth open, eyes wide in shock, I nodded. “Yes.”
The whole time he was talkin’ to me he was slurrin’ his words ’n shit ’cause his ass was lit the fuck up. I watched him unscrew the cap offa his bottle of E & J whiskey as he kept babblin’ on ’bout bitches and how fucked up they were. He downed his drink, poured himself another round, then put his glass up to his lips and tossed his head back, gulpin’ down the dark elixir. Then he poured another. He stared at his glass, then at me; his large hand clutchin’ his drink as if his life depended on it. And in some way, I guess it did.
As soon as we heard jinglin’ of keys at the backdoor that lead into the kitchen, we both waited and watched as the door opened. On some real shit, Moms was a real looker back then—shapely, smooth cocoa-brown-skinned, big doe-like eyes, and deep dimples. And Pops was a real jealous-type cat; probably ’cause his ass was out doin’ him. The minute she stepped through the door, Pops started his shit. I held my breath.
“Where the hell you been?”
She set her pocketbook on the counter, then removed her coat. “Out,” she calmly replied, not looking at him. She glanced over at me. “Alex, go to your room.”
“No, you sit right there,” Pops warned, pointin’ at me. I stayed put, didn’t blink a muthafuckin’ eye. Moms shot me this evil-ass look, but I wasn’t beat to have my ass beat by Pops. I lowered my eyes. “He needs to see firsthand what a bitch is.”
She blinked, blinked again. Her nose flared, but she kept her composure. On some real shit, I don’t know how she was able to keep it together after bein’ referred to as a bitch in front of me, but she did. “Well, since I’m such a bitch,” she said, walkin’ over to where we were sittin’. “Then this is from the bitch across town you’ve got sucking your gotdamn dick”—she slapped his face— “And this is from the bitch around the corner you’ve been fucking…” She slapped him again.
Pops jumped up from the table, almost losing his balance while grabbing her arm. “Woman, you’re fuckin’ crazy. Ain’t nobody cheatin’ on you. Now, where the fuck you been?”
She yanked her arm from his grip, pushin’ him backward. He tumbled over the chair, fallin’ to the floor.
“You’re full of shit!” Moms snapped, snatchin’ his drink from off the table and tossin’ it in his face. “And this is from me. The bitch you keep lying to and fucking over.” She looked over at me, before stormin’ outta the room, and said, “Learn to keep your dick in your pants, or you’re going to end up being just like your cheating, lying-ass father.”
The ironic thing is her ass was doin’ the same thing. So, go figure. And this is probably why a nigga like me ain’t beat for fallin’ for a broad. Muthafuckin’ bitches cheat just as much as niggas. They just slick ’nough to not get caught. I take another deep pull of my blunt, then blow out a cloud of confused smoke, before puttin’ the shit out. I glance back up at the house, shakin’ my head. It’s not ’til I peep the light flick on in Moms’ bedroom, that it hits me. “Oh, shit,” I snap. “These two are fuckin’.”
I get outta my whip—yeah, a nigga gots his own shit. What, ya asses thought I was one of them bum-ass niggas that borrowed chicks’ rides ’cause I didn’t have my own wheels? Nah, I ain’t that nigga. I just don’t let e’ery bitch I’m smashin’ know how I’m doin’ it. When I’m on the prowl, I either ride another broad’s ride to get my creep on, or I push a hoopty, feel me? After Racquel— some ho I was fuckin’ from Pasaaic—keyed up my shit, smeared dog shit on my windshield, and flattened all four of my muthafuckin’ tires two summers ago, a nigga like me isn’t gonna let another broad get the opportunity to put in work on my shit again; I put that on e’erything I love.
Shit. I had to file a complaint on her nutty ass, word up. Lucky for her, I was lookin’ to get some hot shit any-damn-way, so she did me a favor. Otherwise, a nigga woulda probably choked her ass out. Yo, hol’ up! Not that I would ever push a ho’s biscuit in (unless she puts her hands on me—first), but I damn sure woulda choked her to sleep. And now wit’ that Jazmine Sullivan chick poppin’ shit ’bout bustin’ windows ’n shit, I really ain’t beat. Fuck that. These silly hoes can fuck each other’s cars up if they want. But they ain’t fuckin’ wit’ mine.
What the fuck! Tamera texts me again. Why you fuckin’ iggin’ me nigga? I sigh, decide to text back. Suck my dick! I slip my phone back in its holder, then shut and lock my door, makin’ my way up the stairs to Moms’ house. I ring the doorbell, since my key privileges are still revoked. Moms still doesn’t trust me to not bring hoes up in her spot when she’s not home. That shit cracks me the hell up. But, hey, it’s her spot, her rules.
I reach for the bell again, but the door opens up before I can press down on it. I smirk. I’m standin’ face to face with Pops. His eyes widen. I can tell gettin’ busted wasn’t on tonight’s agenda. But it’s all good. “What’s poppin’, playboy?” I ask jokin’ly.
He lets out a nervous-ass chuckle. “Oh, hey…uh, what are you doin’ here?” he asks, fumblin’ wit’ his keys, and steppin’ back so I can come in.
“Raynard, who’s that at the door?” Moms asks. She’s in the dinin’ room area.
“It’s ya son,” I say, grinnin’. I wink at Pops, brushin’ past him.
Moms comes into the livin’ room, tryna cover herself. She’s wearin’ a flimsy-ass robe, probably buck-ass naked underneath. Her hair is all over her head. Yeah, they been gettin’ it in, fuckin’ hard, I think, smilin’.
“Oh, hey, baby. Glad to see you.” She runs her hand through her tangled hair.
I smirk. “I bet you are,” I tease, lookin’ over at Pops, then at her.
She rolls her eyes. Pops grins. “Your father stopped by to bring me something.”
I tilt my head. Give her one of those “come again” looks. “Unhhuh, I’m sure he did. Sumthin’ hard and dark, right?” Pops shakes his head, chucklin’. I walk over and give her a hug. I sniff her, then the air.
“Oh, boy, stop,” she says, swattin’ at me.
Pops opens the door. “Alice, I’ma get going. Alex, I’ll talk to you later.”
“Aiight, playa,” I joke. “I’ll holla.”
“Get home safe,” Moms says, watchin’ him walk out the door. She smiles at him. He smiles back, then shuts the door behind him.
I plop down on the sofa. “Damn, Ma, you ’n Pops really up in here gettin’ it in, hunh?”
She laughs, flickin’ her hand at me. “Oh, please.”
“Oh please nuthin’,” I mock, grinnin’. “Ya’ll up here gettin’ buck wild ’n nasty. You got Pops wide open, Ma. So, spill it. How long Pops been fuc…uh, makin’ it clap?”
She raises her arched brow at me. “Makin’ it clap? What in the world? Your father hasn’t been making shit clap over here.”
I stare at her, not believin’ her. “C’mon, Ma, keep it gee. How long you been lettin’ Pops rock ya box?”
She rolls her eyes and laughs. “I’m not lettin’ your father rock nothing. And I don’t kiss and tell.”
“Lies,” I kid, shakin’ a finger at her. “But, it’s all good. If you wanna keep secrets from ya only child, then so be it.”
“Secrets, hell,” she says, wavin’ me on. “You just too busy tryna be all up in my Kool-Aid. What me and your father do or don’t do behind closed doors ain’t none of your business.”
I laugh, knowin’ she’s gonna spill the beans, anyway. “Yeah, aiight. I see ya work. But, it’s all good. Um, I thought you couldn’t stand him.”
She bucks her eyes. “I can’t…” she says, tryna sound all indignant ’n shit. But it’s all a front. She has that fresh “I-just-got-my-fuck-on” glow, and the way her eyes are twinklin’ ’n shit I already know what it is. Pops served her up a dish of stiff dick. She pulls her belt tight ’round her waist, “…outside of the bedroom. But, in between the sheets…” she pauses, fannin’ herself.
I cover my ears, gettin’ up from my seat. “Aiight, aiight. I get the picture. Pops does his thing-thing, and got you strung out, huh?”
She laughs. “What can I say, Good sex is hard to let go of. And your father got…”
“Okay, Ma, chill. I got you.”
“Well, you asked. So be prepared for what you hear.” This is one of the things I’ve always loved ’bout Moms. She keeps shit real. Ain’t no sugarcoatin’ shit with her. That’s probably why we have such a close bond. We’ve always had that kinda vibe where we can keep shit real wit’ each other. Growin’ up she was always more like a friend—nah, scratch that, a chill-ass older sister— than a mom to me. Yo, but don’t get shit twisted. She got in my ass ’n shit, and didn’t play that disrespectful shit, but at the end of the day she was mad cool.
“Yeah, I asked. But that doesn’t mean I wanna hear all the details.”
“Well, then stay outta grown folks’ business.”
I suck my teeth, smirkin’. “Yeah, aiight. But you still haven’t told me how long this been goin’ on.”
She sits in the chair ’cross from me, crossin’ her legs. Tells me they’ve been fuckin’ for almost six months.
“Six months?” I repeat, lowerin’ my voice. I shake my head in disbelief. “So, ya’ll datin’?”
Moms clucks her tongue. Leans forward in her seat. I can tell she’s ’bout to give it to me raw. “No. We’re fucking. Big difference.”
I shift in my seat. “But the two of you are thinkin’ ’bout gettin’ back together, right?”
She loses her smile, raisin’ her brow. “Hell no. I divorced him for a reason. Your father was a lousy husband. But he was a good provider, and a damn good lover. I’m open to a dinner here, a movie there. But, getting back together in the traditional sense is not an option for me. He can come by twice, maybe three, times a week and scratch my itch. Other than that, he can keep his ass right where he’s at.”
I laugh at her. “Yo, Ma, you real funny. You know that, right?”
“Mmm-hmm,” she says, gettin’ up from her seat, headin’ toward the stairs. “Let me go put something else on. I’ll be right back.”
“Whew!” I joke. “Thank Gawd! ’Cause for a minute there, I thought I was gonna hafta start tossin’ dollars atcha.”
She
stops, slams her hand on her hip, pretendin’ she’s ’bout to bring it to me. “You must want me to whoop your ass up in here. I taught you better than that. You better try twenties and up.”
I laugh. “Ma, you crazy for real, word up.” She waves me on. And I smile, shakin’ my head as she heads up the stairs. Pops got his hands full wit’ her, I think.
8
Moms comes back down wearin’ a pair of powder-blue Baby Phat sweats that cling to her hips and a white Baby Phat T-shirt. I blink, tiltin’ my head. Now, either Moms been hittin’ the gym e’ery day doin’ squats ’n shit, or she’s been hidin’ her body. ’Cause on some real shit, I didn’t know she was stackin’ cakes like that. I shake my head.
“You hungry?” she asks, switchin’ past me.
I jump up from my seat. She doesn’t hafta say another word. After all the fuckin’ and tree smokin’ I did earlier, I’m starvin’. And Pops didn’t have shit up in his spot to tie me over. I started to hit St. Georges Avenue and swing by that US Fried Chicken spot over in Linden on my way here to pick up a chicken snack. I’m glad I didn’t.
“You already know,” I say, followin’ her through the dinin’ room into the kitchen. “What you cook?”
“I made some barbecue chicken, mac ’n cheese and fried cabbage,” she says, openin’ up the cabinet and pullin’ down a plate. I take a seat and watch her as she shuffles ’round the kitchen fixin’ my plate. She sticks it in the microwave. “You want something to drink?”
“Yeah, I’ll get it,” I say, gettin’ up.
She waves me on. “Sit. What do you want? Cranberry or grape juice, Sprite or water?”
“Cranberry juice.”
She grabs a glass, then pours the juice to the rim. I smile. I don’t care how old I get, Moms still waits on me. The only thing she won’t do is my laundry. Once I started havin’ wet dreams and nuttin’ in my drawers, she said I was on my own.
