Dirty South

by Phillip Thomas Duck

  Fiasco understood. What could be said for the place?

  The street was ghost-town quiet. The lights from the street cast an orange glow. Felt like a Western. The club was basically a storefront structure. Most expensive thing regarding the place was its sign. And the sign itself was cheaply made. Thin walls. Music bled out into the street. No nearby parking, so as people filed out, stumbling, they had to walk a ways to get to their cars. There wasn’t a bouncer greeting patrons at the door. You just walked in and got to it.

  Fiasco walked in through the front. He would have preferred not to have. But he couldn’t locate a back door for talent.

  “That’s ten dollars, potna,” a voice demanded. “The lady is free.”

  Toya was anything but free, Fiasco thought.

  “I’m performing,” he told the voice.

  A little man moved from out of the shadows, removed a toothpick from his mouth, flashed a gold-toothed smile. “Crunk is DJing, potna.”

  “What’s that?” Fiasco said.

  Dude had on long black jean shorts and a dingy wifebeater. In a club. Let you know how low-rung the place was. Like Toya said. A hole in the wall. “DJ Crunk is spinning tonight, potna,” the dude said. “Ain’t no other performers.”

  Ain’t no.

  Another double negative.

  And Fiasco was there to perform.

  So this double negative, like Toya’s, was appropriate.

  They did have another performer.

  “I was booked to perform here tonight,” Fiasco said.

  “By who?”

  “My management team,” Fiasco said. “U.N.I.T.Y. Management.”

  “And who ’sposed to be promoting, potna?”

  Fiasco frowned. “Pimp Cup Entertainment.”

  “There your problem is, potna.” Dude put the toothpick back in his mouth. “Big Bo over at Pimp Cup got into a situation. He been retained, what I heard.”

  “Situation?” Fiasco hesitated. “Retained?”

  Dude nodded. “Young girl over in Fayetteville. Wa’n’t but sixteen. But she looked to be twenty or more. ’Course that don’t help the situation much, though. Big Bo forty plus. Least it would have been legal, though? Ya smell me?”

  “We sure do…smell you,” Toya said. “This is some BS.”

  Fiasco shushed her.

  “I can see if Crunk mind getting you on the mic for a bit,” the dude said. “No promises. Crunk can be ornery. You a rapper or singer?”

  “Rapper.”

  “S’what I thought.”

  “What about my pay?” Fiasco asked.

  Dude removed the toothpick again. “That I can’t help you with. It’d be some exposure for you, though. Exposure worth more than money is. Ya smell me?”

  Fiasco sighed. “I’m on tour, b. I’ve won a Grammy. Platinum every time I drop. I’m good with exposure.”

  Dude frowned. “What your name is?”

  “Fiasco.”

  “Hmm. Got a funny accent. Talk like a New York n----.”

  “Jersey, actually.”

  “Nah. I wouldn’t know you then. We don’t mess with too many Jersey rappers down here. This the Dirty, potna.”

  “My crew is called Dirty Jersey,” Fiasco said. “We the Dirty, too.”

  Dude wrinkled his nose. “Only one Dirty, potna. Dirty South, bay-bay.”

  Bay-bay. Baby.

  He had a funny accent, far as Fiasco was concerned.

  “Yeah, boi,” the dude went on, “ain’t nobody Dirty like us.”

  “You get no argument from me,” Toya said.

  Fiasco shushed her yet again.

  “We gotta figure something out, potna,” he said. “We drove all this way. I’ve got expenses. Gas alone is ridiculous.”

  “I don’t know what to tell you, potna. I really don’t.”

  “Get Tone on the cell immediately,” Toya told Fiasco.

  Tone. Fiasco’s tour manager. Booker. Whatever.

  Tone should’ve been with them handling these kinds of problems, but wasn’t.

  It was up to Tone to handle this mess. Toya was right.

  But Fiasco didn’t like it that she was so deep in his matters. His fault, though. Just ’cause her bedroom game was so on point. That’s how men got messed up. Dropped the ball. Took their eyes off the ball. Lost in the game. Fiasco would have to do something about Toya. Soon.

  He needed Mya around to keep everything square.

  Fiasco headed back for the bus without another word, Toya calling for him. He ignored her.

  “Sales been almost nonexistent outside of the Tri-State area. New York is okay. Jersey’s fine, of course. Matter of fact, we’re struggling in Connecticut. So even the Tri-State isn’t holding us down.”

  “Tone, I traveled to this club for nothing,” Fiasco said.

  “And I’m sorry. I’ll make sure heads roll for that. Our insurance will cover most of the costs. But we’re not really in a position of power now, Fiasco. Understand what I’m saying?”

  Fiasco fell back against a seat, rubbed his temples. “What we scan last week?”

  The pause on the line made Fiasco think they’d been disconnected. “Tone?”

  “Yeah?”

  “What we scan last week, b?”

  “Little under ten thou.”

  “What?” Fiasco shot up. “You sure?”

  “Yeah. Positive. If we can limp our way to gold that would help with some of these bookings.”

  Gold. Five hundred thousand sales.

  Fiasco had always been a platinum rapper. Always. A mil, solid.

  “How far we got until we reach gold?” Fiasco asked.

  Tone hesitated. “Halfway there.”

  Damn. Two hundred fifty thousand albums sold so far, that’s it.

  Album had been out eight weeks.

  Sales had tapered off considerably. It would take a miracle to go gold. Gold.

  “This is ridiculous,” Fiasco said. “I’ve never sold so little.”

  “Times have changed. Consumers aren’t spending money on albums. They downloading music for free. Or they bypass music all together. Gas prices are through the roof.”

  “Lil’ Wayne did a million sales his first week,” Fiasco said. “It can be done.”

  Tone put it out there. Broke it down to its very last compound.

  “You ain’t Lil’ Wayne, Fiasco. I’m sorry, bro.”

  “Aight, Tone. One.”

  He hung up before Tone’s hollow pep talk.

  Confidence. Swagger.

  Gone.

  Chapter 7

  Kenya

  “‘Love does not begin or end the way we seem to think it does. Love is a battle, love is war; love is a growing up.’”

  Lark and her quotes.

  “Who dat?” I ask.

  “James Baldwin.”

  I nod. “Cool.”

  Kewl.

  “That’s all you’re gonna say?”

  “What do you want me to say?”

  Lark sighs, shakes her head, props her hand on her hip.

  Frustrated with me.

  “Look…Donnell’s mother is sick.” I pause, think about his mother. She was so weak, so broken, a shell of her usual self. I cried the moment I walked into her room.

  Didn’t stop until I left.

  Donnell had tensed his jaw when he walked in, handed her the 7-Eleven bouquet of $9.99 roses, but didn’t let any tears fall.

  Being a strong man.

  Until he left the room.

  Out in the hall, he broke down.

  I tried to console him as best as I could. Held him in a warm embrace for a few minutes.

  Then he cleared his throat, gave me a courageous smile, thanked me and Lark for coming and walked off without another word.

  I watched him go.

  My heart heavy.

  Burdened by everything that was happening.

  “He doesn’t need anything else to worry about,” I tell Lark now. “Got enough on his plate. It would be se
lfish of me to stress him. He and I don’t matter right now.”

  “Look,” Lark says and points off into the distance.

  We’re in my Acura, idling in the parking lot of the hospital.

  Been sitting here for close to twenty minutes talking to each other. Never made it out of the lot.

  Affected by Donnell’s moms’s condition.

  That put life into perspective. You never know what cards you’re gonna get dealt.

  “You see that, Ken?”

  I frown as I look off in the direction of Lark’s finger. “Thought he left,” I say. “Where did he come from?”

  Donnell emerges from the side of the building, settles down on a bench in front of the hospital, riffles through a handful of some kind of pamphlets. His forehead is lined in concentration.

  “That boy needs you, Ken. Loves you. And you love him.”

  “Can’t get over him going out with Melyssa Bryan,” I whisper.

  “You need to.”

  “Can’t.”

  “So talk to him about it.”

  “Not a good time, Lark.”

  “Support him, Ken.”

  “Can’t…Melyssa Bryan…what happened with Ricky…Sensitive about this kinda thing.”

  “Donnell ain’t Ricky.”

  “Coulda fooled me. They all the same.”

  “You don’t mean that.”

  “Don’t I, though?”

  “Donnell has been a good boyfriend,” Lark says. “And you know it. Need I remind you that you broke it off with him?”

  “Less than a week,” I say. “He moves too fast for me. Never would have thought he’d move on so quickly. Nah, I’m good. Don’t need anyone in my life like that.”

  “You finished?” Lark asks.

  “Done.”

  “All that yin yang you talking doesn’t move me, Ken. People make mistakes. The way you talk, you’d think you never even heard of a boy named JaMarcus.”

  “Low blow, Lark. Real low blow.”

  “Talk to Donnell about it, about your feelings. I’m sure he can explain why he did it.”

  “Nothing to talk about. Leave it alone.”

  “Ken, if you don’t—”

  I cut my homegirl off. “Leave it alone or get out of my car and walk your ass home.”

  I regret that immediately.

  Too emotional.

  Lark’s lip quivers, eyes get glassy. “Just trying to help you, Ken. Don’t wanna see you so unhappy.”

  My lip quivers, too.

  Eyes glassy also.

  “I know, Lark. I’m sorry. Shouldn’t have yelled like that. My nerves are frayed.”

  “If you don’t know life is short after seeing his moms…” She doesn’t finish.

  Doesn’t have to.

  I get it.

  Uncomfortable as the situation might be, I can’t let it ride like this.

  “You’re right. Gonna go talk to him. I’ll try not to be long. Cool?”

  Kewl.

  “Worse comes to worse I’ll walk my ass home.” Smiles to reassure me.

  “Sorry again.”

  “Go fix it wit your man.”

  I ease out of the Acura, softly, shut the door. Brush off my clothes, clear my throat, start walking.

  Donnell’s no more than a hundred feet away.

  Feels like a hundred miles.

  I become aware of my heartbeat as I walk toward him.

  A drum beats in my chest.

  Bangs…loudly.

  “Donnell?”

  He looks up from his pamphlet, sees me, at first is confused by my sudden appearance and then smiles. “Kenya? What are you doing here?”

  I bite my lip, fidget in place. “Never left. See you didn’t, either.”

  Donnell shakes his head. “Took a walk around the grounds. I had to clear my head somehow.” He holds up a pamphlet, waves it. “Was just sitting here now educating myself. There’s a lot I don’t know about…about strokes.”

  Stroke pamphlets are in his hands, lots of ’em.

  “That’s good. Knowledge is power.”

  “Wanna thank you again for coming in with me. That was tough up there. Don’t think I could’ve done it on my own.”

  “It was nothing.”

  “Nah, it was a lot. Meant a lot.”

  “Well, you mean a lot to me. It’s the least I could do.”

  Donnell nods several times. Doesn’t say anything.

  He’s too good of a dude to point out that I dumped him, and that doesn’t jibe with me saying he means a lot to me. Inside I wince at the statement. It was a poor one. Sounds disingenuous, considering how I’ve treated him. Too bad life doesn’t allow do-overs, doesn’t allow you to take back what you regret.

  Donnell sits back against the bench, looks away from me. “Don’t know how we got here, Kenya.”

  I want him to call me YaYa.

  “Me, either,” I say.

  Donnell shoots up suddenly, pockets the pamphlets, squares his shoulders. “You wanna grab a bite to eat? Some things I’d like to talk to you about.”

  “I need to drop Lark off.”

  “I’ll follow you.”

  “You up to talking about…us?”

  Donnell nods. “Get my mind off…” He doesn’t finish.

  “I went out with Melyssa Bryan.”

  I stop chewing my shrimp and pasta, wipe my mouth and sit back in my seat.

  We’re in Ruby Tuesday.

  The restaurant is semidark, which matches my mood. That’s the one good thing.

  “Kenya.”

  “I know, Donnell. Heard about it.”

  He knits his brows. “You did?”

  “News travels fast.”

  “I guess. And we’re not even in school or anything. I could see then.”

  “Lot of haters, Donnell. Jealous of what we had. They were happy it happened. They couldn’t wait to tell it. Somebody told Lark and…” Telling Lark meant everyone within a thirty-mile radius would know. I don’t have to say that to Donnell. He knows how Lark is. Knows her reputation for having a mouth is rivaled only by folks on the radio or something. Wendy Williams.

  Our business is in the streets. Heavy.

  Donnell groans. “I’m sorry, Kenya.”

  I frown. A week ago I wouldn’t have.

  But now, hearing him say my full name causes me pain.

  It speaks to the dysfunction of our relationship.

  It’s dysfunctional because it’s not functioning correctly.

  My fault. I broke it. Put a cog in the machine.

  I say the only thing that comes to mind. “I’m sorry, too.”

  “You didn’t do anything,” Donnell says.

  “That’s nice of you to say.”

  I wait for him to reply. “I’ve missed you,” I say when he doesn’t.

  “It’s been a long, hard week, Kenya.”

  Would’ve been nice if he said he missed me, too.

  Guess he hasn’t.

  How could he, filling all of his free time with Melyssa Bryan?

  I fight off that jealousy. “Did I ever thank you, Donnell?”

  “For?”

  “Helping me get through the…the thing with Mr. Alonzo.”

  “No,” Donnell says. “You never did. But you didn’t have to.”

  “Thank you.”

  “It was nothing.” He pauses. “You mean a lot to me, Kenya.”

  That makes me smile. Same words I gave him, about visiting his moms, less than an hour ago.

  “I shouldn’t’ve broken up with you,” I say. “That was a mistake.”

  “I thought about it a lot,” Donnell says, “and came to understand why you did it. It hurts still, but I understand your reasoning.”

  “Explain it all to me, then. ’Cause I don’t even understand.”

  And there it is. Not much, but some. A crumb of a smile on Donnell’s face.

  “Can we start all over?” I ask.

  He looks at me, deep. “I don’t know,
Kenya. A lot has happened. Can we?”

  “I’d like to.”

  “You know I’d like to.”

  I clear my throat. “How are you? My name’s Kenya.” I reach forward, offer my hand. Donnell takes it.

  “Donnell,” he says. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Kenya. Do you have a man?”

  I tsk Donnell. “Got your second chance and still haven’t learned. This is a marathon, not a sprint.”

  He’d fought so hard to get me. Tried too hard. Turned me off originally. But eventually he got me, won me over, made me fall in love with him. Stole my heart.

  “My bad,” Donnell says. “How about you tell me what you’re into, Kenya?”

  “You. I’m into you. Do you have a girl?”

  And there it is. Not much, but some. A crumb of laughter on Donnell’s lips. “What happened to this being a marathon and not a sprint?”

  “Do as I say, not as I do.”

  “You sound like my moms.” Donnell laughs, no sadness visible. “You’re gonna make a great parent someday.”

  “Sure you’re right. Our parents kill us with that double-standard stuff, don’t they? They’re so hard to understand sometimes.”

  Donnell nods. “My moms used to beat me and then tell me it hurt her more than me. Tenderized my butt like raw steak and then said that. I always wanted to say, ‘I doubt it, Moms,’ but I kept my mouth shut and just iced my butt.”

  “Riiight. Mama would beat me, tell me to shut up, then ask me a question. I wouldn’t know whether to answer or not. So I’d stay quiet. Then she’d whip me for not answering her question.”

  Donnell’s happy.

  “My moms told me to be home by the time the streetlights came on,” he says. “This one time something happened. Lights never did come on. I strolled in the house like I owned it…around eleven-thirty.”

  “Ooh. You got your butt beat.”

  Donnell smirks, shudders. “Did I ever. She whipped me with this big plastic clock off of the wall and told me I better know what time is.”

  I laugh. “She did not. You got jokes.”

  “But seriously. It was all love. Unconditional love.”

  “The best kind.”

  Donnell quiets. “That’s how I love you, Kenya,” he half whispers. “No matter what mistakes you make, or made, I’d go on loving you, YaYa.”

  YaYa.

  My smile is like a hundred-watt bulb, I’m sure.

  He clears his throat. “You love me the same?”

  I don’t hesitate.