Desperate hoodwives: an urban tale

by Meesha Mink; De'nesha Diamond

  “Calm down, baby. You wanna get us thrown out of here?”

  “Answer the damn question.” I lean to the side and see Mamí being escorted out of VIP, but the heifa had the nerve to blow me a kiss. “I’m going to kick that bitch’s ass.” I start around Tyrik, but he quickly grabs my arm and pulls me back.

  “Ain’t nothin’ going on, baby girl.” Tyrik says, backing me toward a corner. “This is a public place. I can’t control who they let in here.”

  Every pore in my body tells me this nigga’s lying.

  He licks his thick lips and his eyes travel down my body’s curves as if he’s ready to fuck me right here in the club. Actually that shit sounds kinda good. The place is big and crowded. We can probably get away with a quick freak without anyone noticing — well, not too many people noticing.

  “I’m your girl?” I ask, suddenly flipping the script and becoming syrupy sweet.

  “You know you are,” he whispers thickly into my ear. “You got to do something about that temper. For real.”

  “Then stop trying to make me jealous,” I purr. “You knew I’d go off if I saw her.”

  Something in his smirk tells me I’m right. Tyrik gets off on my jealous streak. Just like some women like a roughneck, there are some men who want a ride-or-die chick. That’s me to the fullest — if it gets me what I want.

  I pull him the rest of the way to the back corner and hike a leg up over his hip. “C’mon. Let’s do it right here.”

  He laughs and shakes his head, but there’s a definite twinkle in his eyes.

  “You scared?” I challenge again.

  “I ain’t scare of nothin’, baby girl.”

  “Good.” I open my clutch purse and pull out a condom. “How about we get this party started?”

  Tyrik, still smiling, glances down at the condom and then shakes his head. “Thanks, but I, huh, have a rule about using my own.”

  No shit, my smile hits the floor and there’s a different sparkle in his eyes as if he knows what the fuck I’m trying to do.

  “C’mon.” He pulls me along and the next thing I know he crams me into a small stall in the men’s bathroom. I’ve never been fucked over a toilet before, but I perform like a porn star all the same. But even as I’m moaning and groaning, I realize I still have no guarantee of a one-way ticket to Pittsburgh. So I better think of something…and fast.

  12

  Molly

  It’s laundry day.

  I need a drink and a joint before even considering spending the day in that damn overheated sauna this place calls a Laundromat. Not only does the place smell as bad as, if not worse than, my building’s pissy hallway, the fuckin’ women in the place are ready to cut you if you move their clothes from the machines so you can use them.

  I learned that the hard way.

  Some chick named Geneva was all set to give me a beat-down because she’d left her clothes in the washing machines for God knows how long and I took them out. Hell, I was even going to put them back in. Next thing I knew, I had this mad, black woman swiveling her neck, waving her finger, and screaming at the top of her voice.

  Half the complex raced down into the basement and was urging her on to kick my ass. That was the first time I realized how much these people hated me. We got into it, and yes, I got my ass beat, but I got a few good licks in, too, before it was all said and done.

  That weekend I met my mom for lunch. The moment she saw my black eye, she bought me a gun for protection. If I lived in any other place, I’d say she overreacted. The only problem is I don’t like guns — so it just sits on top of the bedroom closet, along with the bullets.

  The second time Geneva pulled that shit, I moved her clothes again and got another face full of spittle — but I didn’t get my ass beat. Now I have a reputation in Bentley Manor as “The Clothes Mover.” It’s not much, but it’s something.

  My buzz has finally settled in and I stuff my jeans with quarters before heading out the door with the clothes baskets. The sole Laundromat on the premises is in the center of the U-shaped complex where Miz Cleo and Miz Osceola keep vigil over the place like guardian angels. Truth be told, they are the only two who give me the time of day.

  Only thing is: I got a feeling they don’t care too much for my husband, which is unfortunate. I want them to like him.

  The streets and sidewalks are littered with kids and they make no attempt whatsoever to move out of the way.

  “Hey, lady,” Some nappy-headed kid hollers out from his bike. “How come you so fat?”

  His circle of snot-nosed friends bust out laughing.

  I clench my jaw and keep walking like I don’t hear him. However, I’m sure the entire complex heard him.

  “Hey, lady. Hey, lady!” They all chant.

  “Hey, gurl. You got twenty dollars?”

  Smokey waddles up to me with his hand held out. Why the hell he bothers to beg money from broke people, I’ll never know. “No, Smokey. You know I don’t have any money.”

  “Then how in the hell are you gonna do your laundry? Ain’t that your daddy selling dem Fords on dem commercials? Can’t tell me he ain’t got no money.”

  “He ain’t me. I-I mean…isn’t me.” Lord, I swear you don’t have to be here long before your English starts getting jacked up.

  “Well, how about a dollar? You got to have a dollar if you about to do laundry.”

  As he’s talking, he’s scratching like he has the chicken pox or something. Plus, his eyes are wild and his lips are in desperate need of some ChapStick.

  “C’mon now, bitch. Gimme a dollar.” When he grabs my arm, no shit, my heart leaps into my throat. He’s going to attack me right here in broad daylight.

  I drop the baskets and try to pull away. “Let go of me!”

  “Hey, get your hands off of her,” Miz Cleo’s liquid southern voice snaps like a whip.

  “I ain’t bothering her,” he lies. “She just about to give me a dollar. I just need a dollar.”

  “Boy, we said let her go,” Miz Osceola’s rough voice adds to the mix.

  Before I know it, the older ladies rush off their stoops, down the sidewalk and begin hitting Smokey with actual wooden baseball bats.

  “We said leave her alone,” Osceola barks, delivering a blow against his legs.

  “Ow. Shit. Hold up.” Smokey drops to the ground and covers his face.

  An army of children race to see what’s going on and when they witness Smokey getting his ass kicked by two elderly ladies in housedresses, tan knee-highs, and patent leather shoes, they burst into a chorus of laughter.

  Frankly, I’m too stunned to move.

  “Whoa. Whoa.” Shakespeare, Smokey’s younger brother, parts the crowd. “What happened? What’s going on?”

  Miz Cleo stops pummeling the poor bastard to turn her angry eyes on Shakespeare. “I’ll tell you what’s going on,” she says, waving the bat in front of Shakespeare’s face. “He attacked this poor girl for a damn dollar.”

  “That’s not true,” Smokey croaks from between his fingers. “She said she was going to lend me the dollar, ain’t that right?”

  Smokey looks to me with pleading eyes, but I shake my head and grab my baskets again. It’s getting more than a little uncomfortable with the whole complex staring at me.

  Shakespeare sighs. “I’m sorry if he scared you.” His kind, brown eyes settle on me and I suddenly feel guilty for the ruckus I caused.

  Miz Cleo’s anger, apparently, refuses to cool. “You need to get his dusty behind off the streets and into somebody’s clinic before he seriously hurt somebody.”

  “Or in somebody’s church,” Osceola amends.

  “Yes, ma’am.” Shakespeare loops Smokey’s arm around his shoulders and helps him up.

  “I ain’t going to no damn clinic,” Smokey protests. “That white bitch is lying. She said she was gonna give me a damn dollar.”

  I just shake my head and trudge my way to the Laundromat.

  Behind me, I hear Miz Os
ceola shooing and breaking up the crowd. Needless to say my buzz is gone and when I walk into the Laundromat my mood continues to drop at the sight of Geneva and her circle of friends.

  They, on the other hand, clam up the moment they see me. Thrusting my chin up, I make a beeline to the row of old washing machines. As I pass Geneva, I hear her whisper, “Dumb-ass bitch.”

  I whip my head around and Geneva plants her hands on her hips. “What? You got something to say?”

  My hands itch to pull out her Korean weave, mainly because it doesn’t match her kinky roots, but there’s no way I want to get into a four-on-one situation. So I do the only thing I can do: turn around and mind my own business.

  However, it becomes painfully clear that Geneva have other plans.

  “Yes, girl,” she says loudly to one of her friends. “I rode that big, black cock until I got saddle sores.”

  The women giggle and glance over at me.

  “I told him if he can’t get what he needs from that fat-ass wife of his that he was welcome around my way any damn day of the week.”

  The hair on the back of my neck stands straight up. They’re not talking about who I think they are.

  “Of course I don’t know where the hell she think he is all hours of the night. Surely, she doesn’t think his ass is really going to be the next Jay-Z. Motherfucker can’t rap for shit, but he sure knows how to get his stroke on.” Geneva slaps hands with some bug-eye bitch who continues to sneer at me.

  “I hear what you’re saying, girl. I had a piece of that chocolate ass a couple of weeks back. Brother is a straight freak, but I just love how he calls me ‘li’l ma’.”

  The quarters slip from my hands and scatter across the floor.

  The women point and cackle like a group of hyenas. Tears sting the back of my eyes and I’m literally trembling with rage. They’re lying. They’re just fuckin’ with you. Closing my eyes, I draw a deep breath and then kneel to pick up my quarters.

  They’re lying. They’re just fuckin’ with you. Am I reasoning or trying to convince myself?

  When I stand up again, the women are now grouped around me.

  “What the hell do you want?”

  “Nothing, gurl.” Geneva smiles as if we’re fast friends. “We just came over to see how you’re doing. How’s Junior?”

  “Just leave me alone,” I say, cramming the money into the machine and then dumping my clothes inside.

  “What?” Geneva asks. “We’re just being friendly.”

  “I’m not looking for any new friends.”

  “See?” She tells her girls. “This just goes to show that opposites really do attract…because Junior is always looking for a new lady friend.”

  That’s it. I have to beat this bitch’s ass.

  13

  Aisha

  I can’t stop pacing.

  I walk from the kitchen to the bedroom. The bedroom to the kitchen. The bathroom to the living room. From one end of the living room to the other to look out the window at my bullshit-ass neighbors. And all back again. And again. And again. And fucking again.

  The whole time I pace I smoke a L and drink straight from a bottle of Dom that Maleek and me been saving for a special occasion. Pace. Puff-puff. Sip. Pace some more. Puff-puff some more. Sip some more. Until I am paced out, puffed out, and sipped the fuck out.

  This small-ass apartment feels smaller but I’m not going outside because everything outside my front door costs. Be it money or time. I’m running out of both.

  I sit on the edge of my bed nearly biting off the colorful acrylic tip from my fingernail. I twist my hands. I cross my legs and then uncross them. I flop back on the bed. I roll over onto my stomach — a stomach filled with nerves and shit.

  What the fuck am I gonna do?

  Maleek promised to take care of me. To always treat me like a queen. Now I’m running out of money and his ass can’t do a damn thing about it. On top of that, I think he’s lying about his momma ain’t got none of his money. What, he thinks I’m crazy? What is it, fuck me and my finances as long as his parents and fat-ass sistah sitting straight? Shit, his momma has her fucking husband. I ain’t got shit. No husband. No money. No dick. And yes, I miss that dick. It’s been five months since Maleek and my pussy was put on lock.

  And Momma’s stressing me the fuck out. I paid the bail for Nasir to get outta jail and that cost me a grip. I couldn’t leave my baby brother in that motherfucker. Hell to the no. Now the little Altima we bought my momma last year is acting up and she might need a new motor. How can I tell Momma I ain’t got it? She do the best she can with what she got. It wasn’t her fault she couldn’t get a good job. She works hard until she’s tired to take care of my little brothers. She always put them first. She is a good momma. Fuck that. If Maleek can take care of his momma, my momma ain’t going lacking. So if the motor cost a grand, then fuck it, she gonna ride.

  My momma needs me.

  My brothers need me.

  Maleek needs me.

  Funny thing. I’m so busy taking care of everybody else, who the fuck gone take care of me?

  I ain’t never had no fucking job and I’m not looking for none. Besides, what fucking job can I get that would keep me in the shit I love — the shit I’m used to, the shit I refuse to give up?

  I think about leaving Bentley Manor but to move out of low-income housing when my income is low is just crazy.

  I think about taking some of the money and getting some nigga to flip it but who can I trust? If they split with my shit I will really be ass-out.

  I’m back pacing when someone knocks at my front door. I frown as I hold the blunt with my index finger and thumb to keep from burning my acrylic nails. “Who?” I ask, even as I look out the peephole.

  “Kaseem.”

  What the fuck he wants? I open the door but I step out into the hall before he can step up in my shit — someplace he has no right to be. “Whaddup, Kas?” I ask, holding the blunt behind my back.

  He makes a face like “Damn.” I look down at myself remembering the snug baby tee I have on with sweat shorts that ride low on my hips, showing off my flat stomach and a print of my pussy. My nipples are hard and poking through the shirt.

  I use my finger to first close his fucking mouth and second to raise his eyes from my titties to my face.

  He laughs, wiping his hand with his mouth (a little undercover drool check?). “I just came thru to check up on you, but I see you looking fine as hell.”

  This nigga resembles that supa-dupa sexy Nelly. The platinum and diamond gleaming around his neck, wrist, and fingers. The fly-ass Tommy Hilfiger striped polo he has on with khaki shorts and colorful Nikes that matched the stripes in his shirts. Haircut freshly faded. The grills on the bottom of his teeth just the right touch. This nigga is pure balla status.

  Damn. Kaseem is smelling good, looking good, and standing there looking at me like he wants to fuck me good.

  “I been doin’ a’ight. Just tryna hold my man down, ya know.”

  He crosses his arms over his chest. “Every man should have a female like you in their corner.”

  “Damn right,” I tell him, my voice slurring a little bit. I pull the blunt from behind my back and take a long drag. Fuck it. The scent of it will kill that slight tinge of piss and God knows what else floating around this bitch.

  “Can I come in?” he asks.

  I laugh, letting out a stream of thick smoke from my nose. “Nah.”

  “You scared?” he asks, smiling a little bit.

  I raise a brow. “Scared of what?”

  “Nothin’,” he says, raising his hand again to wipe his mouth.

  This nigga is flirting with me and if I don’t catch myself — my horny and slightly-pissed-at-my-husband self — I’ll be flirting right back. Not with my man’s best friend. That’s some shady shit and I’m not even gone be that kinda bitch. No, not my husband’s homeboy. Shit, Maleek might be setting me up and asking Kaseem to come at me to make sure I have that pussy o
n lock. I ain’t no dumb bitch.

  “I’ll let Maleek know you came by to check on him.”

  Kaseem nods and reaches in his pocket to pull out another wad. “Need something? Anything? Let me know.”

  “Nah, I’m straight,” I lie, even as my mouth waters a little bit. “Thanks.”

  He peels off some hundred-dollar bills and pushes them in my free hand.

  “For the commissary?”

  Kaseem shakes his head. “Nah, that’s for you and it’s more where that came from. Just let a nigga know.”

  “Let a nigga know what?”

  He nods his head in my direction. “You know what’s up, Aisha.”

  Yeah. He’s right. I do know. Kaseem — whether doing it for Maleek or whether he’s being straight up — just put in his bid to be my man.

  He gives me another long look with a shake of his head before he walks away.

  I shoot off behind him, pushing the door to the stairwell open so hard that it echos. Kaseem turns at the door to look up at me but the rest of my words freeze at the sound of voices in the stairwell. I don’t need nobody sniffing out my business so I just wave at Kaseem and walk back toward my apartment. I’ll get his ass straight later, I’m thinking, walking back to my apartment.

  I ain’t even have time for nothing but money. It’s time for a bitch to get on the grind.

  But it’s hard to think when I’m so fucked up. I lock my front door behind me and walk into my bedroom to sit on the bed. I feel a little dizzy, hot, and sweaty. This happens to me every time I smoke too much weed. Topping four blunts off with champagne didn’t help it any. I yank my Baby Phat tee over my head and fling it away from me. I work my sweat shorts down my legs and use my foot to toss them over my head.

  Brrrnnnggg.

  I wince at the sound of the phone ringing like a damn fire alarm. Probably Maleek. It keeps on ringing but I ignore it. I’m not ready to talk to him right now. I have my mind on money and money on my mind. Plus I’m high and Maleek thinks I gave up smoking. “Yeah well, I thought he left me straight with money ’til his ass got home.”