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“A muhfucka can’t snatch what I’m not givin’ out,” I tell him, sippin’ my drink. “Besides, I ain’t lookin’. What about you?” He tells me he’s been on some solo shit for the last few months, but had been fuckin’ wit’ some chick that started wildin’ out. States she was a real ghetto-bird. So he dipped on ’er. “Any baby mommas?”
He frowns. “Hell, no. I ain’t ready for that. One day, though.” He pauses as his foot brushes up against mine. “Listen…so, what’s your deal, ma. You don’t have a man, and you’re not lookin’ for one. Is it because you don’t get down with ’em like that? You know you…you dig the ladies? Or you’ve been hurt real bad?”
I laugh. “Oh, trust. I’m all ’bout the dick, baby. And no, I ain’t been hurt. The fact is I was fuckin’ wit’ someone for hot minute, but things didn’t work out so that situation deaded.”
“Oh damn. Sorry to hear that. What happened?”
I sigh, placin’ my elbows up on the table, then claspin’ my hands together. “He got murdered.”
“Wow,” he says, shakin’ his head in disbelief. “That’s crazy. I’m sure that fucked you up.”
“You have no idea,” I tell ’im, slowly shakin’ my head while placin’ my hand up to my chest. I know. Theatrics; oh well. “It tore me up. But, life goes on.”
“So, how’d he get bodied, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“A bullet to the head.”
As he opens his mouth to speak, he’s interrupted by this brown-skinned, thick in da hips chick wit’ burgundy hair, stompin’ up to our table wit’ major ’tude. Cute girl, though. Kinda reminds me of a ghetto version of Jill Scott wit’ a tore up weave.
“Ohhhhhh, hellllllllll naw. So, this is why you ain’t been picking up your phone the last two weeks. You traipsing ’round town with some other ho. And then you got the nerve to bring the bitch to my hood.”
I blink, take a deep breath. Say a quick prayer, hopin’ I don’t have’ta come from outta chill mode and bring it to this bitch’s face. He checks her. Tells her to step the fuck off, but the bitch ain’t havin’ it.
“Oh, so fuck me, right? You got me swallowing your babies and now you wanna break new. Nah, that ain’t how we do it ’round here, homie. You think you gonna flaunt some bag ho…”
Bag ho? Oh, she must see my work, I think, glancin’ over at my thirty-eight-hundred dollar bag. Or is that some corny-ass west coast slang she’s usin’? I peep the bitch’s grill piece and wanna throw the fuck up. Ohmymuthafuckin’God! This Bama coon got a gold tooth in her mouth. What a late bitch!
Now, I done heard how these Oakland hoes get down, so I really ain’t beat for fightin’ a buncha gorillas today. But, I tell you what…this amazon is ’bout to catch it Brooklyn-style real fast. I shift in my seat. Turn my head and stare out the window. Make the ho invisible as she’s yappin’ her gums at Tone, talkin’ all greasy. I stick my hand down into my bag and slyly slip my blade into the palm of my hand in case I need’a bring it to her face. I sit my bag up on my lap, pullin’ it close to me. She says sumthin’ else, this time directed at me.
“Ho, how long you been bobbling him?”
“Yo, Shelly, word up. You need to get the fuck up outta here wit’ that dumb shit.”
I finally turn my attention to ’er. Stare the bitch down. Tilt my head. Tone catches how I’m grillin’ this bitch. I peep she has a lil’ fan club wit’ ’er—three hood-booga bitches.
“What, you deaf, ho? I asked you a question.”
I don’t respond. I count to ten. Play this shit out in my head. Take a deep breath, then slowly exhale. I’m tryna keep it cute, but I already see I’ma have’ta turn it up a notch.
Now she’s eyein’ me, and I’m eyein’ her right the fuck back, darin’ the bitch to bring it. She shifts her stare back to Tone. “Yo, go ’head with the dumb shit, Shelly. Ain’t nobody tryna hear this crazy shit today, yo. For real.”
She slams her hand up on her hip. “Go ’head nothing, mother-fucker.” The bitch is gettin’ amped now, bringin’ a buncha unnecessary attention to our table. I decide this is my cue to exit. A bitch ain’t tryna be caught up in nobody’s domestic shit.
“Look,” I say, gettin’ up, slippin’ my bag on my arm. “Obviously ya’ll have some unfinished business to deal wit’ so I’ma let ya’ll handle this wit’out me.” I toss a Ben Franklin on the table. “Thanks for the meal, but I ain’t sign up for the extras,” I add, gettin’ ready to step off.
She smirks. “Oh, so the ho does speak. Mmmph.”
He quickly stands, snatchin’ the money from the table. “Nah, fuck that. It’s on me,” he says, handin’ the money back. “You don’t have to leave. Just hol’ up. Give me one sec…please.” I can tell the muhfucka’s embarrassed that this bitch done stepped to him all sideways. I twist my lips, shakin’ my head.
“Nah, I’m cool. Holla back when you handle ya situation.” Now instead of this bitch keepin’ the heat on him, she starts tryin’ it on my time; callin’ me dumb shit like: Beezy, Bopper, Bootie Crack Corn, and some other shit that was definitely some Bay area lingo. A definite no-no. Now I’m ready to light her ass up. I guess the dusty bitch thought she was chasin’ me up outta here. I stop in my tracks.
“Bitch,” I snap, droppin’ my bag down on top’a the table. “Speak English. Or invest in Rosetta Stone. A bitch like me don’t understand bama-ass lingo. So what you betta do is step da fuck away from this table. Trust, I ain’t tryna ride this nigga’s dick, so whatever beef you got wit’ ’im, you keep that shit between you and ’im. Don’t pull me into it.” I sit back in my seat, cross my legs, starin’ this bitch down.
“Well, if you’re sittin’ here with him, then you get it, too.”
“Shelly, will you go the fuck on,” he says, lettin’ out a frustrated sigh. “I’ll call you later, aiight. Damn.”
I smirk, shakin’ my head. This retarded bitch! “Don’t tell that bitch nuthin’. Let ’er keep standin’ here talkin’ shit.”
