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“No, bitch, I don’t.”
“Every time his ass gets locked up, I’m the one runnin up and down on gawtdamn stinkin’-ass buses and trains ’n shit to see his ass. And I ask him to do me one gawtdamn thing and he can’t even do that. I’m done with his ass. I’m putting him out.”
Okay, I’ve heard this before. “Uh-huh,” I say, diggin’ in my handbag for a stick of gum. “Keep playin’ the violin. I’ve heard this tune before.”
“I’m serious, Cassie. I’ma put his sorry, black ass out tonight.”
“Mmmhmm. Let me know how you make out with that.”
She sucks her teeth. “I know you don’t believe me, girl. But watch.”
“Yeah, whatever. Do you.”
“Don’t judge me. I—”
I cut her ass off before she starts tryna explain her craziness. “Look, I would love to sit out here and play Love Doctor, boo. But I need to get my ass home. Call one of your daughters and get one of their lazy asses to come down here and help you up.”
“They’re not home. They’re at the movies.”
“On a school night?” I ask, looking at her like she’s half-crazy. Then again, she is. Any ho who’d name her daughters Candylicious and Clitina is a fuckin’ nut. Candylicious is eighteen, still in the tenth grade. And Clitina is fifteen, still in the eighth grade and fuckin’ everything that’s not nailed down. Them hoes ain’t have half a chance from the start with a mother named Dickalina.
Shit, you can say what you want about me. I might drink and smoke with my two oldest sons. And, yes, I’ve even tossed a bar up alongside ’em and gotten locked up with ’em. Hell, I’ve even fucked a few of their friends. And, yeah, I have a buncha damn kids and baby daddies, and?
Every last one of my kids is taken care of. I’m not sittin’ on my ass collecting a welfare check, so there you have it. But I do get my food stamps every month. Shit, that EBT card comes in handy. Ain’t no shame in my game; these kids gotta eat. And, yeah, I’ve had to do some extra things in the past to make sure my kids were provided for, like fuckin’ and suckin ’niggahs for money when I wasn’t beat to fuck with ’em; like carryin’ drugs for a niggah, or two, across state lines, and into prisons. Like boostin’ shit—although, I only did that shit for three years. And I had my reasons for doin’ them. I needed to survive; period, point blank.
Beulah, with her ol’ crusty old ass, had thrown me out on the streets at fifteen because she said she was tired of lookin’ at me and my two babies. She didn’t give a fuck where I went. Said she couldn’t keep takin’ care of some hot-in-the-ass little girl who used her pussy more than she used her own. So what the hell was I supposed to do? My babies needed milk and Pampers. And we needed a roof over our heads. I had to do what I had to do to survive. So boosting shit is how I did it. And, yeah, okay, fuckin’ older niggahs—not too old, though, because I was scared into believin’ old men gave you worms. So, I never fucked anyone over forty. Well, one time . . . okay, okay, like six times, I sucked a fifty-seven-year-old man’s dick for a hundred dollars while he fingered my pussy. That lasted for four minutes and thirty-seven seconds. It was always the fastest hundred I’d ever made in my life.
Then I started fuckin’ with them stolen credit cards for about four years until about two years ago. Shit started gettin’ too hot. And after my connect got his dumb ass popped and sentenced to fifteen years for identity-theft, fraud, and a buncha other crazy shit, I had to drop that scheme real quick. I don’t mind doing a little county time when I have to, but a bitch with a state number ain’t it. Them horny bitches in there would be tryna ride my ass with a broomstick. Oh, no thank you! That’s not how I do mine. Shit, I still have seven more kids to raise. So, I knew when to pull out. Still, that niggah had some good dick, too! Dumb fuck!
And yeah, growin’ up, I mighta spent more t
ime on my back, or in the backseat of some horny niggah’s car, then I did in school, but the one thing a bitch can’t ever say about me is that my kids are ever dirty, raggedy, disrespectful, or dumb as fuck. I mighta dropped out of school when I was fifteen. But my three oldest boys graduated. And because of them, I took my ass back and got my GED two years ago.
So, yeah, I’ma hot mess. But, guess what? I don’t give a fuck. I’m real with mine. But this drunk-ass bitch right here—love her dearly—is all over the damn place and lets her kids do whatever the hell they want. I wish the hell Day’Asia would; I’d beat the snot outta her ass.
Dickalina presses her cell up to her ear. “I’m callin’ that niggah back and tellin him to stop dickin’ around and get his ass down here now.”
“Yeah, you do that and hurry up about it. I wanna get home.”
“I’ma tell him to get his ass down here now, or he can pack his shit and bounce.”
I roll my eyes up in my head. Yeah, picture that. “Way to go, girl.”
“Knutz, are you comin’ down here or what? . . . I’m not fuckin’ crawlin’ nowhere, niggah. Stop playin’, niggah . . . ” She must have lowered the volume this time. I can’t hear what he’s sayin’. “ . . . was not . . . I was out with Cassie . . . I know I was ’posed to braid your hair and trim your cock hairs and the crack of your ass . . . ”
I frown. Oh, this bitch has gone too far. Now she’s shavin’ the niggah’s asshole. What’s next, her fuckin’ him in it?
“ . . . but you weren’t home,” she continues, “ . . . was not out braidin’ no other niggah’s head. And I wasn’t out fuckin’ . . . ” She huffs, openin’ the truck door. “ . . . Are you comin’ down here or not? . . . Knutz, stop, damn . . . I told you. We were down at The Crack House . . . no, there wasn’t. I—”
I count to ten, then snatch the phone from her. “Knutz, stop the shit, niggah. Get ya retarded ass down here and get this drunk bitch outta my fuckin’ car so I can get home to my damn kids. Shit, you can argue with her ass upstairs.”
“Ohmygod, Cassie, don’t do that shit.” She tries to reach for her phone. I slap her hands away. “Give me my phone.”
“Nah, fuck that,” he says. “She was ’posed to been had her ass home to braid my hair and handle some other thangs. And she out trickin’.”
I blink. “Oh, you got the wrong party favors on the table, niggah. She was out having a few drinks, period. And so what if she was out tricking? Good for her. As much dirt as your grimy-ass does, you have no room to be talkin’.”
“Yo, c’mon, Booty. Chill wit’ all that shit you talkin’.”
