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“I’m sorry, Ma. I’ma…”
Man, listen, I don’t know how long she was beatin’ my ass. But what I do know is, when she finally stopped, a nigga’s arms, ass ’n back was on fire, and there was blood e’erywhere. She stood in the middle of the room, heavin’ and sweatin’, and waitin’. But I was scared as fuck to move.
“Get the fuck up,” she said, walkin’ over to my window, then pullin’ it up. She swung it up so hard I thought it was gonna shatter. “And get the fuck out!” I crawled my way over to the bed and pulled myself up. She was starin’ a nigga down so hard I thought she was gonna drop the cord, then pull out a burner, and start blastin’ holes in my ass. I kept my eyes on her, though. “Just like you been sneaking them fast-ass girls in and outta my goddamn window, you gonna climb your sneaky, black ass outta here the same way you let them bitches in. And you ain’t taking shit I paid for. Now, get. OUT!” And then she had the nerve to start beatin’ my ass while I was climbin’ outta the window, word up. I couldn’t believe it. My own moms put me out in my motherfuckin’ drawers all bloody ’n shit. And she wouldn’t let me back up in her spot— not even to visit—until I had paid her for e’ery damn window.
I shake the thought, shiftin’ in my seat. The memory of that ass whoopin’ causes a nigga to wince. I look over at Pops. “Nah, it ain’t goin’ down like that,” I say.
He squints at me, unconvinced, then stands. “You make sure it doesn’t.”
My cell rings. I ignore it, gettin’ up, too. I step in to give him some love. “I got you, Pops.”
“Nigga,” he says, backin’ up and scrunchin’ his nose up, “what you got is a bad case of funk. Go wash your stankin’ ass, and brush your tongue. It smells like you been fuckin’ ’n suckin’ a bushel of rotten crabs.”
I bust out laughin’. “You crazy, Pops. Word up.”
“Crazy my ass.”
“Aiight, Pops,” I say, chucklin’. “I’ll holla atcha lata. I’ma hit the shower, then catch a few zees.”
“Yeah, you do that.” He grabs his keys from off the table. “Listen, I gotta make a run. If I’m not here when you get up, lock up when you leave.”
“Bet.”
“Oh, and one more thing,” he says, openin’ the door.
“What’s that?”
“Invest in a muzzle.”
I tilt my head, givin’ him a confused look. “A muzzle?”
“Yeah, fool. To keep them gals from making so much damn noise when you’re up there stretching their insides out.”
I burst out laughin’. “Oh, shit. Pops, you one funny dude— word up!”
“Funny hell,” he says, walkin’ out and shuttin’ the door behind him.
6
I finish my shower, dry myself off, then walk back into the room I grew up in as a teenager. Although I painted and piped the shit out wit’ a king-size bed, Bose sound system and a Toshiba flat-screen TV, it’s still a lil’-ass room for a grown-ass man. But, it is what it is. ’Cause like I said, ain’t no bitch comin’ up in my spot tryna bring da noise. And I ain’t payin’ for no muthafuckin’ motel room. I reach into my pants pocket and pull out the five hunnid I got from Falani’s ass last night—well, early this mornin’, then the three hunnid Electra laced me wit’, puttin’ it wit’ the paper Akina hit me wit’. Thirteen hunnid tax-free dollas in less than twenty-four hours, I think, ploppin’ ’cross the bed. Not bad for a nigga. “Oh, shit,” I snap, reachin’ over and grabbin’ my cell off the nightstand. “I betta call this bitch and let her know I’ma be comin’ through tomorrow.” I glance at the digital clock: 12:30 P.M. “Her lil’ ass betta pick up.” I dial the number. And after five rings, she answers.
“Hello?” she says in her squeaky-ass voice, soundin’ like she’s been suckin’ on helium or some shit. The shit’s fuckin’ annoyin’ as hell. But based on the flicks she’s been sendin’, she’s finer than a muhfucka; pretty cocoa-brown skin, big brown eyes, thick hips, and a nice phatty. And, yes, a nigga tryna bury his dick all up in that shit, real talk. She claims she used to be a dancer at some titty spot in downtown Atlanta, so I’m expectin’ this bitch to give me more than one front-row viewin’, feel me?
“Yo, what’s good, ma?”
“Who’s this?”
Now I know this dumb ho has caller ID, so why the fuck is she askin’ who it is? Alexander the Great, Bitch! “Alley Cat.”
“Who?”
I suck my teeth. “Daddy Long Stroke from offa Myspace.”
“Oh, heeeeey, baby.” I roll my eyes up in my head. What a fuckin’ reject!
“Did you get my note? I left you one last night, asking you to call me ’cause I lost all the numbers I had in my phone.”
“Nah, I ain’t get that shit. I haven’t been on that piece in a few days.”
