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“Which one? You done hit me wit’ so many. You know I smoke. My memory’s all jacked up.”
She chuckles. “Oh, puhleeze. How convenient. I bet you remember what you wanna remember. I asked you about relationships and monogamy.”
I laugh. “Oh, that one.” I spark another blunt. “On some real shit, I think relationships only work when two people want them to work. Both parties gotta be on the same page; otherwise, you just askin’ for heartache, feel me? And as far as monogamy goes, well…umm, listen. Let me get back to you on that.”
“Just what I thought,” she says, laughin’. “You probably can’t even spell it.”
I join in her laughter. I’m diggin’ her style. I already know she ain’t gonna be no easy lay, and I’m wonderin’ if I really wanna put in the work. I mean, I wanna taste them drawers—but, on some real shit, a muhfucka ain’t really that pressed. We go back ’n forth for another twenty minutes. She shares some basic shit ’bout herself. And I share some ’bout me. I learn she’s twenty-six. That she’s an ATL transplant by way of L.A. That she moved to Atlanta three years ago for a change of scenery and to be closer to her older sister. That she doesn’t have any children. That she’s a professional model, and travels a lot. But what I really wanna know is: Is she fuckin’?
“So can a brotha spend some time wit’ you or what?”
“Maybe. When will you be in town again?”
Now you already know I didn’t have plans to be in Atlanta anytime soon, but to get a chance to get up in them hips, a muhfucka gonna make it happen. “I’ma hit you up to let you know.”
“Do that,” she says, chucklin’. “I’m getting ready to pencil you in right now.”
“Nah, baby, wrong answer,” I say. “Ink me in. Better yet, I want you to use a bright-red Magic Marker to mark me in.”
“And what should it say?”
“It should say, ‘Big daddy’s comin’ through.’” We both laugh, then talk a few minutes more before I say, “Have a good night, pretty baby. I’ma hit you up one day next week.”
“Should I hold my breath?”
“Only if you believe.” We hang up. I slip my hands back down into my underwear, then cup and massage my balls, smilin’.
Ten a.m., Wednesday mornin’ my cell ri
ngs, wakin’ me the fuck up. I start to let it go into voicemail, but reach over and grab it off the nightstand. I peep the caller ID, then answer. “What’s good?”
“Hey, baaaaaaby,” Vita screeches into the phone. I roll my eyes up in my head. Between her notes on BlackPlanet, her IM’s and these calls, I’m thinkin’ this lil’ bitch has the potential to become another stalker if her ass wasn’t so afraid of gettin’ on a plane and leavin’ her lil’ box of a world. I guess it’s a good thing the ho doesn’t travel anywhere farther north than North Carolina. Otherwise, she’d be tryna hunt me down e’ery chance she got. “How you been? Did you get my messages? I’ve left you like four and sent you a few notes on BP.”
I yawn and stretch. Although I’m not beat to fuck wit’ her ass, today I decide to indulge her. I’m tryna get at Kanika’s fine ass, and I want her to sponsor my trip. “I’m good, baby,” I say, iggin’ all the other questions. “I’ve been thinkin’ ’bout you.”
“For real?” she asks, soundin’ surprised ’n excited.
“No doubt, baby.”
“Then why haven’t I heard from you? I was starting to get worried about you since you haven’t returned any of my calls or responded to any of my emails. I didn’t know what to think. Is everything okay?”
“Yeah, baby, e’erything’s good. I’ve just been real stressed out ’n shit. But it’s nuthin’ for you to worry ya pretty lil’”—Pumkin, I think—“head over. I’ma be aiight.”
“What’s wrong?” she asks, soundin’ concerned for a muhfucka. “Why are you stressed?”
“This job shit,” I lie, “has me ’bout ready to snap on a muhfucka. A nigga can’t seem to get a break. I been out beatin’ the pavement puttin’ in mad applications, and these muhfuckas ain’t bitin’. And the ones who are ain’t tryna pay a nigga shit. Or, as soon as they know I gotta record, they get on some other shit, like ‘we’ll get back to you,’ knowin’ damn well they gonna toss my app in the trash. Baby, I’m tellin’ you, it’s real hard out here for a muhfucka wit’ a record.”
“A record?” she asks, soundin’ surprised. “What kind of record?” Duh, a criminal record, what else? I sigh, then give her a bullshit-ass story ’bout hustlin’ drugs, then gettin’ bagged ’cause some jealous, bitch-ass niggas snitched on me. “OhmyGod, that’s messed up. How long were you locked up?”
“Five years,” I tell her. I figure since I’m already on a roll with the lies, I might as well stretch the shit out as far as it can go.
“Five years? Wow. How long have you been out?”
“I’ve been home for three years, and been off parole for two. I swear, baby, I don’t wanna go back to the streets. But these muhfuckas gonna have a nigga hittin’ up the block, if sumthin’ doesn’t pop off soon.”
“You gotta be patient, and not give up,” she offers. “You gotta keep the faith, and know something greater is coming to you. Selling drugs is only a temporary fix. Sure, it’ll put fast money in your pockets, but what happens if you get locked up again?”
I roll my eyes up in my head. I know she means well, but I don’t need no preachy-ass ho tryna give me no sermon. The only thing I wanna hear is how much money she’s gonna peel off to a muhfucka.
