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“Damn, when my birthday, again?” Makai asked, admiring Milo’s new addition.
“Soon enough,” I reminded him. “Where’s the waitress?”
It was my second time asking, leaving a bitter taste in my mouth. I wasn’t too fond of repeating myself.
“She bobbing ’round this bitch somewhere.”
“Here she comes,” Milo said, pointing to the woman headed in our direction empty-handed.
The second she approached, I dug into my pocket and removed a knot of bills. I peeled off half and held it out for her to take.
“I’m Leelee. What can I do for you?” she asked, rolling the gum in her mouth across her tongue before blowing a big bubble. It popped on her face and was sucked right back into her mouth as she waited for a response.
“Don’t leave this section anymore tonight. You’ll get the other half when I leave. Have one of your homegirls handle the rest of your tables. You’re with us now. Find out what everybody wants. By the time the clock strikes twelve, I need every nigga in this section with a bottle in his hand and every waitress in this bitch singing my brother a happy birthday.”
“Yes, sir. I guess we start with you. What are you having?”
“Got some Brut back there?”
“Moët and Chandon?”
“Yeah.”
“We do.”
“Bet.”
She made her way around the section, collecting orders as I settled in, taking a minute to scope out the scenery and get a good look at the people surrounding us to be sure that nothing or no one was out of place, looked suspicious, or was on some bullshit. Though I didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary, the lingering, unpleasant feeling still haunted me.
Leelee worked her magic and began lining the table with bottles within minutes of completing our order. I pointed in Milo’s direction when the sparkles began dancing in the air. In front of me wasn’t where they belonged. It was his night. It was his show. This was his celebration. He was the center of attention. I simply wanted the bill after the damage was done.
“I heard we got them niggas in the building tonight. I don’t have to say their names to know what niggas I’m referring to. Berkeley’s finest. Shout out to the homie Milo. Happy Birthday, my nigga.”
Leelee cheered, feeling accomplished as she heard the DJ give the shout out I was sure she’d requested. Simultaneously, 2 Chainz’s “Birthday Song” dropped and a few of the bottle girls she’d brought along with her began clapping their hands while others began clapping their ass cheeks right in front of us.
“It’s ya birthday! It’s ya birthday!”
Milo was in his element, enjoying the ass being thrown in his direction while he popped a bottle of Ace, pouring it down his throat as the clock struck twelve. A smile tugged at my lips. There was no greater feeling than seeing the ones I loved happy, healthy, and wealthy.
Another beat dropped, but my concentration was lost almost immediately. My phone vibrated in my hand. I opened it to find a new message from Anna.
And she’s talking about I’ll be fine. She missing a nigga, too. Before I could even open the message, an arm was tossed around my shoulder.
“I just poured up me a eight!” he shouted, bottle in the air. “Real nigga all in my face.”
“Five hundred racks in my safe,” I mouthed as he pointed at my chest, waiting for me to join in. I refused to let him down or leave him hanging. Never had and never would. I had far more than five hundred racks in my safe, but I remembered the time it was all I had and it made me hungry all over again.
“Five hundred racks to the plug,” I continued, pushing my palms outward.
“What you know ’bout showing love? What you know ’bout pulling up in Bentley trucks?”
He waved his bottle across the entire section. Every nigga in our circle had one in their garage. I handed them out as Christmas gifts months prior.
Lil Baby continued to flow on the track as my mind raced, motivation creeping through my blood. Suddenly, I craved more. Just as quickly as I’d fallen victim to contentment, hunger made my stomach rumble.
“All of my niggas on go. None of my niggas no hoes!” Everyone joined in, sounding like a choir. Shit was personal and we meant every word. Everybody in the section was hitters, from the highly educated to the highly medicated. “All of my niggas want smoke. All of my niggas together!”
“We came from the bottom, used to wear each other’s clothes.” I bobbed, knowing just how true that line was. When our parents died, it was our duty to make sure each other were straight. If that meant sharing a few pieces, then that was what the fuck we did.
