“That thing” is something that can’t be bought or sold. You either got it or you don’t. Hell, “that thing” can’t even be stolen. How a bitch like Simone like them apples? Oh fuck, don’t think about her. I don’t want to get angry and disappear. The point is, even if some new him or her or this or that arrives on the scene and tries to step in the shoes of the ones who got “that thing” in their blood, body, or look, in their profession, talent, or skill, in their hands, feet, or voice, or in their sports music, or whatever! The newcomer, even if he or she or it is a great imitator or knockoff, can never ever reproduce the same level of feeling or sound, movement or hustle, fashion or flow or perfection.
I felt a little sad for like six seconds squatting there at the golden door. Snap out of it, I reminded myself, a mirror and… I glanced to my left. In the left alcove I saw a six-thousand-dollar pair of Jimmy Choo’s Avril crystal shoes sitting on top of a shoe rack, packed with designer women’s footwear. I stared. The crystals sparkled even though they were not in the sunlight. However, my fashion eyes were redesigning them, flooding each shoe with princess-cut authentic diamonds tightly and properly placed leaving no opening to see the shoe fabric. And on the back that hugs the ankle, six small emeralds. That would have been even more Fuck the worldish! I laughed. I’m a dead bitch redesigning a pair of six-thousand-dollar shoes into a pair of six-hundred-and-sixty-six-thousand-dollar shoes.
Not funny. I picked up the pair of crystal-flooded Jimmy Choo shoes. I stood up and placed them onto my pretty feet. At first they didn’t fit. Suddenly they did. I must’ve wanted these pretty bad, I thought to myself. Before I couldn’t grasp anything into my hand, not paper, or envelopes, or even water. I pranced through the left side of the sealed-shut solid-gold-at-minimum plated door without knocking, ringing, or activating the security screen or alarms. I walked through same as if the pure gold door was made of nothing but air.
* * *
A circular scene was what I was seeing now, sexy curved walls instead of flat and straight lines, boxes, squares, and rectangles. It was all quarter circles, semicircles, ovals, and even walls that seemed to swerve. I was blown away by it. There was no drywall, plywood, or paneling in this palace, or even the other buildings that seemed to be all part of one to-fight-or-die-for empire. Even the clay potted flower and plant shelves as well as sitting spaces were indentations carved into the walls so sturdy and solid I imagined they could withstand a bulldozer.
Whoever’s place this is, they’re in love with the sky. They must’ve told the architect no ceilings, just domes, and clear not stained glass, so they could watch the sun rise and set or the moonlight pouring down stars. I was so fucking impressed.
I searched for family photos and paintings. I could tell this circular building was lived in. Everything about it screamed “occupied,” even though it was cleaner than the Board of Health. Instead of pictures, the walls were covered with tiny pastel-colored ceramic pieces so perfectly placed that even when the walls curved, the pattern of the tiles and flow of the art didn’t break. It was so precise. It was kind’ve crazy, I thought. This property existed behind a fifteen-foot-high white solid rock wall, but on the inside of the buildings, there were no walls separating one room from another like we are accustomed to having in our houses and mansions. In this circle, the kitchen was at the center of the huge wide space. It was so doped off that it could have been mistaken for a… a… what?
Fact is, I didn’t have shit to compare what I was seeing to. The dangling utensils and steel pots and pans were outdone by the immaculate collection of tiny to massive all-glass pots on the stovetop. There was even a glass frying pan. I had never seen cookware like this before. One refrigerator freezer was as wide as three family refrigerator freezers. Two stoves and ovens, a total of ten burners. A flat griddle for pancakes and a waffle iron for waffles, and blenders, and cappuccino machines and graters, slicers, choppers, and toasters and even a deep fryer, a dough mixer, pasta maker, and an old-school popcorn machine, with the butter bin designed like the one in your favorite movie theatre. Ceramic dishes and deep bowls and water and juice gourds and deep-welled decorated ceramic soup spoons. How many servants did they have? How is a lived-in space so perfectly clean? I started to doubt my own eyes, was searching for crumbs or dust or something spilled, even a droplet of water. Found nothing. Figured I was just bugging and reminded myself, the mirror the mirror the mirror, which led me to walk down the corridor in my crystal pumps that I wore like they were stilettos.
I got startled when I had almost reached the next door, which I was sure had to lead to some bedrooms that had to have walls and privacy, bathrooms and showers—and yes!—mirrors. A beautiful all-black green-eyed cat stepped out of one of the indentations in the walls. It looked at me like it was a person seeing another person.
I’m not a pet lover though. I never had any intention of picking up anything’s poop or of living with animals like we family. I’m from the projects. We see roaches we smash ’em. We hang sticky paper so all flies get stuck to it, their legs pulled off until they die. If we even think for one second there’s a mouse in the house we trap it, snap off its tail, and trash it when it’s finally dead. Let my project building maintenance man think there’s some rats. He gets the whole cleanup crew to spread out the pink poison in the dirt. Then they rope it off, put up the tape so kids don’t play in it, like a murder scene.
So I didn’t stoop to pet the pretty creature. But I did see its diamond collar and that made me pause and take a closer look. When I still didn’t pet it and instead walked off, it followed me. I wanted it to go away. Cat looked sneaky, like it knew stuff a cat shouldn’t know. Or like a detective that would watch me too closely and then report back to some higher-up cat authority that would come tryna do me something, a ferocious den of lions, where the Lion King held his throne.
When I finally reached the door, I forgot the cat, that was still there paused at my feet. The door was made of pure pearls. My eyes widened and my lips parted. I’m not the type that would ever buy a string of pearls, or get all excited if a nigga bought it for me either. But I felt enticed by the designer’s mind that thought to make a door made of pearls. I reached up to feel the surface, wanted to press my body up against it. But instead I passed through it, same as I had passed through the other incredibly precious doors. Soon as I did I was whisked away, fast-forwarding for what felt like only five seconds but moving at a speed that prevented me from seeing what was on the way. When I stopped whizzing, I no longer had any vision. I was angry about it. Felt cheated. I knew I was just about to find a mirror, a big one. People who cared about their look more than mostly they cared about anything had to have mirrors. People of wealth all worked hard at at least one thing, image. So, they have to check and recheck and be certain before they allow anybody to see even one small detail out of sync. This was the kind of sensational property that I’d rather lose my hearing in, if I had to choose and lose something, but definitely not my eyesight.
“Kush, what are you doing in here?” I heard a woman’s voice say. Who was she talking to? Then I heard the cat purr. She must have been stroking it. How did the cat arrive the same time as me? Was it whizzing through space like I was?
“Chee, there’s only one wildcat allowed in this bedroom and it’s not Kush,” I heard a man’s hypnotic voice say. He sounded real familiar.
“Kush knows she’s not allowed up here. This is the first time this has happened. One of our daughters may have left the door open by mistake,” the female’s voice said. She must be Chee. “I’ll let her out. But I think she has a crush on you. Look at how she stares into your eyes,” Chee said.
“Oh, now even the cat has a crush on me,” the male said smoothly without laughter.
“You know I know every time a woman is attracted to you. I’ve always been right. Have I ever been wrong?” she asked playfully. The cat purred, the sound much higher and closer to my ear, so I knew she must be holding the cat in her arms. I heard her
walk away. I wanted the male voice to say something so I could be sure. But with Chee, whoever that is, gone from the room, he wasn’t talking no more. I could only hear the rustle of his clothes, an expensive business dress shirt, I figured. Then I heard a slight clink. Cuff links, I imagined he removed his and laid them on his glass-top dresser drawer or night table. Next I heard one jingle, his belt buckle, I believed. Then I heard his zipper. Oh hell, yeah! Soon, I heard the sound of him removing his pants and then his boxers. He must’ve felt good being undressed. I could hear the rhythm of his breathing change and his breath escaping like being naked was more comfortable. I stood still listening to the sound of his breathing. Then I heard the sound of his feet on what sounded like a marble, uncarpeted floor. A shower switched on.
Yes! Let’s shower together, I thought to myself and felt even more excited. I heard the sound of a door closing. It was a glass shower! Of course it was. There would never be a cheap pole and shower curtain in a palace bathroom. And I could tell it was not the sound of the bathroom door shutting because the volume of the sound of the downpour of the water didn’t decrease much at all. I threw off my Jimmy Choo’s crystal heels like they were Payless. I wiggled out of my Chanel mini inch by inch. It was tapered so lovely, that is was like a second skin. There was no room to remove it, as though CoCo wanted a bitch rich enough to afford it and bad enough to afford it and bad enough to wear it right, to die with it on. When I was finally able to shed it, I tossed it who knows where. I’m not wearing a bra, panties, or a G-string. I like my titties free and my pussy raw.
Now I am naked and tip toeing into the bathroom guided by the sound of the water and the warmth of the stream of the steam. I figured hey, since I was able to pick up the heels and properly use my fingers, it meant that now I can even hold his balls in my hand, feel the ridges of his dick; the depth, the width, the texture. I started feeling around like Helen Keller, blind but determined to get to the shower glass door and inside, body to body. Ooh, I’m in. I can’t feel the warm water though. Am I really in? Did I open a linen closet and walk in there by mistake instead?
I’m getting pissed at my misses, and at my circumstances. I move around. Still can’t tell if I’m in the shower or not. Then I smell a new scent, like flowers or some gourmet fresh-baked dessert or an expensive perfume. Something extremely alluring. Then I hear the shower door close. Did he get out? No, that would be too quick, I thought. But maybe I had again lost track of time and how to count it. I was sure of one thing though. I could now hear two people breathing One of them was not me. I could hear lips locking and tongues sliding. I could hear wet sudsy skin rubbing against skin.
“Oh huh, oh huh, oh huh, oh huh.” Her breathing was accelerating. Soon she was moaning softly. Then suddenly she screamed pure pleasure like a celebration. He started talking some sexy shit to her. I could tell by his tone. But, he was speaking in some other language that I have either never heard or never noticed. She replied in the same other language. It was all soft sexy talk while the intensity of the downpour of the water was the soundtrack to it. I’m trying to control my anger. Wished I could find and snatch the shower head and turn the temperature of the water to freeze, spray that bitch and cause her to flee. “Speak English like you two motherfuckers were speaking it five minutes ago,” I screamed. My scream was not like her moan or her scream though. Hers was on some ecstasy level. You know what mine was.
Eventually the shower water went from heavy downpour to a trickle. The door-closing sound happened. They were out of the shower now. I could just feel it. But they were still in the bathroom area. I could feel that too. It was obviously a large space. Duh, what else would it be? I should have been calling it a spa. To name it a bathroom sounded like a cheap insult. I heard the rustle of a towel. Then, a top was being opened and a tube being squeezed. Or something like that.
“That feels so good,” she said.
“Put your hands up,” he said.
“Am I under arrest?” she replied so softly that you knew her ass wasn’t under no fucking arrest. Niggas getting arrested either don’t say shit or say something foul.
“Your turn,” she said on some sexy shit. They were kissing again. I was ready to leave. “I like it better when you do it for me,” she said softly. I could hear their bodies moving but not leaving the bathroom area. It dawned on me that it didn’t matter that I was ready to leave. A dead bitch doesn’t control the action. I don’t even know where I am or who I’m with. Picture a grown-ass Brooklyn bitch who don’t know even that!
“Draw the curtains,” I heard him say. The sound of their voices and bodies was back in their bedroom.
“Why? No one can see in.” She paused. Then I could hear the curtain fabric dropping down. “I always thought that’s the reason we have no neighbors.” She laughed.
“I don’t even want the birds peeping at my wife,” he said calmly.
“Impossible!” she said excitedly.
“Impossible what?” he asked coolly.
“Impossible that you could still love me that much,” she teased, then added, “After I have given birth to seven of your sons and two of your daughters.”
“What fool would not love a woman even more than he loved her before, after she pushed out nine of his children?” he asked her and he sounded serious. But she was still playing.
“Um let me see,” she laughed. “Maybe a guy who has three other wives, two of them younger than me. One from Sudan, one from Oman. Then there’s the first wife from Korea…” she teased.
“Come here,” he said to her, and the sound of the way he said it turned my rising anger to intense desire as though he was saying, “Come here,” to me.
“And one from Japan,” he said and kissed her. I’m feeling burnt. “Who flies freely in and out of all of those countries and follows me all around the world wherever I go,” he said.
“I do not!” She laughed, and I definitely knew she was lying.
“Who follows me even when she’s seven months pregnant, no matter how far I go? A girl so pretty, smart, loyal, loving, helpful, that I built her a private palace. A queendom, and I put it right here in the UAE, a perfect peaceful place. Made it of everything precious to show her how precious she is to me. But the pretty pilot won’t stay put in her palace unless I am right here beside her. So now, to please my second wife, the pilot, the wildcat, I moved all of my wives and all of our children and even my friends and their wives and children to where she is, so I could be right by her side.”
My vision clicked on. I thought it was cruel. She had her naked body pressed against his body. Her hands clasped at the back of his neck. I walked up behind him and pressed my body against his back. I put my hands on each side of his waist and tried to pull him away from her and on to me.
“True,” she said softly. I could tell she was about to re-seduce him. “And…” she said playfully then kissed him. “After you do ‘that thing’ to me one more time,” she giggled. “We can talk about how two of our sons are about to fight over the Santiaga daughter.”
Santiaga daughter! That’s me! I thought. I ran around to face him. And over her shoulder, I could see clearly what I had already sensed and known. I tried to swipe her out of his grasp but my hands had no impact. I tried to yank her long black braid, choke her with it. My hands couldn’t clasp it.
“Hey, what are my heels doing up here? I left them outside on the rack,” she asked softly. I couldn’t tolerate any more. I screamed at the top of my lungs, “Midnight, Midnight, Midnight!” but obviously he couldn’t hear, feel, or see me. It didn’t matter anymore. I overheated and instantly, I dissolved.
* * *
Furious on several levels, I was back to being a ball of heat. The bitch he had was perfect. She knew it. He knew it. I knew it. She was golden-skinned, my same complexion, ’round my same height. Her hair was black and long. She wore it in one thick braid down the center of her head. It was real, not purchased, same as mine. Her silver-gray eyes gave her the advantage. The
y looked stunning like the sterling silver door lit up by the sun. And I could tell she had him hypnotized. Like me she had that diamond-cut body, unbelievably tight and lean especially after pushing out seven boys and two girls. A pilot, well what the fuck? Who’s gonna beat a bitch in a jet or better yet a helicopter? Men like foreign cars and like foreign bitches even more. I hated that. Four wives? And they all cool with that? They’re fucking up the game. What am I supposed to be, wife number five? Picture dat, never, ever, ever.
I had thought that after my victorious prison release, emerging out a snitch-free, time-served, real million-dollar bitch, which even though Midnight wasn’t scheduled to be there, he would without a doubt be watching me on his wide-screen TV, then I could get rid of his wife. Not kill her of course. Just replace her, because I’m obviously the better choice! How am I supposed to dispose of four bitches? Who come to find out are all from separate faraway places that nobody ever heard of, been to, and where nobody would ever want to go. What the fuck is Oman? Sudan? UAE? UAE! I was tryna figure that out the whole time we were all three in his bedroom. He said that’s where we were standing in the palace he built for Chee.
Life After Death Page 5