Head Games

by Mary B. Morrison

  Texted Trymm, What made you come up with this idea?

  Trymm started this stunt. Blitz topped it off. Trymm’s response was insignificant. Confident I’d win, I flexed the left side of my chest. I got this.

  Ballers are beasts, Trymm replied.

  Further breaking down the equation, I set up a folder for each prospect. Numbered them, Gurl 1, Gurl 2 . . . Gurl 101. Slapping my hands together . . . all roads would lead me straight to the bank ’cause the second side of my “bp” was finding a technical reason to disqualify as many of my crewe’s conquests as I could. Once I cashed out, I’d have enough funds to build a second Kash In & Out strip club/hookah lounge on the West Bank.

  Opening my refrigerator, I shut the door, then put on all white: polo, slacks, hard-sole shoes. I got in my Bentley, headed out to make grocery. It was eight o’clock.

  Females and guys stood and watched me park my bronze Bentayga. I was accustomed to the attention. Most of them had probably never seen one. I strolled inside my favorite one-stop, get-all store, Walmart Supercenter. The drive from my house in the East to Metairie was worth the savings. Didn’t believe in overspending on females the way Blitz did.

  Chicken legs, no ribs, no catfish, potatoes to mash or make French fries, skip the lettuce, big girls wanted real food. Grits, eggs, sliced cheese for the grits, they could eat all of that with the fried chicken legs. Plenty of ketchup. Couldn’t go wrong with watermelon, ditch the cherries with pits, add grapes, and pineapples. Bread, none of that wheat or whole grain, had to buy the white sliced. Tossed a few boxes of “just add water” pancake mix. Syrup. Lots of cheap liquor for them. Nothing over five dollars a bottle. I didn’t drink the headache-inducing grains. Would fill my glass with the premium only that was at my house.

  Standing in line to check out with a cashier, I heard, “Kohl ‘Kash’ Bartholomew.”

  Some voices were unforgettable—although I wished I could erase her from my mind. My ex hated me. Oh, my God. Not today. I bowed my head, mumbled, “God all powerful, please rescue me.”

  Once upon a time, back in the day, I was just Kash to her. The city was small, but I’d managed to avoid running into her for a minute. Turning around. “Damn!” It hadn’t been that long—seven, maybe six months. How could she look like that?

  “Lord, give me strength to say the right thing.”

  My boys didn’t know all the ins and outs about my dealings with this woman harassing me for money for her kid. All the crewe cared about was my take on the situation.

  I glanced at her body. Scanned her like she was grocery on the conveyor belt. Up. Down. Up . . . down. Up again. Her face was different, too. What in the world happened to her?

  My ex was snatched tight—I meant—in all the right places.

  From the front, round as those hips were in those short light blue denims, I could tell her ass was humongous. But this time in a nice, curvaceous way. Looked like a few ribs were missing from her waist. The pink cropped top, matching the open-toed high heels, was sinful. I wanted to cover her up or feature her center stage at my spot. Where in the world was she going dressed that way this time of the morning? Her cotton-candy nail polish accelerated my heartbeat. I wanted to feel them scratch my balls the way she used to. She was even rocking the Rapunzel ponytail.

  Eleven years ago, when we were in the same Sunday-school class, the good Lord had blessed her with 230 pounds. She was the reason I fell in love with big gurls. They were easy and eager to please.

  “Hey, Ramona Dandridge.” My tone was flat to conceal my excitement. I opened my arms, praying for God to be merciful and let those perky nipples brush against my chest, and my hands feel the flesh of those smooth abs; then, if I got close enough, I was not requesting permission to squeeze that donkey.

  Repositioning her son between us, she asked, “You don’t see anyone else?” Before I could tell the dude hello, she lowered her gaze to him.

  Pretty soon he’d be as tall as her. Hoped he didn’t outgrow me at six feet two inches and one day whup my ass for the nonsense his mama put in his head.

  “Hey, lil man. What’s up?”

  Dude eyed me the way I’d done his mama. His entire face was tight. That was cool. I didn’t care.

  “His name is William. William Bartholomew.” Ramona put emphasis on the last name, knowing it should’ve been Dandridge.

  I was given my adoptive parents’ last name. At least her kid knew his mother. One day, perhaps I’d meet mine, but I still wasn’t sure how Ramona got away with legally hijacking my surname for her kid.

  “That’s what you documented on his birth certificate, but whoever his daddy is, Billy boy needs to learn some manners. Get your son back in church. But not my parents’ church.”

  “I go to church, punk. I got yo’ boy right here.” He hiked his crotch, then let go. “You the hypocrite!” I called him Billy boy in my head as he said, “You a deadbeat dad, punk.”

  I wasn’t going to be called too many more of those by a ten-year-old. Nor was I removing my belt to whup a bastard I didn’t know. But I’d gladly have sex again with his mother.

  Licking my lips, I addressed Ramona. “He’s out of order.” Glancing at her ring finger, I felt my eyes widen. The ice was probably fake, like her. I said, “Congratulations. Who’s the unlucky guy?”

  She hunched her shoulders, then threw a left punch toward my face. Stopped inches from my mouth. I flinched. Leaned back. Pinched my nose.

  Billy cracked up with laughter. He bent over, holding his stomach. Standing tall, he said, “Told you, you were a punk.”

  Yeah, let him try it. I’d have that boy on his knees in a headlock in a split second.

  “None of your fucking business.” Ramona didn’t bother covering Billy’s ears. “At least he’s not trifling like you. If you’re so sure William isn’t your son”—she shouted as though there was a sale on aisle two—“take a paternity test. It’s been ten years, Kohl!” She placed her right hand on her hip.

  Better there than her swinging at me again.

  “No need to volunteer my DNA. We only kicked it for a short while after high school. You didn’t tell me until after I was accepted into UNO. It was too late then. I wasn’t dropping out of college to play trap-dad to that. Besides, we both know you got around, probably still do.” I’d never call a woman a bitch or a whore to her face. “I’m happy that you’ve finally pinned one down. Poor guy. Give him my condolences, then give him my number so I can let him know about the real you.”

  “He’s got more flow than your punk ass with your big-tittie bar,” Billy said, flashing three Benjamins.

  Now I wanted to bust him in his mouth, then wash it out with soap. Sucking in the air around us, I exhaled. I was not showing my bankroll. Fools around here didn’t care who they robbed.

  “You’re never going to grow up,” Ramona said. “William is a kid.”

  With a limited vocabulary. “And you’re never going to come up,” I told her the truth. “Silicone titties, ass implants, manufactured abs. You bought all that with your EBT card? Still getting paid under the table doing a ‘bj’? You can do me anytime. Like mother. Like son. Empty somebody else’s pockets.”

  Truth was, I hated that my ex was so gorgeous! If I couldn’t have a piece, I wanted her to feel bad about herself. There was no need for me to shell out a penny of child support. Women lost their minds when a brother became an entrepreneur. Always wanting to take us for all the cash they hadn’t earned because they couldn’t keep their legs shut.

  She rolled her eyes, and I wished they could transport her big booty out of my life right along with that kid of hers.

  “Baby, go wait in the car,” she told Billy.

  He walked out of the double sliding doors, but I didn’t see her hand him a key. Probably wasn’t no car for him to get in. She was at the bus stop when I’d last seen her.

  “You sorry-ass son of a bitch! In church every Sunday praising the Lord, dropping Satan’s dollars in your parents’ collection
plate, but you can’t take care of your son!” There went public announcement number two on aisle two. “You’re going straight to hell! I’m tired of your black ass! Some niggas you can’t be nice to!” Ramona got progressively louder. “I’ll see you in court. But before I walk away, I’ma give you a reason to see me there, too!”

  By now, all eyes and cell phones were on us. Ramona bust me in the eye with her ring, for real this time.

  Covering my left side, I screamed, “Bitch! You could’ve put my eye out.” She deserved to be called worse.

  Scanning the room with my right eye, cellulars were focused on me.

  My phone started blowing up. I answered, “What?”

  “Please tell me that’s not you,” Blitz said, howling with laughter in my ear.

  I hung up on him.

  Ramona had declared war. I was downloading a copy of the video, giving it to my lawyer, and having her arrested for assault. What was she upset about? Some brother was about to slit his throat and bleed out to be her husband. Hope she’d change Billy’s last name so she could stop chasing my money.

  Paid for my grocery, rolled my cart outside. Surveyed the parking lot.

  A black convertible Bentley, gold-and-black interior, stopped in front of me. Blocked my path. The top retracted.

  “Punk! I got next,” Billy yelled. “You already dead! I’ma beat you to a corpse one day. Bank on that!”

  Ramona spun her wheels until I disappeared into a cloud of black smoke, then sped off.

  I understood Ramona’s frustration. But Billy. Why in the hell did he hate me? I didn’t know the kid. He wasn’t mine.

  Trymm had time to call. I didn’t answer. I declined Dallas’s call.

  Blitz texted, I got your back, my brother. I’ll beat that pussy up for you.

  I was no fighter. Had taken a few knock-down punches from Dallas. But Blitz. Oh, I’d kick his pussy-licking ass if he fucked with Ramona.

  CHAPTER 20

  Ramona

  Day 1

  “Kohl is worth more to you dead than alive, girl. We should get someone to kill him,” my friend Carmella joked. “You should’ve popped him again for me,” she laughed a sharp, “Ha!”

  Carmella tried to make me do the same to ease my pain but I didn’t share her humor. I was livid. My son had been denied his biological father all his life.

  We sat on the top bleacher at the stadium watching our kids practice. They were out of school for Independence Day weekend. The men stood in a row on the sideline behind the team. Most of the moms were seated ground level.

  Videos of my punching Kohl in the face had gone viral. I watched the guys standing below nudge one another as they toggled their phones between one another. Moms began staring up at me. I was mad for letting Kohl make me angry.

  “I don’t hate Kohl. You know that. I hate that he won’t acknowledge and share time with our son. He couldn’t have a decent conversation with William, but his tongue was hanging out of his mouth like he wanted to fuck me with it right there in the supermarket.”

  “I bet he did,” Carmella said. “They say all men aren’t dogs. That’s a lie. Some of them can reform. I suppose.”

  Not Kohl. I saw my son run to the twenty yard line, then back to the ten. To the thirty, then return to the twenty. That drill would continue until William and his teammates were at the end zone.

  “Can you believe I had to put William between us for Kohl to stop lusting over my body? Then when William checked him on being a deadbeat, he dragged on my ass for having plastic surgery. That’s why I closed that eye. He’d best pray I don’t show up at his club to shut the other one.”

  Noticing my son’s pace had slowed quite a bit, I yelled, “Finish strong, William!”

  “Bet if you called Kohl right now and offered him some pussy, he’d come running with his dick in his hand,” Carmella said. Her eyes darted back and forth from me to the field. “Kohl stupid. You should put a lien on his business for back child support. Take his Bentley, his house, his parents’ church. That would get his attention.”

  I laughed to keep from crying as she kept talking.

  “All the money he makes, he probably owes you half of a million. My son’s father avoids working so he doesn’t have to pay anything for any of his eight kids.”

  Carmella made a good point. Since Kohl thought he was getting over on me, maybe it was time I showed him I was the real boss. Take him to court and take all his shit.

  William ran defense. Carmella’s son was a standout on offense. I didn’t care that William wasn’t the best player. He was a preteen, part of a team, had made new friends, and (like the former First Lady Michelle Obama had encouraged our kids) he was exercising. I kept him busy to keep mine out of trouble that could land him in juvenile hall.

  Carmella blurted, “All those dads down there staring up here at you. Look how their women keep staring up here, too!”

  “Whatever, girl.” I didn’t care.

  One woman held up her phone, pointed at the screen. She was cool with me before my makeover. Now she barely spoke. I couldn’t undo what I’d done.

  Carmella motivated me to lose weight when I could barely climb these bleachers. She was my one true girlfriend. We knew why the haters was giving me attention.

  “Soon as I save enough money, I can’t afford your doctor, but I’m going to the Dominican Republic and have all this fat”—she grabbed her stomach—“put into my flat ass, and get breast implants.” Her eyes dimmed with sorrow. “Or you can introduce me to one of Harold’s friends and I can get a sponsor the way he paid for all your work.”

  I could pay for her procedures, but if anything went wrong, I’d blame myself. “Long as Kohl is breathing, I have to keep trying to get him to do right by William.”

  Carmella held my hand. “Black men see their children as a burden, or they think we’re trying to stick them for the paper most of them ain’t got. At least Kohl has money. Take what’s rightfully yours. My son’s daddy expects me to provide for him and our son. That’s why I don’t let him see his son. Let his other baby mamas do that dumb stuff.”

  Wrapping my arms around my friend, I told her, “You’re a great mom.”

  Leaning back, Carmella said, “Bay-bay, right back at cha.” Softly, she repeated, “Right back at cha.”

  I couldn’t speak for her, but I’d done things—I was embarrassed to tell anyone—to feed my child. Sucked dirty dicks in back alleyways to keep my lights on. Slept with old-ass men that made my skin crawl to pay my son’s tuition. Had to admit, I was a master. I did whatever I had to do to make sure William Bartholomew had a better start at life than I had, including positioning myself to date the highest-paid basketball player in our town. Securing the ring on my finger was premeditated.

  Our kids trotted in our direction. We crossed bleachers until we were at ground level. Their coach approached me, asking, “Can I have a word with you, Ramona? In private.”

  “See you guys next week,” Carmella said, then left with her son.

  “Yes, of course,” I told the coach. “William, go get us something cold to drink.”

  “It was brought to my attention that there’s a video of you assaulting a man,” he said.

  “He’s not a man.” I paused, then added, “And?”

  “I don’t condone violence in my program,” the coach explained.

  “I understand. I apologize. I can elaborate if you’d like.” Promising it wouldn’t happen again might be a lie.

  “You know I have a zero-tolerance policy for violence,” he said firmly.

  Heading toward us, my son had two snowballs in his hands and a big smile on his face.

  The coach lowered his tone. “Respectfully, Ramona, William is excused from the team, effective immediately.”

  “I got your favorite, Mama. Coconut and pineapple. Hey, Coach, how’d I do?” William smiled and his eyes were wide.

  Coach patted William on the shoulder pad. “You did great.”

  Suppressing
my anger, I told William, “Let’s go, son.”

  Humility blended with the increasing heat. I closed my convertible top, turned on the air conditioner. Not sure how to deliver the bad news to William, I was consumed by my own thoughts.

  “You okay, Mama?” my son asked.

  I lied, “I’m good.” There were secrets a mother was privileged to hold, but if I wasn’t honest, he’d eventually find out the truth from someone else. Or worse, on social media.

  Nineteen with a baby. I wanted to go to college. Earn my degree. Become a registered nurse. The difference with Kohl was, altering his plans in order to take care of William was an option he’d opted out of. Once another life started growing inside of me, the dreams I had for myself disappeared.

  I hated that I was so young and stupid! I loved Kohl. Trusted him!

  Driving to our next destination, I thought about how I loved my son, but some days I tried imagining what my life would be like if I’d had an abortion. No sucking dicks or sleeping with the elderly. My son was halfway done with his snowball. Slowly I sucked the syrupy flavor to keep the juice from spilling on me.

  I told William, “Turn off your cell. Put it in the glove box.”

  Frowning, he said, “What?”

  “Do what I said. I’ll give it back to you when I pick you up.” That would give me time to work on my delivery of letting him know he was no longer a Panther.

  Morning sickness, stretch marks, being uncomfortable my last trimester. Going through labor with my grandmother holding my hand while Kohl was a freshman doing his thing at UNO. Watching my grandmother die three months after William was born, my core support system was gone. Being homeless with a baby. Having Kohl reject William was equally as devastating as his Christian parents offering me a stipend not to come back to their church. The pastor, who used to serve me Communion, told me, “Respectfully, Ramona, you and your baby are no longer welcome in The House of the Lord.”

  William threw his snowball out the window, removed his football jersey, and pads. “I hate him! I know you’re upset because of the video everybody is talking about. I saw it already mama.” Taking off his designer sunglasses, William cried. “I wish that punk was dead. That way he’d stop hurting us.”