Head Games

by Mary B. Morrison

  “Cool, boo boo. How many people you invite?” I asked, driving us to point B.

  “On such short notice, that reminds me, are we going with Saturday, July thirtieth, or Sunday, the thirty-first? Saturday is better, since we’re having it at my church.”

  The Dupree’s anniversary on Sunday. I hunched my left shoulder. “Saturday it is.”

  She frantically tapped on her cell. “There, the pastor knows. And I group texted my family. I should have about seventy-five. How many for you?”

  Damn, she must’ve included everybody from her job and her entire family. “Three.”

  “Okay, that’ll round up to about eighty people for my family to cook for. The reception will be at the church immediately following the ceremony.”

  If I didn’t have 250 g’s riding on this wedding, I’d reach across her lap, unlock her door, and push her the fuck out of my Lexus. I parked in the garage, locked my gun in the glove compartment, opened her door.

  “Here we are,” Debbie said, skipping through the corridors of City Hall. “We’d like to apply for a marriage certificate,” she said, cheesing ear-to-ear.

  The lady assisting us was hot. She smiled at me. Gave the form to Debbie, then said, “Fill this out. I’ll need your driver’s licenses, certified birth certificates, and Social Security numbers. Have either of you been previously married?”

  Debbie and I said, “No,” at the same time.

  “Good,” the clerk said. “Come back to my window when you’re done completing the application.”

  Handing my documents to Debbie, I let her write down my information. She turned in our application. She got our certificate.

  “I’ll hold on to this, baby.” Her adding, “I need to shop for my dress” was music to my ears.

  I parked in my driveway, got my gun, escorted her to her car, opened her door.

  Just like Dawn, no “call” or “text me later” was mentioned to Debbie. Entering my house, I placed my gun on the nightstand.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” I yelled.

  If I were suicidal, I’d shoot myself in the head.

  I thought about reaching out to Leroy Carter. Changed my mind. This wasn’t a good time. I was too mentally frustrated.

  CHAPTER 43

  Dallas

  Day 22

  “Mama. Mama. Can you hear me?”

  “Baby, there is a hurricane headed our way. I don’t know what to do.”

  “It’s not headed to New Orleans, for sure. That’s the last news I saw.”

  “This one seem different, Dallas. Can you come home?”

  Weather people were always getting shit wrong. They’d been tracking Katrina for several days. Boot camp was closer to the end than when I’d started. Was definitely going home on my ten-day leave before reporting to my unit, which had already deployed to Afghanistan.

  “Dallas, please,” Mama begged.

  “It’s not that simple. I only have one more week and, I promise, I’ll be there.”

  “Private Carter! Are you on a phone?”

  “Love you, Mama. Gotta go!”

  Praying I wouldn’t be set back for weeks, I answered, “Sir, yes, sir!”

  “Vacation denied. Next week you report directly to your duty station.”

  One day later, August 28, 2005 . . .

  “Private Carter. Request permission to phone home.”

  “Denied!”

  I’d heard conditions had gotten bad at home. Stations ran out of gas. People were evacuating by the thousands every hour. Needed to hear my mama’s voice.

  Two days later, August 29, 2005 . . .

  “Private Carter request permission to phone home.”

  “Denied!”

  Three days later, August 30, 2005 . . .

  “Private Carter request permission to phone home.”

  “Granted”

  “Hi, this is Lalita Lavigne. Please leave a message and have a blessed day . . . If you’d like to leave a—”

  I redialed. Ended the call. Redialed. Ended the call.

  “Time up, Private Carter. Back to work.”

  I redialed. Ended the call. Redialed. Ended the call.

  “It’s pretty gruesome in your hometown, Private Carter. Vacation reinstated.”

  Got a glimpse of the news. People were stranded on rooftops. The Superdome was filled with homeless people. Dead bodies floated in muddy waters.

  “Mama! Mama!” Rattled my head until my eyes opened. My pillow was drenched. Sheets soaked.

  I cried out loud.

  Picking up my lamp, I slammed it to the floor, punched a hole in the wall, cried into the carpet. “I don’t want to live like this, Lord!” Civilians were fucking clueless. I couldn’t believe my mother would choose death over getting in a boat with Noelle and Hawk.

  I’d captured the enemy, but I was the one held hostage in my mind. The ransom was death, and I was ready to be reunited with my mother.

  I hummed the melody of “Your Tears,” then played my song.

  Showered. Meds. Pancakes. Bacon. Eggs. Steen’s. Back-to-back episodes of The First 48, until I dozed off on the sofa.

  Tap. Tap. Tap. I jumped up, scanned the room.

  Tap. Tap. Tap. Resounded from my front door.

  I got my cell off the coffee table. Viewed my house from the outside. A man dressed in a navy-blue shirt and shorts, holding an envelope, made an about-face with the package in hand.

  Opening the door, I asked, “Hey, dude. You got something for me?”

  “Yeah, man. Thought nobody was home. Sign here.” He extended an electronic pad.

  I scribbled. Closed my door.

  Debbie’s text Can you find one more groomsman? I want my first cousin in the wedding posted.

  Every damn day, all day long. Damn cert gave her a license to stay connected.

  I tossed the envelope on the dining table, then replied, No, boo boo, you’ve spent enough.

  What was I going to do until it was time to go out and find chick number twenty-four? I reclaimed my spot in front the television, logged onto my page, DDD2930.

  Got a message that my page was blocked for forty-eight hours. I didn’t care. Long as it was back up on the thirtieth, I was cool. I checked Clydesdale2930. Trymm didn’t have any recent posts. Maybe his shit was shut down for posting, too. An incoming call from Debbie interrupted my viewing Blitz’s social.

  “Hey, boo boo. How’s everything coming along?”

  “Hi, baby, I called to ask if you could contribute a hundred dollars for the balance to the caterer? That’s the last thing that needs to be paid and we’re all set. The dress my mother made is so beautiful on me. You want to go out tonight? Bertha’s at ten.”

  Debbie had a way of answering her own questions.

  I told her, “No, and no.”

  Silence lingered. I heard her sniffle.

  “You don’t have a hun—”

  Of course I did. Her wedding. Her debt. She should’ve let me take the lead.

  “What part of no didn’t you get? I can’t move my money until after I close on my next property. You’re not marrying a rich man, but if it’s costing you too much, call off the wedding.”

  “She accepts credit cards, but mine are all maxed out.” Debbie’s voice was filled with desperation.

  Debbie needed to fall in line sooner than later. Either she was going to let me be the man or have it her way. I was quiet.

  “Okay, baby. I’ll take out a loan or borrow it from my mom. We’ll be fine. We don’t have to go out. You want company?”

  “Let me catch this. I’ll call you back, boo boo.” There was no incoming, I just wanted to get off the phone with her.

  CHAPTER 44

  Dallas

  Day 23

  “Thanks for an exciting night. You were amazing,” Nancy said before she kissed me on the lips. “I wish I didn’t have to work today, but if you want to get together later, text me.”

  “Okay. Drive safe,” I told her, heading back
inside for my routine.

  Shower. Meds. Pancakes. Bacon. Eggs. Syrup. Back-to-back episodes of The First 48. Dozed off. Woke up to ten missed calls, and twelve text messages from Debbie.

  Dressed. Collared, buttoned-down, short-sleeved cerulean shirt. Matching slacks. Diamond studs in each ear. Feeling myself. Dark sunglasses. Gold chain. Piece.

  I couldn’t lie, I was excited driving to Drago’s to see my crewe. Parked in the garage by the Hilton, trotted across the street. Kohl and Blitz were already there.

  “What’s up, dudes? Trymm coming?” I asked. Turning the back of my stool to the wall, I sat facing everything and everybody in the room.

  “Yeah, said he’d be here shortly,” Kohl answered.

  “One of those chicks probably have his dick tied in a knot,” Blitz said, then laughed.

  It’s long enough, I thought, having a pleasant flashback to Southern Belle. Kandy was the shit, too. How come my chicks didn’t get down like that? None of them licked my asshole. Trymm was a magnet for freaks. Maybe after I started wearing my wedding ring, women would treat me better.

  Kohl’s attire was church ready as usual, but damn. Had to say, “Kohl, you glowin’ like Chris Rock after he came all the way up. And before he started cheating on his wife. If you banking on being seven-figures richer in eight days, forget about it.”

  He fired back with, “You still in love with whatever her name is?”

  Fuck yeah. “This game might have done me one solid.” He knew her name was Debbie Schexnider.

  “I got some shit y’all will never believe unless I showed you. Hawk’s wife told me this is my real father.” I took the piece of paper with my dad’s name on it, slid it one space over to Kohl.

  He stared at me, handed it one space over to Blitz. They’d saved Trymm the seat facing the grill. Blitz’s face was expressionless. He was quiet, handed the paper back to Kohl.

  Kohl placed it in front of me, clenched my fist, bumped his shoulder to mine. “How you feelin’ about this, D?” He patted me hard on my back.

  I opened the photo app folder Lalita My Love, gave my cell to Kohl. “Saved these a few days ago.”

  A smile grew on Kohl’s face. “You were skinny, D.” He showed Blitz, making dude laugh.

  “Nigga was scrawny! I never thought about it, but you do look like Leroy Carter,” Blitz said. “I’d forgotten how beautiful your mom was. My condolences all over again, man.”

  Shaking my head, I took my phone from Kohl, then said, “Noelle laid a lot on me, all of those. Debating if I should reach out.”

  “That’s what’s up. If you good with it, I am, too,” Blitz said as Trymm walked up.

  “Nig-ga, where you been?” I asked Trymm.

  “You were a straight no-show for our head count last Saturday,” Kohl said to Trymm.

  Blitz commented, “Ain’t seen shit from you on social since Southern Belle. Guess old Clydesdale can’t hang.”

  What was up with Blitz’s lil-dick ass always talking about how we can’t hang? “Don’t let this dude order shit. He full from”—I looked at Blitz—“eating pussy.”

  Had to admit we were all looking better than we did three weeks ago. Blitz’s nails had a good buff. That was new. His teeth were whiter, too. Clothes were cool, but first thing Tuesday, I was lining up facial, manicure, and pedicure appointments to look like that mil had already been deposited into my account.

  Placing his iPad on the counter, Trymm answered, “Yeah, that’s it, homey. Cialis hijacked my shit, had it on swole five days in a row. Now I can’t get it up.” He faked a dry cry.

  Is that true? No way I’d ask, but Trymm might not be joking. A text registered from Debbie, Are you at Drago’s?

  She sent another message, My cousin said you’re there now.

  A third came in from her: Are those three guys your groomsmen?

  A fourth, Can I come by and meet them?

  I replied, No!

  What the fuck is wrong with her? I’d never met her cousin, and I wasn’t dat dude to deal with, or answer to, women or their nosy, eye-spying, man-hating single girlfriends. Debbie’s cousin could suck the shit outta my asshole and swallow. I didn’t give a fuck about her.

  Those sizzling oysters on the grill had my name on thirteen of ’em.

  Trymm sat at the counter next to Blitz. “See y’all left me the seat with my back to the audience so I can’t check out the females first,” then added, “All I know is each of you betta show your face at my parents’ anniversary party at Gallier Hall on the thirty-first. Six o’clock sharp.”

  We all stared at that nigga. Is he serious? Determination day we supposed to be at . . .

  Mr. and Mrs. Dupree—unlike Blitz’s and Kohl’s parents—had been there for me after my mom died.

  “Count me in,” I said.

  If these dudes knew I seriously wanted to get married a week from now, that might be grounds for disqualifying me for the challenge. For that reason alone, losing out on a million dollars, I couldn’t say, “I do,” but I had another idea. “I want you guys to be my groomsmen.”

  One, two, three heads turned toward me.

  “It’s not real, dudes. I’m just letting her think it’s real,” I said.

  I texted Debbie, Boo boo, I’m sorry. Don’t be mad at me, but I can’t deal with people watching me. I love you.

  Debbie replied, I understand. Won’t happen again. I love you, too, baby.

  I scanned the sweeping dining area, the bar in the center of the hotel, and the other bar at the entrance of the restaurant for a chick to take home. Seemed as though Kohl and Blitz were on my page.

  “One of y’all say something. Damn!” Trymm stopped our waiter. “Let us get four baker’s dozen of them flame-broiled oysters on a half shell and a round of Hen.”

  “Gotcha,” the waiter replied.

  Kohl said, “I’ma ’bout to trump all y’all. Let’s do a count. Write down your numbers.” He handed each of us a napkin.

  “Hell no,” Trymm objected. “All I want eight days from now is proof. Videos, confessions, social posts. All that.” He tapped his iPad.

  “You’re holding out ’cause Walter been on your ass and you in last place,” Blitz said. “You ain’t got shit on that tablet.”

  My count was low. Couldn’t include Debbie even though I had proof.

  “I’m cool,” Kohl said, “’cause none of y’all put shit on social worth posting.” He pointed at Trymm, then devoured three oysters, then stuffed his mouth with butter-soaked French bread, washed it down with liquor.

  “Put some respect on it. Ruff. Ruff. Ruff.” Trymm gave three deep barks, pounded his chest. “Southern Belle. There’s more where that came from. A lot more.” He tapped that pad again.

  A female dressed in denim short shorts, a cute fedora, and tight blouse, with big-ass nipples, thrust her cleavage in Trymm’s face. Her hair was short, slicked at the back and sides. Lips glossy.

  Lucky motherfucker. I sucked the largest oyster right out the shell.

  “I was at your yacht party. Remember me?” she asked him all sexy and shit, eyeing his iPad.

  Trymm slid his iPad away from her.

  Good job, dude.

  I knew my boy. He either didn’t remember that chick or he didn’t know her. She was cool at first, but . . . What is this bitch up to? She kept staring at his tablet.

  “Let that bitch get ghost,” I said.

  Blitz’s eyes stretched wide. “Yacht, what?” he belted. “I see you, homey. That’s why his ass been MIA.”

  All of Kohl’s oyster shells were empty. He devoured two of mine while gawking at ole girl.

  “She cool, D,” he said. Then, “Thanks for coming over to say hi,” Trymm told her.

  Her shiny lips parted as she swiped her wet tongue to the corner of her mouth. The tip wiggled like a snake’s at Trymm. Her hand slid up his thigh. She said, “I was hoping we could get together again without the other ninety-nine females that were all over your big banana boat.”


  “What the fuck?” I said aloud. “I ain’t making that anniversary party, big baller. I don’t know about y’all, but that nig-ga is way ahead of me.”

  Chick shined a flashlight in Trymm’s face. Started massaging his dick.

  This nigga was being too nice. “Ditch that bitch!” I told him.

  Trymm moved her hand, the one massaging his dick, then asked her, “Do I know you?”

  She laughed.

  I felt uncomfortable for my boy, but since he ignored me, I wasn’t making a move. He scooted his barstool back, stared into her eyes.

  “ ‘Do I know you?’ ” she sarcastically repeated.

  Looked in her eyes. Oh yeah! That bitch was on something.

  Trymm told Blitz, “Let’s switch seats, homey, before I raise up outta here.”

  Ole gurl jabbed the flashlight into Trymm’s head. He yelled, “Fuck!” Screaming like a bitch, he grabbed his nuts, bent over, held his shit.

  I wanted to choke that bitch, but if I got up out of my seat, I was going to shoot her.

  She shocked Trymm’s left nipple. He slowly descended toward the floor, landed on his shoulder, then rolled onto his side in the fetal position.

  Ole gurl and people around us started videotaping. Suddenly I started laughing uncontrollably. Blitz and Kohl were laughing harder.

  Blitz aimed his phone at Trymm. Now, that was cold-blooded.

  “My sister didn’t suck your dick for you to degrade her on social media. Thought your lil yacht party was just for fun. Thanks to you, my sister’s husband is divorcing her! She has to raise her son and daughter by herself! Had to pull them out of their school because kids wouldn’t stop teasing them! You broke up her happy home! I should stun you again!” she said, reaching toward my boy.

  I got the fuck up. “That’s enough. Trust me. He’s sorry.” I placed my left hand behind my back, stared that bitch down. I swear if she did it.

  The woman swiftly pointed the flashlight at me. I became quiet. In slow motion, not moving my eyes, I shook my head, raised my shirt. Nodded at that bitch.

  “Let’s go,” another woman said.

  Calmly the woman dropped her flashlight into her purse. I was on that bitch in two seconds. Grabbed her by the throat. Started choking the fuck outta her. I was sure she wanted to say something, but couldn’t speak. Her face turned red.