Divas Don't Cry

by Ni-Ni Simone

  Yes, attacked!

  Straight-up dragged by she who shall remain nameless—Miss Spencer, honey.

  You heard right, Spencerrrrrr!

  That skank snatched my pearls and scattered them all over the place!

  I know it’s hard to believe, but that’s the cheese! That thing lost her entire li’l mind and straight gunned for me Wild-Wild-West, low-down-dirty bish-style!

  I’d been her houseguest for three weeks, and allllll of a sudden she wanted to look down her nose at me, as if she was better than me.

  Like, hellooooo, excuse me, but I’m Rich Montgomery! I run these Hollywood streets. Believe that! ’Cause it ain’t a ho out here who hasn’t weighed her life against mine and asked God why she wasn’t born blue-blooded chocolate. So the mere fact that Spencer—who was nothing more than a deep-throat-label ho, who looked just like her played-out, big ole tea-drinking donkey of a mother—

  And considering the mere fact that Spencer-the-dumb-dispenser had simply forgotten all of who I was and what I stood for, when I was her leader, is what I called an intolerable hot-ass mess!

  Annnnywaaaay, back to me relaxing in my mask and calling on the spirits . . . Soooo, I was attending to my own black business, when Spencer’s daddy flung open my bedroom door and called me “Cleola Mae!”

  Who. The. Hell. Is. Cleola Mae?

  OMG!

  I could see if he’d called me Queen.

  Or Chocolate Bunny.

  Or Hot-stuff.

  Or Boom-boom.

  But to straight dog out my pedigree by calling me some low-down, clay-dirt, backwoods-country Cleola Mae was straight comin’ for my entire gene pool. And I was not gon’ lie there and let that fossil try and do me for generations.

  So I took the cucumbers off of my eyes and nicely corrected him. “My name. Is Rich.”

  And do you know what that ready-for-the-grave man said to me? He snickered and said, “Rich? Ha! Ain’t that a hoot.”

  So I sat up and snapped, “First of all, you need to turn your hearing aid on and get the giggles outcha throat, because I didn’t just tell a joke.”

  Then I stood up and said, “And second of all, like I said, my name is Rich. R-I-C-H.”

  And yes, I said all of that with a li’l bass in my throat. I was still respectful though; after all, that pissy thing was Spencer’s father... or so her mama made her think. But you get the point: Spencer claimed him. So out of respect for our bestie-ship, I let him live.

  Spencer, who I guess was eavesdropping, stormed into the room and said, “You had better watch your flytrap, girlie. Don’t get smart with my daddy!”

  So I blinked because I was tryna figure out who she was talking to, but before I could check her, Dr. Dead jumped in my face and said, “Look, Chubs, if I were you, I’d stop going around calling myself Rich. ’Cause from where I stand you look broke, and from what I hear, ya mama and daddy have thrown you out.

  “And you showed up at our door begging and pleading for somewhere to stay, seconds away from being a streetwalker. Now you’re in here living off my money and eating up all of my food. That’s not rich to me! That’s a broke-down leech. A wannabe. Your name is Broke-Down. Brokey-Brokey for short.”

  I felt like that old trick-daddy had taken his rusty foot and kicked me in the gut with it. And just as I went to lay Moses all the way down, Spencer said, “Come on, Daddy, it’s time for your nap.” She ushered him out of the room, and a few seconds later she came back and said to me, “Listen, you little ratchet dragon, don’t ever talk nasty to my daddy, or you will find yourself rolling out of here on your head! Now, consider this a warning: Do. Not. Let. It. Happen. Again. Or. You and your li’l train of irreplaceables shall be caboosed out of here!”

  I blinked.

  Blinked again.

  And blinked again.

  Like, say what?

  Clutchin’ pearls!

  Stop the press and hold the mess!

  I spat, “Excuse me, trick. But I will never stand here and let no walking grave talk to me crazy! And since your balls are on supersonic today, let’s get to the real problem here, because it isn’t me. It’s you and your mama!”

  “What?!” she said, shocked.

  I continued, “You heard me. I didn’t st-st-stutter, tramp. You and your mama are the problem, and both of you need to stop being so selfish and give your daddy back to God! Anybody looking at him knows that his number has been called. Twice!”

  Spencer gasped, and then said, “You’re lucky I don’t mace your face off!” she growled. “You had better learn to count, girlie! Because your days here are numbered! And if I were you, hot drawers, I wouldn’t close my eyes tonight.”

  Then she raised one brow and walked backward out of that ole musty bedroom/utility closet with a li’l queen-size bed, a chaise, and some garbage bags she’d stuffed me in, and left me there.

  That’s when I decided that although I’d hit rock bottom, I wasn’t gon’ stay here and take death threats.

  Not me.

  Hell, no!

  I’m too kind.

  Giving.

  Considerate.

  Too gentle to be mishandled.

  And too loving to be mistreated.

  So I made up my mind to carry a few of my fine wears:

  Five pairs of Stewart Weitzman heels.

  Four Chanel trunks.

  Three Louis Vuitton duffel bags.

  Two of Spencer’s Hermès carry-ons and her diamond encrusted Dior belt that she never used and had lying around and wasting away—like her soul—and I was going to take all of it to Second Time’s a Charm, a consignment shop that I usually donated my gently-worn-once things to.

  But nothing would be given away today.

  Why?

  ’Cause I needed coins.

  Besides, charity began at home, and considering I only owned the best, I knew I could walk into Second Time’s a Charm and walk out with at least three hundred thousand grips.

  Enough to hire me a new stylist.

  A new chef.

  Custom-order some new Louie V luggage.

  Buy my own condo.

  And then be able to properly tell Spencer which side of my behind she could kiss!

  Mmmph. I was outta this shit hole. Today!

  I washed the mask off of my face.

  Pulled my hair back into a ponytail, then twisted the ponytail into a bun.

  Slid on a pair of my Secret Circus jeans.

  A fitted black T-shirt with a queen bubble-bee on the front of it.

  A pair of sequined black Uggs.

  A beekeeper’s hat.

  And then speed-dialed Uber.

  46

  Heather

  My accountant was stealing from me!

  That was the only thing that made sense to me. That was the only explanation as to why my bank accounts were almost on empty, and why the lights at home had been shut off.

  Camille and I were sitting over there in that mini-mansion with no damn lights! Thanks to my incompetent accountant, I was now living my life by candlelight until I could pay the five-thousand-dollar bill. And because there wasn’t enough money to pay my chef for the last two months, he’d quit on me.

  Quit! Packed his apron and his cutlery and bounced. King Petty even walked out with the seasonings and whatnots that he’d bought! Even my driver left. Abandoned me! And took his limo with him!

  Jeezus. Everything was unraveling quicker than Co-Co’s lace fronts. Not to mention, the landlord had nailed an eviction notice to the front door a few days ago, being messy! Why hadn’t my accountant paid the bills? Because that trick-whore had been robbing me blind! Squirreling my hard-earned coins into her damn pockets, instead of making sure all my bills were getting, and staying, paid.

  Who did that?

  Thieving hoes did!

  That was exactly what was going on. And all the while, she was telling me to curb my spending, to stop blowing money on frivolous things. Really? There was nothing frivolous about
this ten-thousand-dollar Korean eel-skin hobo bag. There was nothing frivolous about all of my one-of-a-kind catsuits. And there was nothing—as that whore called it—frivolous about this thousand-dollar wet and wavy, thirty-two-inch weave either. Or these seven-inch gladiator heels—with the encrusted diamonds—I had on my feet.

  Psst. Puhleeeeze! Another hating bish tryna ruin the queen bee. Come again. I think not. That light-fingered troll had me all types of effed up! Tryna steal my life!

  Sticky-fingered mitch!

  Ooh, just the thought had me hawt! And I swear, if I weren’t afraid of going back to jail, I would have run up in her office and cracked her in the throat. And stupid Camille, psst. She had the nerve to blame me for this mess. I’ve done everything for that ungrateful woman, and still . . . it was never enough.

  How did me being almost broke all of a sudden become my fault? Yeah. That’s right. Use me as the scapegoat. Blame me. But whatever. I was about to get these coins. And do me. I had a party to host tomorrow night, and Miss Co-Co and I were gonna slay.

  I started to renege at the last minute, but that twenty grand to do a walk-through and shake my luscious booty was sounding too good to give up. So it was gonna be lit. Yes, gawd!

  Oooh, I can’t wait.

  I pulled out my little velvet satchel and glanced up into the rearview mirror of my red ’57 Chevy convertible. Unlike my customized couture and my jewelry, this car was all mine. Paid for. Owned. Free and clear. It was the one thing I didn’t have to worry about anyone trying to take from me.

  I pulled my giant sunglasses down over my eyes and slid my tongue over my teeth as I held my pouch of get-right in my hand, contemplating if I wanted another pinch. I’d already had two. Wait. Three. But who was counting? All I knew was, a fourth pinch of goodness would have me floating like a butterfly, light on my feet like a ballerina.

  No, no. I didn’t need it just yet.

  Relax, girl. You still nice! Don’t get greedy. The last thing you need to be doing is out here tweaking like some fiend. Save it for the turn up tonight.

  You right.

  I tossed the pouch back into my bag, then slid out of my car, pulling the fabric of my jumper from out of my cheeks. Damn thong. I shook my hips around to the back of the car and popped the trunk and gathered up two bags of clothes and purses.

  I made the eleven-mile drive out to Pasadena, away from prying eyes and messy blog hounds, to make some quick purse change until my next iTunes royalty payment hit the bank. Word on the street was that the shop owner was real snooty, but Second Time’s a Charm consignment boutique paid good coins for designer wears.

  So here I was. Here to collect my coins.

  I slammed the trunk shut, then swung my hips toward the brick-faced shop, nestled between a shoe repair shop and an all-night dry cleaner.

  There were people walking tiny dogs and couples holding hands, most likely pretending to be happy and in love. But that wasn’t my problem, or my lie to live.

  Bells chimed as I entered the shop.

  “Be right with you,” a blond woman said from behind the counter, giving me a quick glance, before going back to helping some chick with a humongous butt. She wore a big wide hat with a black drawstring veil, like she was a beekeeper or some lady in mourning.

  There were an assortment of items lying flat on one side of the long glass counter, and then she had a pile of clothes cluttering the other side; on the floor next to the chickie with all that big-nasty stuffed in jeans were several sets of very expensive-looking luggage, along with a Hermès duffel bag.

  I blinked.

  That big horse booty could only belong to . . . wait. Nah. It couldn’t be. No, no. Not the queen of fabulousness. Not Miss High and Mighty.

  No, no. Of course not!

  “So are these bags real or knockoffs?” Blondie asked the chick in front of me while sliding her hand along the inside of what appeared to be a Louie bag. “As I was saying a few moments ago, Miss Gatling. I run a reputable establishment. Nothing but authentic goods are sold here.”

  Gatling? Oh, okay. Guess I was mistaken.

  “Whaaaaat?” the girl shrieked. I blinked. “Clutching pearls! Heifer, there is nothing fake here. You better check those fake eyelashes, boo! Don’t do me! Now I need at least five grand in my hand for that bag. It’s a limited edition.”

  Oh.

  My.

  God.

  It was Rich!

  Ooh. Scandalous.

  Bwahahahaha!

  “Well, Miss Gatling. That may be true. But since I can’t seem to locate a serial number—and you don’t have the papers or a receipt with you—I can’t be sure on this one, so I can’t give you a quote on it just yet.”

  Rich huffed, shifting all her weight from one puffy foot to another. “Mmmph. You Europeans stay tryna do a sistaaah. You steal our men. Steal our babies. Steal our communities. Then you wanna try’n keep a good queen down when she’s already down.”

  Lord...

  Could it be true? Had the almighty Rich fallen from grace?

  “I’m sorry you feel that way, Miss Gatling,” Blondie said. “Would you rather take your business elsewhere?”

  “Tramp dog! No! I would rather you hurry up so I can get outta here. And I’d like to leave out through the back entrance if I could. I’ll have my driver meet me there.”

  Blondie gave her what looked like an amused look. “Who are you, a rapper? Wait. I know who you are,” she said, snapping her fingers. “You were on Dancing with the Stars. That season with Lil’ Kim, weren’t you?”

  “Yass, honey, yass! And I slayed the Stanky-leg, boo.”

  Bwahahahaha! No, no, no. This had to be a joke. My eyes and ears had to be playing tricks on me! I knew my get-right was top-notch. That too much of it could have you hallucinating for hours, but a few pinches here and there didn’t have that effect.

  I blinked again.

  No. My eyes were seeing clearly, and my hearing was on point.

  It was Rich.

  “And this bag right here,” Rich said, picking up a Chanel purse, “was donated by my good-good ex-friend, so I need you to give me at least ten grand for it. It’s a fifteen-thousand-dollar bag.”

  Ooooooh, this was too damn juicy, I thought, stepping back a bit, positioning myself behind the nearest clothes rack and pulling out my phone. I took a photo. Then another. I quickly sent two text messages out.

  SECOND TIME’S A CHARM! RICH MONTGOMERY IS HERE PEDDLING!

  HOT OFF THE PRESS, BOO! RICH MONTGOMERY IN PASADENA BARTERING CLOTHES!

  Then I angled my phone just so, catching all the tea!

  I pressed RECORD.

  “Uh-huh,” Blondie said. “Keep hope alive.”

  “You got that right,” Rich snapped. “Hope is all we have. Without hope, we’re lost souls, honey. Ooh. See. You about to make me go to church up in here! Hope is what keeps me from boom-bop-dropping it up in here! I’m saved now. Happily reformed. But back in my ratchet days, back when I was spitting out razor blades and wearing brass knuckles as finger rings, Shakeesha Gatling was well known out there in them streets. Pop, pop! You better google me. Compton up!”

  “Oh.” Blondie blinked. “Should I call security?”

  “Whaaaat? Clutching pearls! What, you think every black girl steals? Lady, bye! Honey, I’m a jewel thief! I steal hearts. I steal grown boys from little girls. I don’t steal clothes! Now, can you please hurry this along? I need to get back to my ex-ex-BFF’s trap house before her ole smelly, senile father tries to run through my makeup case and steal all of my eye shadow.”

  Blondie held up a thick leather belt. Its buckle sparkled under the lights. I zoomed my camera in on it. Oh. My. God! “Um, who is Spencer?” Blondie asked.

  I blinked.

  Rich huffed. “Oh. This nobody. My ex-ex-ex-ex-BFF. She gave me that belt.”

  “Oh. Well. It’s gorgeous, Miss Gatling. But unfortunately—Dior or not—name-plated belts don’t sell here.”

  “Whaaaat?�
� Rich shrieked again. “Well, then pluck out the diamonds. There are about a hundred grand worth of gems in that thing!”

  Blondie shrugged. “This is a consignment shop, not a jewelry exchange.” She opened another handbag and slid her hand inside, then pulled it open and peered inside. “This is a cute bag,” she said. “Okay. I’ll take this one, and this one, and this one,” she said, piling purses up on a cart.

  Then she gathered up an armful of clothes. “And I’ll take all of these.”

  “Girl, finally. Now we’re talking,” Rich said, planting a hand on one of her very wide hips. God, she was built like an African mule. Big. Stocky. Solid. All she needed were another set of hoofs and she’d be ready to plow fields.

  Blondie pulled out a calculator and her fingers quickly moved, tallying up Rich’s items. “Okay. The most I can give you for all these items,” she said, looking up from her calculator, “is fifteen hundred . . .”

  “Fifteen hundred? As in fifteen hundred thousand dollars?” Rich asked.

  I blinked. What a goofball Rich was.

  “No, Miss Gatling. As in fifteen hundred dollars, which equates to one thousand and five hundred dollars.”

  “Lady, don’t do me! I can count! I have all A’s in using a calculator! But I need you to add a few more zeros on the back of that fifteen hundred. Please.”

  “I’m sorry, Miss Gatling . . .”

  “Lady, don’t do me! Don’t have me begging up in here. Please God, no. My grandmother, LuLu, is an amputee, and someone stole her artificial legs and arms. Now I gotta buy her a whole new set. Now I’m tryna stay a classy lady up in here, but don’t do me. Add a few more zeroes on that amount. Please.”

  “Oh, Miss Gatling. Sorry to hear about your grandmother. But, uh, let’s see. I guess I could go up to two thousand. Now to finalize the transaction, I will need your ID.”

  “ID? Clutching pearls! Where they doing that at? I thought this was an anonymous shop.”

  “Sorry, Miss Gatling, but no ID, no money. We must be able to identify all of our sellers. Now please make a decision. You’re holding up my other customers.”

  Rich slammed her hand down on the counter. “You racist tramp! I’m discreet. Everything I do is on the down low. I get my creep on without showing my ID!”