“Do you ever say you have a problem?”
“Don’t answer a question with a question.”
“Then answer mine first,” he insisted, bracing my shoulders and turning me so we were face-to-face, exchanging breaths.
“There are a lot of things that you don’t understand. Look, I’m seeing somebody.”
“What?”
“Yes, and I just need that kind of space. Seeing you and spending time with you is not good for me or my other relationship.”
“Other relationship? Vera, you’re full of shit! You need to stop lying to yourself and face the fact that you love me.”
Love him, I thought. Me love someone, other than Louie V., Chanel, Manolo Blahnik, my hair salon, Aunt Cookie, Uncle Boy, Shannon, Lee, and Angie? There was no one and nothing else left to love, other than the memory of Grandma’s laugh, the one she had before the high wore off. The laugh that let us know it was okay to ask for something to eat or ask her to tell us her dreams about being clean.
The space for love was already crowded, and the thought of Taj trying to fit into this dimension felt asthmatic. “Can we just be friends?”
“And how long is that game supposed to be played? You’re thirty-one years old and you’re acting like a kid! Never mind,” he said throwing the plum-colored chenille comforter off of him and reaching for his black Armani dress pants. “Fuck it! When you get it together and stop chasing dead dreams and somebody else’s drug habit, let me know.”
I lay in the bed and didn’t move. I heard the door slam when he left. I tried to sleep, but the whistle of the October wind and the knocking of the tree branches against my bedroom window made too much noise. For the first time since I was eight years old, I missed the tranquility of the projects. There was no radio thumping from the apartment next door, no cussin’, no Ms. Johnson, no strange men coming in and out of the house, and nobody to bang the man in the head that kept sneaking in Rowanda’s bed.
When my thoughts became too heavy to handle, I jumped in my red X5 and drove. For the first time in twenty-three years, since I was taken away in a pink Aries K, I went to visit the Lincoln Street Projects. The first face that I saw was Rowanda. She stood still, squinted her eyes, and stared at me. The muscles in my throat clenched tightly. I hadn’t seen her since I was nine, when I spit in her face and Aunt Cookie beat my ass.
I sat in my car and watched Rowanda watch me. Despite the fish frown that she had acquired from years of being in love with dope, she looked identical to me. There she stood, watching me with my eyes, my hands, and with the same brown-sugar color in her skin. She watched me and she smiled.
I left her standing there. I left her crooked lean, rotten teeth, and her smile standing there watching me as if she knew me, as if she and I were familiar with one another. I hated this bitch, and there she stood, crooked, nodding out but watching me, tilted to the side, but never touching the ground, giving the illusion that one leg was shorter than the other. Standing there as if I belonged to her, forcing me to remember why I spit on her.
When I returned home and parked on my dimly lit street, I saw Taj sitting on my front stoop. I was relieved as hell that he was there, despite the fact that we had just had an argument.
“Where’d you go?” Taj said as I walked up the steps. His white polo shirt was half open, and his tie hanging loose around his neck.
“I went home,” I said, walking up the steps and standing in front of him.
“Why’d you do that?” he asked.
“Because I needed to find me.”
“Did you find you?” he said, pulling me close and placing his arms around my waist.
“No,” I admitted. “Instead, I found a buncha dopefiends and their memories. I heard too many voices, and I saw too many faces.”
“You know I can’t leave you, Vera.”
“Then just be my friend. There’s no room for anything else.”
He bent down and pressed his forehead softly into my stomach and said, “You know you don’t mean that.”
I shot his ass a look, shook off the electric sparks that his hands were shooting up my thighs, took my heart out, and had a talk. I said, just like Aunt Cookie used to tell me when I was a kid and went to the grocery store, “I don’t care how much you like it, or how much you beg, don’t look at shit, don’t touch shit, and don’t try to convince me of shit, ’cause you ain’t gettin’ shit.”
Taj was beginning to tap into a part of my life that I couldn’t control, so, in an effort to maintain my composure and keep myself from crying every day, I knew I had to let him go.
Hold on now. You know we’re just getting started, so sit back, relax, and get yo’self a drink or two, ’cause I got some Spike Lee, Hollywood, Oprahfied shit fo’ yo’ ass.
Step One
“I’ma cut the nigga!” a harsh and cold female voice said into the receiver as I struggled to hold the phone to my ear. It was three o’clock in the morning, and Taj’s raspy voice, breathing heavy in my ear, asking me, “Who is it?” didn’t help any.
Then I heard it again, “I’ma cut the nigga!” and then she hung up. The caller ID said the number was unavailable, and *69 said that whoever was gonna “cut the nigga” was out of the area. I said a quick prayer and hoped that whoever got sliced would survive.
Two hours later, the phone rang again. Taj was looking at me like I was disrespecting him and shit, talking about, “You need to tell ole boy that when I’m up in the spot, to tame his midnight phone calls.” Despite the fact that Taj was super fine, I was this close to tellin’ him to shut the fuck up, but the recorded operator interrupted my thoughts, informing me that I was receiving a collect call from an inmate in the county jail.
Immediately, I wanted to know what the hell was going on. The last time I dated a nigga in jail, he was ballin’. I had beat him for his money, and he was calling to inform me that when he “hit the brick after doing a twenty-year stint” he was going to come back and kill my ass. After him, I left them ballin’ mu’fuckers alone and moved onto the niggas that were more apt to commit white-collar crimes. Whoever it was on my phone calling collect from the county jail, it was beyond me.
When it came time for the person to state their name, all I heard was the same unknown female voice that called earlier say, “Come get me!” And then, when I pressed two for the person to repeat her name, she said, “Right now, goddamnit, Babygirl!” That’s when I realized that it was Aunt Cookie. Immediately I jumped out of the bed and left Taj, and his hard-on waiting for me.
When I got to the precinct, it was six o’clock in the morning. I hadn’t seen the inside of this place since Shannon and I were arrested over a year ago. I walked in and asked the officer at the desk what the charges and bail were for Cookie Turner.
“Assault with a deadly weapon,” is what the officer said as he looked on his computer screen. “Yep,” he said, pointing to the screen but looking in my face. “Assault. She lucky he didn’t kick her ass, is all I got to say.”
“Well, nobody asked you what you had to say.”
He rolled his eyes and informed me that Aunt Cookie’s bail was five thousand dollars cash. No exceptions.
No exceptions, I thought. No exceptions? Humph, we’ll see about that. I stepped away from the counter where the officer was, flipped open my cell phone, and hit speed dial.
“Roger?”
“No, Roberta.”
“Roberta?” Oh, his wife. She had answered Roger’s cell phone. “Excuse me, but is Roger available?”
“Maybe I should ask you.”
“Excuse me?”
“Excuse you? Excuse you? Excuse you for which time? The time where you had my husband and he missed his daughter’s graduation? Or excuse you for the time I waited at home with candles and dinner and my husband tripped over my bed and fell into yours?
“Look, hun, perhaps you have me mistaken for someone else, but as far as I know, your husband loves you too much to be tripping over you and falling for someone e
lse,” I said, lying like a damn dog. “Do you need to talk? Is something wrong?”
“Listen, don’t patronize me!” she shouted.
“Patronize you? Sweetheart, from what I can see, your husband thinks of nothing but you.” Then I hit her with the famous line, “Roger and I are just friends.”
“Oh,” she said, sounding as if she were taken aback. “Well, you just remain friends, because he is my man. In any event, he isn’t here, but I’m sure that at some point, if you’re to be reached, he’ll find you.”
Oh, no this bitch didn’t! Now see, if I ain’t need a favor from Roger, I woulda blew up her whole spot. I just about gagged at the thought of biting my tongue and spitting out this one: “I’ma pray for you, because I’m sure that you’re much too beautiful to be worried over Roger like this. You take care, Roberta.” Wit’ yo’ stupid-ass!
“Excuse me,” I said, stepping back to the counter where the officer was. “Is Captain Roger Sims due to come in?”
“Captain Sims? Is he here? Yeah, this is his shift, but he doesn’t wanna see you.”
This mu’fucker was working my last nerve. “Can you please call Captain Sims?”
“Well, since you said please.”
A few minutes later, Roger appeared with his back arched, like he actually had some backbone and wasn’t the same li’l weak link that liked his dick sucked and his asshole played with. The thought of that made me snicker. He actually looked good. He still seemed old, but he looked nice. It had been a month since I gave him the time of day, and I was sure that he would want some pussy when this was all over with, but I would have to cross that bridge when I got to it.
Roger was dressed in a pair of black dress pants with a light blue shirt. His gun sat in a black leather holster, resting on the side of his hip. When he saw me, he gave me a brief overview and then he smirked, seeming somewhat annoyed. What the fuck could be his problem? I was the one that should be pissed off!
“What did you say to my wife?” he said, motioning for me to step to the back and into his office.
“Excuse me? What did you say?”
“You heard me. What did you say to my wife?”
“Your wife? I didn’t say anything out of the way to your wife.”
“Then why is she crying, screaming, and packing my shit as we speak?”
“I wouldn’t know that, honey. I told her that you loved nobody but her and that she needed to be certain of that.”
“That’s what you told her?”
“Yes.”
“Then why is she calling me a cheat?”
“Roger, baby,” I said, about to choke, “I wouldn’t do anything to mess with your marriage. I’m not here for that.”
“Then why are you here?”
“My Aunt Cookie got arrested.”
“What?”
“Arrested, handcuffed, picked up.”
“When?”
“Late last night, early this morning. I need you to get her out.”
“I can’t do that.” He started walking away.
“Where are you going? I need you.”
“You need me? You don’t need me. You need a favor, as usual. I’m sick of that. I need more. I want you to be with me only. I’ve thought about leaving my wife, but I can’t make that sacrifice until I know that you and me are going to be all right.”
Leave his wife and live where? He must be stupid if he thinks I want his old-ass laying up in my face every day.
“Baby, when that time comes, we’ll deal with it.”
“Deal with it? I have to deal with it now! My wife, I can go home and soothe her, but you, I can’t seem to get a handle on you. It’s been a month since we spent any quality time together. I want you to commit to me. I’m a grown man, and you playing me for a little boy. Don’t fuck with me, Vera!” he said, pointing into my face. “Don’t fuck with me!”
“Look, this is not the time or the place. I need you to help me, okay. We’ll work something out. You’re scaring me.”
“I don’t mean to scare you, but I don’t like the way I’ve been treated.”
“I’m sorry, okay? We’ll talk, but I need you right now.” Then I took him by the hand and massaged it with my palm, so he could feel the smooth heat from my skin.
“Officer Ryan,” Roger said into the intercom on his phone, “was there a woman brought in here late last night or early this morning?”
“Yeah, Cookie Turner.”
“What are the charges?”
“Domestic violence shit. She hit her boyfriend in the head with a bat.”
“Did he file a complaint?”
“No. He insisted that he tripped and fell into the wall.”
“What’s the bail?”
“Five grand. Cash.”
“Her bail’s been posted. Let her out.”
While I waited for Aunt Cookie to be released from the bullpen, little did Roger know that his ass was history. How dare he stand up there as if he were big shit and try to talk down to me? For a moment, I felt like I was ten again, and standing in front of me was Larry Turner, fully dressed in somebody’s gray pinstriped Easter suit and derby hat.
Larry was an old man, old enough to be Rowanda’s daddy, and he thought he was fine. He stood about six foot four inches, with salt-and-pepper hair, black tree trunk skin, with round and sagging eyes. His voice rattled when he spoke, and he called my name like he had a thing for it.
“That li’l bitch really had that chile, huh, Cookie?” I remember Larry asking when I was a little girl. He was sitting at the dinner table with a piece of chicken in his mouth, and his girlfriend eyeing me.
“What ole bitch?” Aunt Cookie asked, looking toward Larry’s girlfriend. “This heifer over here, she pregnant?”
Larry clenched his mouth tight, and his jawbone stuck out. “I’m talkin’ ’bout Rowanda.”
“Oh, that’s the bitch you talkin’ about. Sometimes I get confused.”
“How come nobody never told me that Rowanda had that baby?”
“’Cause you ain’t need to know. What was you gonna do? Did the prison you was in have a daycare?”
“You kinda nasty,” Larry’s girlfriend said to Aunt Cookie, with her drawn-on eyebrows raised.
“Oh, hold on,” Aunt Cookie responded. “Anybody know who this strumpet is? You best be quiet and mind yo’ business. This between my brother and me.”
“It’s all right, Trish,” Larry said to his girlfriend with a soft, mellow tone. He took out a cigarette, lit it, took a drag, and blew out the smoke.
“You talkin’ down to me for some li’l dopefiend’s kid. This chile probably ain’t even mine. Her mama is a ho. Who knows who the daddy really is?”
Everything fell off the table by the time Aunt Cookie ran toward Larry Turner, causing him to fall backward out of the chair. Aunt Cookie jumped on top of him and placed her elbow in his throat.
“I will cut you, nigga!” she screamed, with spit flying out her mouth. “I will slice yo’ ass apart, mu’fucker!”
“Get off me, Cookie! You fuckin’ bitch, get off me!”
“Oh, no, mu’fucker, you’re the bitch! You ain’t shit. You’re worse than a fuckin’ gutter rat! What kinda man wanna bust li’l girls’ pussies open? You ain’t shit, nigga!”
While trying to shake the thoughts from my mind, I kept hearing my name being called, and when I blinked my eyes, as if to bring myself back to present, Roger was standing in front of me. “Don’t forget that we need to talk,” he said, interrupting my thoughts. I blew him a fake-ass kiss and mumbled, “Catch that and kiss my ass with it.”
I walked out the door, holding Aunt Cookie by the hand. When we got outside, I felt like slapping the shit out of her and knocking her old-ass back to the 1974 time warp that her wardrobe was from. She stood there on the passenger side of my truck, with lips and eyes to match her attitude, like her shit didn’t stink.
She was dressed in silver metallic go-go boots, a brown corduroy mini skirt, a leather patc
hed jacket, and a pocketbook to match. No wonder they arrested her; she was in fashion violation. Sirens, water sprinklers, and all kinds of emergency devices probably started going off as soon as she hit the pavement! The NYPD didn’t arrest her; they just held her over. It had to be the fashion police that got ahold of this shit, which only enhanced the fact that I was thoroughly disgusted with her.
I sucked my teeth, stomped my feet, and rolled my eyes at her as she entered my truck.
“Roll ’em again and you won’t have ’em for long,” Aunt Cookie said.
“What the hell you doin’ getting arrested? What, there was nothing else you could do other than try and beat up Uncle Boy?”
“Beat up Uncle Boy? He lucky I ain’t stone cold kick his ass!”
“What did he do, Aunt Cookie? What?”
“I caught him feeling on the barmaid’s ass.”
“What barmaid?”
“The one at the Fox Trapp. The same bitch I had to break his ass about before.”
“So you had to beat him in the head? His goddamn knees were just too much. His freakin’ head was all you could see? You lucky he didn’t die!”
“Let me tell you somethin’. I ain’t bring you in this world, but I brought you on this side of town, and I will shut yo’ whole shit down if you say another mu’fuckin’ cuss word at me! Now, cuss again!” she said, lunging her chest toward my face. “Bring it! You better take a break and recognize. You know how I do it!”
“You must like jail if you still threatening people.”
“Shut up and let me talk. I ain’t Rowanda. You ain’t gonna out-mouth me. Your Uncle Boy, who you think is hot shit, was disrespecting me in the bar. I told him before we got there that if he fucked around, I would take the bat out my car and whoop his ass. He ain’t believe me, so I had to show and prove.”
“Show and prove what, Aunt Cookie? You been with the man for twenty somethin’ years. What’s the point?”
“The point is that I ain’t the one, and that’s what up! You feel me? Give yourself a chance to fall in love, and you’ll see exactly what I’m talking about.”
I tooted up my lips and said, “Love? Puh-leeze, Vera Wright-Turner will never take it there.”
Flip Side of the Game Page 3