Hood Rat

by K'wan

  “Rhonda, I don’t need nothing, and you hardly ever ask me to watch the kids because you leave ’em anyway. I went through all that hell to get you and them kids out of my house for nothing, because you’re here all the time anyway.”

  “The kids miss you, Ma,” Rhonda said, pushing P.J. toward his grandmother. “Just for an hour or two, Mommy.” Rhonda stepped off the curb and flagged a cab.

  “Rhonda!”

  “No more than two hours, Ma. I promise,” Rhonda called over her shoulder, climbing into the cab.

  No sooner than the cab had rounded one corner, Alisha rounded the other one. Rita stood there with P.J. holding her pant leg and Pooh looking up at her. Ms. Lulu, Bernadine, and Ms. Yvonne looked at Rita sympathetically and shook their heads.

  * * *

  As was their ritual, Marlene and her coworker Audrey met in front of their office building for lunch. They wove past the hot dog and gyro vendors, making their way to a little strip mall a few blocks away. Their choices for food were limited to a Chinese restaurant and a deli. They had about exhausted themselves with the $4.50 lunch specials and decided to go with sandwiches.

  Between telling the young man making her sandwich that he wasn’t putting enough mayonnaise on it, Audrey went on about the latest office gossip. Marlene only half listened as she stared vacantly at the wall menu.

  “So you think the girl who does the liens is fucking Freddy?” Audrey asked, taking her cup to the fountain and selecting her grade of soft drink. “They try to cover it, but I think something is going on. What do you think, Mar?”

  “Uh-huh,” Marlene said distractedly.

  Audrey touched her arm. “Girl, what planet are you on today?”

  “Sorry,” Marlene came around. “I’ve got a lot on my mind right now.”

  “I can tell. You’ve been like a space cadet all day at work.”

  “Audrey, I feel like I’m constantly in the trenches,” Marlene said, pausing to order a ham and Swiss. “If these clients don’t drain me,” she continued, “Paul and his baggage will.”

  “Told you about fucking with them young boys. You lay a taste of some seasoned pussy on ’em and they lose their cool.”

  “It ain’t even that, Audrey. It’s his reluctance to take control of his life and the things in it.”

  Audrey raised an eyebrow. “You mean people, don’t you?”

  “Let’s not even go there.” Marlene rolled her eyes.

  “Homegirl still crashing the party?”

  “Nah, she’s gotten better, but I still can’t stand the bitch. Rhonda acts like she can’t go a day without imposing her presence on Paul and his relationship with me. I can almost feel when she’s gonna call or pop up somewhere.”

  “Pop up? You holding out on Rhonda stories, Mar?” Audrey asked.

  “What, you mean I didn’t tell you? Paul and I were having ourselves a nice dinner at this soul food spot in Harlem about three weeks ago. He had been telling me about this joint for a minute, so I was like, ‘cool.’ Audrey, by the time I was halfway through the appetizer, guess whose loud ass walks in?”

  “Marlene, you need to stop lying on that girl,” Audrey insisted.

  “Lying? That’s on everything I love!” Marlene slapped her palm on the counter to punctuate her statement. “Rolled in with the whole little ragamuffin crew, dressed in their cheap-ass Sunday rags. This bitch actually had the nerve to act like it was a coincidence.”

  “You know them hos don’t eat nothing outside of McDonald’s and Chinese food,” Audrey added.

  “That’s what I’m trying to tell you. She tried to get me to step out of character, but I held it together, ’cause a classy bitch always holds it together.” Marlene raised her hand and Audrey slapped her palm.

  “Yes, Lord,” Audrey agreed.

  “Paul got ready to break fool, but I made him let it roll. That’s all I would’ve needed is him and his baby mama causing a scene in public. Needless to say, I had lost my appetite, so I got the check and we rolled. The whole way to the door, I could feel her beady-ass eyes on me.”

  Audrey grabbed the tray holding their food and led the way to an empty table by the window. “I would’ve whipped her ass if I were you.”

  “You know, I like to consider myself a lady and avoid the bullshit. But at the rate she’s going, it’s gonna come to that.”

  “What does Paul have to say about it?”

  “He’s checked her on her bullshit a few times, but the effect is always temporary. I feel like pulling my fucking hair out.”

  “Shiiid,” Audrey began, sliding into the chair, “then your ass is crazy. If I were you, I’d kick Rhonda in her ass and tell Paul to pull his-self together and come up to your level or keep it moving,” Audrey said bluntly.

  “Come on, Audrey, you know Paul is my boo.”

  “Boo, my ass, Marlene. Time is too precious to be wasted on someone who ain’t with the program. Baby, these are the glory years and we ain’t got a lot of ’em.” Audrey sipped her Coke.

  That’s why Marlene liked talking to Audrey. She was a straight shooter who would let you know exactly what it was. In a sense, she was right. They were approaching their glory years and the thought of them passing them by and still not getting life’s plan right was a dreadful one. No one wanted to die an old maid, but at the same time, she knew that Paul would be a work in progress when she got with him. She saw something in Paul that he didn’t yet see in himself and she sought to shape him. Unfortunately, it was taking a little longer than she had planned. Paul was a brilliant young man, but at the same time he was so fucking ghetto. Still, he was her young’n, and she’d give him enough rope to hang himself.

  13

  Deep within the recesses of Shooter’s gentlemen’s club was a door. It was a thick wooden door, reinforced with a two-inch-thick steel plate. Behind the door was the main office. Though not the biggest, it had a very comfortable feel about it. Soft carpet lined most of the floor, with polished tiles peeking out from the edges. The rear wall was covered in video monitors that covered every foot of the club and the surrounding block. Hunched over a steel desk directly in front of these cameras was Marcus.

  Dressed in a black T-shit and black stocking cap, he looked every bit of a cat burglar, but the gold-rimmed glasses sitting on the bridge of his nose threw the outfit off. Most people would never know he wore glasses, because you hardly saw him with them on. They irritated his face and made him feel stupid, but when it came to making sure his paper was straight, all that shit flew out the window.

  Marcus looked up from his desk at the sound of the manager’s door creaking open. Only two people had the key to the office, so there was no need for him to grab the twelve-gauge that was resting against the desk near his leg. The man who walked in looked to be between the age of sixty and sixty-five, but Marcus knew for a fact that he had been on this earth for nearly eighty years. His black shirt was worn open, exposing the gold cross nestled in a bush of graying hair. Though his body had begun to wilt some years ago, he still emitted the same aura he did at the age of twenty-five. When in the presence of men like him, you had no choice but to show respect. Yes, he looked very much like a typical older man, but Shooter was one of the last real gangstas.

  “Boy, don’t you never go home and sleep?” Shooter asked, standing in front of the desk.

  “This place ain’t gonna run itself, Shooter,” Marcus replied.

  Shooter shook his head. “Man, I had a buddy like you back in 1961. He was always working at his print shop, trying to tighten shit up, never placing any of the weight on his employees.”

  “Shooter, do we have to go down memory lane right now? I’m trying to get this done.”

  “Boy, don’t cut me off when I’m talking.” Shooter unsheathed the blade he carried strapped to his forearm. “You show some damn respect before I open you up in this bitch, hear?”

  Marcus sighed. “Yeah, sorry, Shooter.”

  “Now, that’s more like it. As I was saying,
my buddy would sometimes work from sunup to sunup, running this damn company. One morning the manager came in and found his ass keeled over one of them printing machines. Seems he had a heart attack and fell over in it. He had the number forty-eight stamped on his face ’bout fifty, sixty times, ’cause that was the page he was printing when he died.”

  Marcus put his ink pen down. “Interesting story, Shooter, but what’s your point?”

  “My point is, you need to let that gal we pay to handle this type of thing do her job, before somebody finds your ass dead from exhaustion.”

  “Work now, rest when you’re dead,” Marcus shot back. “I gotta keep this joint popping, man. You don’t want me to look like I’m slipping with my club, do you?”

  “Your club?” Shooter squinted. “Li’l nigga, need I remind you whose name is on that marquee?”

  “Nah, Shooter, I ain’t mean it like that,” Marcus said.

  “Then say it how you mean it, dammit.” Shooter slapped his cane against the table. “Just because I let your li’l ass help me out round here don’t make it yours. I’ll kick you and the funky piece of money you put up on the damn streets. Can ya dig it?”

  “This is your club, baby, you got it,” Marcus said, trying to hold back the laughter.

  Shooter was usually a sweet old dude but could be as mean as a rattlesnake. Years ago when Marcus was trying to come up on the fast track, Shooter had become somewhat of a mentor to him. He watched Marcus go from a petty thief to a businessman, and was proud to say he had a hand in it. Shooter had been the one who’d taught Marcus the importance of stacking his bread.

  Shooter had owned the spot for a number of years, but when he first opened it was just a bar. He had some good years with it, but as the neighborhood changed, so did the people. The bikers from Hell’s Kitchen had started coming down and causing all kinds of conflict in the black establishment. This was where Marcus came in. At the time he was still on the grind, so Scooter enlisted him and some of his boys to do security at the bar. During the next conflict, two people were placed in the hospital and one was never heard from again. Word soon got around that Shooter wasn’t someone you wanted to mess with.

  The arrangement worked out, so Shooter wanted to keep Marcus and his boys as permanent bouncers, but Marcus had other ideas. With his mind always being on new ways to generate income, he immediately saw what Shooter wasn’t seeing. They were in a prime spot to open a gentlemen’s club. With the garment district a few blocks away and easy access to New Jersey, they couldn’t lose. Approaching Shooter with an idea and fifty thousand dollars of his own money, Marcus and Shooter soon became partners and completely redid the place. Thanks to Marcus, Shooter now had one of the hottest spots in New York City.

  “How was the barbecue?” Shooter asked, lighting a Winston.

  Marcus shrugged. “It was cool; too many homos, though.”

  “Shit, you knew that before you left.” Shooter blew a ring of smoke out. “One of them sissies try to grab your ass?” Shooter teased.

  “Never that,” Marcus assured him. “But I met a girl.”

  “Boy, what kind of girl you meet in a room full of faggots? You ain’t got nothing she can use.”

  “She’s straight, Shooter.”

  “That’s what they all say, until you find ’em trying to get their fingers in your ass to see if you’re open to it. I knew this young bitch back in ’53—”

  “I get the point, Shooter.”

  “What I tell you about cutting me off?” Shooter waved his blade. “So is this a nice young gal or what?”

  “She seems to be.”

  “Last girl you went after seemed to be, too. I told you not to plant roots with that skank, but you wouldn’t listen to old Shooter. Your head is as hard as a bowling ball.”

  “I know, Shooter, that’s why I’m not trying to jump out the window with this one. I mean, I ain’t in love or nothing, but I do like her.”

  “I sure hope not. It was no easy task, picking up the pieces of your broken heart,” Shooter said.

  “I wanna see where her head is at first. I think she’s a nice girl, but only time will tell that. You ain’t gotta worry about me falling victim again.”

  Shooter sat on the edge of the desk and said seriously, “You’re a good kid, Marcus, so don’t go laying around with trash and letting that pecker of yours convince you that you’re in love. If she’s a good girl, then you make sure you do right by her. But if she’s a dog, treat her like the tramp bitch she is, and when you’re done with the pussy, let old Shooter have a taste.” Shooter and Marcus both bust out laughing.

  * * *

  After dealing with the morning drama, Reese was finally able to get dressed. It was hot out, but her body was way too sore for anything tight. Reese opted for a pair of Nautica sweats, a tank top, and a pair of Air Max. She thought that the drama for the morning had ended with Bone, but as soon as she stepped into the kitchen, her mother started in.

  “Didn’t I ask you to stop having that boy calling my phone?” her mother said, pouring a glass of Kool-Aid. Reese’s mother Pat was in her midforties, but was still trying to hold on to her lost youth. She was wearing a pair of spandex pants that did little to hide the lumps in her ass, or control the gut that lapped over the waist.

  “Sorry,” Reese mumbled, opening the refrigerator.

  “I ain’t playing with you, Shareese. My phone bill is high enough without getting them damn collect calls from jail.”

  “He’s on the island, Ma. They use clicks, so it’s not a collect call.”

  “Clicks, my ass. It’s my phone and I don’t want that nigga calling,” Pat said with finality.

  “It’s your phone, but in Sharon’s name,” Reese mumbled.

  “What you say?”

  “Nothing, Ma,” Reese lied, and carried her glass into the living room.

  Reese’s younger brother, Mel, was sitting on the couch with one of his friends, playing the newest edition of Madden. She could tell from their bloodshot eyes and the empty cookie packages on the coffee table that they were high as kites.

  “Damn, do you do anything besides play video games?” Reese asked, flopping on the love seat.

  “Do you do anything besides mind people’s business?” Mel shot back, drawing a snicker from his partner. “As long as we’re in conversation mode, was that Don B.’s Hummer I saw you getting out of this morning?”

  “Wha … Mel, I know you ain’t spying on me.”

  “Nah, sis, I was making a blunt run and I peeped duke’s ride bend the corner. So what’s the deal with y’all two?”

  “Ain’t no deal. You need to mind your business.”

  “If it ‘ain’t no deal,’ why you getting all defensive?” Mel taunted her.

  “Look, Mel, I’m a grown-ass woman and I don’t have to answer to my little brother,” Reese said sternly.

  “She tight, son,” Mel’s friend said, then laughed, thumbing the controller.

  “Fuck you, ya little burn-out muthafucka,” she addressed him. “Mel, you need to be more selective about the company you keep.”

  Mel paused the game and gave Reese his undivided attention. “I know you ain’t talking, with your Rat Pack-ass crew. Fucking Yoshi and Rhonda, give me a break!”

  “Son, you talking about Yoshi from One Forty-seventh? Yo, I heard that bitch got some mean head,” Mel’s friend spoke up.

  Reese slammed her glass down and stood up. “I can’t even sit here with you disrespectful muthafuckas.” Reese headed for the front door, but on a parting note she told them, “If you no-class li’l niggaz knew how to treat a bitch, you might be able to get some pussy without paying for it.” She slammed the door in her wake and left the two boys stuck on stupid.

  * * *

  No sooner than Reese stepped out of the building, she saw Rhonda coming up the block. Unlike Reese, who had chosen to go conservative, Rhonda was dressed for the muggy weather. Her white tennis skirt was hiked up on her ass, threatening to show cheek
, but never raising quite high enough. On her face she wore a smirk, letting Reese know she came bearing new gossip.

  “What happened now?” Reese asked as Rhonda approached.

  “Yo, you missed it. Me and Verna whipped these two bitches out on Forty-second!” Rhonda exclaimed.

  “You and Verna? How the hell did y’all end up as tag team partners?”

  Rhonda went on to recount the story to Reese, making sure she exaggerated her role in the scuffle. Reese listened intently, feeling her heart begin to speed up as if she had been one of the combatants.

  “She beat the bitch with a can of Similac?” Reese asked disbelievingly.

  “On my kids!” Rhonda declared. “I thought she was gonna kill the bitch.”

  “Verna stay gettin’ it popping. That’s why her ass is all chopped up now.”

  “Reese, you should’ve been there. After we stomped them bitches out, we gave it to that bird-ass nigga she fuck with from Forty-fifth.”

  “Your ass is too grown to be out there scrapping. The whole block probably seen your black ass,” Reese teased her, tugging at the bottom of Rhonda’s skirt.

  “Bitch, it ain’t even get that hectic. You know your girl is a knockout artist.” Rhonda threw two phantom punches. “Now, what’s this business with Don B.?”

  “Damn, you’re nosy.”

  “Don’t even act like that, bitch. You know you wanna tell it. So inquiring minds wanna know, how big is Don B.’s dick?”

  Reese blushed. “Rhonda, you ain’t got no couth.”

  “Fuck that, I wanna know.”

  Reese paused for a minute, building the moment. “He was hung like a horse!” The two girls exchanged dap and hugs, while Reese recounted the adventure. She excluded the parts about her letting Don B.’s squad hit it and her neglect to use a condom, but built up she and Don B.’s escapade. Rhonda hung on every word, so as to be able to repeat it verbatim when she put it out in the hood.

  “My bitch done finally came up,” Rhonda said proudly. “So how much did he hit you with when it was over?”