by Cairo
Nothin’ had really changed since I moved outta the hood and outta Brooklyn two years ago. Gunshots were still poppin’; niggas were still droppin’; bitches were still stuntin’; muhfuckas were still gettin’ high; the drug game was still live ’n kickin’. Same shit, different playas. The only difference, these little young niggas and bitches were more reckless with it than when I was out here. And now with this gang shit, the hood was real hectic.
As the group got closer to my truck, I sat a few minutes longer and watched an older woman who looked like she was in her fifties or so, carryin’ two bags and her pocketbook, walkin’ toward the group of kids. She was tryna get through the group, but no one moved outta her way so she could pass. Instead of gettin’ in a confrontation, the woman tried to go ’round ’em. But one of the young girls—sportin’ cornrow extensions and big danglin’ earrings—just had to be a little bitch ’bout it and purposefully bumped into the woman, knockin’ her bag outta her hand. Everyone in her posse thought the shit was funny and started laughin’. The woman gave them a glarin’ look, pickin’ up her things. I already knew if they tried to hurt her, I was gonna jump outta my truck and bring it to ’em. I cracked my windows to listen.
“Bitch, whut iz you lookin’ at?” the young chick asked. The woman ignored her. “Dumb, old-ass bitch, ya lucky I’m in a good mood. Or me ’n my niggas would run ya shit.”
I shook my head in disbelief, watchin’ ’n waitin’ to see if I was gonna have to jump outta my truck and set it off.
The woman stood, back straight, head high, and raised her hands. “I rebuke you…in the name of Jesus…in the name of Jesus…in the name of Jesus…”
“Be gone, old lady, or get ya shit split,” one of the boys said.
“Though I walk through the valley,” the woman said, “of the shadow of death…I fear no evil—”
“Fuck you!” they all yelled, laughin’, then runnin’ down the street.
I was so fuckin’ disgusted. No fuckin’ respect! These young niggas and bitches were on some real extra shit. Yeah, a bitch did her dirt growin’ up: smoke, drank, fought and sliced bitches, boosted shit, got her party on and whatnot. But I was never disrespectful. Cussin’ out and disrespectin’ an old head was a no-no. I don’t give a fuck how they came at ya. You kept ya grill shut and kept it movin’. I rolled up my windows and got out of my truck.
“You alright, ma’am?” I asked, walkin’ ’round the front of my truck.
She smiled. “I’m fine, baby. Thanks. I don’t know what’s wrong with some of these kids today. They’re just runnin’ amok. No guidance. No respect. No regard,” she said, straightenin’ her rimmed glasses. “We are truly in the last days.”
“You have a good day,” I offered as I walked toward the project’s entrance, ignorin’ her comments. I really wasn’t beat for a sermon. Not today. Not any day.
“You do the same,” she said, speakin’ to my back.
My cell started ringin’ as I approached the entrance to my buildin’. I looked at the caller ID. It was Grant. I smiled, stoppin’ to lean up against the railin’. I wanted some dick. And if he turned out to be a real nigga, I was gonna fuck him down into the mattress. I hope the nigga can fuck, I thought, answerin’. “Hello.”
“Hey, beautiful,” he said. “Did I catch you at a bad time?”
“Actually, I’m on my way up to see my moms. Can I call you back?”
“No doubt, but I’ll hit you back instead. ’Cause I think you tryna front on a nigga. And I ain’t havin’ it.”
I laughed. “Is that so? Well, that’s what ya mouth says.”
“That’s what it is. I’ll hit you back later on tonight.”
“Aiight,” I said, disconnectin’ the call. My cell rang again. This time it was Chanel. “What’s up, tramp?”
“Shit,” she said. “What’s good with you?”
“I’m here in Brooklyn, gettin’ ready to go up to see my moms. Why, what’s up?”
“Well, do you. Make sure you call me later. Some shit done popped off with Tamia and these bitches from Bed-Stuy over some nigga.”
I rolled my eyes up in my head, suckin’ my teeth. “Well, that shit’s on her dumb ass,” I said. “I’ll holla back when I get back on the road.”
“Make sure you do.” Yeah, whatever! I hung up. A few months ago, a bitch woulda been amped the hell up, ready to strap up and wreck shop. But I ain’t fuckin’ with Tamia like that. This ho was on some extra shit, and I ain’t the one. It’d be one thing if a bitch was straight dissin’ her and tryna get at her for no reason, but some shit over a nigga who she probably had no business fuckin’ any damn way…humph, I don’t think so. The bitch is on her own, real talk. As a matter of fact, I really wasn’t feelin’ this visit with my moms, either. But I was already there.
When I entered my old buildin’, I felt nothin’. Although the sidewalk was cleaner than I remembered, I thought back to when crack vials and needles littered the sidewalk and the playground in the back of buildin’s four and six; when empty liquor bottles and shattered glass covered the ground. I could still hear the gunshots that rang like bells; the screams of mothers who lost another child to niggas shootin’ and killin’ each other over drugs and money and pussy and block takeovers. The shit was depressin’. I had spent so much time dreamin’ ’bout gettin’ the fuck away from here, ’bout bein’ rescued from this hell hole, that my head and body were already long gone way before I ever bounced. My heart was still connected to the streets, it flowed through my blood. But it pumped at a different beat now. Don’t get it twisted. I’ma be a Brooklyn bitch ’til the day I die. This life—four generations of livin’ in the hood—is what I know, but I’d be damned if it was the only one I’d be livin’. Believe that.
I was glad the lobby was empty today. It was still dark and dirty and smelled like piss, but, usually, it’d be live and poppin’. I rolled my eyes when I got to the elevators and the shits were broken—again. I seriously thought about turnin’ ’round and takin’ my ass home, but decided goin’ up eleven flights of stairs in heels was much better than hearin’ my moms bitchin’ ’bout me not comin’ over. Not that I thought that she really cared one way or the other whether I came through or not, ’cause I know she didn’t, but…she’s still my moms and a bitch still liked to fantasize ’bout bein’ wanted and missed. Shit, I thought, goin’ toward the stairs, e’erytime I come to this bitch these muhfuckas ain’t workin’. What the fuck!
As I climbed the stairs, I had to keep tryna not to step in someone’s piss or spit. Nasty muhfuckas! I hurried up the stairs, and by the time I got to my floor, a bitch was wore out.
I knocked three times on the gray apartment door before the locks finally clicked and the door opened. “Well, looka here,” my moms said, steppin’ back to let me in. For some reason, she had that just-got-fucked look. Her thick, curly, shoulder-length hair was tossed all over her head and her face was flushed. She pulled the belt of her red silk robe tight ’round her waist. I could tell she was naked underneath. Yep, she been fuckin’. “The queen has finally decided to come grace me with her presence. Why didn’t you call first?”
I rolled my eyes. “I didn’t know I needed to make an appointment.” I closed the door behind me. “Besides, you called me last week beatin’ me in the head ’bout not comin’ by or callin’ you. I told ya I was gonna come through today.”
“Well, I’ve heard that before, so I didn’t hold my breath.”
“Well, I’m here now. The least you could do is act like ya happy to see me. Damn.”
“Humph,” she grunted, switchin’ her ass into the kitchen. At forty-one—I ain’t gonna front—she looked much younger than her age, and still had a bangin’ body. Then again, my grandmother was only sixty-one and she still had a body that would put some of these young bitches to shame.
I took a deep, disgusted breath. Just once I wished we were more like mother and daughter than two chicks who barely tolerated each other. Not that I expected a warm, mushy
welcome, but damn! Some women should never have children. I’m convinced my moms was one of them chicks who shoulda kept her damn legs closed, or aborted ’cause she’s never had the time, energy, or interest in raisin’ me or nurturin’ me. She’d rather be locked in a room with a nigga with her legs up over his shoulders than raisin’ her own child. Sometimes I really wanna slap her. But no matter what, she’s still my moms—fucked up or not.
“Lock my damn door.” She yanked her neck ’round, glarin’ at me. “You ain’t been in that fancy place over in Jersey that long to forget where ya from. You know betta than to leave my doors unlocked.” I shook my head, latchin’ the five deadbolts. My thinkin’ is, if ya so goddamn worried ’bout havin’ ya doors kicked in, or bein’ robbed, why the hell stay? Pack ya shit and get the fuck out.
From the outside, you’d never expect the inside of my mom’s spot to be piped out with a crème-colored Italian leather sofa, plush brown carpet, marble tables, custom mirrored walls, a one-hundred-fifty-gallon tropical fish tank, and a fifty-two-inch plasma TV up on the wall.
When she came into her suit money, instead of movin’ outta the projects and investin’ in a house, she spent a grip redecoratin’ ’n shit. Then she had the nerve to go out and buy a fuckin’ 2006 Benz coupe that now looks like a damn hoopty ’cause muhfuckas stay scratchin’ it up and breakin’ into the shit. Humph.
Anyway, I asked her why she wouldn’t move, and she flat out told me, “I ain’t ever leavin’ the projects. This is where I grew up and this is where I’ma die.” Well, I looked at her ass like I would never relate. I mean, I mighta grew up in ’em, but I’d be damned if I ever wanted to stay and die in ’em. Keepin’ shit real, I ain’t nothin’ like her. She is okay with her life. She is okay with never seein’ or experiencin’ anything outside of Brooklyn. Other than goin’ to Harlem or the Bronx to visit her family, leavin’ New York—or Brooklyn, for that matter—would never happen. Oh, okay, if ya wanna count the bus trips she and my aunts make to Atlantic City to gamble. And even that’s a big production. Fuck that. A bitch like me wanted to learn and see new shit. “That’s the problem with ya ass,” my moms had once said when I told her I was gonna travel the world when I grew up, “ya ass too busy daydreamin’.”
Then when I told her I wanted to move to Jersey, she looked at me like I was outta my mind or somethin’, as if movin’ ’cross the water was a damn crime. “What the hell you gonna do way over there? Brooklyn is ya home. You might go, but ya ass’ll be back. It’s in ya blood.”
I walked into the kitchen and pulled a chair out to sit at the table.
“So what you been up to?” she asked, openin’ the refrigerator. She pulled out a carton of eggs and a pack of bacon. “You want somethin’ to eat?”
I glanced around the small kitchen and rolled my eyes up in my head. There was dirty dishes piled in the sink, and the trash was overflowin’. All this expensive shit up in this bitch, I thought, and the kitchen is still nasty. Ain’t a muthafuckin’ thing changed. Outta the corner of my eye, I peeped a roach crawlin’ alongside one of the cabinets, then another along the counter.
“Nah,” I said, shiftin’ in my seat, “I’m good. I ate already.” Yeah, I lied. But there was no muthafuckin’ way I’d eat shit outta that nasty-ass kitchen. She’d never have me eatin’ roach eggs. The thought made me frown. I hadn’t eaten outta that kitchen since I was twelve years old, and there was no way I’d start back now. “I’ve been chillin’. What about you?”
“Not a damn thing,” she said, busyin’ herself ’round the kitchen. I stared at her, takin’ in the curve of her hips and the way her flimsy robe clung ’cross her titties, showin’ her thick nipples. For some reason, her ass and titties looked much bigger than I remembered. “You know, Alberta over in buildin’ four done got arrested for stabbin’ her husband. She walked in and caught him fuckin’ her best friend in their bed. She went off, stabbed his ass up real good, and she beat that bitch down real good, too.”
“Hmm…” Triflin’ bitch, I thought. And I hope his slimy ass got his. That was some shit. I couldn’t even imagine what the fuck I’d do if I walked in and caught my man fuckin’ one of my girls—well, uh, I do, but that’s another story for another time. Bottom line, I woulda went the fuck off, too. But I don’t know if I’da stabbed him. ’Cause unless she killed his ass, her goin’ to jail is senseless. While the world is still rotatin’ on its axis, and her ass is on lock, his muhfuckin’ ass is still gonna be out fuckin’ the next bitch. Fuck that shit, if you don’t wanna kill his ass, then slice his muthafuckin’ cock off. “Did she kill him?”
“No. But she gutted him real good. He’s up in ICU.”
“And where’s she at?”
“I think she out on bail,” she said.
“Humph,” I grunted, shakin’ my head.
Three more roaches came out to play. She saw them and started smashin’ them with her hand, cussin’.
“Fuckin’ roaches! I don’t know why the ho next door don’t fumigate her place. She’s the only bitch in the buildin’ that acts like she tryna keep ’em as pets.” She caught my facial expression. “I don’t know why you twistin’ ya face up,” she said, washin’ her hands at the sink. “You act like you ain’t ever seen a damn roach.”
She reached under the sink and pulled out a can of Raid, then started sprayin’ along the side of the cabinets, then ’round the back of the counter. The smell started to make me dizzy and sick to my stomach. I held my breath. She put the roach spray back, then started rinsin’ pots and pans. I watched her as she pulled down a bowl, rinsed it, then started crackin’ six eggs.
“Who you cookin’ all them eggs for?” I asked. Before she could answer, a caramel-colored, hairy-chested, curly-haired nigga all tatted up, came into the kitchen, wearin’ only a pair of flimsy gray sweats. He had that fresh-showered smell goin’ on. The nigga’s arms were chiseled and he had the nerve to have a damn six-pack. I peeped his long dick bouncin’ and swingin’ and knew the nigga didn’t have any drawers on. Ugh.
The muhfucka coolly walked up on my moms and planted his thick lips on hers. The nigga didn’t even speak, and I knew he saw me or at least heard us in here talkin’. I watched their tongues dart in and out of each other’s mouths, like I wasn’t even in the fuckin’ room. He grabbed her ass. How fuckin’ disrespectful was that shit? If I didn’t clear my throat the two of ’em mighta started fuckin’ right there. They stopped and he put his arm around her. My moms blushed, fixed her robe that had conveniently come untied, then said, “Baby, this is my daughter, Kat. Kat, this is Jawan, my fiancé.”
Fiancé? I almost fell outta my fuckin’ seat. I spoke to her last week and was there two months ago, and she not once said shit ’bout havin’ no damn fiancé. She held up her hand to show off her ring finga. No wonder I didn’t see it before. It was a tiny-ass, marquise-cut diamond ring ’bout the size of a pebble. What the fuck! I squinted my eyes and glared at her ass. She shrugged, then went back to fixin’ her mystery man his breakfast.
He smiled, flashin’ a chipped tooth. “So, this is my future stepdaughter. I heard a lot ’bout you. Baby, you didn’t tell me she was this fine,” he said, walkin’ over and extendin’ his hand. I stared at him real hard, then at his hand. He had a tattoo of a panther with beautiful green eyes on his forearm. He was definitely younger than her, probably ’round late twenties or early thirties, I guessed. Humph. Oh, trust. I made a mental note to find out what was really good with his ass on the streets.
“It’s Katrina,” I said, with much ’tude. “And I haven’t heard jack ’bout you.” He dropped his hand. “How long you been fuckin’ my mother?”
“Kat!” she yelled. “Don’t start ya shit today or you can get ya ass up outta here. Baby,” she cooed, like a damn silly-ass, dick-whipped schoolgirl. “Don’t pay her ass no mind. She can be a real bitch sometimes.”
He chuckled, lickin’ his lips. “Nah, it’s all good, baby. I can tell she’s a real feisty one. Ya mom and I been fuckin�
�, as you put it, for a minute.” He walked back over and planted another kiss on my mom’s lips, then looked at me and winked. He slapped her on her ass. She giggled. I twisted my face. “So I guess we’ll be seein’ a lot of each other.”
“I wouldn’t hold ya breath,” I said, rollin’ my eyes. My moms shot me an evil look that said, ‘Bitch, say one more slick thing and this muhfuckin’ hot fryin’ pan goes upside ya skull.’ She started cuttin’ and dicin’ up onions, tomatoes, and green peppers, then shreddin’ cheddar cheese.
“Your breakfast’ll be ready in ’bout ten minutes, baby. You want something to drink?”
He cut his eyes from me and turned to her. “That’s cool. Yeah, bring me some orange juice. I’ll be in the living room watchin’ TV while you and ya daughter shoot the shit.” He looked at me again, smirkin’, then walked out.
“And why couldn’t he get his own drink? He was standin’ his ass right by the refrigerator.” I spoke loud enough so the nigga could hear me. “Instead of plungin’ his dick in and outta ya, he should make his ass useful and take out that trash.”
She clenched her teeth. “Kat…don’t…start. I mean it.”
I ignored her. I tried to count the number of niggas she’s had in my head, but lost count after number fourteen. Growin’ up, e’ery six months to a year or so, she was in love with another nigga. Then when shit fell apart, she’d be somewhere balled up in a damn corner or locked up in her room cryin’ over his ass. I swore I’d never be like her.
Like a puppet, she bounced around the kitchen fryin’ up bacon ’n shit. She lowered the fire on the stove, then got a glass from outta the cabinet, rinsed it, went into the refrigerator and filled it with orange juice, then took it to him. I was too fuckin’ through!