The Hood Life

by Meesha Mink

  As I walk up to her I can smell the funk on her a foot away. Her reddish-orange weave is matted and her tracks are hangin’ loose. Her clothes are dingy and there’s a nasty-ass blood spot on the seat of her jeans. The baby in her arms got more fat than she do. This head beggin’ my boys for a hit is the woman I loved like crazy for three fucking years. What the fuck happened?

  “Whaddup, Candy?” I call over to her as I stand behind her.

  She turns and the darkness around her eyes still don’t match the spots all over her face. Where there ain’t no spots, her once brown skin is grayish and ashy. Her lips are white and cracked. She looks like the walking dead.

  “Whassup, Kaseem,” she says, shifting her eyes away from me as she puts her baby on her thin shoulder. “It’s good to see you.”

  I can tell she is embarrassed and that makes me feel a little better. It makes me feel like all hope ain’t lost for her because at least she still got shame. It’s when they lose shame that there ain’t no hope for these heads.

  “I wish I could say it’s good to see you, Candy.” I can’t be nothing but up front.

  The fellas leaning against the side of the Circle K suddenly start walking away from us. I know without question that Usher signaled for them to bounce. I look over my shoulder and see him leading them inside the store.

  She looks at me like she wants to spit in my face. “Don’t judge me, Kaseem.”

  “Don’t embarrass me, Candy,” I shot right back at her ass.

  “Embarrass?” She makes this funny noise in the back of her throat as she shifts the baby in her arms.

  I look at the baby and back up at her. “That your baby?”

  Now she looks at me like I’m stupid as hell. “No, motherfucker, I’m babysitting.”

  She still got that smart-ass mouth. “You think a mother should be out hustling for dope with her baby?” I couldn’t help but sound fucking disgusted.

  The baby starts crying as she steps up to me. “Who the fuck is you to test my fucking motherhood!” she shouts in my face. The smell of her breath—that rotten cabbage and dog shit mix—makes me sick to my stomach and lets me know the bitch ain’t brushed her teeth in a hot minute.

  “A slow motherfucker can see that the last thing your ass need is a child,” I shot back in between holding my breath to keeping from swallowing down hers.

  The baby’s cries get louder and louder and I don’t miss the little crowd circling us. I don’t like a scene but Candy’s ass looking like the fucking Crypt Keeper is freaking me out.

  “So you perfect now, Kaseem? You look at me and you can’t handle it but you pushin’ that shit, though. Makin’ all that loot so you can ride in your Tahoe and your Cadillac and your Mustang. Oh, I heard about you Mr. Big-Timer. All your diamond jewelry. Your designer clothes. Your big-time bitches at your side. All of these little wannabes lookin’ up to your ass…all because you slingin’ the shit I smoke. Don’t look down your your nose at me, motherfucker. You makin’ mad money off people like me.”

  I ain’t gone lie. Her words hit home, but I refuse to give her the upper hand.

  “Candace, where you staying at? Let me give some money for your baby—”

  She laughs and something about it sounds crazy. “My baby?” she asks, walking back and forth in front of me as she laughs like she got some secret. “My baby.”

  For a second I imagine this crazy bitch throwing the baby to the ground like she spiking a football or throwing it out in the middle of traffic. I heard about dumb shit like that in the news but I wasn’t even trying to be a witness to that bullshit. I reach out and snatch the baby from her arms.

  She whirls at me and just laughs until she is bent over with her hands on her knees. “My baby. No, motherfucker, try our baby.”

  I look down at the baby in my arms. I can’t deny that he has my eyes. My son? I look up at her and see the moment this bitch gets an idea. That shit like in the cartoons when the bulb goes off. Still, I’m surprised as hell by her words.

  “Give me ten grand and he’s yours.”

  Now I know this bitch is crazy.

  12

  The Killer

  “I’m sorry, but that position has been filled.”

  I drop my head in my hands and expel a long breath. It’s the same shit, different day. I’ve been out the joint for damn near a month and have yet to find a good job…hell, any job. I’m not qualified to do much, even with the GED I obtained in the clink.

  I know it’s not my interviewing skills. Each time I go in, with my tats covered, I have the people eating outta my hand. It’s when they get to the box when shit changes—the box where you check whether you’ve ever been convicted of a felony.

  Mutherfuckas always change up then.

  The interviews come to a screeching halt and I’m shown the door with the promise of We’ll call you—which they never do.

  “Look, Mr. Stewart. I’m just looking for a chance,” I say, just shy of begging. “I know I can do the work.”

  “Like I said, the position has been filled, Mr. Jones.”

  Exhaling another breath, I nod against the phone. “A’ight. Thank you for your time.” I hang up and crash back against the couch. As I look around the small, tidy apartment, I can’t stop feeling like a worthless piece of shit. How in the hell can I call myself a man when Zoey is the only one with a decent job?

  Every morning, Monday through Friday, she climbs out of bed and goes to work at a private doctor’s office as a medical assistant somewhere in Midtown. She’s only been working there for the past seven months. She had taken some courses at a school that had guaranteed job placement when she graduated.

  Lately, all she’s been talking about is saving up to buy a house within the next year. We can move out even faster if I land a job, too.

  IF.

  I know my being here is putting a strain on her finances. A big brother like me is puttin’ a hurtin’ on the grocery bill alone.

  I’m tryin’. But the shit ain’t workin’.

  I hit the pavement and the bus system every day. There’s gotta be someone out there willing to take a chance on an ex-con.

  One thing, I make sure that the crib remains nice and clean for my baby. Dishes done. Floors vacuumed. Beds made. I gotta contribute some kind of way.

  After a few deep breaths I shake my head clean of negative thoughts and reach for the newspaper spread out on the coffee table and scan the want ads again.

  My first week out I applied for office entry jobs. The second week, I downgraded to service jobs. Now I call for any and every thing. Hell, illegal mutherfuckas stand a better chance than my ass getting hired.

  The phone rings and I glance over.

  UNKNOWN NUMBER.

  I move away, rolling my eyes. Another bill collector, begging for money we don’t have. Zoey explained that she’d run into a few credit card problems a few years back. Bankruptcy and credit counselors cost money, so Zoey handled it the ghetto way: wait seven years until that shit rolls off your credit. Being Zoey’s man, I wish I could help solve her financial problems, but I ain’t got a pot to piss in let alone have five to put on a bill.

  Frustrated, I stand and head toward the kitchen for a much needed beer. The answer machine picks up the call and a strong feminine voice booms into the apartment.

  “Yes. This message is for Demarcus Jones. This is Marsha Harding, your new parole officer.”

  “Oh shit!” I stop in my tracks.

  “Mr. Jones, you had an appointment with me this morning and you failed to show up.”

  Fuck! Was that shit today?

  “As you know, Mr. Jones, failure to appear for your appointments can result in your parole being revoked and a bench warrant issued for your arrest.”

  I rush over to the door and grab my jacket just as the phone call disconnects. However, I halt in my tracks when I nearly collide into Tonya Gainey, an old trick and unfortunately the baby momma to my twelve-year-old son.

  “I should have
known your sorry ass would be here,” she blast up at me. She’s all of five foot three with the same tight curves from way back.

  “I can’t talk to you right now, Tonya. I gotta make a run.”

  Tonya totally ignores me and Bogarts her way into the apartment. “Where yo girl at?” she asks at the top of her voice, looking around.

  “Tonya, we’re gonna have to do this another time. I really got to make a run.”

  “I don’t give a fuck about what you gotta do,” she says, looking me up and down like she’s daring me to jump bad.

  My anger flares at her determined disrespect. “Zoey is not here right now,” I tell her after counting to ten inside my head. “She’s at work.”

  “Ha!” Her head rocks back. “Let me guess. Your sorry ass is just up here, leeching off her while she busts her ass.”

  “Tonya,” I say, my patience nearing its end. “What do you want?”

  “What the fuck do you think I want?” Her hands straddle her hips. “I want my mutherfuckin’ money, otherwise known as back child support. At least while your ass was locked up I was gettin’ your sorry-ass work furlough checks. Since they’ve let yo black ass out, I ain’t been getting shit—and yo kid cost money. Not that you’ve even tried to see his ass since you’ve been out.”

  “I tried to call—”

  “Don’t give me that bullshit. You just want to forget about me and Marctavious. You’re too busy lying up here like a nigga with a slave.”

  Here we go. I knew we were gonna have this conversation sooner or later. At the moment, I wish it could be later. “Tonya, I’m trying to get you your money. You’re gonna have to give me a little more time.”

  “I ain’t gotta do shit but stay black and die, mutherfucker. You, on the other hand, have to get me my money or they’ll take your ass back to jail. Marctavious is twelve years old and school starts next month. I didn’t come here to hear about your problems. I came for my fuckin’ money.”

  “I don’t have any money to give you,” I try to reason with her. “I’m looking for a job.”

  “What—standing around up here all damn day?” She looks around the apartment again. “What—you think Mr. Opportunity is just going to knock on the door?”

  “I’ve been looking for a job since I’ve been out.” I grind my teeth, struggling to talk to her like a civilized adult. “It hasn’t been easy.”

  Tonya’s high cackle stops me short. “You think it’s been easy for me trying to take care of your kid for the past ten years by myself? Where the fuck were you when I was dealing with ear infections, running noses, shitty diapers, day care, groceries, school clothes. The list is endless. You didn’t give a fuck about me when you were slinging and hustling with that pathetic two-bit gang you used to run around with. Maybe you should ask them for my mutherfuckin’ money.”

  “Tonya—”

  “And let’s not forget your main ho Zoey that you conveniently forgot to tell me about when you were lying up in my bed.”

  “Tonya, I’m going to get you your money.” I hear footsteps coming up the building’s hallway but it doesn’t register with me until Zoey is standing in the doorway.

  Tonya instantly straightens up, her hood attitude chilled out for a moment.

  I look at Zoey. “Hey, baby,” I say.

  “What in the hell is she doing here?”

  “We were just talking,” I say, not liking the suspicion creeping into her face.

  Tonya’s gaze rakes over Zoey in her medical scrubs. “Look like she has a good damn job. Maybe you should ask her for my damn money.”

  Zoey’s hands settles onto her hips. “Excuse you?”

  Tonya just ignores her. “Demarcus, get me my money.” She heads for the door, glances Zoey up and down, and waits for her to move so she can leave the apartment.

  Zoey shifts so that she blocks the entire doorway. “I know your momma taught you some manners.”

  “Excuse you,” Tonya says.

  It’s the wrong answer, but at this point I can tell my baby just wants her ass gone. Zoey steps aside, but we both catch Tonya’s departing words: “Fat bitch.”

  In a blink, Zoey was on her ass like white on rice. “I gotcha fat bitch.” She grabs Tonya’s ponytail and rips the mutherfucker clean off and then lands a couple of blows upside her head.

  “How the fuck you gonna come up in my spot and disrespect me?”

  Whack!

  I grab Zoey by the waist and drag her off. “Baby, chill. Baby, chill. Let her go. Let her go.”

  Tonya struggles back to her feet and launches toward Zoey, but I plant my body between them and receive most of the blows coming from both sides. I’ve been in my fair share of fights but nothing compares to this catfight.

  “Goddamn it, chill the fuck out,” I roar. It takes some work, but I manage to get Zoey to sit her ass down while I drag Tonya back toward the damn door.

  “Nah, nah,” Zoey screams, picking up the phone. “She wants someone to press charges, tell her ass to stay right the fuck there.”

  Now, the hallway is crowded with people. In Bentley Manor everybody wants to know your business. A coupla kids grabbed Tonya’s fake ponytail from the floor and were now twirling it around like a helicopter above their heads.

  “Fuck that fat bitch,” Tonya screams. “I don’t know what the fuck you see in her anyway.”

  “Tonya, get the hell on. I ain’t playing with you.”

  Finally I get her out the door and then slam the mutherfucker in her face. I lock it seconds before she starts twisting the doorknob.

  I release an exhausted breath and look over at Zoey as she slams the phone down and starts pacing the floor like a caged animal.

  “Are you all right, baby?” I ask, approaching. I know damn well she ain’t. “Don’t let that girl get to you.”

  “I can’t stand that bitch. Why the hell did you have her up in my apartment?”

  “She just showed up. Just calm down.”

  “Don’t tell me to fucking calm down. How the hell are you going to let her disrespect me like that?”

  “Baby, what would you have me do—hit her? Catch another case? You want me to go back to jail because of her crazy ass?”

  She starts pacing faster. “Why the fuck did you have to knock her up?”

  I shut the fuck up because we’re now in a territory where there’s no right or wrong answer. “Come here, baby.” I pull her stiff body into my arms. “It’s all right, calm down.” I kiss the top her head. “She just said all that shit to get a rise out of you.”

  Zoey takes a couple of deep breaths before she starts to relax.

  “Don’t let her stress you. We’re going to get through this. All right?” When she doesn’t answer, I prompt her again. “All right?” I pull away so I can look down into her tear-streaked face. I wipe a few tears away with the pads of my thumbs. “We knew this wasn’t going be easy when I got out. We’re going to work through this…together. I got your back, you got mine. You’re my ride-or-die chick, right? You’re my Bonnie.”

  Finally, a smile flutters across her face, causing her cheeks to form perfect circles. “And you’re my Clyde.”

  I kiss the top of her head and then work my way to her soft lips. I hope it repairs some of the damage Tonya has caused. “I know this is a bad time, but I need to borrow the car keys. I need to get over to my new p.o.’s office. I missed an appointment this morning.”

  She sighs, but scoops the car keys out of her pants pocket and hands them over. She also presses a twenty into my hand. “Put some gas in it. It’s running low.”

  I stare at that twenty, feeling another layer of my manhood being stripped away. I can’t even afford to put gas in her car. What the hell is she doing with me?

  “Are you comin’ straight back? I can put dinner on.”

  I nod. “Yeah.” I force on a smile, kiss her forehead again, and head out the door.

  I make it to my parole officer’s office at precisely five o’clock. I’m hopi
ng like hell that Ms. Harding is still here. I don’t know what I’ll do if I have to go back to prison over some simple fuckup like getting my days messed up.

  I breathe a sigh of relief when I push on the door and it opens.

  Marsha Harding, a husky five foot eight with a bleached-blond, half-inch Afro, strikes me as a dyke who’d yet to come out of the closet, glances up from behind the desk and then hangs up the phone. “You’re late,” she snaps.

  “I know. I’m—”

  “Up against the wall and place your hands above your head,” she barks, like a military commander.

  “Ms. Hard—”

  “Do it!”

  My hands clench at my side, a homicidal rage boils just below the surface. Breathe, Demarcus. Breathe.

  Harding arched a furry brow. “Don’t tell me you’re one of the stupid ones.”

  Slowly, I turn and place my hands up against the wall.

  “You know I can have your ass hauled back out to Jesup right now, don’t you?” She approached, kicking my legs apart and then patting me down. “You were supposed to be here at ten a.m.”

  “I got my days mixed up. Thought it was tomorrow,” I clip out. Her hands lingered in between my legs.

  “Uh-huh. Mr. Jones, I run a tight ship around here. I ain’t got a lot of time to be fertilizing your bullshit.” A pair of handcuffs appears out of nowhere and clicks around my wrists.

  Great! Just fucking great!

  Beads of sweat pop up along my brow as a vision of this chick marching my ass to Jesup crowd my mind.

  “Have you smoked or ingested any drugs?” she asks.

  “No,” I growl.

  “You know you were also scheduled for a piss test this morning, right?”

  “I’m clean.”

  “Uh-huh.” She turns away and storms back over to her desk and picks up the phone.

  “What the fuck? Who are you calling?” I turn from the wall.