For two years I lived in that apartment, being his bitch and sucking his dick whenever he told me to. I ain’t have to go to school, or work, or nothin’. All I had to do was keep growing my hair long and wait for Fashad to stop by whenever he wanted to fuck. For a minute there, I even thought I was a fag. Just for a minute, though, ’cause I was young, dumb, and didn’t know no better.
He said he owned part of a record company, that if I did everything he told me to, he’d put me on. It’s been three years since the day I met him, and I still ain’t got no goddamn contract. Sur-muthafuckin’-prise, huh?
One day last year, out of nowhere, he told me to move out. I was pretty happy about it, to tell you the truth, until the next day, when I found out some other nigga was moving in. Whatever. My life has been ten times better since the day I moved out. Fashad started treating me like a grown up, trusting me to do shit. I think I was a little afraid he was going to forget about me when I moved, but it was almost as if I’d gotten a promotion. Fashad has a restaurant, a car dealership, and an auto shop to clean the money he makes from dealing. He put me in charge of all that shit. Every day I had to go see how they was doin’, and if they needed something I had to get it, but that was almost never because they weren’t doin’ shit. And he kept me paid too. In about a year I had my leather.
Still, there was something wrong. I didn’t feel like I was doin’ nothin’ big. Everybody was lookin’ at me like I was Fashad’s bitch or somethin’, like slavery got remixed and he owned me. In a way, I guessed he did.
I wanted respect, I wanted fame, recognition. I wanted for people to have to stop calling me white boy, cracker, honky—or else. I wanted in on the action. I told Fashad I wanted to be part of the family. He told me I was, but he didn’t understand what I meant. I told him I wanted to be part of the family like Tony Soprano, not Moms Mabley. He told me he didn’t want to see me go down that road. Said he wanted me to stay legit, but that it was my choice.
“I got to get back in the streets,” I told him.
“Why?” he asked. “You got everything you need. Good money. Easy job. Why you want to be out there?”
“It’s like that movie where they be in the ring with them lions and shit. And then they be fightin’ each other in front of everybody. And they be in the Bible times and shit. What movie is that?” I asked him.
“I don’t know what you talkin’ about. Who was in it?”
“That one man.”
“What one man?”
“You know, that one,” I said and I looked at him so he would know what I wanted him to know about the man since neither of us could say it.
“Oh, you talking about Gladiator. With Russell Crowe.”
“Yeah. It’s like Gladiator out on them streets. And I’m a fuckin’ gladiator like Russell Crowe. I can’t just sit back like a lil bitch while niggas is in the ring battling.”
I started off on Lennox and Twenty-third, just me and my uniform. Fashad said it was already our territory, so I wouldn’t have to worry about nobody. I didn’t care. After all that shit happened with Fashad, I was sad enough to die, mad enough to kill, and wouldn’t have minded doing either.
That type of I-don’t-give-a-fuck attitude pays off in the streets. I was the best in Detroit, and then the shit started getting bigger. I had like seven niggas workin’ for me, and who knows how many niggas was workin’ for them. Fashad saw how good I was and pulled me off the streets. He said, “A real baller don’t do his own sellin’.” Just in time too, because I seen that that shit wasn’t for me. I’m too smart to be a hustler. That’s like James Bond being a security guard.
I started doin’ what he did, layin’ around the office, chillin’. Passing shit to dealers and waitin’ for them to bring my money back. That was the best time of my life. All I did was smoke and fuck. Sometimes men, and sometimes women, but never with Fashad. It lasted for about a year, until I met Bill and shit got heavy.
I was passing off fifty grams to a new dealer Fashad gave the okay to about a month ago. I get into the car after the switch and a fed named Bill is in the backseat. The punk bastard set me up. Bill took me to a diner across town, showed me pictures of me takin’ money and passin’ off coke. They said they had witnesses. They said they was ’bout to put me away for life if I didn’t cooperate.
I felt bad at first. I mean, Fashad was like the father I never had. He took care of me, you know? Then I started thinkin’ about how he gave me that weed that night, and didn’t smoke none himself. And how funny the orange juice tasted. And how he never even asked me if I wanted to do it. He just made me do it. It was always, “Smokey, suck my dick.” I ain’t sayin’ I wanted him to say I love you or nothing like that. I’m just sayin’. I was only sixteen.
I don’t know. It ain’t no beef between me and Fashad. I guess it’s just like we both gladiators, and both of us can’t be Russell Crowe. Somebody got to go upstate.
The feds already knew I was working for him anyway, so there was no point in lyin’. I told them I would help, and they said nobody would ever know.
The very next day Fashad called me into his office and told me the feds was watching him, and if some shit went down we had to know how to handle it.
I just nodded my head. I tried to stay calm, but I was sweatin’ and shit. I asked him how he knew and he told me them muthafuckas been fixing a light across the street from his house for three weeks. Said it don’t take no damn three weeks to fix no light, and that the muthafucka wasn’t never broke in the first place.
You never know who or what niggas like Fashad know. I mean, hell, Fashad could probably buy the whole damn police force. I just hoped he hadn’t thought of it already, or I was dead.
He called Cameisha and told her to come down to the dealership. Once she got there the three of us had to come up with a plan to keep Fashad out of jail when the house was raided. In other words, Fashad had to come up with a plan and we had to do whatever the hell he said. He told me he was going to call me as soon as one of his informants tipped him off, because it was too risky to call his house from a phone he knew was tapped. After that, I was to call Cameisha. Cameisha’s supposed to wake everyone up and start the drill, where she and her children get rid of all the cocaine in the house and hide the money from the feds. He told me to go back to the house to help Cameisha figure out how to store the money away in the closet.
When we got there. Cameisha showed me the money in a blue suitcase with the little roller thingies on the bottom. It had to be at least a million.
I asked her had she ever counted it. She said she never had a reason to, but she was “going to count it now.”
That’s when I knew that money was mine. What had she done for it? I mean she might be his wife and shit, but what had she done for it? I was the one who was there in that goddamn office every muthafuckin’ day. I was the one who had to put up with his shit in his apartment for two years. I was the one on the corner for him. What had she done? And plus when Fashad go up for this shit, there ain’t gonna be no money left. I don’t know nobody else. I can’t be on nobody else’s corner, I ain’t the bang-bang shoot-’em-up type. I’m an artist. This money is gonna last me until I make my first album—and who knows how long that’s gonna be.
She called her kids down, and I was still staring at the money—my money.
“What you doin’?” asked JD, the oldest boy—he’s only nine but he got Fashad’s instincts. He knew there was something fishy about the way I was staring at his daddy’s money. His five-year-old brother, Taj, stood behind him like I was a gun and his big brother was a bulletproof vest.
“Leave him alone,” said a voice.
I turned around and saw the most fucked-up-lookin’ bitch I ever seen in my life. Her hair was about four different colors, and she had a big gap in her teeth. She was all fat and shit—reminded me of a sumo wrestler. Charcoal black to boot. And she kept lookin’ at me like I was a muthafuckin’ Sean John model.
“Hi. I’m Dream.”
>
When me and Cameisha was teaching the kids the drill, I realized Dream could be my ticket out. I been plottin’ and plannin’ ever since. Now I got this shit figured out.
My name is Smokey Cloud, and when that trumpet sounds, that money is going to be mine.
CAMEISHA
Last night Fashad stayed in the bed with me for the first time in three days. He’s been working out. He wasn’t wearing cologne but I could smell his deodorant, and that’s all I needed. Those light-brown eyes, all that height, it’s been a long time—a long time. My vibrator’s out of batteries. I almost leaned over and asked him to make love to me, but as my momma would say, that was just foolish talkin’ for me. Fashad don’t want this no more. He probably already busted his nut with her. I guess this old pussy is leftovers. What a nigga like Fashad want with leftovers when he can have fresh fish? He comes to me for the look of it all—nice house, perfect kids. He’s one of those people who just have to look like they have it all, and I’m the one who makes sure he does. To Fashad this family is just a set of matching accessories. And what does that make us look like? A bunch of fools, that’s what.
It was clear to me I couldn’t have him, so I started longing for the next best thing—the money. I was up a good two hours before he was, layin’ there thinkin’ about what a million dollars buys. I had twenty-one questions.
Soon as he was woke, I got to going.
“Baby, if they comin’ after us, why don’t we just bury the money now instead of waiting for them to get here?” I asked, massaging his shoulders the way Delilah must have rubbed Samson’s.
“They might be watchin’ my accounts,” he explained.
“And I can’t risk laundering and tax-evasion charges. I can’t use a real bank for all that money, so I keep it in the TV. When the drugs come in from New York, I got to use that money to buy them.” He shrugged me off his shoulders and went inside his walk-in closet. That bastard, patronizing me like I’m somebody’s child. He think he’s soooo smart, and I’m soooo dumb. What he don’t know is I’m only pretending to be clueless. That way I stay one step ahead of him.
“This whole thing don’t make no sense. Even if we hide the money and flush the coke, you’re still going to be arrested, so what’s the point?” I asked, just to let him know that his brilliant plan wasn’t all that brilliant.
“If I get arrested, I’m going to need you to use that money to get me a good lawyer.”
“That’s a good point. But why don’t we take some of it out now and put it someplace where can’t nobody find it instead of waiting until the trumpet sounds. That way even if they find the trapdoor inside of the closet they won’t get to the money we have hidden somewhere else.”
“Ain’t no such place. I like my money where I sleep,” said Fashad flippantly.
“Dammit, Fashad,” I yelled, slamming my fist into his side of the bed, half expecting it to be cold as usual. Nothing I say is ever good enough. No matter how much sense I make it’s always the wrong idea. I know why he think that way. He think since he can fool me with her I must be completely stupid. I had to let him know then and there that I wasn’t nobody’s fool. I ran inside that closet to make sure he heard every word I said. “You don’t always sleep here,” I told him, trying to steady my voice.
He sucked his teeth and looked at me like he didn’t owe me no explanations, like I wasn’t worth arguing with. He straightened his tie and walked out of the closet.
I watch the stories every day, but today I imagined I was on the show myself. You should have seen the way Fernando looked at me, and the way I looked at him. When we made love I felt the passion. I felt the anger. I felt the hatred fucking with the love, and vice versa. I saw us giving birth to twins, and naming them Sascha and Monique. I was shopping in Paris. I was having tea in London. Just as suddenly, I was back on my couch. A commercial break. So here I am once again, in my house that’s never been a home, watching stories, waiting for somebody to need me.
Never let myself feel all that before. Probably ’cause I knew I couldn’t have it with Fashad. Asking him for sex is like pulling teeth. And how the hell can I argue with someone I never see? Even when I do try and start an argument with him, he just leaves. Just like today.
I always used to root for the gold-digging hos on the stories, but now I just feel sorry for them. Don’t get me wrong, they still my “girls,” but I want them to find somebody they can have real feelings for. Somebody they can hit and throw something at once in a while. Somebody they can argue with who will argue back. Somebody they can be angry with and fuck anyway, then go right back to being mad at after he comes. Real happiness—because there’s never enough money.
Everybody thinks I’m so lucky. Nobody understands, I don’t even have anyone to talk to about it. No one, except my one friend. I can’t wait till he comes over. Matter of fact, where is he? All My Children already done started. Last time, he tried to talk me out of my misery, talking about all the people who would kill to be sitting where I’m sitting: in Fashad’s house, with Fashad’s children. I told him Heaven wasn’t exactly what it appeared to be. He don’t know how I live. I get up. I fix they lunches; take a nap; watch my stories; do a little cleaning, then it’s time to cook his dinner. I lay in bed till he git back from her house, and when he don’t I’m sort of happy ’cause I don’t have to listen to him snore. Where is my life? When does Cameisha get to live for Cameisha? I can’t live like this. I want to be something more than somebody’s baby’s momma. I want to be somebody’s soul mate.
How can my friend not understand what I’m feeling? From the way he get all starry-eyed, I know he got a soul mate too. He gone see things my way today. What’s not to get?
There he is in the driveway now.
CAMEISHA: A CONFESSION
My name is Cameisha Bradley and when that trumpet sounds that money is going to be mine.
I’ve had three lives in this one body so far. The first life I spent dreaming. I was going to have it all, the only question was how. Back then I didn’t even know what having it all meant, but I knew I wanted to have more fans than I could count and men throwing themselves at my feet. Whitney Houston wasn’t gonna have nothing on me. Being a poor little naïve black girl from Detroit, I didn’t know the first thing about making it as an actress, singer, model, or whatever. Then I met Dominique. He told me I had star potential, said he was going to take me to the top. I had no reason not to believe him. He had more money than any of the good-for-nothing boys who were trying to date me, plus he was from Los Angeles. I figured that had to be worth something. I guess you can say he was my boyfriend, but you can’t say I was his girlfriend. I was one of many. He took my virginity and went right back to wherever it was he really came from; I ain’t seen him since. Nine months later Dream showed up. That was the end of that lifetime.
I spent my second lifetime worrying. Momma kicked me out the house when I told her I was pregnant. I thought she didn’t care about me then, but to look back on it, she was crying. She said it was going to be harder for her than it was for me and Dream, said she been raisin’ kids since she was thirteen and had served her time, said she always wanted to go to New York and was going. She kissed me on my forehead, then my belly, then turned her back on us. I used to cry myself to sleep at night wondering why she did it. I knew she loved me, but how you justify loving your child and kicking them out? I couldn’t make the two fit. I understand now. Momma had dreams of her own and wanted to be something more.
I had to struggle a little bit, but I got an apartment of my own. When I found out I was pregnant with Dream I had to drop out of school because I couldn’t afford no babysitter once she was born. There was no point in going to school up until her birth when I wasn’t going to graduate anyway. I didn’t think I cared, but the day I dropped out was the day I stopped dreaming at night. Sleeping was just a break in my day. A way to pass time between worrying about providing for my baby. That’s why I named her Dream, because the day I found out I was p
regnant with her mine stopped. I figured I must have given them all to her.
For ten long hard years I struggled to make ends meet, which for me meant hopping from one man to the other. I’m not a whore—I was in relationships with all of these men. The same way I was in a relationship with Dominique, only this time I was the one doing the using. As far as I’m concerned, there are no fifty-fifty relationships. If you are with someone, you are either the user or the used. I promised myself I wouldn’t let no man ever take advantage of me again. So much for that.
Everything was fine for ten years. I’d have a boyfriend, and he’d pay all my bills and shit for a year. Then he’d get frustrated because I was still exploring my options. It’s like a car. You can only drive one at a time, but just because you get a new car don’t mean you should sell the old one. You simply put it in the garage for safekeeping. My garage was full, and if a nigga didn’t like it, he knew where the door was—hell, he paid for the door. Those were the days. Every woman I knew my age and younger was a single mother, and struggling. I didn’t have to work, worry, or wonder—I knew someone was going to take care of me. Then I had to go and fuck it all up.
Tyron was his name, but people called him “Pie”—the girls ’cause he was “fly as pumpkin pie,” and the boys ’cause they said he was sweet. Nigga wasn’t good for nothin’. All he did was smoke and fuck—anything, but I won’t get into that. He just had to have me. I was so used to getting horny over the size of a man’s wallet, I forgot what it was like to be turned on by his face. Pie was the sexiest thing I’d seen in a long time, and it felt good just to let myself go for once. To have sex because I wanted to, not because Dream needed school clothes. The condom broke, and nine months later JD popped up.
Pie was a deadbeat dad. Probably worse than mine. At least mine stayed out of sight, and out of the way. Pie would come over, and hold JD, talking about how he was going to take him here and take him there; talkin’ about how he was going to teach him basketball, take him to the park, and buy this and that. That was fine, but then he’d disappear for weeks, sometimes months, at a time. He’d pop up again out of nowhere, making the same empty promises for next time. And after JD was born, believe me he really wasn’t doin’ nothin’ but making promises. Much as I tried to give Dream and JD a lil brother or sister, Pie was resisting. He said he ain’t want no more kids. I said I got protection. He still said no. I should have known then. It ain’t too many niggas that can reject this. He said he “just wanted to be a good father.” I told him that if holdin’ a baby is all it takes to be a father, then we don’t need Montel or Maury now, do we? I couldn’t figure out why Pie even bothered to court me in the first place. Then came the day I ran out of Pampers.
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