I eye her. “I’m being pleasant. Tried to show you all respect. Why must you call me out of my name?”
“Come up here like you ’bout to do something,” the same girl replies. “I wish you would.”
“Somebody is fiddin’ to get cut with that nonsense,” the other girl says. “We don’t play. We go all in, if necessary.”
“I don’t think that’ll be necessary,” I say.
“Whatever you say, Paris,” she snarls.
“Paris?”
“Hilton, bitch,” she says. “Don’t act like you don’t know.” She wrinkles her nose. “With your proper-talking ass. Straight-up white girl. You make me sick.”
Looking back later, I’ll realize this as the point I should have cut my losses and left. Before it got too emotional.
But I don’t.
I turn to Melyssa. “I was hoping this wouldn’t get ignent. But…”
Melyssa drops her cigarette, stomps it, eyes me. Doesn’t say a word.
Trying to intimidate me, I guess.
“What’s it gonna be?” I ask.
She eyes me some more, then head-nods toward my car. “Let’s go chill over there. I’ll give you your minute. But that’s all you getting. I got places to be, and things to do.”
“We be watching,” one of her girls says.
I ignore that. Turn and head back toward my car, Melyssa on my heels. Behind me. My guard down. I realize that but keep up my confident walk. Don’t want her to know I’m scared.
And I am.
When we reach my Acura, Melyssa touches the hood. “I ain’t gonna front. I’m feelin’ this.”
“Don’t get too attached. You’ve enjoyed enough of my…stuff.”
“Ain’t it the truth.”
“Don’t play me.”
Melyssa smiles, looks at me, bats her eyes innocently. “And whatever might you have been referring to, about your stuff, Nigeria?”
“Kenya,” I say.
Melyssa sneers. “Whatever. Knew it was one of them wack-ass African countries with the crispy black n-----running around with bones in their noses.”
“Self-hate,” I say. “That’s sad. Explains why you do the things you do, though.”
Melyssa smirks, shakes her head. “You a trip, Britney.”
Britney.
A white girl’s name.
Melyssa’s idea of an insult. Paris, Britney, she can call me what she wants. That doesn’t hurt me.
“I really don’t have any beef with you,” I say.
“Good thing for you,” Melyssa says. “’Cause I’d beat dat ass.”
I nod. “Donnell screwed you and kept it moving. It is what it is. I just have some questions. I was hoping you’d answer ’em.”
Melyssa’s eyes tighten. “You tryna play me, Libya?”
She’s smarter than she lets on. Sad we have to dumb ourselves down to fit in. I’ve done that for as long as I can remember. But no more. It ends today.
“You don’t need me to play you, Melyssa,” I say.
She doesn’t catch the insult in my words. Or lets it go.
She waves a hand dismissively. “Don’t catch feelings over the Donnell thing. It was just a nut for the both of us.”
What a lady.
Donnell picked well.
“Can I ask my questions?” I ask.
“Fire away.”
I wince. Same thing Donnell said.
That hurts.
Any similarity between him and this hoodrat. Hurts.
“Was there ever any feelings between you two before you hooked up?”
“Nope.”
“You sure?”
“Positive, Namibia. I mean, dude is cute and all. To himself, don’t bother nobody. Different than a lot of these dudes. So I always noticed him. But Donnell ain’t really my type when it all comes down to it. I like a dude with a li’l more hair on his…Well, you know. Tougher. Donnell’s straight-up soft. I couldn’t put up with that for too long.”
I put aside my anger. That’s my Donnell she’s talking about.
My Donnell.
Damn.
“How did you two end up…doing what you did, then?”
Melyssa shrugs. “You know how that goes. Things happened.”
“Where did y’all hook up?”
“His crib. I’m sure he told you that.”
I nod. “How many times?”
Melyssa smiles. “Gettin’ all CSI with it. I ain’t mad at ya. Double check those facts, girl.”
CSI.
Wish Lark was with me.
“How many times?” I repeat.
“Twice.” Melyssa smiles. “He was a little fast the first time.” She sucks her teeth. “I ain’t really get mines. So I went in again.”
I swallow.
Do I even want these answers?
I do.
I must.
“You used protection?” I ask.
She sucks her teeth, frowns at me. “No glove, no love. I don’t do that bareback. In these days, sheeit, that’s crazy. That’s some suicide shit right there.”
So was promiscuity. But I wasn’t about to point that out to her.
“You want to be with him?” I ask.
“Is you deaf? You heard what I said.”
“Do you?”
“He’s yours. I’m good.”
“What did it all mean to you? Being with him?”
She sighs. “Nada. Not much, Condoleeza. Geesh.”
“So you’re not planning on making any more plays for him?”
She smiles. “It wasn’t all that. I’m good. I need a twist, I got other connections, believe me.”
I have one more question.
It may get my eyes scratched out.
“Don’t you want more for yourself?” I ask.
She eyes me a moment. I notice a slight tremble in her frame. It lasts only a split second. She straightens her posture. “Nope. I’m good. Don’t want for nothing.” Pause. “We done, Ghana?”
“Yes.”
Melyssa turns, walks away.
Sexy walk. I could see how a dude could get caught up.
She’s pretty. Smarter than she lets on, like I said.
I watch her reach the other side of the street. She walks right past her two girls. They eye me angrily, then turn and follow down behind her. I disturbed something in Melyssa’s thoughts. I’m disturbed, too. She’s not interested in standing on the corner anymore.
Tears are in my eyes. I get in my Acura.
I pull away from the curb so emotional because of that brief conversation with Melyssa and my situation with Donnell that I don’t look in my sideview mirror, don’t see the delivery truck barreling down the street, hidden in my blindspot, until it smacks into me. The sound of metal pulling from metal and shattered glass lets me know a bad day just got worse.
“Pumpin’ on my chest and I’m screamin’
I stop breathin’, damn I see demons
Dear God, I wonder can ya save me
I can’t die my Boo-Boo’s ’bout to have my baby”
Snoop Dogg, “Murder Was the Case”
Chapter 12
Fiasco
A journalist from Vibe magazine called. She wanted an interview with Fiasco. It had been a while since his music had gotten any national exposure. A small article buried in the Source, maybe three years before, was the last thing he even remembered. Vibe magazine wanted to rap with him? Of course Fiasco said yes. The writer wanted to talk about the current climate in hip-hop. A subject Fiasco had a lot of opinions on. He was game. More than game. He’d talk. Talk plenty.
He was good at that. Talking.
Talkin’ crap, especially.
That had been Fiasco back in the day, a natural at it. And he could back it up, too, easily. Violence wasn’t nothing but a thing for him, coming up in Camden. If he had a penny for every head he’d cracked, he wouldn’t have to ever rock a mic again, he’d have himself a fortune. And girls. He’d gotten much love from the
females ’cause he knew what to say to get them in a down-for-whatever mood. Talkin’ crap. He had swagger in spades, everything ’bout him screamed that he was someone, a VIP. How he walked, the stylish way that he dressed, just his overall presence. The females couldn’t say no.
And he couldn’t stop himself from indulging.
He remembered one, as he sat reflecting with the Vibe journalist.
He’d been extra bold with her. He’d run up on her in a club, as usual.
“I can tell you ain’t ever been loved good,” he’d told her.
By loved he meant sexed.
“No?” She smiled. Intrigued. They all were.
“Uh-uh. You most definitely haven’t.”
“How ya figure?”
He’d nodded at her waist. “Your hips.”
“What about ’em?” She’d looked down at herself, smoothed her skintight dress. Her body was right. What was he talking about? But he got her to thinking just the same. Maybe she needed to get herself a membership to Curves?
“You good and all that,” he’d said. “Don’t get me wrong. But your hips would be wider if a real n----ever put it on you for sure.” Talkin’ crap. “You got that slim waist, a nice fatty, but your hips is lacking,” Fiasco went on. “After I run through you’ll be on some J-Lo-slash-Beyonce.” After he’d said. Confidence. Swagger. And this was before he’d dropped a record. His first album was months away from release at that point.
“Is that so?” she’d said.
“No doubt.”
“How I know you ain’t just talking yap?”
“Real n-----do real things.”
She’d eyed him, hard. “I must be crazy, but I’m considering this.”
Fiasco smiled. “Coquetry then coitus.”
Webster’s Dictionary. He’d read the entire thing.
Every letter had a story with it.
“What’s that?” the female asked. “Them words?”
“Flirting then…loving.” He’d almost said the F-word, but edited himself. Keep it clean. He had her. No use messing it up by being too raw. Same principle he applied to his rhymes.
She nodded, impressed. “You got a vocabulary. What, you in college or something?”
The year 2000. The new millennium. He was twenty-one. Should have been graduating from Howard.
“Nah. I’m an MC,” he’d said.
MC. Not a rapper. MCs were artful, intelligent, expert with words, lyrically nimble.
Rappers weren’t necessarily on that level.
She’d frowned. “MC? What’s that?”
“I spit. Rock the mic. Rhyme.”
“A rapper?”
“Yeah,” he said, though it pained him.
“I ain’t ever seen you on MTV, BET,” she said. Smiled, proud of herself, as if she’d gotten one off on him.
“You will. Finishing up my album now.” Said it with a confidence that couldn’t be denied. “By the way, what’s your name?”
“Mona. You?”
“Fiasco.”
“Your government?” she said.
“Fiasco’s enough.”
Mona appraised him, head to toe. Crisp white sneakers, looked like they were right out of the box. Designer jeans that lay down perfectly over the sneakers. Black hoodie. And not some Wal-Mart nonsense, either. The stitching let her know it was expensive material. He smelled good, too. Cool Water, she believed. She looked him in his eyes. They had an Asian slant to ’em, but he was definitely black. Put her in mind of Tyson Beckford. She licked her lips. “Fiasco the rapper. You any good?”
Instead of nodding, he demonstrated. “When we speak it’s like vagina monologue/ you want what is mine as yours/ and that’s a minor flaw/ but we could shine or soar/ or I could rhyme some more/ convincing / you with every word/ to walk with me out the door.”
Off the top.
A freestyle.
Delivered with swagger, too.
Mona had gripped his hand and pulled him out of the club. Pulled him out. Their one-night stand lasted a couple of years. She’d been one of the better ones. Actually came to the studio as he was finishing up his album, offered her support as he recorded his word magic. Believed in him. Believed in him before he blew up.
Even Mya liked her.
And Mya didn’t like any of ’em.
But Fiasco was wild, then. He didn’t listen to Mya as much as he should have. One female wasn’t enough. Destiny Broadnax replaced Mona. Actually, she overlapped with Mona, but whatever. Destiny was beautiful, and wounded. Her five-year-old son had gotten killed the year before. Gang mess. Right on the sidewalk in front of Destiny’s mother’s place. The little boy playing with some action figures. Cut down when some fools drove by and sprayed the block, thwat-thwat.
Wrong place, wrong time.
The experience had warped Destiny.
She didn’t care about nothing; she went for it all.
Fiasco liked that; it reminded him of himself. He benefited from it. Destiny was down for whatever. He made sure “whatever” was usually an MC named Fiasco.
His second album had just dropped. A critical and commercial success. Write-ups in all the major mags. Vibe. The Source. A single getting heavy play on the urban stations. Nice little video on rotation on MTV, BET and VH1. His swagger was bigger than ever. The females loved him. Mona and Destiny had actually gotten in a fistfight over him. Destiny won. Wasn’t a female anywhere that wouldn’t throw down for a chance with Fiasco. He was a hot commodity with the females.
Dudes were another story.
Bunch of cats around his way were serious haters. He stayed away from Camden as much as possible, but he wasn’t a sellout Negro; he had to go back to the old neighborhood from time to time. Had to breathe that Camden air just to keep himself on point. Not that it helped with sales from where he really wanted them. It was cool the ladies liked his records, but he wanted the dudes to respect his flow, too. That was a lost cause. He didn’t get love from dudes anywhere. They complained that his music was too soft. Eventually he moved his focus. Screw ’em. They didn’t buy records anyway. The ladies did. And Fiasco had enough rugged nonsense in his life; why would he waste his energy spitting the same thing on a song? Let ’em hate.
He had fine-ass Destiny.
They got busy in motels most weekends he came home.
Didn’t even speak during the week. Didn’t really speak much in the motels, either.
But this one night, Destiny was in a talkative mood.
“How long were you in prison?” she asked.
Fiasco frowned. “Who said I was in prison?”
She’d glanced at him knowingly.
“A minute,” he admitted. Little over a year, over some foolishness. He’d learned.
“Tell me about it,” Destiny said.
Fiasco shook his head. “No, ma’am.”
Destiny pouted. “Bet that’ll help you sell records. Street cred.”
Fiasco plopped down on the bed, started disrobing. “I’m keeping all of that quiet. I’m gonna sell records ’cause my flow is tight.”
Destiny grunted.
“I’ve got skills,” Fiasco said. “That’ll prevail. Me getting locked up isn’t relevant.”
“Street cred,” Destiny said a second time.
Fiasco frowned. “Suppose I should walk around talking about all the times I’ve been shot at, too?”
Destiny seemed to shrink away from him at the mention of getting shot, dropped her eyes, got playful with her hands. He’d never seen her look shy like that before.
It turned him on.
“Come and get this Yao Ming,” he said.
Destiny seemed uncertain, but she moved to him, dropped to her knees. Fiasco closed his eyes. Destiny worked his pants off. They were shackled around his ankles. He felt the coolness of the room when she dropped his boxers. “Tell me about prison,” she said in a shaky voice.
On that again?
Fiasco kept his eyes closed. “A mistake. But I learned from
it. Grew. I read the dictionary, cover to cover. Learned a lot of words.”
“You learn a word for ‘stay completely still,’ n----?”
Fiasco felt more coolness. On his temple.
He opened his eyes.
Some strange dude stood beside him, gat resting on Fiasco’s head.
“Move one inch,” the dude growled, “and they’ll have to wipe you off the walls.”
It had gotten hot for Fiasco quick.
The air in the room was thick enough to spoon in a bowl. Fiasco wanted to wipe his brow. He didn’t. Sweat beaded on his skin.
“Okay if I pull my boxers and pants up?” he said.
A click sound reverberated through the room. The release of the gun’s safety. That meant no in gun talk. Fiasco spoke gun talk fluently. He left his boxers and pants around his ankles. Felt a tick in his blood.
Fiasco looked at the gunman. Big ugly dude. Had his hair pulled back in a ponytail so tight it Jet Li-ed his eyes. He was dressed head to toe in black. A worker bee.
“What’s this about?” Fiasco asked.
He had his ideas, of course. Dude turns his burner on you only two things it could ever be about, really. Money. Or some female. Dudes acted tough and whatnot, but a female could get the baddest n----twisted up in a second. Fiasco glanced over at Destiny. She stood stock-still in the corner of the room. Shocked, it seemed. It wasn’t about her.
“I ain’t hardly Bill Gates, son,” Fiasco said.
“I’ve heard otherwise,” said the Black Jet Li. “I want your ATM card. And your PIN.”
“Don’t even have—”
The gat pressed harder into Fiasco’s temple, bit into his skin. “Don’t lie, Fiasco. Don’t even.”
“I’m saying…” Fiasco searched his mind for something. “I can get you some money, though. But it’ll take me a minute. I don’t have it on hand like that.”
The Black Jet Li backhanded him. “Don’t play me. Destiny said your dumb ass keeps all your money in a savings account. And she said you be at the ATM several times a week.”
Fiasco’s head swam. He’d lost some of his sharpness since he’d started recording. Misread everything in this situation. He’d been set up.
He glanced at Destiny again, met her steely gaze. Something in her eyes said I’m sorry. Something in his return glance said Eff you. She turned away, trembled. Her eyes were moist. An actress. Playing a role. He’d fallen for her lines. And she’d betrayed him good.
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