by Cairo
He’ll call back, I think, watching Felecia at the door, trying to maneuver carrying a Dunkin’ Donuts bag and her morning dose of Hazelnut coffee while digging into her Michael Kors python-trimmed leather hobo bag for the door keys. I walk over and open it for her.
“Thanks,” she says, walking in, then shutting the door with the back of her foot. “You’re here awful early this morning.”
“Yeah, I have a nine-thirty.”
“Oh, I thought your first appointment wasn’t until noon.”
“It was,” I tell her, walking over to my workstation, “but Bianca called last night and asked if she could come in this morning.”
“Oh, okay. She hasn’t been in here in a while.”
“Yeah, and I’m sure her ends are a hot-ass mess, too. She keeps cancelling her appointments.”
“I guess that baby’s been keeping her busy.”
“I guess so,” I say, glancing up at the wall clock. It’s 8:55 a.m. “I know one thing. I hope she doesn’t come waltzing up in here all late and wrong. I coulda stayed in bed a little longer.” I yawn, covering my mouth. “Oooh, ’scuse me.”
“Sounds like someone had a late night.”
I shake my head. “Not hardly,” I lie. “For some reason I couldn’t get to sleep last night. And when I finally did, it was time to get up again.”
She opens up her bag and starts digging inside. She pulls out a bottle. “Here, I have some NoDoz if you need them.”
I chuckle. “Thanks, but no thanks. I’ll be alright.”
“Okay,” she says. “Girl, I almost forgot. Did you hear about what happened to Cassandra?”
I make a face, confused. “Cassandra? Cassandra who?”
She sucks her teeth, sitting her coffee down on the counter. “You know Cassandra. Cassandra Simms.” I shake my head, still clueless. “Uh, hello…Big Booty.”
“Oh, why the hell didn’t you say that? I only know that ho by her street name.”
When Cassandra was in middle school, all the high school niggas started calling her Big Booty ’cause she had a tiny waist, peach-sized titties and this humongous, bubblicious ass that bounced and shook when she walked. Niggas would be sniffing behind her, drooling and whatnot, all mesmerized by the size of her ass. And she’d have them eating out of the palm of her hand—and crack of her ass—for a ride in it. And not a damn thing’s changed. Her body is still tight, and that ass of hers is still bouncing and shaking niggas out of their minds. The only thing is the bitch is mildly retarded. Well, I don’t know that for a fact, if she is or not. But she definitely seems a bit special. I do know, growing up, she spent a lot more time on her back and in the back seats of cars than she did in those remedial classrooms she was supposed to be in. And now all she has to show for her big, juicy ass is nine brats, six baby-daddies, an EBT card, and Section 8 housing. Oh, but she keeps her and her kids laced in all the fly shit, keeps her hair and nails done like clockwork, and is driving a new GTS Cadillac SUV. But has no savings. What a trifling mess!
“No, what happened to her? Don’t tell me she’s pregnant, again.” It was more of a statement than a question.
She laughs. “No, her hot ass ain’t pregnant, again. But she’s laid up in the hospital.”
“What happened?”
“She was fucking some young, hood nigga from around her neighborhood, and his girl done went to her house to confront her, then ended up slicin’ the side of her face wit’ a razor.”
“What, are you fucking serious?” I ask, shocked. Not at the fact that Big Booty got her face slashed—although that’s fucked up, but the idea that bitches are still pulling out razors and slicin’ faces is too extra for me.
“Chile, that ain’t the half of it. Her three oldest kids jumped on the chick and beat her ass into the ground. They kicked and stomped her all up in her face and whatnot and now her head’s the size of a pumpkin.”
I give her an incredulous look. “OhmyGod, are you serious?”
“Baaaaby, serious as a damn heart attack; they dragged her ass something terrible.
“Big Booty had to get ninety-seven stitches to her face, her kids got arrested, and the girl’s in the hospital with a concussion, broken nose, and fractured eye sockets.”
“Wow,” I say, shaking my head. “I hope that dick was worth it. Is she still messing with those credit cards?”
“Yeah; and she done got buck wild wit’ ’em, too. I think she’s addicted to the shit.”
I shake my head. Her ghetto ass’s been fucking with stolen credit cards for almost four years, thanks to some scam artist-slash-hood-nigga she used to fuck with. He showed her how to make a buncha purchases, then sell the shit on the streets. Then when his ass got knocked on burglary and theft charges, she started going to his connect to make moves on her own. Unfortunately, the nigga wanted some pussy and head from her ass, so she eventually started sucking and fucking him to ensure the cards kept coming in.
I look over at the door as it opens. Bianca walks in. She looks fabulous. “Girl, motherhood must be all that,” I say as she removes her coat. She’s stylishly dressed in a pair of tight-fitting jeans that leave nothing for the imagination. She has them tucked into a banging pair of chocolate knee-high boots. And she has a cute, form-fitting brown and beige sweater that hugs her full breasts, and narrow waist. There’s not one ounce of baby fat on her. You’d never know she recently gave birth. “You look good, boo.”
She laughs, walking over toward me. “Thanks,” she says as she sits in the styling chair. “I never thought I’d be the one saying this, but motherhood is all that and some.” Her eyes light up as she speaks. “My son is my pride and joy. I am so in love with him.”
“Oh, I can tell. Girl, I’m happy for you. And your baby daddy?” I ask, teasing.
She blushes. “He’s a great father, and a wonderful man.”
“Ohhhhhkaaaay, so does this wonderful man have a name?” I ask, tying my apron on, then wrapping the shampoo cape around her neck.
“Garrett,” she tells me, smiling. She lifts her left hand and flashes me her ring finger. She’s wearing a glittering two-and-a-half carat princess cut engagement ring set in 18k white gold.
I gasp, clutching my chest. “OhmyGod, girl, your ring is gorgeous.”
To be honest, I’m still shocked over the fact that her ass had a baby, and now to learn she’s engaged. Talk about surprises. Not that we’ve ever been close friends, but when you’re someone’s hairstylist for as long as I’ve been hers, you start to develop a certain rapport. And, although Bianca has always been a very private woman, we’ve had conversations over the years about men and relationships and whatnot. And she’s shared some things to me about her personal life. Not much, though. But there were two things she was clear on: One, she had no use for men, or a serious relationship with one; and, two, she had no interest in having children.
“My how fast things have changed,” I say, leaning her back at the sink. I turn the water on, make sure it’s the right temperature, and then begin wetting her hair. “What ever happened to your ’I’m Done with All Men’ speech?” I ask as I’m shampooing her hair.
“Girl, life happened,” she says, smiling. “A handsomely stubborn man came into my life and refused to be pushed aside, or dismissed. And, in the end, he won me over.”
I smile, genuinely happy for her. She tells me how the pregnancy was unexpected and how she had thought about having an abortion, but couldn’t go through with it. About how she thought about not telling him about the baby and raising it on her own, but felt that keeping it from him wouldn’t have been fair to him because he had the right to know.
“Sounds like you did the right thing,” I tell her, wrapping a towel around her head, then sitting her up in her seat.
She nods. “Yes, I did. I can honestly say I have no regrets.”
I smile, understanding all too well her comment.
As I’m giving her a deep moisturizing conditioning, Shuwanda walks through the door. She spea
ks—actually mumbles—as she heads toward her workstation. And as usual she looks pissed off about something. But what do I care about her moody ass. She brings in a lot of money so she can mope around here every-damn-day if she wants, as long as she keeps her appointment book full. I don’t bother to ask what’s wrong ’cause: One, she’s the type of chick who likes attention; two, I’m not in the mood to know; three, everything is always a damn crisis for her; and four, if I ask her what’s wrong, she’s going to say “nothing” any-damn-way. So why even bother. That bitch is real pitiful, I think, combing out Bianca’s hair. It has gotten thick and is now almost past her shoulders since she’s had the baby. But her ends are a hot mess! Just like I said they’d be. Lucky for her, there’s not a lot of damage.
I part Bianca’s hair into thin sections, then run it through my middle and ring finger. “Girl, you haven’t been in here in months, and these ends are showing it,” I say, pulling out my scissors.
“I know, girl.”
I add, “You should really have your ends trimmed every eight weeks or so.”
She winces at the thought, like so many other chicks who come into my shop. But they realize I know my shit when it comes to hair. I’m not like some stylists who are “scissor happy.” If I tell you I’m going to trim your hair, that’s exactly what I do. One-quarter to a half-inch; that’s it. You will leave this chair with a trim, not a haircut, unless that’s what you specifically ask for.
“So when’s the big day?” I ask Bianca.
“We haven’t actually set a date, yet. But if Garrett had his way we’d be married—yesterday.”
I laugh. “He sounds like Jasper. Every time we talk, he’s asking”—I dip into a deep voice, mimicking him—“’when we doin’ this, yo?’”
She laughs. “Speaking of that fiiiine-ass man of yours,” Bianca says, “he should be coming home soon, right?”
Everyone knows Jasper’s locked up, so it’s no secret that I’ve been more or less a prisoner’s wife for the last four years. I nod. “Girrrrl, not soon enough. This shit has been hectic.”
“I’m sure it has,” she says, lowering her voice. “Personally, I don’t know how you’ve done it. Lord knows I don’t think I could have been as devoted and committed as you’ve been.”
“Chile, it requires a whole lot of patience and a drawer full of double-A batteries.”
She chuckles. “Good thing it’s almost over.”
“You got that right.”
Shuwanda butts in. “Girlfriend’s good ’cause I couldn’t do it either. Melvin knows if his ass gets knocked, someone else is gonna eventually be taking his spot. This kitty needs to be stroked every two to three days; otherwise it starts clawin’ my insides out. So ain’t no way I’d ever be able to go four years, hell four weeks, without sex.”
Bitch, every other week someone else is taking his spot. I keep my mouth shut.
“I’m with you on that,” Bianca says, shaking her head. “It’d drive me crazy.”
The door opens and in comes this very attractive, brown-skinned female I’ve never seen before. Behind her is this deliciously, tall, dark nigga with a neatly trimmed beard and dreads. He takes a seat while the chick is at the receptionist desk talking to Felecia. I cut my eye back over at the dude.
For a brief moment, he looks vaguely familiar to me. Damn, I know I’ve seen him somewhere, I think, taking another section of Bianca’s hair and running it through my fingers. I snip the ends; then, again, maybe not. I erase the thought from my head as she walks over to him, then kisses him lightly on the lips. Clearly marking her territory and letting the rest of the bitches in the room know—he’s taken. Shuwanda waves her over.
“New customer?” I ask her, knowingly.
She nods. “Yeah, we met a few weeks back. Her daughter goes to my son’s school.”
Very good, I think, smiling. Keep them dollars coming in. She smiles and says hello to everyone. Shuwanda introduces her as Robyn. I give her a warm welcome; introduce myself as the owner, then bring my attention back to Bianca. She quickly changes the subject, asking if we’ve set a wedding date, yet. I tell her no.
Robyn asks, “How long have you been engaged?”
“Almost four years,” I tell her. I can almost see her thinking how crazy that is. “I know. It’s been an extra long engagement.”
“Oh, I totally understand. James and I have been engaged for almost three years. But we finally set a date.”
“Good for you,” I say. “Is that him sitting over there?”
She nods, beaming.
Shuwanda lowers her voice and says, “Giiiirrl, he’s fine.”
“Thanks,” she says, smiling. “I really have to admit, I got me a damn good man.”
Alicia walks by, ear hustling as usual. She stops, puts one hand on her wide hip, and says, “Chile, and a good man is hard to come by; especially one that doesn’t come with a bunch of unnecessary baggage and bullshit. Or one who wants to cheat on you or beat you.”
Shuwanda adds, “Or wants you to be his momma.”
“Or is too damn emotionally needy,” Alicia adds.
“Wellllllll,” I say, raising my hand in the air. “Sounds like ya’ll trying to get service started up in here. ’Cause you preaching.”
Robyn’s smile widens as she retrieves her phone and begins to text. “Thank God, I don’t have to deal with any of that. I am truly blessed.”
“Amen to that,” Bianca cosigns.
A few minutes later, I peep her “blessing” getting up and walking over toward us. Everyone practically stops what they’re doing, drooling as he makes his way over. My eyes are fixed on him as well, but I quickly shift them when he locks his eyes on mine. He speaks to everyone, and we all speak back.
Robyn digs in her bag and pulls out a set of keys. “By the time you get back, I should be almost done.”
“Aiight, I’ll be back in an hour. Ya’ll ladies take care.” He glances over at me on the sly.
I blink, blink again. Hearing his voice; watching his swagger, it hits me. OhmyGod, I had this nigga’s dick in the back of my throat.
FIVE
After all this time, besides not having steady access to Jasper’s dick, or being able to lay in his arms at night, I don’t know what I hate more about going to see him in prison—the drive or the painstaking process. When Jasper was at Rahway State…uh, I mean East Jersey State Prison, it wasn’t bad—the drive that is. Hell, we could fuck if we wanted. Not that we did ’cause there was no way I was going to play myself like that out in the open. But the opportunity to get at his dick was always there. But standing in a pen like cattle with a bunch of trifling-ass, ghetto bitches was a hot mess! And then these bitches wanna fight and argue about who cut the line, and who was standing where first. Oh, and let me not even get started on how them coons carried on once they got inside the visiting area. From hogging up the microwaves and talking shit about it—’cause you could get food out of the vending machines and heat it up—to sucking and fucking, they carried on. Straight niggerish!
Now, hold up. I’m not saying every chick who was out there to see their loved one was ghetto…but, baaaby, trust me. Most of them hoes were. Not to mention the fucking retarded-ass CO’s who I believe are hired to make the whole experience as miserable and as uncomfortable as they possibly can so you’ll get so pissed off that you don’t wanna come back. Miserable bastards! Still, being able to see Jasper whenever I wanted—at least three, sometimes four, times a week between window and contact visits—made all the extra shit I had to go through bearable.
But, now…mmmph, forget it. The drive alone is enough to make me sick! Jasper claims the only reason he put in for the transfer from Rahway to way down here in this Godforsaken hick town was to get into a halfway house faster. He completed some kind of TC—therapeutic community—drug program, and his application to a halfway house has finally been approved. Now he’s waiting to leave. And the good thing is he’ll be closer to home. But, shit! In the meantime I stil
l have to take this treacherous drive! Truth be told, I wish he would have kept his ass at Rahway. Oh, well.
I cut my eye over at Stax as I slow down and prepare to stop at a light. He’s laid all the way back in his seat knocked the hell out, lightly snoring. And that’s fine by me. I let my eyes roam all over his thick, muscular body longer than I should. I take in the sparkle of his diamond-crusted Rolex and pinky ring, then shift my eyes back on the road when the light turns green, making a left turn onto route 49. As soon as I turn right onto Burlington Road, he wakes up.
“Damn, ma, you aiight?”
I glance over at him. “Yeah, I’m fine. How’d you sleep?”
“Like a newborn baby,” he says, smiling while adjusting his seat upward.
“A newborn?” I repeat, laughing. “More like a wild boar.”
He laughs with me. “Sorry ’bout that, ma. I didn’t mean to crash out on you like that. I planned on keeping you company.”
“The way you were snoring,” I tease, “I knew you had to be tired. So, trust me. It’s quite alright. Besides, I’m used to taking this ride by myself.” I can feel him staring at me. I glance over, arching my brow. “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”
He shakes his head, smiling. “Nah, I was just thinkin’.”
“About?”
“How beautiful you are.” I blush, shifting in my seat; visibly uncomfortable by his remark. He notices this and says, “No disrespect meant, ma. I’m sayin’. You mad cool, that’s all. And you got flava that I’m sure got the nigga’s sweatin’ you, hard.”
I force a smile. “I don’t know about all that. But thanks for the compliment.”
“You’re a good woman, Pash.” This is the only nigga outside of Jasper who I actually let call me that. Anyone else, I’ve always checked. But him…I don’t know, I guess it’s the way he says it in that Ja-Rule-sounding voice of his. “I hope Jasp knows how lucky he is.”