Authors: Niobia Bryant
Show and Tell (7 page)
Chapter Eleven
Dom
I
got fuckin' troubles.
got fuckin' troubles.
My job finally gives me a fuckin' raise and then has the nerve to up Kimani's daycare fees talkin' 'bout the fees is based on my income. Ain't that 'bout a no-good bitch? I ain't gone front. My share of the rent, my car note and insurance, plus daycare is kickin' my ass. Kimani needs clothes and shit. I need clothes. Shit, I'm already sellin' half my food stamps to help with my bills. I ain't never had to struggle like this and I grew up in the fuckin' projects.
For the last couple of weeks my ass been thinkin' 'bout a new job but hell more income mean more daycare fees. I'm 'bout sick of the rock
and
the fuckin' hard place. Can a bitch get a break? Or do a bitch need to give herself the damn break?
and
the fuckin' hard place. Can a bitch get a break? Or do a bitch need to give herself the damn break?
I parallel park in between a bright yellow Tahoe and a Sebring. I didn't have no business here but here I am. I look out the passenger window at the buildin' tryin' to get the nerve to get out my car.
My cell phone rings and I pick it up from the passenger seat. Corey's smilin' face fills the screen. I don't want to feel all soft and shit about him calling me. Our shit ain't supposed to be this way.
“Hey.”
“Whassup, Sensual Chocolate?”
I smile at his nickname for me. This short, big-dick motherfucker always makes me smile and right now I can use it. “Nothin'. Whaddup with you?” I ask as I crank up the car and turn on the heat. Jersey in the winter is cold as hell.
“You in your car?” he asks. “You bringing my pussy over here to me?”
My eyes dart to the left as two hooded men walk past my car. My ass is tense as hell 'til they out of my eye range. Fuck that. I ain't tryin' to get carjacked or some shit. “
Your
pussy?” I ask, with my eyes still on the rearview mirror.
Your
pussy?” I ask, with my eyes still on the rearview mirror.
“Damn right,” he answers with authority.
“Nigga, you trippin'. You ain't my man.”
“But I wanna be your man.”
Uh-oh. Oh no. Here we go again.
“Let me call you right back,” I say suddenly, wantin' to change the subject as I grab my purse and get out my car. I shiver. It's even colder at night and right now the winter season is bitin' like a bitch.
“Before you hang upâ'cause I know your ass ain't gone call me backâI want you to let me take you out tomorrow night.”
“That's Valentine's,” I protest.
“And?”
Holidays. Dates. Phone calls. Relationship. What part of fuck buddies don't his ass get?
“I'm walkin' in the store. I'll call you back,” I lie as I push the remote to lock the car.
Ba-boop
.
Ba-boop
.
“If you don't call me back I'ma put your ass on dick knock off,” he says in a joking voice.
I don't even take his ass seriously. “Bye, Corey.”
I close the phone and drop it into my bag as I step up onto the curb. The wind whips around me. The street is dark except for the flashing neon sign. Club XXXCite. I look at my reflection in the dark glass. I feel alone. So fucked up. Like I'm backtrackin' or some shit. But I feel like I ain't got no choice either.
Then why is it so hard for my ass to go in?
I light a cigarette and smoke that whole motherfucker plus another one. My hands and ears are cold. My leather jacket ain't doing shit to block the cold. My feet are freezin' standin' in the pissy snow. As men walk inside the club, the loud music and flashing lights come out the door. It's fuckin' money to be made up in that bitch but so much more to be lost.
I drop the lit cigarette and crush it into the grayish snow with the tip of my boot before I walk inside the club. It's dark as hell and it takes a minute for my eyes to get used to it. The smell of liquor, weed, and body is familiar as hell to me.
“Whaddup, Juicy!”
I smile at the tall and muscular bodyguard dressed in all black. “Whaddup, Dogg.”
He wraps one beefy arm around me and pulls me close as hell for a hug. When he slaps my ass I feel like grabbin' his nuts in my hand and pulling down 'til he screams like a bitch. “Where's Vic?” I ask instead as I follow Dogg to the circular bar in the center of the club.
“He opened a new spot on Sixteenth Avenue so I'm kinda runnin' this one while he gets that one all straightened out and shit.”
Dogg's breath smells like somebody's ass and I wonder which one of these dancers he done ate the fuck out. He use to treat the girls like they were his personal pussy playland and he probably still do. “Well I want to make some money,” I tell him as I squint my eyes and peep the shit goin' on in this motherfucker.
Dancers in nothing but thongs and g-strings with titties hanging as they lap dance for the money. Two dykes are butt naked on the stage 'bout to let everyone in on the shit they supposed to do behind closed doors. In the corner dollar bills are flying up in the air from a crowd of hot boys watching some bitch booty clappin'.
Same-o-same-o I left behind.
“For tips only?” Dogg asks as he raises a shot to his mouth.
“Like some new bitch?” I ask, kinda insulted. “You know what Juicy can do.”
“Well, I ain't seen Juicy in a minute so I don't remember,” he throws back at me.
“Put me on after the clit lickers,” I tell him before walkin' away from him.
I don't break my stride even when I see some random bitch under the table sneakin' this dude a blow job. I did smile when I thought of Cristal pullin' that same shit with her man in a restaurant. I ain't know she had it in her. Bitch swallowed and all.
Downstairs in the dressin' room, that same smell of funky feet, corn chips, and ass is still there. Most of the dancers are upstairs but I turn the corner by the beat-up lockers and see asses in the air as two dancers are bent over and snorting something from the counter. The sight of them gettin' high makes me anxious. It would be so easy to walk over there do a line and forget my money problems for a little while.
One of the girls stands up and almost stumbles on her five-inch heels. She turns. It's Candy. I frown a little. When I used to work here she was my weed partner. Me and this bitch could smoke four blunts straight without blinkin'.
The way she looks right now scares the shit out of me.
Powder is on the tip of her nose. Her eyes are so glassy and kinda yellow. She done lost weight. Her makeup is smeared and shit. This bitch look like . . . a junkie. Straight the fuck up.
Candy looks right at me but I know she so high she don't even recognize me. “Wanna hit?” she asks me. Her words is all slurred together as she stumbles back onto the edge of the counter. She reaches out with her hand and it lands in the residue. She laughs and raises her hand to lick the dope from her fingers.
I watch her and I feel hungry for it. My body is callin' for it. I want to lick her fingers, the counter, hell, the floor if some is down there on it. I want to get high
so
fuckin' bad.
so
fuckin' bad.
I ain't gone never stop wantin' it?
I turn and run the hell out of there, almost trippin' as I try to get my ass up them fuckin' stairs.
Go. Go. Go.
I tell myself as I run through the club knockin' some big tittie bitch over as I fly out the damn door. As soon as I feel the cold air surround my body I stop and just fuckin'
breathe
. Cold air ain't never tasted so good. Bein' out of that strip club ain't never felt so good. It's like I was drownin' and finally breakin' through the water for some fuckin' air.
Go. Go. Go.
I tell myself as I run through the club knockin' some big tittie bitch over as I fly out the damn door. As soon as I feel the cold air surround my body I stop and just fuckin'
breathe
. Cold air ain't never tasted so good. Bein' out of that strip club ain't never felt so good. It's like I was drownin' and finally breakin' through the water for some fuckin' air.
I can't go back. I can't. I
won't.
won't.
I walk quick as hell to my car and climb in. My hands are shakin' as I crank my car. I pull off just as them tears I'm fightin' rolls from my eyes.
Everything for me is a fuckin' battle.
Chapter Twelve
Cristal
“L
owe, Ingram, and Banks.”
owe, Ingram, and Banks.”
“Hello, Danielle. This is Carolyn.”
I look up from the message pad I was jotting on. “Hello, Mrs. Ingâ”
“Call me Carolyn, dear.”
“Uh, hello, Carolyn. If you will hold one second I will get you transferred in to Mr. Ingram.”
“Actually I was calling to speak to you.”
I pause. I am not quite sure how to take this lady. The charity event at the Waldorf-Astoria was two weeks ago. She hardly spoke to me there and I have not seen or heard from her since. I left the party confused as hell as to why she even invited me and I am confused as hell now that she wants to speak to me.
“How can I help you?”
“There's a celebrity charity luncheon tomorrow and I thought this would be a great event for you to attend with me.”
One of my shaped brows lifts slightly. “Why?” I ask in the nicest tone and manner possible.
“Why not?” she counters mysteriously.
I know the luncheon of which she speaks. I even read somewhere that Star Jones, Holly Robinson Peete, Kimora Lee Simmons, and many more are supposed to attend. Do I want to have a fabulous meal and rub elbows with these celebrities? Hell yeah.
“I have to work tomorrow.”
Carolyn laughs like I said the funniest thing in the world. “Oh dear, don't worry about that.”
“Can I get back to you?” I ask, pretending to sound young, dumb, and unsure. I want to go. Do not get me wrong. But I am a little tired of this woman jerking my chain and catching me off guard.
She paused for a noticeable moment before saying, “Get back to me but remember the early bird gets the worm, Danielle. In life you never give another bitch the chance to take your spot.”
Feeling properly reprimanded for not jumping all over her invitation, I still stick to my guns. “I had a prior engagement and I would not want to be rude and accept without making sure I can change my plans.”
She paused again. “Well, call me as soon as you can. Here's my cell number.”
Even as I am writing it down I am wondering if I upset her.
“Well, I have to go. I have a spa appointment. Danielle, make sure you make the right decision.”
The line goes dead.
I cannot explain what made me drive through Newark instead of hopping on the interstate to get to Mohammed's house. Newark is called the comeback city and I cannot disagree that some areas look better. The rough and rowdy crowd is gone on blocks where they used to rule the streets. Hard-working people now live in the townhouses that replaced ten story multi-apartment dwellings that bred apathy and crime (too many people in one spot is never a good thing).
Still, there is a lot more to be done for sure.
I turn my car on the corner of Nineteenth Avenue and Nineteenth Street. There is nothing but the remnants of the house left after the fire but in my mind's eye I can see it and my days in it so clearly . . .
“Danielle! What are you doing in there?”
I hear Mrs. Davies but I ain't listenin' to her. I'm too busy flippin' through the pages of magazines and imaginin' that their great lives, fancy cars, and pretty clothes on the pages are mine. The magazines are years old but I don't care.
I stay in the bedroom a lot. Most of the other foster kids are in the livin' room watchin' TV but I just want to be alone in here whenever I can. Sleepin' four to a bedroom is crazy. Ain't no space in this place that you can call your own. No secrets. No hidin' places. Just two bunk beds squeezed in these four walls. And between the four foster kids stayin' here there still ain't enough stuff to fill the closet and the drawers. Closet and drawers I don't use. Ain't no need shoving my few pants, couple of T-shirts, and my precious magazines in no drawers.
I been here for a year and I still ain't tryna call this place home. I done been down the road of gettin' comfortable and just havin' the rug snatched from under me when they come to take me to another house and another family that ain't my house or my family. Or another group home that don't feel nothin' like home.
The bedroom door swings open and Mrs. Davies walks in lookin' mad as always.
She already got bad ass kids of her own. I don't know why she asks for all these foster kids when she mad about it. Wait a minute. Yes I do. I know about the money they get for each of us. Humph.
“Where you get them magazines from? You steal them, girl?” she says to me in the nastiest voice. Dang on shame I been livin' here for a year and every time she see me readin' these same old magazines she ask that same dumb question.
I always gave her the same dumb answer.
“No ma'am, these my same old magazines.”
She bends down and snatches one from me, looks at the cover, sucks her teeth and drops it back down on the floor where I'm sittin' before she turns and leaves the room. Same-o-same-o.
I shrug and go back to readin'. I compared sequin gowns to my washed out T-shirt and high-heeled sandals to my no-name sneakers with the big Velcro straps across the top. These black stars talkin' 'bout big mansions and lots of cars and I had my squeaky bottom bunk bed.
I got dreams. I promised myself that I can't do nothin' 'bout this now but I ain't gone be poor forever. There's a better life out there for me and I'm gonna find it.
It was hard growing up and knowing nobody wanted to adopt me and my foster parents mainly had me and the others there for the money. I guess I was lucky to stay in that same foster care until I turned eighteen instead of getting bounced around some more. Still, I never did let myself feel like it was my home. And I never gave up on my dreams . . . until now.
I love Mohammed. I really do but I still feel like there are greater things out there for me to see and to have. Sometimes it feels like loving him made me forget my dreams. My ambition.
There's a better life out there for me and I'm gonna find it.
Why can't I have it all?
I take my foot off the brake and steer my car up Nineteenth Avenue and make a left on Eastern Parkway towards the other side of town to the Weequahic section. I hardly notice the people, the lights, or even the cars I pass as I make my way to Mohammed. He has a surprise for our Valentine's Day and I am ready to be with my man.
Still, my mind is on that luncheon tomorrow. What would it hurt to go?
As I sit to the light on the corner of Clinton Avenue and Eastern Parkway, I reach in my purse for my cell phone. I scroll through my address for Carolyn (yes, I programmed her number in my phone).
It rings just once.
“Hello, Danielle.”
“How did you know it was me?”
She laughs lightly. “I only give my cellular number to friends and your number is the only one I don't recognize. So . . . have you made up your mind?”
“Yes. I would love to go.”
“No conflicting appointments?” she asks a little mockingly.
The light turns green and I make the left turn onto Clinton Avenue. “No.”
“Good. Take the whole day off and get yourself all beautiful for the luncheon. In fact, I will call Saks and let them know you will be by in the morning to purchase a new outfit . . . on me, of course.”
My mouth falls open. “Wow. Thank you. Thank you so much, Mrs. Ingâ. Carolyn,” I tell her as I steer the car with one hand and hold my cell phone with the other.
“Of course, no worries, dear. I will send my car to pick you up in the morning to run your errands and bring you to the luncheon.”
“I do not know what to say, Carolyn,” I say as I turn my car onto the driveway behind Mohammed's battered SUV.
“No worries,” she says in a dismissive tone. “I have to go. Valentine's Day and all. There's a dick to be sucked and fucked and gifts to be plucked. I'm sure you understand.”
I laugh. “Yes, I do.” After I climb from the car I grab the gift bag holding the silk pajamas and sex toys I brought for Mohammed and me tonight.
“See you tomorrow, dear.”
“Bye-bye.” I can hardly believe my luck. I just found my own fairy godmother. Just call me Cinderella-ella-ella-eh-eh-eh.
I close my phone just as I jog up the stairs and use my key to walk into the house.
Surprise and pleasure stop me at the door. Candles and rose petals are everywhere and there by the fireplace atop a fake fur blanket is Mohammed, naked, hard, and ready with a red ribbon tied around his dick. I smile as I kick off my shoes and close the door. By the time I reach him, I have stripped off my clothes and I am laying down beside him just as naked as I please to unwrap my gift.
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