Seven A.M., Monday morning, I am at the shop handling some last-minute things before the place starts buzzing with people. And as usual, Felecia is here in diva style, done up in all of her finery: white gold tennis bracelets, two carat diamond earrings, and a diamond choker. She’s wearing a sexy black and white BCBG Max Azria tunic dress and a bad-ass pair of four-inch black L.A.M.B. leather and suede strappy booties with twisting straps. Then to top it off she has on a damn multi-toned color bob style wig with a sweeping bang. I glance over at her sixteen-hundred dollar Ferragamo satchel she has propped up on the counter, shaking my head. This bitch is worse than me when it comes to handbags and wears. I swear she has enough clothes and accessories to open up her own boutique. Not that I have room to talk.
“I see you serving up another new look.”
“Oh, please,” she says, waving me on, “I just rolled outta bed and threw this on.”
I laugh. “Yeah, right. And you popped the tags, when? This morning?” She laughs, knowing I’m right. That’s the one thing we definitely have in common—our love for high-end fashion. The only difference—well, two differences—I’m not into all the different wigs and hairpieces, and I can now afford to buy my own shit. She, on the other hand, has a different type and style of wig for every day of the week and she still relies on her man, Andre, to keep her laced. I’m not hating, though. I was that same chick once.
The conversation shifts into her filling me in on all the things she forgot to mention last night when we spoke on the phone. She feeds me drops of new gossip. And for some reason, I cling onto every morsel. Like Alicia getting pissy drunk over the weekend and sucking off some stripper nigga’s dick in front of everyone at some chick’s bachelorette party. The image flashes through my mind and I feel myself becoming turned on. Then pictures of that nigga who walked up in here looking for me to suck his dick flash through my head and my mood shifts, but I don’t let on. My man said if I came through you’d hit me off with one of ya deep throat specials…Suck my dick, bitch!
I buck my eyes, shaking his words out of my head. “You have got to be kidding me,” I say, feigning disgust. But I know more than anyone that I am no better, or no different, than she is. At the end of the day, we’re both two dick-sucking whores.
“Now you know I don’t kid when it comes to the street news. And baby, Miss Hotbox was in rare form, I hear.”
“Well, how’d you hear about it?” She tells me Shuwanda was there, too. That they had gone to the party together. “Hmmph,” I grunt, knowing how Shuwanda’s messy ass moves. If she sees it, she’s telling it. “Say no more.”
She flips through the appointment book. “Alicia is my girl and all. But she really played herself. And I gotta say if what she did is true, I’ma be looking at her real sideways from now on.”
“Why?” I ask, twisting my face up. I’m surprised she would say something like that. Since she claims to be so nonjudgmental, believing people should be able to live and be who they are.
“Because…one, she has a man; two, she’s sucking off a nigga she doesn’t even know—a stripper at a party, no less; and three, it’s just straight nasty.”
“What? Sucking dick?” I ask, trying to play stupid.
She looks over at me, sucks her teeth. “No, sucking dick isn’t nasty. Topping off a nigga you don’t know is. Then to have a man on top of that…” she shakes her head, frowning. “…what kind of bitch would suck some nigga’s dick off, then roll up on her man like shit’s all good?” A bitch like me, I think, shifting my eyes. “Chile, that’s grounds for an immediate beat down.”
“I guess.”
She slaps the leather book shut, putting a hand on her hip. “You guess? Bitch, what kind of mess is that? Wait. Please tell me you don’t think that shit isn’t trifling?”
Now, I’m standing here trying to act as if I’m equally turned off by the whole random dick-sucking thing, but who am I to pass judgment on Alicia, or anyone else when I’m just as messy—or worse?
Felecia and I are very close and there’s typically no topic of discussion off limits between us, with the exception of my extracurricular oral activities. That’s a subject she and I will never have, especially now. It’s bad enough she recently asked me—again, which I found quite strange—if I’ve ever cheated on Jasper since he’s been locked up. And of course, as I did the first time she asked me this—I looked her dead in the eyes and told her a bold-faced lie. “Nope. I have no reason to.”
“Girl, good for you,” she said, sipping on her third Agave Margarita. We were at P.F. Chang’s for their happy hour, eating and drinking. “I don’t know how you do it. Personally, I’d be pulling my damn hair out if I had to go without sex. I’m sorry, I love Andre. But if his ass ever got locked up I’d have to have me some dick on-call until he got out. Fuck that. I’m not about to deprive myself of some cock just because a muhfucka can’t keep his ass out on the streets to handle his business in the sheets.”
I chuckled, licking the salt from around the rim of my Margarita glass, then taking a slow, deliberate sip. It was also my third drink, and I was starting to feel the effects of it. “Well, I’m not saying it’s been easy because it hasn’t. But with the help of a whole lot of batteries and a collection of toys, I get by.”
“Hmmph,” she grunted, scooping out another helping of brown rice, then arranging several shrimp over it. She puts a forkful of food in her mouth, then points her fork at me as she chews. “Girl, if the shoe were on the other foot, do you actually think Jasper would be so quick to keep his dick in his pants?”
“Of course not,” I say, grabbing a shrimp from her dish, then popping it in my mouth. “He’d probably be slamming his dick into something the same night.”
“So if you know that, why wouldn’t you want to get a little side action until he comes home?”
Truth be told, I wasn’t sure if she was asking me this to bait me—call it paranoid if you want, but I knew better than to give her anything other than my scripted truth. “Because it wouldn’t be worth it. I don’t need the headache.”
She stared at me, took another sip of her drink. “So, tell me this. Did Jasper tell you that you better not fuck around on him, or was he open-minded enough to realize that you’re a woman with needs and that if you’re going to do it, then do it discreetly and responsibly?”
I gave her a crazy-ass look, raising my eyebrow. “Girl, what you think?”
She laughed. “I know; stupid question. He probably said,”—she deepened her voice—“’Pasha, let me find out you giving up my pussy, and I’ma beat the dog shit outta you.’”
I crack up. “Exaaaaactly “
She sucked her teeth. “Niggas kill me. They can fuck and do whatever they want, but the minute they think we’re letting someone else get what they think belongs to them, it becomes a damn problem.”
“You ain’t never lied. You know how these niggas are.”
“Yep,” she said, eyeing me. “And Jasper’s the type of crazy-ass nigga who’d be more than happy to go back to prison if he ever found out some extra shit about you.”
I started choking on my drink. “OhmyGod, girl, don’t say no shit like that.”
“Well, it’s the truth.”
I sighed, shaking my head. “And you’re probably right. Hopefully,” I slipped, hoping she didn’t catch it, “That’ll never happen.”
“Hopefully? Bitch, whaddaya mean ’hopefully’? I thought you said you’ve never cheated on him.”
“I haven’t,” I quickly stated. “I was only saying. You know what I meant.”
She eyed me, then grunted. “Mmmph, let me find out…”
“Bitch, please. There’s nothing to find out. This pussy is sealed tighter than a fortress.”
She laughed, taking another sip of her drink. “Girl, you don’t have to convince me. I believe you. The question is: does ya man?”
“Want another round of drinks?” I asked, avoiding the question.
“I sure do,” she said, gulping down the rest of her Margarita. And for the remainder of the evening we ate, drank and laughed until it was closing time.
I bring my attention back to Felecia. “Girl, please. It doesn’t matter what I think, or you for that matter. Alicia’s a grown woman, making whatever choices she makes by her own free will. What she’s done or is doing has nothing to do with me.”
“Whatever. The shit’s still nasty to me.” She stuffs her bag into her drawer, then locks it. “Annnnnway, I meant to ask you. When’s the last time you went on Facebook?”
“It’s been months, why?”
“Girrrrrlfriend, you are missing out on the dirt. That chick who cut up Big Booty has been reading her for filth on Facebook, posting all kinds of messy shit about her on her wall. Somebody musta tagged Big Booty, and that shit got her cranked up. She turned around and posted all types of shit about what chick’s man used to do to her in bed, challenging her position as his woman and whatnot. And she even got the video of that chick getting stomped down by her kids posted on YouTube.”
“Are you serious?”
“Baaaaaaby, as a heart attack. They’ve been going at it hard for the last two days.”
I roll my eyes, disgusted. I mean, really…grown-assed women carrying on like dick-whipped school girls is beyond my reach. Whatever beef the two of them have, they need to handle that shit like adults instead of airing out each other’s personal business on some public site for all to see. I have two Facebook pages; one for me, and the other for the salon. And I rarely go on either. I think the last time I actually logged onto my personal page was about two months ago. That’s how far removed I am from it all. And, when I did go on it, half of the people who had requested me as a friend, I declined. And any notes I had, if they didn’t pertain to making money, I ignored.
“If you ask me,” I state, pulling open my BlackBerry and scrolling through my messages, “they both sound like two stupid bitches. Hmmph, I’m glad I don’t waste my time on that shit. Only sick bitches and niggas air out their personal business online.”
And only a sick bitch posts sex ads online, then goes off and has random sex with them. But that hasn’t stopped you. Now has it?
“Well, girl, as true as that may be. I looooove it!” she says, getting up from her seat. She glances at her profile in the mirror hanging on the wall behind the counter. “It keeps me in the loop with all the minute-to-minute details of the latest hood gossip. Them messy bitches make my day, boo.”
“Hmmph. Well, you can have it. And while you’re at it, how ’bout you make yourself useful and maintain the salon’s page, too, ’cause you know I can’t be so bothered with that mess.”
“I got you,” she says glancing at her watch, walking toward the front door. She opens the miniblinds, lets the morning light in. “Just give me the password and I’m on it.” Her iPhone buzzes. She walks back over to the counter and picks it up, then scrolls through it. “Hmmph. Alicia just texted me. She’s not coming in today.”
“I shouldn’t be surprised. Does she have any appointments scheduled for today?”
“Two. But they’re not until later this afternoon. I’ll call them to see if they want to reschedule or see someone else.”
“Okay, well let me let you do your thing,” I say, walking toward my office. “I’m gonna check the emails, then try to go through some of that mail that’s been sitting on my desk for the last few days before my appointment gets here.”
“Okey-dokey,” she says, watering the tropical plants situated around the shop.
I leave her to her task, going into my office. My cell rings. I pull it out of my bag, then glance at the screen, smiling. It’s my seventy-year-old grandmother who we lovingly call Nana. But for me, she’s more than Nana. She’s the woman who loved and nurtured me when my own mother couldn’t. Then she became the woman who would raise me after my father was murdered.
Quiet as it’s kept, because Nana refuses to admit it despite what everyone else in the family, and in the streets, has said about my father—he was a menace. Ralphie Allen, aka The Boogey Man—was a ruthless drug dealer and street bully who muscled up lower-level drug dealers, shaking them for their paper and product. And for the most part, he had niggas shook at some of his crazy antics, like tossing gasoline on someone for not coming up off their money and drugs, then setting them on fire, or biting off someone’s ear for ear-hustling in on a conversation he was having. He had gotten his street name because he was as black as night with dark piercing eyes and a menacing presence. He’d always do his dirt late at night, swooping down on his unsuspecting targets, beating, maiming and robbing them—in no particular order, instilling fear in them. Whomever he thought was caking up that week, could and would get it. So, niggas in the streets stayed strapped and ready; most of the time looking over their shoulders, knowing that The Boogey Man was somewhere lurking in the shadows. Unfortunately for him, he strong-armed the wrong niggas and ended up getting gunned down. My father died of multiple gunshot wounds to the head and chest. I was eleven.
Then, in 1999, my mother was murdered in a car-jacking incident where three men approached her at gunpoint for her ’98 Porsche 911 GT1. When the police finally recovered the car—four days later, her body was found tied up in the trunk. The autopsy showed she had been killed by two bullets to the head. I was twenty.
With no questions asked, Nana opened her heart and doors to both me and Felecia, losing both of her own children—my father, and Felecia’s mother—to drugs in one way or another. In many ways, Nana tried to shelter us and kept us in church, hoping to keep Felecia and me from becoming wayward, like our parents. Though she was strict, she was extremely fair. And, for the most part, she did a damn good job raising us.
“Hi, Nana,” I say. “How are you? Is everything okay?”
“Hey, baby,” she says in her soothing voice. “I’m fine. My knees hurt and I can’t get around like I want some days, but I’m favored and blessed. You know God is good.”
“Yes, Nana, I know,” I respond, hoping she doesn’t get into one of her mini-sermons about sinning and thieving hearts and us living on earth in our last days and needing to get closer to God. I love my grandmother dearly. But sometimes…never mind. “I’m glad you’re doing okay.”
“Yes, baby. God has kept me wrapped in His grace and mercy. And He’s been good to you, too.”
“Yes, He has, Nana,” I say, bracing myself for what’s coming next.
“And you need to give Him some praise.”
“I know, Nana. I do.”
“I raised you and Felecia to be good servants of the Lord, but neither one of you have taken heed to His call. I haven’t seen either of you at service in months.”
“Nana, things have been busy at the shop and then I’m back and forth to see Jas—”
“Mmm-hmm. And the devil’s a liar. So you can keep dancing with him if you want, but he brings you nothing good. I’m gonna keep praying for you and Felecia. That’s all I can do. I’ma leave it in God’s hands. The two of you seem to have gotten so high and mighty these days.”
“Nana,” I say, offended, “why would you say something like that? That’s not true.”
She smacks her lips. “Hmmph. When’s the last time you came to fellowship in the house of the Lord?”
I roll my eyes up in my head. Felecia sticks her head in the door. I mouth to her that it’s Nana and she snickers. I shoot her an evil eye, giving her the finger. She decides to come in, plopping her ass down on the orange leather sofa. “Nana, Felecia is sitting right here. Would you like to speak to her?”
“Now don’t go trying to brush me off; I already spoke to her. And don’t try and change the subject, either. Felecia did the same thing this morning when I called her and asked her about coming out for Women’s Day. It’s the least you can do. I don’t ask much from you girls.”
I sigh. “You’re right, Nana.”
“I expect to see both of you there, for both services. It’s the second Sunday of the month. You hear? No excuses.”
“Yes, Nana.”
“Good. And you and Felecia can ride together and pick me up.”
OhmyGod, Nana is gonna drag the shit out of us, I think, shaking my head. The thought of sitting up in church—no disrespect—all morning and afternoon makes me nauseous. “I’ll have to check my schedule,” I tell her, then add, “I’m supposed to be going out of town that weekend so I’ll have to let you know. But Felecia will be around.”
“Bitch,” Felecia hisses. I smile.
“Pasha, I raised you better. After all I’ve done—putting you through school and paying for braces and dermatologists so you can walk around with that gorgeous smile and beautiful skin—the least you can do is make time for your aging grandmother. Nothing on earth lasts forever. You never know when my time is going to come and I’ll be called home to glory by my Lord and Savior to step foot through the pearly gates of Heaven.”
I hate when she starts talking like this. Her way of guilting me. I glare at Felecia as she chuckles, already knowing Nana’s work. “Nana, I have to go. My first appointment is here.”
“Uh-huh. Go on. Rush me off the phone, like I don’t know any better.”
“I’m not rushing you, Nana. I love talking to you. It’s just that I’m at the shop right now and it gets busy here.”
“Hmmph. Well, go on then. Oh, before I forget.”
“What’s that?”
“The Missionaries would love for you to be a part of next year’s Community Day. Since this year’s was such a huge turnout. You and the other girls over at the salon really made a difference giving back to the needy. You know doing the Lord’s work and giving back to the community is what keeps joy in my heart, and should keep joy in yours.”
Yeah, and giving back helped a motherfucking nut track me down, too. Donating time and staff to do hair and nails to the homeless and needy at Nana’s church’s annual Community Day is how I ended up having my face plastered all in the newspaper. At the time when I agreed, I thought it would be great publicity for the salon; not knowing it would have major consequences for me.
“Glad I could help out, Nana,” I say, half-heartedly. We say our goodbyes, then hang up. Felecia stares at me, grinning. I suck my teeth. “Bitch, what the hell you grinning for?”
“Temper, temper,” she teases. Her cell rings. She pulls it from her waist, glances at the screen, then shakes her head. “It’s Nana calling back.”
I snicker. No matter how many times Nana calls one of us, or no matter how annoying she can be at times, neither of us would ever ignore her calls. She answers, glaring at me. “Hey, Nana.…Yes, I know…Pasha reminded me…I’ll have to check my schedule…No, Nana…that’s not true…Okay, Nana…I know. I will…I promise…Nana, can I call you back? It’s getting busy here…Okay, Nana…I’ll stop by tomorrow to see you…I love you…okay, bye…”
As soon as she disconnects the call, I tease her. “What a punk. What happened to ’I’m not going to that shit’ spiel? You are so full of shit.”
“Whaaat ever,” she snaps, laughing. “You know damn well I have a hard time saying no to Nana. So kiss my natural fat ass.”
I laugh with her. “No thank you, boo. I’ll save the ass kissing for you.” I mock her. ’Okaaay, Nana. Yes, Naaaaana’. Girl, you crack me the hell up.”
She sucks her teeth. “Unlike you, Nana always makes me feel guilty.”
I roll my eyes, getting up from my desk. “Whatever. You need to get over it.”
“Mmm-hmm, I’ll be sure to let her know that the next time I speak to her.”
I laugh. “Well, whatever you do. You make sure you don’t tell her it came from me.”
“Unh-huh, punk…just what I thought.”