Daddy Long Stroke (26 page)

“Listen, muhfucka, I ain't beat for no drama tonight, word up. Ya'll muhfuckas be on some extra shit sometimes. If you gonna be mixin' ya drinks 'n shit, throwin' up all over the place, let me know now.” He laughs. “Ain't shit funny, nigga. The last time, you fucked 'round and threw up all in my muthafuckin' whip. Had my shit all fucked up. And ya black ass still owe me for the detailin'.”

“Nigga, stop whinin'. I got you. Besides, I'm drivin' my own shit tonight.”

“Yeah, whatever, muhfucka. Just have me my money.”

“Nigga, fuck that shit you talkin'. You hangin' or not?”

“What time ya'll muhfuckas tryna roll?” I ask, glancin' at my watch: 7:25 p.m.

“'Bout nine.”

“Oh, aiight. That'll work.”

“Bet. You just need to scoop Ron up.”

“Ron? I thought that nigga was on ya side of town.”

“Not tonight he's not. He's at his sister's.”

I shake my head. Not to kick dudes back in. But when it comes to women, he's 'bout as dumb and pussywhipped as they come. “I take it he done got his dumb-ass put out, again.” He laughs. Asks me what time I'ma swing through and scoop 'im up. “Which sister's spot is he at?”

“Lynn's,” he tells me.

Lynn's his younger sister; a cutie wit' a juicy bootie. She's also a real hot-box. And, of course, I thrashed it a few times on the low. I dicked her upside down and inside out; gave her pussy a beatdown she'd never experienced before. Not once, not twice, but at least a dozen times before her dumb ass started actin' like she wanted to chain a muhfucka down. So she got dismissed. But she got mad props for keepin' her cum-guzzler shut 'bout our epps.

“Yo,” I say to Glenn, “let that nigga know I'ma be through 'round nine-fifteen.”

“Aiight, bet. See you cats later.”

“One.”

At nine-thirty I text Ron to let 'im know I'm 'round the corner and to be at the door ready to roll. The minute I turn onto his sister's street, a bright-ass porch light flips on, and I see him comin' out the door. He's rockin' a slick brown leather blazer over a brown pullover wit' his signature platinum and diamond fist danglin' from a platinum chain. The nigga's neck is practically glowin' from the lights hittin' hit. And he has his brown Negro Leagues fitted cap cocked to the side. I pull up to the curb, unlockin' the door. As soon as he opens the door, I can smell the combination of leather and cologne way before he gets his ass in the car. He smells like he practically washed himself in a whole bottle of Dolce & Gabbana.

The minute he shuts the door, I say, “Damn, muhfucka. What'd you do, bathe in that shit?”

“Nah,” he says, fastenin' his seatbelt. He reaches over and gives me a brotherly pound. “What's good?”

“Shit,” I say, pullin' off, makin' my way toward I-280 East. I crack the front windows before the muhfucka suffocates me wit' all them smells goin' on. “What's been up wit' you?”

He sighs, placin' his head back on the headrest. “Not much
man. Same shit, different day. Or should I say, same shit, different broad.”

“I hear you, man. You 'n ya peoples at it again.”

“Man, listen. E'ery week it's some shit wit' her ass.” I nod knowin'ly; but don't say shit 'cause I know he's gonna fill me in. “She started spazzin' the fuck out last night over some dumb shit, and poured bleach all over my shit. Shoes, boots, sneakers, clothes, you name it. She straight housed my shit.”

“Get the fuck outta here! You for real?”

“I'm dead-ass. She fucked up all my shit, man. Jewelry, watches, you name it—trashed! The only shit I have is what's on my back. And then she took all my fuckin' money outta the bank. I had to borrow money from my sister, so I could at least have some clean muthafuckin' drawers 'n shit to put on.”

See, this is the kinda shit I'm talkin' 'bout. And it's exactly another reason why I don't be fuckin' beat to be in a relationship. Bitches always wanna fuck a muhfucka's shit up when her ass starts feelin' some kinda way 'bout shit. Then after she done finished fuckin' up all ya wears 'n shit, she puts ya dumb ass out. But I'm not surprised. Like I said earlier, he fucks wit' a buncha unstable bitches. It's like he has a magnet for emotionally unbalanced broads. I listen to him go on and on 'bout he's gettin' tired of her shit, blah, blah, blah. Then he sits here and tells me
she
locked him outta a spot that
he
pays the rent to, but the shits in
her
name. I look at dude like he's crazy. I feel like sayin', “You stupid bitch-ass nigga! What the fuck you doin' havin' a muthafuckin' joint bank account wit' a ho you ain't even married to?” But I'ma leave it alone 'cause there ain't shit he can say that's gonna make an ounce of sense to a muhfucka like me. All I can say is: I wish the fuck I would! What a retard! I'm startin' to think this nigga likes bein' abused 'n shit. I shake my head.

“So whatchu do this time?”

“Man, nuthin'. She be on her bullshit, listenin' to them fuckin' crab-ass bitches she fucks wit', lettin' that shit they put in her ear go to her head.”

“What kinda shit?” I ask, already knowin' this nigga stays caught up in craziness.

“All kinda dumb shit. Them bitches all up on my dick instead of havin' their busted asses somewhere gettin' fucked. Hell, if they had some dick in their lives they wouldn't have so much time worryin' 'bout what the fuck I'm doin' wit' mine.”

I impatiently drum my fingers on the steerin' wheel. “Muhfucka, what the hell you do?”

“I was at this spot in Paramus winin' 'n dinin' this shorty, and one of ole girl's nosey-ass friends saw me and ratted me out.”

“Nah, nigga, that ain't enough for a bitch to house ya shit. I know you. What'd you do? Keep it gee.”

“I stayed out all night…”

“And you didn't answer ya phone,” I finish for him.

“Yeah, somethin' like that.”

“Nigga, you dumb as hell. You know you livin' wit' ole girl, so how the hell you gonna stay out
all
night and not answer ya cell?”

“Actually, it was two nights.”

“
Two nights
?
And
you didn't answer ya shit. Oh yeah, muhfucka, you knew you had it comin'. Then you probably stumbled up in there smellin' like pussy. Nigga, you was askin' for shit to pop off.”

“I ain't beat. She'll get over it.”

I laugh. “Yeah, and in the meantime, ya dumb ass walkin' 'round homeless and bare-assed 'cause ya girl done did you dirty.”

“Never that, dawg,” he says, soundin' offended. “I'ma always have me a spot to lay my head. And she'll be blowin' up my ringer tryna get me to come back.”

“Whatever, nigga,” I say, grippin' the steerin' wheel wit' my left hand, and leanin' my right arm on the armrest. “Ya retarded-ass gonna be right back there gettin' ya ass dragged for tryna fuck her over.”

“Maybe.”

I laugh harder. “Nigga,
maybe
my ass. Ya simple-ass will.”

“Yeah, whatever.” He pauses, thinkin', I'm sure. Hell, I'm thinkin' for his ass. I'm thinkin', why the fuck is he so goddamn stupid? And when the fuck is he gonna stop doin' dumb shit? I'm wonderin', why the hell a bitch will fuck up all your shit, then say she blacked out and started wildin'? But when you look 'round the room, your shit is the only shit fucked up. Nuthin' else is touched. How the hell you call ya'self blackin' out and not tearin' the whole house up? What a buncha bullshit!

I hit the button for the CD player. Go to disc four; track four. Wait for Erykah Badu's “I Want You” to rip through the speakers, then spark a blunt. “Yo, nigga, ain't no need sittin' over there stressin' 'bout shit you can't do nuthin' 'bout. It is what it is. Hell, you brought the shit on ya'self. So ain't no need to be bitchin' up. You might as well take a hit off some of this good shit, and let Erykah help ya get ya mind right.” I take two deep pulls, then pass the blunt to 'im.

He takes it to the head. “Yo, good lookin' out. This is exactly what I needed.” We let silence in. Bob to the beats, passin' the blunt back 'n forth. A haze of thick smoke starts to fill the car. I crack the back windows, and the sunroof. As much as I love to blaze, I hate the smell of that shit in my clothes. And by the time we get into the city, and I make a left onto Beach Street, we've burned two blunts and are feelin' right. Then outta the blue, this muhfucka hits me wit', “Yo, can I squat at ya spot for a few days?”

I cut my eye over at him, blowin' smoke out. “What the fuck just happen to ‘I'ma always have me a spot to lay my head,' nigga?”

He sighs. “Man, listen, both of my side pieces beefin' with me, too.”

“And why can't you stay at Lynn's or ya other two sisters' spots?”

“I can. But then I gotta hear them bitchin' 'bout shit. I ain't beat.”

I shift my focus back to the road, bearin' onto West Broadway, shakin' my head. “You'se a dumb muhfucka.”

“Yeah, whatever. So can I crash at ya spot or not?”

I glance back over at him, almost chokin' on blunt smoke. This nigga and I are cool, but we ain't
that
cool where I'ma let 'im rest at my crib. And on top of that, dude's smashin' three chicks and they all muthafuckin' crazy. His ass is on foot now, thanks to one of them nut jobs bustin' out all his windows and tossin' red paint up on the hood of his 2008 Lexus. And another one of them hoes he's fuckin' was responsible for settin' his apartment on fire. Yeah, he says it was an accident; that the curtains caught fire by a candle she knocked over. I'm like, “yeah whatever, nigga.” I know better. The bitch caught him in bed wit' another ho and went Fire Marshall Bill on his ass. Fuck what ya heard. This muhfucka's attached to too much damn drama for me. Besides, what the fuck I look like havin' another muhfucka walkin' 'round in his boxers, scratchin' his nuts up in my shit? Not gonna happen.

“Hell no, muhfucka. Ya ass got too much shit goin' on, word up. You betta stay right where you at 'til you can take ya ass back home.”

“Damn, that's fucked up. I thought we were boys.”

Boys?
This nigga done banged his damn head. “Fucked up, hell. I'm keepin' shit real. And that's why I'm not lettin' your triflin' ass rest at my spot, or bring drama up in my space, fuckin' up our friendship. He looks at me kinda funny, but I don't put too much energy into tryna figure out what the look's for. 'Cause bottom line, I don't give a fuck!

He sucks his teeth, sighin'. “Pass me the blunt, muhfucka.”

I take another pull, then hand it to 'im.

He takes a deep pull, holds the smoke in his lungs, then says, “That's still fucked up, man.”

I make a left onto West Third Street. “Nah, nigga, what's fucked up is you gettin' ya shit housed and not havin' a place to lay ya dumb-ass head.”

“Fuck you.”

I laugh. “Yeah, aiight, muhfucka. The only one bein' fucked is
you
.” I drive 'round the block lookin' for parkin' while thinkin',
what a loser!

 22 

On some real shit, the whole month's been one big-ass blur to me. It seems like the days and weeks flew right past me. I mean like, damn…where the hell did the summer go? It's all good, though. It's already the first week of October. Before you know it, we'll be celebratin' Obama's victory 'cause he's really 'bout to bring it straight to them crackers' heads, for real. Watch what I tell ya. Anyway, I'm chillin' at my spot gettin' ready to tear into this bangin'-ass Philadelphia burger—a thick angus burger topped wit' provolone cheese, grilled onions and hot peppers—and sweet potato fries I picked up at Bobby's Burger Palace when my cell rings. I glance at the screen. It's a 770 area code. I lower the sound to the stereo.