Kitty-Kitty, Bang-Bang (13 page)

“Kat, when the fuck you bringin’ ya selfish ass back to Brooklyn to see ’bout your moms?”

The voice catches me off-guard. “Whaat? Who da fuck is this?”

“It’s ya aunt Rosa, bitch. Don’t play stupid. You know my damn voice. Now why the fuck nobody can get in touch wit’ ya disrespectful ass? What da fuck you changin’ ya numbers for ’n shit?”

A bitch is too fuckin’ through. And not in the muthafuckin’ mood, okay?! She’s one’a the last bitches I wanna hear from. “How the fuck did you get my number?” I ask, swingin’ my comforter off, then sittin’ up on the side’a the bed. I realize it’s a stupid ass question, knowin’ damn well Chanel’s stupid ass gave it to ’er.
I’ma fuckin’ curse that retarded bitch out for filth!

She starts spazzin’. “Bitch, ya muthafuckin’ mother is in the goddamn hospital on life support and the only fuckin’ thing you worryin’ ’bout is how the fuck I got ya number, is you fuckin’ serious?”

“Yeah, Rosa, I am. And
what
?”

“
Rosa?
Oh, bitch you done ran off and got real glossy callin’ me some muthafuckin’ Rosa. I’m ya aunt, ho.”

“Sweetie, you ain’t shit to me. And for da record, I’ve always been shinin’. So, yeah, I’m real glossy, ho. Now how can I help you? You got three minutes to say what you need’a say and then get da fuck up off my line.”

She gasps. “Bitch, I’ma fuck—”

“Two minutes and forty-seven seconds,” I warn, cuttin’ her off. “Say what da fuck you called to say, and be done wit’ it.”

The crazy bitch keeps tryna bring it. “Bitch, on e’very-muthafuckin’-thing I love, I’ma beat the dog shit outta you. You ain’t shit for turnin’ ya back on ya family; especially ya moms. I’ma give you the beatdown she shoulda gave ya ass a long time ago, you stuck up lil’ bitch.”

I laugh. “
Bitch
, you must be back on crack talkin’ that whack ass shit to me. You need to grow da fuck up; for real ho. You got da nerve to be someone’s grandmother actin’ like a certified trick-ass, gutter-rat bitch. Fuck outta here wit’ ya clown ass. Boo-boo, you got da game fucked up if you think I’ma stand ’round and let you or any muthafuckin’-body else do shit to me. You got two minutes, and countin’.”

“YOU FUCKIN’ SNOTTY-ASS BITCH!” she yells into the phone. “FUCK ALL THAT DUMB SHIT YOU TALKIN’. MY FUCKIN’ SISTA IS ON MUTHAFUCKIN’ LIFE SUPPORT AND YOU NEED TO GET YA ASS DOWN TO THE GODDAMN HOSPITAL TO SEE HER!”

Interestin’ly, I keep it cute; stay calm. “Thanks for the public service announcement, Sweetie. Time’s up,” I say, disconnectin’ the call. My cell rings, again. This time it’s Chanel’s ass. “Oh, bitch, you must know you ’bout ta get cursed da fuck out for givin’ that crazy bitch my muthafuckin’ number after I specifically told ya cock-washin’ ass not to give my muthafuckin’ number out to none of them bitches.”

“Damn,” she says, suckin’ her teeth. “I was hopin’ to get to you before she called you.”

“‘Damn hell, ho. I hate e’erything ya stankan azz stands for right now. You always doin’ dumb shit, bitch.” She laughs. “Bitch, ain’t shit funny. That ho called here tryna bring da noise. And you know a bitch wasn’t feelin’ that shit.”

“Ooops, my bad,” she says, gigglin’.

“Ho, I should slap the shit outta ya ugly-ass face.”

“I’m sorry, boo. I knew you was gonna be heated, but Patrice sounded real fucked up when she called me early this mornin’. And I felt bad.”

“Bitch, what da fuck you feelin’ bad for?”

“’Cause it sounded like she was cryin’ ’n shit.”

“Boo-hoo,” I say, suckin’ my teeth. “I don’t give a fuck. You still had no muthafuckin’ business givin’ out my digits. You shoulda called me,
first
, before doin’ some corny-ass shit like that.”

“I know, I know. But ya ass woulda said hell no, anyway.”

“Exactly, ho. But you turn ’round and do what da fuck you want. Fuck it. It’s done now. And ya ass done loss diva points for that bullshit, bitch.”

She starts laughin’. “Now you goin’ too damn far, bitch, snatchin’ my diva points ’n shit.”

“Whateva. You make me sick. I hate e’erything ya slutty ass stands for.”

“Okay, bitch, that shit’s all good ’n all, but are we still smokin’ today?”

“Hell no, I ain’t smokin’ wit’ ya crusty-ass. Go burn wit’ Rosa ’n Patrice since ya no-count ass was so quick to give them bitches my cell number.”

“Mmmmm-hmmm. And when ya crazy-ass aunts jump on that ass you make sure you remember that shit ’cause I’ma sit there ’n smoke up all they shit while they peelin’ da skin off’a that ass.”

“Bitch, you sit there and let them hoes jump on me and you don’t jump in ’n help set it off on ’em wit’ me, I’ma toss acid in ya face ’n set ya hair on fire, okay? Try it if you want. Ya ass’ll be laid up at the nearest burn center, okay. Then let’s see how many niggas gonna be checkin’ for ya bald-headed, crispy-baked, hoass.” We both bust out laughin’.

“Girl, ya ass is stoopid.”

“Yeah, okay.” She decides to ask how my phone convo went wit’ Rosa. I tell ’er.

“Damn.”

“Mmmph, girl, that crazy bitch sounded like she was back on crack.”

“So she was wildin’ like that?”

“Girl, that ho was blackin’ like someone smoked da last rock.”

“Daaaamn. That’s some shit. I think it’s really fucked up ya’ll can’t get along, though; especially now wit’ ya moms bein’ brain dead.”

“Please, I don’t know what da problem is. The bitch calls here poppin’ a buncha rah-rah talkin’ ’bout I need to get to da hospital to see her sista ’n shit, and the bitch’s dead. How stupid is that? The bitch ain’t ever gonna know I was there, so what’s the fuckin’ point? Not that I was goin’ up to see ’er ass, any-damn-way. Then they fuckin’ wastin’ taxpayers’ dollars keepin’ the bitch chained
to a tube. Hello, she’s
dead!
What da fuck they tryna keep ’er ass alive for?”

“’Cause she’s pregnant, Kat.”

“Say, whaaat?!” My muthafuckin’ mouth drops open. I am certain I haven’t heard ’er right. I ask ’er to repeat what she just said. She does. And a bitch feels like she’s ’bout ready to pass the fuck out!

CHAPTER TWELVE

Close my eyes ’n count ta ten…take’a deep breath…blaze’a few trees…then do it again…tryna wrap my mind ’round da dumb shit muhfuckas do…how many times’a bitch gonna keep gettin’ burned…’til she wakes da fuck up…takes control of ’er life and sees da lesson to be learned….

I
t’s been two days since Chanel dropped the bomb on me ’bout Juanita’s retarded ass bein’ pregnant—
again!
Why I’m feelin’ some kinda way ’bout ’er ho-ass bein’ knocked up is beyond me. But I do! Maybe it’s ’cause—once again—the selfish bitch didn’t think ’bout no one else but herself. No, scratch that shit. The bitch
was
thinkin’. She was thinkin’ ’bout the sorry-ass muhfucka who beat her silly ass. Only a stupid bitch would keep lettin’ a nigga pump ’er insides up ’n not be on some kinda birth control. That nigga kicked ’er all up in her stomach the last time he put ’er in the hospital. And she still went back to his ass. Got her dumb-ass knocked again. And now she’s brain dead. Shit makes no sense. Now I gotta wonder how many other times the bitch got knocked. How many other babies did she have stomped outta ’er.

For some strange, sick reason, I am consumed wit’ wantin’ to know what the fuck happened; need to know why her dead ass is
still carryin’ a baby that she ain’t ever gonna be able to take care of. So I wait ’til after midnight—when I know I won’t run into any of my nutty-ass aunts; particularly Rosa, then hop into my whip and make my way to the parkway toward the Verrazano Bridge.

As I’m drivin’ I start to feel my nerves rattle as images of Juanita’s lifeless body shoot through my head. The thought of seein’ her after all this time has a bitch all antsy ’n shit. I need a blunt, I think, pushin’ in the lighter, then reachin’ for my stash. My cell rings. I reach for it, glancin’ at the screen. It’s Nut.

“Hello?”

“Yo, wassup, ma? How you?”

“Nigga,” I snap, sparkin’ my blunt, “do you know what time it is?” I take a deep pull.

He laughs. “Yeah, it’s time for ya sexy ass to spend some time wit’ a muhfucka. You played me the other day when I came through. That was some foul shit, ma.”

I laugh. “Nigga, I told you what it was. Nobody told ya dumb-ass to come out tryna check for me.”

“Yeah, aiight; whatever. You got that. So when I’ma see you again?”

“Neva,” I say, crackin’ my window and blowin’ out weed smoke.

He sucks his teeth. “Yo, fuck outta here. Where you at?”

“Nigga, what I tell you ’bout tryna check for me?”

He starts laughin’. “Yo, you mad funny; for real for real.”

This time, I suck my teeth. “Whateva. I ain’t laughin’ muhfucka. Why is you callin’ me this time’a night, anyway?”

“’Cause a muhfucka was thinkin’ ’bout you; that’s why. You gotta problem wit’ that?”

“Do you,” I state, goin’ through the E-Z Pass toll for the Verrazano. “I got more pressin’ shit to be concerned wit’, than you tryna stalk’a bitch.”

“Oh, yeah? Anything you wanna talk about?”

“No, I’m good. Thanks.”

“Well, the offer stands. If you change ya mind, I’m all ears.”

I laugh. “Yeah right, muhfucka. You just tryna get some pussy.”

“Yo, chill wit’ that. I’m dead-ass. If you need someone to talk to I got you.” On the real, I don’t know if the nigga’s kickin’ some live shit or not, but it sounds good. I thank ’im. “Oh, no doubt, ma. So, what you gettin’ into tonight?”

“Not you,” I say, speedin’ down the Belt Parkway toward Brooklyn.

“Yeah, aiight. That’s ’cause you too scared I’ma have you dick whipped. But you need to let me come through and help you take ya mind off shit.”

“Nigga, puhleeeeeze, that’s what you want’a bitch to be. But, trust. I ain’t’a weak bitch, so it’s gonna take more than a big, black dick to get me whipped.” I take another pull off my blunt. “So take that dumb shit onto the next trick ’cause I ain’t the one.”

He starts laughin’ again. “Let me stop fuckin’ wit’ you, ma. Like I said, I was thinkin’ ’bout you so I wanted to hit you up. If a muhfucka is outta pocket for havin’ you on the brain, let me know.”

I shake my head. “It’s whateva. It’s all good.”

“I bet it is,” he says all low ’n sexy. “What you got on?”

“Clothes, muhfucka,” I snap, veerin’ off onto Linden Boulevard. “Look, can I hit you back lata? I’m kinda in da middle of handlin’ sumthin’.”

“Yeah, aiiight. No doubt. Go handle ya business, ma. I’ll get at you.”

“Cool,” I tell ’im as I make a right onto Amboy Street, then pull into the parkin’ garage. I find a parkin’ space up on the third level, pull in, then sit and finish smokin’ my blunt. I check my
face ’n hair in the mirror, then get outta my whip, clickin’ the alarm.

As I’m makin’ my way through the walkway to the hospital, my cell rings again. It’s Chanel. “Wasssup, tramp?”

“Shit. What’s good wit’ you?” For some reason I don’t tell ’er I’m in Brooklyn; that I’m en route to see Juanita. I lie and tell ’er I’m out on a date. “Oh, shiiiiiit,” she snaps, soundin’ all amped ’n shit. “That’s wassup. I’m glad you finally are cummin’ to ya senses and goin’ out to get you some dick.”

“Whoa, slow down, cowgirl. It’s not that deep. I’m in ’n out; that’s it.”

“Whateva, ho. Stop neglectin’ that pussy of yours and let a nigga bust that dusty-ass hole open. Damn.”

“Bitch, please. Ya trick-ass does ’nough fuckin’ for the both of us. I ain’t beat to have my shit lookin’ like da inside of a garbage truck. No thank you, ma’am.” She cracks the hell up. “Look, ho, I’m out.”

She continues laughin’. “Yeah, aiight. Give me a call when you’re finished doin’ e’erything else ’cept waxin’ a dick. Divine’s somewhere doin’ what he does and I’m here alone for the week. Come through so we can smoke and you can give me all the details.”

“Cool, cool,” I tell ’er as I approach the information desk. We talk a few minutes more, then disconnect. The pasty-faced, redhaired chick at the desk—with her splotchy- ass skin—tries to give me feva ’bout the visitin’ hours and whatnot, but a bitch like me ain’t havin’ it. She gives me the info I need and I pop my hips toward the elevator.

“H
ELLO?” A TALL, DARK-CHOCOLATE MALE NURSE ASKS, STOPPIN’
me as I make my way down the hall, passin’ the nurse’s station.
He has a hint of a Caribbean accent. And the muhfucka got the nerve to be aiight lookin’. “Can I help you?”

“I’m here to see someone,” I tell ’im, glancin’ his way.

“I’m sorry, but visiting hours are over. You’ll have to come back during our regular visiting hours from eleven a.m. to eight p.m.”

Nigga, you betta check my credentials,
I think, stoppin’ in my tracks. “’Scuse me?” I snap, twistin’ my lip up. For some reason, I feel myself ’bout to spazz the fuck out on ’im for tryna disrupt my damn flow. But, surprisin’ly, I catch myself and keep it cute; take a deep breath. “Listen,” I say, sighin’. “I was told my mother is lyin’ up in here on life support. And it’s been hard on me.”

“I’m really sorry, Miss…” He pauses, waits for me to fill in the blank.

Ohmiiiiiiiiiimuthafuckin’Gaaaawd, this tight-ass muhfucka
. “It’s Katrina. And I really need to see my mother,
tonight
.”

“Okay, Katrina. I really wish I could help you. But you’ll have to come back in the morning; sorry, policy.”

I blink. Pull in my bottom lip. In a split second I’m ’bout to shred the shit outta this nigga for bein’ a goddamn asshole. I take a deep breath; steady my ’tude. “Nooooo, wrong answer. I don’t need to come back durin’ regular visitin’ hours. I
need
to find her room,
now
, so I can see this wit’ my own eyes. I flew all the way here from California. I’m stressed and exhausted. All I’m askin’ for is a few minutes; that’s it. But, obviously that’s too much for you to consider. Thanks for nuthin’.” I go to step off, but he stops me.

“Hold up,” he says, changin’ his tone. He reaches for a clipboard, then shifts through the pages. “What’s ya mother’s name?” he asks. “Oh, Missus Rivera in room six-ten.”
Oh, puhleeeeze,
I think, starin’ at ’im,
that ho-ass bitch wishes she was somebody’s missus.