Naughty or Nice (12 page)

W
hy is it so hard to get good service at a black restaurant?” Frankie snapped.

It was late morning. We had run the hills of Inglewood at the crack of dawn, then gone to Tommie's place and showered. Now we were at one of the urban greasy-chicken and gummy-waffle houses, one that had pictures of all the out-of-work African American celebrites plastered on every wall like this was their shrine of unemployment. People were here, but the restaurant wasn't crowded.

“Frankie, chill the hell out.” That was Tommie.

“Forget that,” Frankie said. “We've been waiting twenty-five minutes and not one waitress has even come by to ask if we want a glass of damn water.”

Across from us, a baby was laughing as her mother fed her grits and sausage. The baby smiled at me. I turned away, pretended I was looking at the framed black-and-white egos posted on the walls.

Tommie said, “Frankie, shut up.”

“Look, he has chicken and waffles, those sisters have chicken and waffles, everybody has chicken and waffles but us. Excuse me, Miss Waitress. You see that? The heifer kept going.”

Frankie grabbed her purse and headed toward the front door. She had on faded dungarees, sandals, a black sleeveless T-shirt that had
NIETZSCHE HAD IT EASY
in red letters on the front.

Tommie said, “She's gonna kill somebody if we don't get her some food.”

Tommie was right behind Frankie. She was dressed in low-rise jeans, a sun-yellow T-shirt that had the phrases
FORGET ART
and
$
AVE THE OIL
!
framing President George W.'s grin.

I was dressed in sandals, jeans, and a light sweatshirt, everything black.

Tommie turned back to me. “C'mon. We're shaking this spot.”

That baby was holding a chicken drumstick, eating grits, and smiling at me.

By the time I made it to the front, Frankie was at the cash register complaining.

Frankie snapped, “I shouldn't have to sit here and starve for twenty-five minutes, not even a biscuit or glass of water or somebody saying they'll be with us. What, am I invisible? You know what,
fuck a fucking chicken and waffle
. I'll give my money to CPK before I ever come up in here again.”

Tommie was already outside, fluffing her eccentric hair, then shaking her head and pretending she wasn't with Frankie. I went out the door, Frankie behind me, shaking her head, cursing chicken and damning waffles. She slapped on her shades, made a right and stormed down Pico toward La Brea, a boulevard lined with potholes and worn strip malls, most having signs in English and Spanish.

Tommie asked, “You gonna tell her?”

“Hell no. Hope she walks to World on Wheels.”

We stood there. Frankie slowed down when she realized we were parked in the other direction.

Frankie did an about face, marched back toward the ragged, uneven lot next to the restaurant.

I asked Frankie, “Wanna hit Roscoe's in Hollywood?”

“Fuck a fucking chicken and waffle.”

Tommie said, “El Pollo Loco?”

“Fuck El Pollo Loco, fuck Popeye's, and fuck Golden Bird. And fuck Foster Farm.”

Frankie kept going. Me and Tommie were walking slow and cracking up.

“Both of you c'mon dammit. I'm hungry. I gotta get some food. I told you before we drove all the way over here I was hungry dammit. We could've ate at Simply Wholesome and beat the rush and been shopping by now, but nooooooooo. You bitches just had to have some damn chicken and waffles.”

Me and Tommie laughed so hard people passing by thought we were fit to be tied. Every time we stopped laughing, one of us cracked on Frankie and we started back howling.

Tommie struggled to pull it together. “Glad you're in a better mood.”

“Whew. Stomach is hurting. Can't stop laughing at that fool.”

“Good. You've been acting strange all morning.”

We started walking, sucking up smog and sunshine, taking slow steps.

I wiped a laugh-tear from my eye with the back of my hand. “Lot on my mind, that's all.”

“Tony? Did the DNA come? . . .”

I shake my head. “It's . . . well . . . San Diego. Did something I shouldn't have.”

“Something tells me I don't wanna know what or who you were doing.”

I sighed. “Tommie, you're the best. Wish I were more like you.”

“What, celibate, in therapy, no man, and sales associate of the month at Pier 1?”

Again, laughter.

Tommie said, “I think I blew it big time.”

“What?”

“Let me rewind. Okay, there is this guy. . . .”

“Oh, really?”

“I told him, in so many words, I'm feeling him.”

“Has he told you he was feeling you?”

“Not exactly. Well . . . no. Not in the way I'm feeling him.”

“Major mess up, Tommie. You know the game. No confessions.”

“I know. And . . . and . . . well . . . He's almost forty. Has a kid.”

“Damn, Tommie. That felon has two strikes.”

“You're right. Don't tell Frankie. He's one of her renters.”

“So, you seeing him?”

“Not since I told him. I'm letting it go before he thinks I'm a bugaboo.”

She took my hand in hers and we made our way across the ragged lot. Frankie was letting the top down on her bourgeoismobile, threatening to leave us if we didn't hurry up.

Tommie whispered, “San Diego . . . you were shagging?”

“We'll talk. Don't tell Frankie.”

Tommie was surprised. She knows I've never hopped in bed with a stranger. I've always asked a ton of questions, and when we were done I asked a ton more.

Tommie tisked and I smirked as she got in the front. I relaxed in the backseat like always.

Frankie drove us down La Brea toward the 10.
The
10. People in Los Angeles always put
the
in front of the freeways.
The
10.
The
5.
The
110. Anyway, we didn't ask where we were going.

Frankie had shut up. That meant she was beyond hungry and mad.

Tommie and I left Frankie alone and got back to talking about our Christmas plans. We had started that discussion during our workout this morning, and still hadn't resolved where we were having family dinner since Tony and I were in a state of flux, the gift exchange, decorating trees, what to get close friends, who not to buy shit for, making cookies and ginger-bread houses for our friends' children.

Tommie said, “For the dinner, we should invite extra people.”

Frankie jumped in, “I'm not feeding skid row.”

“Not our relatives, just some decent people we know.”

Frankie asked, “Who?”

“Like . . . like . . . maybe people who can't get back home to
their families, maybe the people we know whose life at home is not exactly the picture of a loving environment.”

My attention wasn't with them, not at all. My new cellular phone had started vibrating and I faded out of the conversation. There was a new text message:
Bird, I want to see you again.

I sent my reply:
We should leave San Diego in San Diego.

He sent me another message.
Can't get you off my mind.

I replied,
Same here.

I want to be inside you.

My vagina jumped. It was still sore, and very happy. That next morning in San Diego, we had our good-bye sex. Sober sex. The quickie that was supposed to put the end to our one-night affair ignited a new fire. He laid me down, ate my pussy like he was on death row and I was his last meal, then stood me up, sexed me against the dresser. All over the room, this body was his. We ended up ordering pizza and staying there all day. The tingles, the heat that wouldn't die, it told me that I just needed to be fucked. To be reminded that this pussy still worked. He had me going crazy. I would've let him fuck me anywhere, side of the road, in a window, on the bed. Just fuck me and keep fucking me like he was a hunter and pussy season just began.

I closed my eyes and he was inside me, had me crossing and uncrossing my legs.

I opened my eyes, chewed my lip, and tingled while I typed out my thoughts.

I do miss u . . . your fingers inside me . . . your mouth on my breast . . . u riding me slow

Then I erased the message, didn't send it.

I couldn't go there again. Too much good sex and I'd start to feel the need to own.

Frankie said, “Livvy, you hear me?”

I snapped my phone shut. “Huh?”

Tommie said, “She's back there sending messages to somebooty.”

I cleared my throat. “Work stuff. Somebody was asking where a few products were.”

Tommie made that sarcastic
uh huh
sound.

Frankie peeped at me. “Am I missing something here, or am I missing something here?”

I said, “No.”

Frankie nodded. “Yeah, I'm missing something. Your sneaky butt up to no good.”

I stared at Carpe's last text message.
I want to be inside you.

I felt him stirring my spot. My eyes closed and I tried to see what existed for us on the other side of Orgasm. I saw a blackness that was thick and never-ending.

My phone vibrated again. I didn't read the message. My panties were already wet.

 

We ended up on Hawthorne and 119th at Chips, a family-owned greasy spoon on the
Se Habla Español
side of town. Pictures of Bogart, James Dean, and Elvis were on the walls. All the workers were Hispanic, or Mexican, depending on what they liked to be called in the new millennium.

Service was fast. In no time flat we had a combination of breakfast and lunch food on our table.

We lowered our heads, and Frankie took over. “Dear Lord, thank you for this food we're about to receive. I pray for wisdom to understand men. Love to forgive them for being assholes. Patience for their moods. Because, Lord, if I pray for strength, the way I'm feeling, I'll beat one to death. Amen.”

I sang, “Amen and Aaaaaa-woman.”

Tommie tisked and shook her head. “From here on out, I bless the food.”

Then we started pigging out and talking up a storm.

Tommie went on, “I want to invite two people over for dinner.”

Frankie pressed on, “Don't piss me off with that . . . that feed-the-homeless babble.”

“Well, Scrooge, you could always invite the fugly man.”

I asked, “What fugly man?”

Tommie made a face like I was stupid. “I told you about him
when you were in San Diego. My bad, you were . . . Guess you were distracted in San Diego. So let me remind you all about her fugly—”

Frankie snapped, “Shut up, Tommie.”

Tommie laughed. “And she didn't tell you she was with fugly and ran into Nicolas Coleman?”

I howled. “Big Dick Nick? The woo woo woo man?”

“I'm through talking to you, Tommie.” Frankie frowned. “You know what, smart-ass? I'm raising your rent. Gonna charge you the same thing I charge everybody else.”

Tommie took some of Frankie's pancakes. “Don't hate on me 'cause he was fugly.”

Frankie pulled her plate away from Tommie. “What ya want for Christmas, Livvy?”

I swallowed a spoonful of oatmeal, thought about a lot of things.

I told Frankie, “Tony's paternity suit to come back negative.”

Then there was a serious silence.

Tommie shrugged. “Compared to that, digging Frankie's fallout shelter is going to be easy.”

We all laughed.

Frankie looked out the window, said, “This is our old stomping ground.”

We grew up around the corner in an area that had more Spanish signs than English. All black and brown skin. Momma used to tell us to keep away from the Mexicans, but I used to admire their accents, had a crush on so many Latin boys. It was just something about them that did it for me.

Tommie said, “Remember when all of us used to climb up on top of our old garage when we were living on 110th, then jump off and land on an old mattress.”

Frankie laughed. “We were crazy as hell.”

“No, we were broke as hell.”

We talked and ate off each other's plates.
“Feliz Navidad”
was playing on the radio. All of us stopped and sang along, had the Mexicans smiling and looking at us like we were insane.

Tommie pulled her braids back. “God, the years have flown by.”