Kitty-Kitty, Bang-Bang

“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.

“HELLO?” 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.

“She’s not married,” I correct. I peep how this horny-ass nigga starts eye-ballin’ me and decide to bat my eyes a bit to get what I want. “Listen, umm,” I pause, glancin’ at his badge, “nurse Lewis”—I lick my lips, lookin’ him up ’n down—“I know you’re only doin’ your job, and I realize it’s really late, but if there’s anyway you can bend the rules just this once, pleeeeeeease,”—I hit ’im wit’ a sexy grin—“I’d ’preciate it. I really need to see her. I’ve been worried sick.” Lies, I know! So the fuck what!

He glances at his watch, lookin’ ’round the nurse’s station. “Okay, but you’ll have to do something for me.”

I raise my brow. “And what’s that? I know you not ’bout to ask me ta suck ya dick or some other nasty shit like that.”

He chokes, coughin’ back a laugh. “No, no; nothing like that.”

“Oh, ’cause I was ’bout to say,” I tell ’im, shiftin’ my handbag from one hand to the other. “You tryna get a fist upside ya dome.”

He laughs harder. “You a feisty one. But, no, I’d like to get ya number; maybe meet up for dinner sometime; if that’s okay with you.”

This pussy-hound muhfucka, I think, starin’ into his hazel eyes. I decide to play ’im close; keep the nigga on my hip in case I need ’im for sumthin’ pressin’.”

I grin, fishin’ a pen outta my bag. I reach for his hand, then write my number in the palm of his hand. When I am done, I sign KAT underneath it. He smiles. Tells me his name is DeAndre; that he’ll hit me up tomorrow.

“I’ll be waitin’,” I tell ’im, walkin’ off. I stop, turnin’ back to face ’im. “Ummm, before I go see ’er, do you mind tellin’ me exactly what happened to ’er?”

He tells me that she was found unconscious in the bathtub naked and badly beaten. Tells me that she suffered serious injuries to ’er face and head. That whoever did this shit beat ’er in the head numerous times, then bit her face causin’ permanent disfigurement. Ohmymuthafuckin’Gaaaawd, what kinda muhfucka would bite a bitch in ’er face? I blink, knowin’ the answer. Still, what kinda animal is that no-good muhfucka for doin’ some shit like this? He then tells me the police are still lookin’ for the muhfucka. Puhleeze, this nigga’s still out on the loose ’cause muhfuckas ain’t really tryna look for ’im. Juanita may not be shit to me, but ain’t no way, a bitch gonna front like she’s cool wit’ this nigga gettin’ away wit’ this shit. Once again, I gotta handle another one’a this bitch’s battles. That nigga gotta get it. I may not like the bitch, but what this muthafucka did, this time, is…unthinkable. I feel my nose flarin’. I ask how long she was unconscious before she went into a coma, then went brain dead.

“She was in critical condition for over a month before she slipped into a coma and stopped breathing,” he continues, slowly shakin’ his head. He takes me in. I guess he’s waitin’ for me to respond. I don’t. “She basically has no brain function. She’s being kept alive on a respirator.”

“And ya’ll are keepin’ her on life support becauuuuuse?” I ask this already knowin’ the answer, but I play stupid. There’s a part of me that is hopin’ the shit isn’t true; that she isn’t really knocked up.

“To save her unborn baby.”