The Kat Trap

“You do the same,” she said, speakin’ to my back.

My cell started ringin’ as I approached the entrance to my buildin’. I looked at the caller ID. It was Grant. I smiled, stoppin’ to lean up against the railin’. I wanted some dick. And if he turned out to be a real nigga, I was gonna fuck him down into the mattress. I hope the nigga can fuck, I thought, answerin’. “Hello.”

“Hey, beautiful,” he said. “Did I catch you at a bad time?”

“Actually, I’m on my way up to see my moms. Can I call you back?”

“No doubt, but I’ll hit you back instead. ’Cause I think you tryna front on a nigga. And I ain’t havin’ it.”

I laughed. “Is that so? Well, that’s what ya mouth says.”

“That’s what it is. I’ll hit you back later on tonight.”

“Aiight,” I said, disconnectin’ the call. My cell rang again. This time it was Chanel. “What’s up, tramp?”

“Shit,” she said. “What’s good with you?”

“I’m here in Brooklyn, gettin’ ready to go up to see my moms. Why, what’s up?”

“Well, do you. Make sure you call me later. Some shit done popped off with Tamia and these bitches from Bed-Stuy over some nigga.”

I rolled my eyes up in my head, suckin’ my teeth. “Well, that shit’s on her dumb ass,” I said. “I’ll holla back when I get back on the road.”

“Make sure you do.” Yeah, whatever! I hung up. A few months ago, a bitch woulda been amped the hell up, ready to strap up and wreck shop. But I ain’t fuckin’ with Tamia like that. This ho was on some extra shit, and I ain’t the one. It’d be one thing if a bitch was straight dissin’ her and tryna get at her for no reason, but some shit over a nigga who she probably had no business fuckin’ any damn way…humph, I don’t think so. The bitch is on her own, real talk. As a matter of fact, I really wasn’t feelin’ this visit with my moms, either. But I was already there.

When I entered my old buildin’, I felt nothin’. Although the sidewalk was cleaner than I remembered, I thought back to when crack vials and needles littered the sidewalk and the playground in the back of buildin’s four and six; when empty liquor bottles and shattered glass covered the ground. I could still hear the gunshots that rang like bells; the screams of mothers who lost another child to niggas shootin’ and killin’ each other over drugs and money and pussy and block takeovers. The shit was depressin’. I had spent so much time dreamin’ ’bout gettin’ the fuck away from here, ’bout bein’ rescued from this hell hole, that my head and body were already long gone way before I ever bounced. My heart was still connected to the streets, it flowed through my blood. But it pumped at a different beat now. Don’t get it twisted. I’ma be a Brooklyn bitch ’til the day I die. This life—four generations of livin’ in the hood—is what I know, but I’d be damned if it was the only one I’d be livin’. Believe that.

I was glad the lobby was empty today. It was still dark and dirty and smelled like piss, but, usually, it’d be live and poppin’. I rolled my eyes when I got to the elevators and the shits were broken— again. I seriously thought about turnin’ ’round and takin’ my ass home, but decided goin’ up eleven flights of stairs in heels was much better than hearin’ my moms bitchin’ ’bout me not comin’ over. Not that I thought that she really cared one way or the other whether I came through or not, ’cause I know she didn’t, but…she’s still my moms and a bitch still liked to fantasize ’bout bein’ wanted and missed. Shit, I thought, goin’ toward the stairs, e’erytime I come to this bitch these muhfuckas ain’t workin’. What the fuck!

As I climbed the stairs, I had to keep tryna not to step in someone’s piss or spit. Nasty muhfuckas! I hurried up the stairs, and by the time I got to my floor, a bitch was wore out.

I knocked three times on the gray apartment door before the locks finally clicked and the door opened. “Well, looka here,” my moms said, steppin’ back to let me in. For some reason, she had that just-got-fucked look. Her thick, curly, shoulder-length hair was tossed all over her head and her face was flushed. She pulled the belt of her red silk robe tight ’round her waist. I could tell she was naked underneath. Yep, she been fuckin’. “The queen has finally decided to come grace me with her presence. Why didn’t you call first?”

I rolled my eyes. “I didn’t know I needed to make an appointment.” I closed the door behind me. “Besides, you called me last week beatin’ me in the head ’bout not comin’ by or callin’ you. I told ya I was gonna come through today.”

“Well, I’ve heard that before, so I didn’t hold my breath.”

“Well, I’m here now. The least you could do is act like ya happy to see me. Damn.”

“Humph,” she grunted, switchin’ her ass into the kitchen. At forty-one—I ain’t gonna front—she looked much younger than her age, and still had a bangin’ body. Then again, my grandmother was only sixty-one and she still had a body that would put some of these young bitches to shame.

I took a deep, disgusted breath. Just once I wished we were more like mother and daughter than two chicks who barely tolerated each other. Not that I expected a warm, mushy welcome, but damn! Some women should never have children. I’m convinced my moms was one of them chicks who shoulda kept her damn legs closed, or aborted ’cause she’s never had the time, energy, or interest in raisin’ me or nurturin’ me. She’d rather be locked in a room with a nigga with her legs up over his shoulders than raisin’ her own child. Sometimes I really wanna slap her. But no matter what, she’s still my moms—fucked up or not.

“Lock my damn door.” She yanked her neck ’round, glarin’ at me. “You ain’t been in that fancy place over in Jersey that long to forget where ya from. You know betta than to leave my doors unlocked.” I shook my head, latchin’ the five deadbolts. My thinkin’ is, if ya so goddamn worried ’bout havin’ ya doors kicked in, or bein’ robbed, why the hell stay? Pack ya shit and get the fuck out.

From the outside, you’d never expect the inside of my mom’s spot to be piped out with a creme-colored Italian leather sofa, plush brown carpet, marble tables, custom mirrored walls, a one-hundred-fifty-gallon tropical fish tank, and a fifty-two-inch plasma TV up on the wall.

When she came into her suit money, instead of movin’ outta the projects and investin’ in a house, she spent a grip redecoratin’ ’n shit. Then she had the nerve to go out and buy a fuckin’ 2006 Benz coupe that now looks like a damn hoopty ’cause muhfuckas stay scratchin’ it up and breakin’ into the shit. Humph.

Anyway, I asked her why she wouldn’t move, and she flat out told me, “I ain’t ever leavin’ the projects. This is where I grew up and this is where I’ma die.” Well, I looked at her ass like I would never relate. I mean, I mighta grew up in ’em, but I’d be damned if I ever wanted to stay and die in ’em. Keepin’ shit real, I ain’t nothin’ like her. She is okay with her life. She is okay with never seein’ or experiencin’ anything outside of Brooklyn. Other than goin’ to Harlem or the Bronx to visit her family, leavin’ New York—or Brooklyn, for that matter—would never happen. Oh, okay, if ya wanna count the bus trips she and my aunts make to Atlantic City to gamble. And even that’s a big production. Fuck that. A bitch like me wanted to learn and see new shit. “That’s the problem with ya ass,” my moms had once said when I told her I was gonna travel the world when I grew up, “ya ass too busy daydreamin’.”

Then when I told her I wanted to move to Jersey, she looked at me like I was outta my mind or somethin’, as if movin’ ’cross the water was a damn crime. “What the hell you gonna do way over there? Brooklyn is ya home. You might go, but ya ass’ll be back. It’s in ya blood.”

I walked into the kitchen and pulled a chair out to sit at the table.

“So what you been up to?” she asked, openin’ the refrigerator. She pulled out a carton of eggs and a pack of bacon. “You want somethin’ to eat?”

I glanced around the small kitchen and rolled my eyes up in my head. There was dirty dishes piled in the sink, and the trash was overflowin’. All this expensive shit up in this bitch, I thought, and the kitchen is still nasty. Ain’t a muthafuckin’ thing changed. Outta the corner of my eye, I peeped a roach crawlin’ alongside one of the cabinets, then another along the counter.

“Nah,” I said, shiftin’ in my seat, “I’m good. I ate already.” Yeah, I lied. But there was no muthafuckin’ way I’d eat shit outta that nasty-ass kitchen. She’d never have me eatin’ roach eggs. The thought made me frown. I hadn’t eaten outta that kitchen since I was twelve years old, and there was no way I’d start back now. “I’ve been chillin’. What about you?”

“Not a damn thing,” she said, busyin’ herself ’round the kitchen. I stared at her, takin’ in the curve of her hips and the way her flimsy robe clung ’cross her titties, showin’ her thick nipples. For some reason, her ass and titties looked much bigger than I remembered. “You know, Alberta over in buildin’ four done got arrested for stabbin’ her