The Man Handler

months ago down the street from my house. Early in the morning, I had walked out of my front door trying to leave for work, and I spotted this young girl a few houses down from me fighting with her baby’s daddy. Dude had his hands wrapped around her neck, strangling her while she tried to claw him and fight him off. The crazy thing was, there were other niggas outside watching this mess and not one of them sorry-ass punks did anything to help her. I guess they weren’t ’bout to get caught up in someone else’s drama, then have it flipped on them. ’Cause I’ve seen that happen too. You go to help someone who appears to be in distress, then they turn around and jump on your ass for trying to save them. Well, fuck what you heard. I called the police on his ass any damn way. Let them handle it. And that’s exactly what they did.

You want to fight, keep that shit behind closed doors. Don’t bring that mess outside where I have to see it, especially first thing in the damn morning, and definitely don’t do that shit in front of your child. He was actually beating the mother of his child right in front of the poor thing. I couldn’t believe it. Oh, no the hell you won’t! I thought. Not on my watch. The little boy was in his car seat screaming and crying at the top of his little lungs. I slowly drove by while the cops were arresting his ass, and taking her too. Go figure!

Long story short, she ended up right back with him, and has the nerve to be pregnant by him again. Now her ass will really be stuck. But someone pleeeeeeeease help me understand how the hell a man can put his hands on a woman, then come out of his face talking ’bout he loves her. No, nigga, you love trying to control her. That shit ain’t love, not healthy love, any damn way. Then what drives me wild is the fact that she continues to take his disrespectful ass back. Talking ’bout he didn’t mean it. Come again, bitch? So, tell me, when he stomps you into a coma, or kills you, will he mean it then? Ugh! I will never be able to wrap my mind around that craziness. I don’t care how many times someone tries to rationalize it, or psychoanalyze it, I will never accept it.

I stare at Nahdirah long and hard, look her dead in the eyes, and say, “You don’t deserve to be hit.”

“Hit?” she repeats, letting out a nervous chuckle. “Ain’t nobody hit me. I told you what happened. I got hit with the door.”

I look at her and think, Sweetie, you don’t have to lie to me ’cause I already know how you got your goddamn eye knocked. She forgets I remember her coming to work last year with her face lumped up, and that time her excuse was that she tripped and hit her face on the edge of the table. I think to remind her of her stories to cover up what is really going on in her household, but I keep my mouth shut, and listen to the poor thing rattle on about how her man would never do anything to hurt her. Unfortunately, I know she’s desperately trying to convince herself more so than me. Whatever!

“Jake loves me too much to ever want to hurt me. Sure he gets a little mad sometimes, but who doesn’t?”

I sigh. “Um, Nahdirah, there’s no such thing as being a little mad. Either you are or you aren’t. And you’re right, we all get mad. But it doesn’t give us the right to put our hands on someone else.” I pause, studying her, hoping what I say sinks in. Already knowing the answer, I ask, “Has Jake ever hit you?”

She shifts in her seat. “Of course not,” she answers quickly. “I mean, he’s pushed or shoved me around a few times when I wouldn’t stop nagging him about something, but other than that, he would never beat me.”

No, just blacken your damn eyes. I will myself not to roll my own eyes. Uh, duh, ho…pushing and shoving is physical contact, and a form of hitting someone. Anyway, I am absolutely speechless. I want to snatch her by her damn arms and shake her ass like a rag doll. But, what do I know. When she gets sick and tired of being sick and tired, and realizes she deserves better than having someone go upside her head, she’ll find the strength and courage to get out of it. I hope.

All I know is it wouldn’t be me. The first time would be the last time, ’cause after I finished gouging his ass up with my fingernails, then punching him dead in his throat, I’d blow a hole in his chest without blinking an eye. I hear the lyrics to Jazmine Sullivan’s song “Call Me Guilty” playing in my head. Get that Glock and take his life. Hospitals and bloody noses, this would end all that I suppose …

It sure the hell would, I think, shifting in my seat. I feel myself getting pissed off. I’m sorry, but, no man should be putting his hands on any woman. And that goes for women as well. I’ve heard of a few chicks that have no problem stepping up in a man’s face and putting her hands up. That’s a no-no, period!

Oh my God, I’m telling you. A motherfucker can try it if he wants. He’ll be pushing up daisies before dawn. That’s a promise!

I get up from my seat and walk around my desk. I sit in the chair next to Nahdirah, then reach for her hand. I clasp both of my hands around it. “If there’s anything you ever want to talk about,” I offer sincerely, “I’m here for you.” Like I’ve said many times before, she’ll never be someone I’ll embrace as a friend, but I would never turn my back on her in a time of need.

She stares at me, her eyes glistening. I think I see pain, fear, perhaps relief. She opens her mouth to say something, maybe confess, but stops herself. “Girl, I appreciate that. But I’m good. Like I told you, I got hit in the eye by the door. So, please don’t make this out to be something more than it is.” She quickly gets up. “Listen, I gotta go.”

I watch her, dumbfounded, as she hastily dashes out of my office, closing the door behind her, leaving me with the memory of her black and blue, swollen face. I shake my head, thinking: Silly bitch!

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

It’s Friday, and I am glad to be out of that damn office and in my car, driving home. I am so preoccupied with sex, and dick, and having my guts dug out that I almost run a red light. I slam on my brakes, clutching my chest. I can smell burning rubber.

“Whew, that shit was close,” I say aloud, wondering which one of my sex charms I want to come through to fuck me tonight. I already know I’m not in the mood for Mitchell’s drunk ass. Besides, he’s on the verge of being terminated early from his pussy and ass-eating duties for coming to my house unannounced the other night. I don’t feel like seeing Wade or Jamil. And I’m not up for Garrett or Ian either—particularly not Ian.

I think for a minute, then decide to call Nelson, a dude I met a few months ago at Livingston Mall. He’s a six- foot-four, two-hundred-twenty-five-pound, milk-chocolate man with a wide nose, thick neck, and big, round brown eyes. He’s not officially one of my sex charms since I haven’t fucked him yet, but I promise you, if he performs as good as he looks, he will be before daybreak.

He picks up on the third ring. “Hello?”

“Hello, Nelson?” I ask, not sure if the voice on the other end is his or not since this is my first time calling him. My phone number flashes as private, so he will not know who I am. I never allow a man to have my phone number until after I ride his dick at least once—and then, only if I decide to fuck him again.

“Speaking,” he answers. “Who’s this?”

“It’s Janaye…”

Don’t give me that look. I know that’s not my name, geesh! I’ll explain later. But, for now, simply go with the flow. Oh, alright, already! Janaye is my middle name, and one of my aliases. So, depending on the nigga I’m fucking at the time, it may be Janaye or Briana, another alias. That’s who I am to them. Please. Why would I give any of them my real name, especially when I know they’re creeping? Now when a chick does try to check for me, she’s looking for either one of the two, not Bianca, trust me. The ones who claim to be unattached, well, I take my chances and give ’em my real name. And that depends on whether or not I think they’re trying to run game on me.

“…I’m not sure if you remember me,” I continue, “but we met at the mall a few months ago.”

“Oh, yeah,” he says, sounding excited. “I know who you are. You were the one talking real slick that day. Had my dick all hard ’n shit. What’s good with you? I didn’t think you were gonna call.”

“I misplaced your number,” I lie. Hell, men do it all the time. “I was cleaning my car out this morning and found it stuck on the side of my passenger seat so I decided to hit you up to see what you been up to.”

“Oh, that’s wassup. For a minute there I thought you mighta got scared or something.”