Daddy Long Stroke

“What kinda shit?” I ask, already knowin’ this nigga stays caught up in craziness.

“All kinda dumb shit. Them bitches all up on my dick instead of havin’ their busted asses somewhere gettin’ fucked. Hell, if they had some dick in their lives they wouldn’t have so much time worryin’ ’bout what the fuck I’m doin’ wit’ mine.”

I impatiently drum my fingers on the steerin’ wheel. “Muhfucka, what the hell you do?”

“I was at this spot in Paramus winin’ ’n dinin’ this shorty, and one of ole girl’s nosey-ass friends saw me and ratted me out.”

“Nah, nigga, that ain’t enough for a bitch to house ya shit. I know you. What’d you do? Keep it gee.”

“I stayed out all night…”

“And you didn’t answer ya phone,” I finish for him.

“Yeah, somethin’ like that.”

“Nigga, you dumb as hell. You know you livin’ wit’ ole girl, so how the hell you gonna stay out all night and not answer ya cell?”

“Actually, it was two nights.”

“Two nights? And you didn’t answer ya shit. Oh yeah, muhfucka, you knew you had it comin’. Then you probably stumbled up in there smellin’ like pussy. Nigga, you was askin’ for shit to pop off.”

“I ain’t beat. She’ll get over it.”

I laugh. “Yeah, and in the meantime, ya dumb ass walkin’ ’round homeless and bare-assed ’cause ya girl done did you dirty.”

“Never that, dawg,” he says, soundin’ offended. “I’ma always have me a spot to lay my head. And she’ll be blowin’ up my ringer tryna get me to come back.”

“Whatever, nigga,” I say, grippin’ the steerin’ wheel wit’ my left hand, and leanin’ my right arm on the armrest. “Ya retarded-ass gonna be right back there gettin’ ya ass dragged for tryna fuck her over.”

“Maybe.”

I laugh harder. “Nigga, maybe my ass. Ya simple-ass will.”

“Yeah, whatever.” He pauses, thinkin’, I’m sure. Hell, I’m thinkin’ for his ass. I’m thinkin’, why the fuck is he so goddamn stupid? And when the fuck is he gonna stop doin’ dumb shit? I’m wonderin’, why the hell a bitch will fuck up all your shit, then say she blacked out and started wildin’? But when you look ’round the room, your shit is the only shit fucked up. Nuthin’ else is touched. How the hell you call ya’self blackin’ out and not tearin’ the whole house up? What a buncha bullshit!

I hit the button for the CD player. Go to disc four; track four. Wait for Erykah Badu’s “I Want You” to rip through the speakers, then spark a blunt. “Yo, nigga, ain’t no need sittin’ over there stressin’ ’bout shit you can’t do nuthin’ ’bout. It is what it is. Hell, you brought the shit on ya’self. So ain’t no need to be bitchin’ up. You might as well take a hit off some of this good shit, and let Erykah help ya get ya mind right.” I take two deep pulls, then pass the blunt to ’im.

He takes it to the head. “Yo, good lookin’ out. This is exactly what I needed.” We let silence in. Bob to the beats, passin’ the blunt back ’n forth. A haze of thick smoke starts to fill the car. I crack the back windows, and the sunroof. As much as I love to blaze, I hate the smell of that shit in my clothes. And by the time we get into the city, and I make a left onto Beach Street, we’ve burned two blunts and are feelin’ right. Then outta the blue, this muhfucka hits me wit’, “Yo, can I squat at ya spot for a few days?”

I cut my eye over at him, blowin’ smoke out. “What the fuck just happen to ‘I’ma always have me a spot to lay my head,’ nigga?”

He sighs. “Man, listen, both of my side pieces beefin’ with me, too.”

“And why can’t you stay at Lynn’s or ya other two sisters’ spots?”

“I can. But then I gotta hear them bitchin’ ’bout shit. I ain’t beat.”

I shift my focus back to the road, bearin’ onto West Broadway, shakin’ my head. “You’se a dumb muhfucka.”

“Yeah, whatever. So can I crash at ya spot or not?”

I glance back over at him, almost chokin’ on blunt smoke. This nigga and I are cool, but we ain’t that cool where I’ma let ’im rest at my crib. And on top of that, dude’s smashin’ three chicks and they all muthafuckin’ crazy. His ass is on foot now, thanks to one of them nut jobs bustin’ out all his windows and tossin’ red paint up on the hood of his 2008 Lexus. And another one of them hoes he’s fuckin’ was responsible for settin’ his apartment on fire. Yeah, he says it was an accident; that the curtains caught fire by a candle she knocked over. I’m like, “yeah whatever, nigga.” I know better. The bitch caught him in bed wit’ another ho and went Fire Marshall Bill on his ass. Fuck what ya heard. This muhfucka’s attached to too much damn drama for me. Besides, what the fuck I look like havin’ another muhfucka walkin’ ’round in his boxers, scratchin’ his nuts up in my shit? Not gonna happen.

“Hell no, muhfucka. Ya ass got too much shit goin’ on, word up. You betta stay right where you at ’til you can take ya ass back home.”

“Damn, that’s fucked up. I thought we were boys.”

Boys? This nigga done banged his damn head. “Fucked up, hell. I’m keepin’ shit real. And that’s why I’m not lettin’ your triflin’ ass rest at my spot, or bring drama up in my space, fuckin’ up our friendship. He looks at me kinda funny, but I don’t put too much energy into tryna figure out what the look’s for. ’Cause bottom line, I don’t give a fuck!

He sucks his teeth, sighin’. “Pass me the blunt, muhfucka.”

I take another pull, then hand it to ’im.

He takes a deep pull, holds the smoke in his lungs, then says, “That’s still fucked up, man.”

I make a left onto West Third Street. “Nah, nigga, what’s fucked up is you gettin’ ya shit housed and not havin’ a place to lay ya dumb-ass head.”

“Fuck you.”

I laugh. “Yeah, aiight, muhfucka. The only one bein’ fucked is you.” I drive ’round the block lookin’ for parkin’ while thinkin’, what a loser!

22

On some real shit, the whole month’s been one big-ass blur to me. It seems like the days and weeks flew right past me. I mean like, damn…where the hell did the summer go? It’s all good, though. It’s already the first week of October. Before you know it, we’ll be celebratin’ Obama’s victory ’cause he’s really ’bout to bring it straight to them crackers’ heads, for real. Watch what I tell ya. Anyway, I’m chillin’ at my spot gettin’ ready to tear into this bangin’-ass Philadelphia burger—a thick angus burger topped wit’ provolone cheese, grilled onions and hot peppers—and sweet potato fries I picked up at Bobby’s Burger Palace when my cell rings. I glance at the screen. It’s a 770 area code. I lower the sound to the stereo.

“Yo,” I answer.

“Hello, Alley Cat?”

“Yeah, who’s this?” I ask, tryna figure out the voice.

“It’s Kanika.”

“Who?”

“Kanika,” she repeats, chucklin’. “You forgot who I am that quick. You called me a couple of months ago, and left a message. We were on the same flight to Atlanta.”

“Oh yeah,” I reply, surprised to hear from her. Took ya fine-ass long ’nough to hit a muhfucka back. “What’s good, baby girl?”

My stomach growls. As bad as I wanna fuck this burger up, I don’t wanna start smackin’ up in her ear ’cause this shit right here calls for usin’ two hands, then gettin’ down ’n dirty. I dip a few fries into some honey mustard sauce, then shove ’em into my mouth, chewin’.

“Sorry for not calling you sooner. The minute I got back, I had to hit the ground running. It’s been nonstop.”