if it aint about the money....(T.I. featuring Young Thug)

Get into it

October 2014

125^th Street -Harlem, NY

     Looking away from my phone, clearly displaying Chimeze’s missed call, I instead looked down at the head of my client. 

  I really needed to focus on making sure all of the plaits looked even, clean and professional to my satisfaction before I allowed this chick to look in the mirror, or knowing the type of ghetto strumpet I was servicing, she might not pay me.  Sue me, if you like, for "all the way" judging that ass based off the “three hour service-long” conversation she had with her “third baby’s daddy” about how he better have her money or risk an anonymous call to the police about his side business; matching people who wanted to sell their food stamps with folks who wanted an opportunity to avoid food’s rising costs. 


     Just on the strength of home girls vehemence, during said phone conversation, I quickly re-did the middle braid, before instructing her to, “Go ahead and flex in that mirror. Move your hair around and all that stupid shit.  Then give me my props… and then go in your purse for my 180.00.”

     Watching home girl primp and preen  momentarily caused a cloud of annoyance over my face — I The sourness didn't dissipate until I compared how low risk this job was compared to what I risked during the day at my main job; my education, my family, my relationships and ultimately my life.

The “application process” for my primary profession – if one can call it that — was a haze.  I remember speaking with a financial Aid counselor about a way to boost my  financial aid, and later opening the envelope, given to me at the office, to find one sheet of paper (instead of numerous financial aid forms), with a number and set of initials — P.B. — which I later came to know as shorthand for Philmon Banks.  Working for Philmon Banks — the Upper East Side's prescription pill plug — while more high paying than my tutoring gig, was an extremely high-stress position; since he couldn't get me on my back, that nigga stayed on my back since my interview in some project basement towards the close of the school years Fall semester:

“I got 68 strong male college students handling my business, at your school alone.  Fuck I need you for? Fuck you bring to the table, other than temptation for my male concentrated work force, attitude, a need for man power, feminist fueled requests for tampons in the trap house and a reduced work month, huh?   If you don’t go on and live your life while you still have it…” he said dismissively pivoting toward the red exit sign.

 “I am stealth as fuck, think about how close I got to your office before even your dogs detected me” I stated  ,defiant but evenly, from the middle of the room.

Identifying 'fuck' as one of his favorite words, I gambled its use would either greatly help the cause, or get me severely stomped for being disrespectful.  Growing up with black parents, this wouldn’t be my first time gambling for a beat down with my mouth.  When he interrupted his stride, in the direction of the door, turning around to face me, I could tell the odds were in my favor, and took it as my cue to continue my first sale.

“The streets, the police, the feds and whoever else is looking for a cut, collar, story or good press for a campaign, isn’t looking for me.  What people know of my background makes me  stereo-typically unsuitable for this shit; I’m black; black people don’t sell or use pills.  I am in college; black people in college don’t sell or use pills.  My mom’s paid; I have no reason to sell or use pills.  Also, that fun fact means there’s no suspicion when I pay my bills in the cash you pay me with.  No figuring out how to answer the questions regarding where it came from. to the physician-on call, I have  access to people who currently need your services, or who will find themselves in need — sooner than later.  I can provide them with direction. Let’s also not forget I have access to a medical “script pad” for when things get a little dry.  And from observing the student population last spring, I know things do get dry for you.Ok , quick recap of the ways I am good for your business.  I am bringing you business, handling business and the cutest customer service agent to ever do it — in this business" I said, in a tone ripped from Olivia Pope, on "Scandal," where week after week the white hat fucks up her own life, but still manages to get other powerful people to let her whatever, however, whenever with theirs

.

Standing as still as someone already dead, with no slack to my spine, centered and staring directly at Banks' last known position, peripherally examining my surroundings, I found it too reminiscent of a "First 48," interrogation room, negative the city issued desks, good cops or bad cops, that we knew of — with only a blinding white light centered on me,  in an otherwise dark room.

Focusing, I found the grandstanding, with the assistance of the bright ass light, and my ‘bright idea’ of switching out my glasses- in favor of contacts, managed to blind me to my Banks' whereabouts. Maybe this lack of attention would spare me the sight of the blow coming, I thought.

Though danger left no room for humanity in that room, much less enough air, I managed to conceal my fear.  I didn’t breathe funny or even flinch when Banks suddenly grabbed the sides of my face.

I wanted to scream, but thoughts of why I needed this job, like I had never needed anything in my life, flashed through every neuron in my brain.

  My mother had all the way-cut me off, and it was either do this or really apply for welfare at the City HRA. That couldn’t happen, as that was the work site of my ex-boyfriend Davion ; the one who use to make time to fuck me but could never to feed me: unless you counted that loaded blank food stamp card he had been providing me with for the past three years.  A service, I later found he provided to all of the girlfriends he also supported with his ‘penis ’ ; enough bitches to warrant a  support group and enough diverted city funding to land his ass in jail for a long time.

That me, knew I was his one and only, but “this me ‘ knew that if I couldn’t count on a mans’ faithfulness in that area, I had a better figure out another way to eat.. Regardless of his , my mothers and any other efforts, I was determined not to wither . which gave me the strength to stand  firm when Banks tightly closed his wet mouth over mine…

I came to in my fire engine red Victoria’s Secret onesie, under the covers of my bed- in my apartment. When I moved to go to the bathroom, a kite; a folded up note usually utilized by prison inmates for communication, preceded me — out of the bed and onto the floor.  Heavy headed, and confused, I reached for it.  My head proved too weighty for me, causing me to topple off the mattress and onto the chipped, mismatched tile flooring.  From the floor,  I read the note and attempted to mentally prepare for whatever shit, heavier than my head, was to come.

Unsurprisingly, It contained only a web-address, communicated in cut-out, block lettering; the stuff of ransom notes, completely made from magazines, newspapers, scissors and glue.  

The sudden vibration of my My G4 Samsung phone gave me a jolt as it  began speaking and displaying the month’s calendar, with the events numbered in order of importance. I shuddered each time the voice announced a line on the list.

1.       Eviction

2.       Find new apartment

3.       Pay tuition

4.       Maintain

5.       Maintain

6.       Maintain
and finally...

7.       Don’t you dare break down.

 Grabbing my phone , I navigated to the dark web address.  I conquered that, then sales, and let’s just say where I was once, it seemed, imprisoned by lack of assistance/opportunity, I’m now at a place where only time will tell if  being the bitch of underworld success, is any better…

      Clearing my throat and holding my hand out in a polite but firm indication that the time for “disney princessing in the mirror” was over, and it was now a time to pay the lady, get up and  get out.   




After all it was Valentine’s Day Eve, and I was almost positive she had a “baby daddy” to not keep waiting, or make, or take, or something. All I knew was that, I had a full day ahead of me before I was scheduled to met up with my dude. I had gifts to buy and surprises to formalize.

“Can I use the  facilities,” she asked, interrupting my strategic packing of hair supplies  into the cabinets and my thoughts.

 I held my hand out again, indicating that I expected payment before I assisted her in another goddamn thing, even something as essential as the bathroom.  Sucking her teeth, she paid my in crinkly, dirty, almost see through cash, unsupported by a bank account, the type frequently released through bodega ATMs.  After authenticating the cash, with my special marker, I gestured toward the bathroom with the instruction, “this is a private home, not a packed African hair-braiding shop.  Leave it how you found it!” 

Other than a loud squeal to her unnamed friend on the phone of “this shit is killer tight Luana,” Whether she meant in tension of style,i never found out,as of course she left without tipping, which was why I was glad for Olanna's advice to  overcharge her by 20 anyway. Closing the door behind Homegirl, I secured my portion of the payment, double checked all of the lights were off, locked all of the cabinets and called the owner, who I had paid for instruction in the African braiding styles I now charged for. Kissing her on both cheeks, I slipped Olanna our agreed upon 40.00 for the 3 hours booth rent, looked up and down 125^th Street before stepping out, leaving Olanna to lock up the shop behind me.

At 10pm on the dot, the walk home halfway done, Chimeze’s — my boyfriend, my only anchor to respectable society — name pops up on the display of my cell phone for the second time tonight.  But it’s on silent because the type of work that I do won’t allow for a rowdy attention-grabbing ringer, but the vibrating is still jarring. Busy maneuvering the dark, quiet avenues, I only glance at the screen contemplating whether arguing with this,  often emotional, motherfucker tonight is a good idea; lacking the energy to block the well deserved cheating accusations I knew were at the tip of his tongue, I tap the red phone symbol, sending the call to voicemail where it can wait until I am ready to deal with it.

Make no mistake.  I love him like a politician loves a lie, but he only knows one side of me.  
 I messed up, blending those sides by accident once;  squeezing a sale too close to our scheduled outing .  Showing up early,the noise of  his key in the lock broke my concentration and the majority of the Ritalin, I was in the midst of bagging, scattered all over the floor of my room.Walking in and surveying the mess of pills on the floor he asked ,“What’s this,”

Distracting him with a kiss, while knocking the larger pill bottle in the drawer.   “I am selling off the last of my prescription.  I don’t need it anymore, but disposing of it is like disposing of money… money I need for a deposit on an apartment,” I  diverted.

Chimeze worked as a nurse in a local hospital, and quite honestly you never really know where those types stand.  One moment they are with you, they are your boyfriend and the next, they are sacrificing you for the sake of their license; and you are left to mull how you could have done it better — over and over, caged while cleaning your new girlfriend’s panties.  All because you misplaced your trust.Since men take so much time with women, I figured it was only fair I return the favor-taking my time-for my futures sake.

“Remember that guy, the one I told you about… that —”,

Following the thought train, he replied, “Yeah, the guy you dated, but broke up with because of his bad habit?”  Looking in the mirror and adjusting his scrubs, “listen , I trust you Ryn”, I really do",  he said, shortening my name in his way.  “Listen, handle this… but then don’t handle stuff- like this -anymore.  As far as the deposit.  I got you.  That goes for furniture and anything else.  You don’t need any help from any of these druggie motherfuckers.  Understand?”

Taking comfort in this rarely expressed desire to provide for me. I knew He was right, but I also knew behind that "right" was a veiled concern that I would run off with Shawn.

Like most of my "customers", Shawn didn't look the part of a druggie. Despite his heavy dependency, Shawn held a lucrative career, large disposable income , a nice car, apartment in a desirable part of the city. And anyone who compared  his 6'3 , muscular , frame covered in a smooth cinnamon color topped off with a precisely cut ceaser to Chimezes' average height of 5'7 , and seemingly less popular dark chocolate skin , soft but solid frame , dark piercing eyes and ridiculously unruly beard ( a stupid social media habit I've failed  to break him of) -would probably match me with Shawn.


Admittedly, my mans beauty is less obvious, but it's more lasting . You have to look at him for long periods of time to appreciate him in the way hes made to be; I've learned that from watching him sleep .Tracing his form with my eyes, over and over, so no matter how deep I'm buried,or should he abandons me because of the indiscretion, the drugs, my family... I'll always be able to imagine him by my side.A little explosive and  hard to figure out , he's the most patient, loving and caring man I have ever known. I feel it, even when he's bugging out on social media or calling me out of my name to a mutual acquaintance-due to my most recent act of disrespect, to test his commitment, as women sometimes do.

Reason being;  I'd rather weed out a weak nigga who cant contend with my character flaws now, before I finish my degree or end up explaining the 'what had happened' from behind the glass . I've seen three seasons of prison wives, but still the only prison husband out here is Papoose. Five years in, from a foundation of friendship, we have had our ups and downs and but I am still scared to reveal how happy his smile makes me. When I get ready to , I remember all the other times I opened up in relationships. How it backfired , only giving the men and sometimes women an in to play with my emotions. 

 Finally nodding in agreement, slyly looking toward the stash I said,  “Take a shower, and by the time you’re out, I’ll be back and ready to make moves."


  “Ryn”, he called out, grabbing me by my shoulders when I turned back into the room.  “I got you,” he repeated before kissing me, spinning me 360 degrees  and heading to the bathroom. Watching his departure, i thought about waiting for him to finish so I could sit him down and let him know the extent of my activity. But as quickly as that emotion came, I blocked it, knowing the revelation would only lead to emotions I couldn't afford in my current profession, and a loss of income I couldn't afford in either side of my reality.

Opening the fridge, I quickly re-hid the the majority of the pills, with the money, in the mini fridges fake back wall. Securing that, I  grabbed my umbrella  and remembering that he had a key, I locked the rooms door behind me as I exited my section and barreled down stairwell to meet my client.

That was as close as Chimeze had ever come, at least to my knowledge, to finding out all I pretend to be...

That was our closest call, until now...Now, looking at the second  rejected call of the night- I knew he had questions. Questions I was pretty sure I wasn't quite ready to answer.

mood