Daddy Long Stroke

It’s almost seven-thirty in the evenin’. I decide to swing past my moms to see how she’s doin’ ’n shit since I’ma be outta town for a minute. Besides, I haven’t seen her in a week or so. The minute my phone rings, I suck my teeth. Tamera’s blowin’ the shit up, again. I ignore the bitch. Now she’s textin’ me. And a nigga like me ain’t beat for this textin’ bullshit. I read the message: Nigga, that’s real fucked up how you locked my motherfucking keys in my car. And now your black ass avoiding my goddamn calls. But it’s all good, nigga. I delete the shit. Dumb bitch!

“I don’t believe this shit,” I say, shocked to see my pops’ car up in my moms’ driveway as I pull up alongside the front of her spot, then park. From where I’m sitttin’, it looks dark as hell up in that piece. Not one damn light is on. What the fuck is he doin’ over here, I think, takin’ a hit off my Dutch. And why the fuck are all the lights out? I know they ain’t up in there fuckin’. Mom can’t stand his ass.

Okay, on some real shit. I was kinda fucked up for a minute when Moms and Pops split up. I mean, I was like one of the few cats on my block who had both parents—who worked—under the same roof, feel me? Even if they hardly spoke, unless it was to yell or scream at the other; even if they were both fuckin’ on the side—they were still together. And we were a family. You dig what I’m sayin’?

I lay my head back on the headrest, then turn my head toward the house I grew up in—the same house Moms tossed my ass outta—and stare. Moms’ voice rings in my head. It’s 1988, and I’m ten again.

“Alexander Maples, do you hear me calling you, boy? I told you I had somewhere to be, now hurry your ass on.”

I sucked my teeth. “I’m comin’, Ma,” I yelled down the stairs. I walked back into my room, shuttin’ the door, then finished dressin’. “Dang, I don’t know why I can’t stay home,” I complained, check-in’ myself out in my mirror. “I’m almost eleven. And Daddy said I’m almost a man.” I slipped on my jean shorts, pulled my white tee over my head, then put on my black high-top Chucks.

“Now, Alex,” she yelled. “Not tomorrow.” She was already at the front door wit’ her keys in her hand, tappin’ her foot when I finally came down the stairs, frownin’. “Boy, bring your ass on. And fix your damn face. I didn’t give birth to no ugly-ass child.”

“I don’t wanna go,” I whined.

She squinted her eyes at me. “Alex, I’m telling you right now. Don’t start, okay?”

I stuck my bottom lip out, poutin’. “I’ma tell Daddy,” I snapped, stompin’ past her. Before I could get outta the door, she yanked me by the arm, swingin’ me ’round to face her. She dug her nails into my skin. “Owww,” I winced. “You hurtin’ me.”

“In a minute, I’ma do more than hurt you. Do you want them new sneakers today?”

I quickly nodded my head. I wanted the fresh Air Jordans that had just hit the shelves. They were like a hunnid ’n shit. And I woulda done any muthafuckin’ thing Moms told me to do to rock them shits before e’eryone else got ’em.

“Then what the hell do you think you gonna tell him, huh?” she snapped through clenched teeth. “Half the time his black ass ain’t here, and the other half of the time when he is here it’s like him not being here any damn way ’cause he’s too busy fucking God knows who or what. If he can be out wetting his dick, then damn it, I can be out wetting one, too. I have needs. And you will not have me choose between you or them. So what the fuck are you gonna tell him?” She dug her nails deeper into my arm.

“Owww, Mom, I’m not gonna tell him nuthin’.”

“Just what the fuck I thought.” She let go of my arm, then started fussin’ in my head of curls. “I don’t know why you make me have to get ugly. But I know one damn thing, you had better be glad I love you as much as I do ’cause I swear I feel like smacking the shit outta your fresh ass sometimes. But I promise you this, if you dare open your motherfucking mouth to tell anything on me, I’ma beat the skin off your black ass. You understand me?” I nodded, rubbin’ my arm. She yanked me by the shirt. “Now let’s go.”