Daddy Long Stroke

“Well, you asked. So be prepared for what you hear.” This is one of the things I’ve always loved ’bout Moms. She keeps shit real. Ain’t no sugarcoatin’ shit with her. That’s probably why we have such a close bond. We’ve always had that kinda vibe where we can keep shit real wit’ each other. Growin’ up she was always more like a friend—nah, scratch that, a chill-ass older sister— than a mom to me. Yo, but don’t get shit twisted. She got in my ass ’n shit, and didn’t play that disrespectful shit, but at the end of the day she was mad cool.

“Yeah, I asked. But that doesn’t mean I wanna hear all the details.”

“Well, then stay outta grown folks’ business.”

I suck my teeth, smirkin’. “Yeah, aiight. But you still haven’t told me how long this been goin’ on.”

She sits in the chair ’cross from me, crossin’ her legs. Tells me they’ve been fuckin’ for almost six months.

“Six months?” I repeat, lowerin’ my voice. I shake my head in disbelief. “So, ya’ll datin’?”

Moms clucks her tongue. Leans forward in her seat. I can tell she’s ’bout to give it to me raw. “No. We’re fucking. Big difference.”

I shift in my seat. “But the two of you are thinkin’ ’bout gettin’ back together, right?”

She loses her smile, raisin’ her brow. “Hell no. I divorced him for a reason. Your father was a lousy husband. But he was a good provider, and a damn good lover. I’m open to a dinner here, a movie there. But, getting back together in the traditional sense is not an option for me. He can come by twice, maybe three, times a week and scratch my itch. Other than that, he can keep his ass right where he’s at.”

I laugh at her. “Yo, Ma, you real funny. You know that, right?”

“Mmm-hmm,” she says, gettin’ up from her seat, headin’ toward the stairs. “Let me go put something else on. I’ll be right back.”

“Whew!” I joke. “Thank Gawd! ’Cause for a minute there, I thought I was gonna hafta start tossin’ dollars atcha.”

She stops, slams her hand on her hip, pretendin’ she’s ’bout to bring it to me. “You must want me to whoop your ass up in here. I taught you better than that. You better try twenties and up.”

I laugh. “Ma, you crazy for real, word up.” She waves me on. And I smile, shakin’ my head as she heads up the stairs. Pops got his hands full wit’ her, I think.

8

Moms comes back down wearin’ a pair of powder-blue Baby Phat sweats that cling to her hips and a white Baby Phat T-shirt. I blink, tiltin’ my head. Now, either Moms been hittin’ the gym e’ery day doin’ squats ’n shit, or she’s been hidin’ her body. ’Cause on some real shit, I didn’t know she was stackin’ cakes like that. I shake my head.

“You hungry?” she asks, switchin’ past me.

I jump up from my seat. She doesn’t hafta say another word. After all the fuckin’ and tree smokin’ I did earlier, I’m starvin’. And Pops didn’t have shit up in his spot to tie me over. I started to hit St. Georges Avenue and swing by that US Fried Chicken spot over in Linden on my way here to pick up a chicken snack. I’m glad I didn’t.

“You already know,” I say, followin’ her through the dinin’ room into the kitchen. “What you cook?”

“I made some barbecue chicken, mac ’n cheese and fried cabbage,” she says, openin’ up the cabinet and pullin’ down a plate. I take a seat and watch her as she shuffles ’round the kitchen fixin’ my plate. She sticks it in the microwave. “You want something to drink?”

“Yeah, I’ll get it,” I say, gettin’ up.

She waves me on. “Sit. What do you want? Cranberry or grape juice, Sprite or water?”

“Cranberry juice.”

She grabs a glass, then pours the juice to the rim. I smile. I don’t care how old I get, Moms still waits on me. The only thing she won’t do is my laundry. Once I started havin’ wet dreams and nuttin’ in my drawers, she said I was on my own.

When the microwave stops, she brings me my drink and plate, then pulls out a chair and sits ’cross from me. She watches me as I bite into one of the chicken breasts. Damn! I lick my fingers and lips, then shovel a mouthful of cabbage in my mouth. “Mmmmmm. This is good as hell. You really did your thing, Ma, word up.”

She playfully swats at me. “What I tell you about talking with your mouth full.” She leans forward, placin’ her elbows on the table, restin’ her chin on her closed fists. “So, tell me. Besides chasing skirts, what else have you been up to? Have you found a job yet?”

I shake my head. “I’m not lookin,” I calmly answer, takin’ a sip of my drink. I set the glass down, then finish eatin’.

“Why not? Don’t you think you should be? I know you’re not paying for all of those designer clothes, expensive shoes, and that car note and mortgage with just your looks.”

Nah, these looks get me in the door. It’s this big ole dick that gets me in them wallets.