A Clearer Fate

At the kitchen door, I first laid my eyes on Tracey’s back, then glanced a little lower. Her pretty panties hugging her phat ass had me thinking, What would I do without my baby? I took a seat at the kitchen table to prepare for the feast: three pancakes, cheddar cheese eggs, four strips of applewood-smoked bacon, and a stupid-big cup of pineapple juice: the breakfast of champions. It was compliments of my better half, my one and only. Tracey had gotten up early, knowing that I had to take my GED test today, went out of her way to make sure I had a full stomach so I could concentrate fully. I truly believed the saying “The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.” Even though she already had my heart, the saying totally made sense. I recalled the day we first laid eyes on each other as if it were tattooed on my mind. No love-at-first-sight shit, but something inside me told me she should be mine. But I never knew she would make such an everlasting impact. When I first approached Tracey, I felt the chemistry as if it had been orchestrated from above. We’d been together now for about seven years, more than enough time to settle down. As a Lil’ Mo and Fabulous song came on the radio, Tracey damn near broke her neck just to turn the volume up. “Let’s make it official. We ain’t getting no younger, baby.” Tracey sang along with an angelic voice. “We’re gonna be older way longer than we’re gonna be younger.” “Damn, T, you ain’t bullshitting. I feel you. “Like my nigger PAC said, ‘I ain’t mad at-cha.’ Can I get my grub on? I feel like you are trying to son me like Mom and Dad and shit,” I said. “This breakfast is banging.” “You know I get down in the kitchen.” “Especially breakfast. I put my foot in it.” “Damn, I hope not,Your crusty-ass toes.” “You see these three fingers, right?” “What?” “Read between the lines.” “I’m just fucking with you. But self-praise is no praise. You know the kitchen is the second-best place you showcase your skills, girl. Sit down and have breakfast with me, T.” “I have to get dressed. If I don’t be out of the house at least a quarter till, I’ll have to just squeeze into the packed train.” “Save your speech for the podium, Tracey.” “Good luck with your test, mister.” “Thanks.” “See you later, OK?” “Yo, how are you gonna leave without giving me some sugar? Bring those melons over here. Fuck are you doing, yo?” “Lock the door behind me.” Now alone with my thoughts, I was thinking about the Lil’ Mo song and how Tracey might have had a valid point. Now Doctor Dré and Ed Lover were cracking jokes on the radio. My better half and I had come so far as a couple. Through all the circumstances we’d endured, our relationship was still authentic. Seven years ago, when I was a ghetto roundsman with the mindset that all money was legal, whether it came from a job, from the street, or from any little hustle like selling fiends little bags of Mama’s Gold Medal flour out the kitchen, Tracey was able to keep my mind on positive things, instead of profitable schemes such as selling dreams. But it couldn’t have been that bad if it stopped the hunger pains. It was all mathematics. There I was posted on the strip, a roach clip burning my fingertips, with Black, Red, and Baby Blue. Red crushed the weed, and Black split the vanilla-flavored Dutch Master with his old-school orange box cutter before rolling an excellent blunt. Black was a spur-of-the-moment-type dude who had thrown a battery in his own back, real as a motherfucker. Baby Blue was kind of the opposite, an actual laid-back quiet-storm type of individual trying to avoid confrontation. But when it was on, it was really on. My nigger Red, well, let’s just say he was like a ticking bomb with a temper. Just imagine that. Me, P.P., a.k.a. Mr. Peep Plots, Paint Pictures, and Purchase Pussy, was just a laid-back, cool, calm, and collected type of dude who picked up everything, a real observant thinker. Since we all seemed to be smokaholics, Red’s statement “Puff, puff, pass” seemed more like a recording than a request. “I’m trying to get my lungs dirty like everybody else,” Red uttered. As I passed the little bastard that kept us blasted to Red, Cashout threw Black a package of Backwoods to roll up his bright green jar of hydro that he’d just pulled out from his Champion hooded sweater pocket. Cashout was the type to con his way into your wife’s satin lace panties. He was born with the gift of gab. I don’t think I’d ever seen him without a dime or better. He had that pimp juice. Tracey had once been in his stable before she got laid off and chose another. How ironic is that? I knew I couldn’t turn no ho into a housewife, simple and plain. But people and times tended change. We lived and learned to put our pride aside and use our past as a ghetto guide. A candy girl with no poison in her veins, Turning tricks. Ain’t no shame in her game. Double the amount, you can even run a train. Word through the grapevine, she has some excellent brain. All mind now. What a shame. You know God works in mysterious ways. Can’t knock nobody’s hustle to get chips like Lay’s. With a little unconditional love, you’ll be amazed. —Leery Malaysia was considered Tracey’s right lung. They’d been childhood peers, and their relationship had lasted through the years. They’d gone to the same public junior high school and high school, and now they were distant strangers to me. Monica, Tina, and Malaysia were like the Three Amigos. Rarely would you see one without the other. Malaysia was a care bear with much love in her heart, real shit, no perjury. She could hold a nigger down and also throw it down in the kitchen, always willing to feed a nigger—one of those culinary art graduates who loved their craft. Tina, let’s call her a pimpstress. She stood about five feet six inches in height, was thick and curvy, and was half black and half Chinese—a superbad bitch. Nobody could tell her that she did not have a gold mine between her legs. She had a skill, or a gift, for milking ballers who were wide awake but still asleep. Then there was the ebony queen Monica, stripper by night and law school student by day. She had a Coca-Cola bottle shape and a model’s face with long hair down to her ass crack—sweet as the brown sugar in candied yams. Last but not least was Lucy. With a coffee complexion, she was slim and tall with a mean kickstand that made her onion look rounder than a basketball. Bless ya, mama.