Daddy Long Stroke

“You damn right, I do.” I laugh at her. Tell her I’m gonna be in the American Express Members lounge—yeah, a muhfucka gotta AMEX card. And?—while she finishes burnin’ up her paper. I dip into the lounge, find me a spot in the corner and set the bags down. Then grab a cranapple drink. My cell rings. It’s Mike. “Yo, what’s good?”

“Chillin’, son, you know how I do. What’s good with you?”

“Shit, man. Out here in this packed-ass mall wit’ Moms ’n shit.”

He laughs. “Mom Dukes got you out in all that madness spendin’ paper. That’s wassup.”

“Yeah, sumthin’ like that.”

“Dig, I got our tix for the All-Star games as well.”

“Oh, word. How much them shits run?” He tells me he copped floor-end seats for the All-Star game; that they costs six hundred and fifty apiece. He was able to get ’em through a hookup, so I’ma only haveta come outta my pocket wit’ half of that, but I gotta shell out two-hundred-and-twenty-five dollars for the celebrity game tix. Then he tells me he put it on his credit card, so he’s gonna need my portion of the money before the due date. In my head, I’m already tryna figure out which broad I’ma hit up to recoup my paper. “Aiight, bet. I’ll get that to you.”

“Aiight cool. Yo, that nigga Ron pulled out, talkin’ ’bout his money bein’ funny, so he ain’t rollin’.”

“Yo, fuck that pussy-ass nigga,” I snap. “That muhfucka did some real bitch shit, so I’m glad the nigga ain’t rollin’. I don’t want that snake anywhere near me.”

“Oh, word? What that nigga do?” I tell ’em that shit that went down wit’Akina. “Damn, yo. That’s fucked up. I always heard he was a shiesty-type nigga, but I didn’t know he was on it like that.”

“Yeah, that nigga was straight hatin’ on the kid. But it’s all good.”

“Yo, how he find out?”

“Gee’s dumb ass,” I say, peepin’ these two Oriental broads as they walk into the lounge, carryin’ a buncha bags. Both of ’em are rockin’ stilettoes and designer bags. I wonder if them shits are real, or knockoffs. I bet they own a buncha weave ’n wig shops or nail salons, too. I peep the bling ’round their necks and in their lobes, grinnin’. Damn, they right, I think, eyein’ ’em as they go over to the complimentary gift wrap station. I always heard Asian hoes—well, Akina doesn’t count since she’s mixed wit’ black— have some nice tight pussies, and seein’ these two sexy chicks got me wantin’ to sample a few. I try to imagine what they gonna look like in another ten years; try to figure out why the hell most of ’em age so damn hard. I make a mental note to get at a young dish of full-blooded Sushi the first chance I get. “You know that nigga can’t keep shit on the low. I don’t know why I even told his gossipin’ ass, any-damn-way. I feel like bitch slappin’ him when I see his ass.”

“So what’s good wit’ you and baby girl? Did that nigga fuck things up for you?”

“Man, listen. You don’t even wanna know. She tried to get on some ole Mike Tyson shit, throwin’ punches and bitin’ up a muhfucka.”

He laughs. “Daaaaaaaaaam, son, she did you like that?”

“Yeah, and I had to lump the ho up.”

“You did what?”

“You heard me, nigga. I knotted her dome up.”

“Damn, nigga, I can’t believe you punched her in her head.”

“Believe it,” I tell him, shiftin’ in my seat. Another call is comin’ through. It’s a blocked number.

“Yo, hold on a minute.” I click over. “Yo?” Someone’s on some dumb shit, breathin’ in the phone. I click back over to Mike. We talk a few more minutes ’bout that situation, then flip back to All-Star weekend. He gives me a rundown of all the happenin’s to expect. In my head, I’m thinkin’, this shit can wait, but I let him yap. The nigga sounds all excited ’n shit ’bout it. I’m like, whatever. We decide to meet up after the holidays, then hang up. I glance at my watch, sighin’. It’s six-fuckin’-thirty! This is some straight bullshit, I think, flippin’ open my phone. “Yo, Ma, how much longer you gonna be?”

She sighs. “I’m walkin’ out of Macy’s now. Meet me by the entrance we came in at.”

“Aiight,” I say, gettin’ up and scoopin’ up the bags. Of course, I get to the entrance before she does. Fifteen minutes later, here she comes wit’ a shitload of bags. And I know most of what she’s bought is shit she doesn’t even need. I smile, shakin’ my head. “I thought I was gonna haveta send out the robo cops to look for you. What’s in all them bags?”

She bucks her eyes at me, like I’m stuck on retarded or some shit. “Gifts, what else?”

“Aiight, Ma,” I say, holdin’ open the door for her. “Let’s roll.”

“I’m starving,” she says as she walks out the door. “I need to grab something to eat.”

“Oh, aiight. We can pick something up on our way home.”

She stops in front of Legal Sea Foods. “Umm, no, I want to eat here.”

“Aww, Ma, c’mon. You killin’ me. We’ve been out all day. And it looks packed as hell in there.”

“And your point?”

I shake my head. “Aiight, Ma, you got that. Let me go put all these bags in the car.”