Dirty South

At 3, it’s dark as hell from that storm rollin’ in off the Gulf, and you see all his boys sittin’ in rockin’ chairs on this wide porch like gunfighters from old movies. Drinkin’ Cristal and forties and listenin’ to the music comin’ from open windows. Thin curtains ruffle like ghosts. The thunder breaks above your head, and fat little salty drops that you imagine come from around Mexico slap you in the eyes as you walk to the porch. You don’t pay them niggas no mind. Cash called you. This his invite and you welcome as hell. It’s payday and you got to smile.

This fat ole oak’s roots has cracked open the sidewalk like ripped skin and you almost trip while opening up the gate to Cash’s place. The floors inside are wood and bleached and buffed smooth. Cash has lined the walls in blue and red neon, his gold records behind a long glass case lit up with little lights. The rest of the house is dark and smells like the inside of this old shoebox where your grandmamma used to keep her needles. The floor tilts slightly to the left, and in the dark, the thunder coming again, you follow the slant to that back room where you find Cash.

He ain’t wearin’ no shirt and he’s sweating with the windows open and playing poker with three women and some young white dude. Cash smiles a silver mouth. The red tattoo on his big chest muscles seems to beat when he flex up. The white dude don’t look right, sweat rings under his shirt, his tie hangin’ loose.

Two of the women are black. One’s white. One of the black girls is naked as hell and her fat old titties lay over a pile of money that Cash has been tossin’ to her.

“How ’bout a hundred for them li’l ole panties,” he say when you walk in.

The girl shake her head and ask for a thousand.

“Girl, that trap ain’t worth fifty,” Cash say, and laugh, taking a sip of champagne in a jelly jar and grabbing some potato chips. The music is all around you and low. Some raps and sounds you ain’t never heard and you recognize the voice as Dio’s and you wonder about that.

Cash introduces you to the white dude. Some man from L.A. who’s workin’ on distribution, and the man about shits on himself when he hears your name. He palms you off a card and smiles a little too wide to be real.

You and Cash wander out back, past a couple women in bikinis playin’ with his pit bull, Jimmy, that he uses in all his videos. They rubbin’ the dog’s stomach and cuttin’ his toenails.