Big Juicy Lips (17 page)

1990

D
runk, Rodney had trouble getting his newly acquired key to fit inside the lock. After a few moments of fumbling, the mission was finally accomplished, but the chain, locked in place, would not allow admittance inside the untidy, ramshackle house. Though short in stature—standing at only five feet three inches and slight of frame, Rodney, consumed with alcohol and fury, kicked the door with the force of a big, brawny man.

“Lynette! Open the damn door.” Through the opening he could see her slew of kids transfixed, watching television. “Will one of y’all open this damn door?” Not one pair of eyes left the television screen. The only child concerned about his locked-out status seemed to be the son of the crack addict, who lived a couple houses down the block. The boy, Baron Kennedy, came running down the stairs, eager to accommodate.

The neighbor’s child was tall for his age. He easily unlocked the sliding chain. Rodney stepped inside and popped the boy upside the head. “What took your ass so damn long?”

“I was in the bathroom, Mr. Rodney.”

“Look at this place,” Rodney complained, looking around at the dusty, neglected home. He stumbled over scattered toys and other odds and ends that were strewn about. Kicking items out of his way, he staggered to the kitchen. He glared at Lynette Baxter, the most recent woman to share her home, her food, and her bed with him. She wasn’t much to look at, skinny with uncombed, knotty hair, but she provided a temporary roof over his head. Until something better came along, Lynette and her brood of crumb snatchers would have to do. He looked around the kitchen, turning up his nose, sneering at Lynette, the peeling paint on the wall, the dishes in the sink, the overflowing trash, and the dirty kitchen floor.

“How come this place gotta look like this? I can’t stand a trifling woman.” Rodney gave Lynette an extra-long sneer. Yeah, he’d be out of that joint just as soon as he stumbled across better pickings.

Mouth slightly slack, eyes focused on nothing, Lynette mechanically stirred a pot of rice. Milky water boiled over, ran down the pot.

“Woman, you ’bout to burn the house down,” Rodney hollered. “Can’t stand a junkie, neither,” he complained. “Can’t you hear?” he hollered. “Turn that burner down before this dump catches on fire.”

Rodney bumped Lynette out of the way, turned down the burner. Jolted out of her drug-induced stupor, Lynette peered at him questioningly. “Damn, woman. You too high to be fooling around with fire.” He lifted the lid to see what they were having for dinner. “What’s this?”

“Rice.”

“Rice! That’s it? Nothing to go with it?”

“I’m outta stamps.”

“You ain’t got no food stamps! Sheit! I’m not used to living like this!” He banged his hand on the countertop. From the squalid living room, the volume of the television went up to full blast. “What’s wrong with your kids? They deaf or something?”

Lynette scratched and shrugged. “Guess you making so much noise, they can’t hear their show.”

“Sheit!” he repeated. “And another thing,” he said, frowning deeply. “Don’t you think you got enough kids running around here? When is that boy’s mother coming back for him?”

Lynette shrugged. “Shuggie come and go; she ain’t really say when she planned on picking Baron up. You know how she do. She’ll turn up. Give it another day or so.”

“Whatchu mean, she come and go? We got enough mouths to feed up in here; we don’t need one more.” He stood, huffing for a few seconds, and then bellowed, “Baron!”

Wide-eyed, the child dashed into the kitchen.

“Where’s your momma at, boy?” Rodney gave Baron a long, evil look, causing the child to stutter in fear.

“I…I…she said…” The boy looked down, tearful. “I don’t know.”

“Whatchu mean, you don’t know? I’ll be damned. Your mother done dumped you like yesterday’s trash.”

Losing control of his emotions, tears fell from the child’s eyes. “She said that she’d be right back.”

“That was over a week ago!” Rodney blasted. “We ain’t got enough food to feed your hungry ass for another week or two.”

Rodney folded his arms and glared at six-year-old Baron. “Your mother ain’t shit; pulling disappearing acts when she knows she got a child to look after.” He shook his head. “If your own mother don’t give a fuck about you, why should I?”

Weeping and not knowing what to say, Baron shrugged his shoulders.

“Stop making him cry, Rodney,” Lynette slurred. “Shuggie’s gon’ turn up. She’s out there doing her thing—getting high. Why you letting it bother you so much?”

“Because!” Rodney huffed. “People with kids need to get high on they own time. I don’t see you leaving your pack of kids on nobody. Am I right or wrong?”

“You right,” Lynette promptly responded. “But…”

“But nothing. Shuggie’s taking advantage because you too soft; you let her get away with too much. I got some words for her when she gets back.” Rodney hitched up his pants. “I’m the man of this house now. Ain’t gon’ be no more getting over. If Shuggie wanna go get high somewhere, she gon’ have to take her boy with her.”

“She gave me some food stamps,” Lynette offered meekly.

“How long ago was that? Whatever she gave you sure ain’t helping. Anytime you down to cooking up nothing but a pot of rice, it don’t seem like she gave up too many of her stamps. I’ll tell you who she gave ’em to—the drug man. Uh-huh, Frankie’s probably in Pathmark filling up his shopping cart right now.”

Rodney scowled at the unsightly pot on the stove and then turned his hateful gaze on the cowering child as if the boy had personally devoured all the food in the house. “I oughta whoop that ass.” Rodney started the slow, torturous process of unbuckling his belt.

“It ain’t Baron’s fault,” Lynette said, giving the trembling boy a sad shake of her head.

“This boy can’t stay here and just live off the fat of the land, Lynette. After I give him a good ass whooping for using up my heat, water, and eating up more than his share of the food around here, I want you to call Children’s Services and drop a dime on his no-good mother. You gon’ have to turn this boy in. We can’t keep feeding his ungrateful ass.”

“I don’t want no social services agency snooping around my house. No way! Shuggie go out on binges for ’bout a week or so, but she always comes back. That’s the truth. You’ll see.”

Rodney rolled his eyes at Lynette and then fixed his gaze on Baron.

Lynette sighed. “All right then, if it’ll make you feel better, go ahead and give the boy a whooping.” She flopped down in a kitchen chair, scratching. “I can’t worry myself about it.” She raised her hands in weary surrender.

Looking from Rodney to Lynette, little Baron pleaded for mercy with his terrified eyes.

“Get over here, lil’ nigga.” Rodney held the leather belt in his hand.

“Don’t beat him too bad, Rodney. He can’t help the way his mother acts,” she appealed to Rodney.

Rodney stuck his chest out, puffed up. “Oh, now you gon’ tell me how to whoop a hardhead child?”

“I’m just saying…” She lowered her head, scratched her arm. “If I let you beat on him, you better not call up social services. I can’t have those people snooping around here. We’ll deal with Baron in our own way. Okay?”

Rodney grunted a half-hearted agreement, raised his hand high and laid his belt across Baron’s backside. At the sound of the first lash of the belt, six pairs of feet stampeded into the kitchen. “Ooo, Baron’s getting a whooping,” one child said, eyes gleaming in awe.

“Why Mr. Rodney giving Baron a whooping, Mommy?” asked Sharday, the oldest.

Lynette rolled her eyes up to the ceiling in exasperation. “Rodney, this ain’t right,” she said, rocking and scratching. “The kids were quiet. Now they all worked up. All this commotion is messing with my high!”

Rodney shot a menacing look at Lynette’s six children, shook the belt threateningly. “Take y’all asses back to the living room, so I can handle my business in privacy.” The children shrank back, but didn’t go very far. Watching Baron get whooped with a belt was too interesting to miss.

A year passed. Baron’s mother, Shuggie, never did turn up. There were rumors that she’d ended up in the trunk of a drug dealer’s car; shot and dumped for neglecting to pay a large tab. No one really knew or cared; except Shuggie’s son, Baron. But there was no way for him to solve the mystery. There was nothing he could do.

Rodney stuck around, mainly because he took a liking to whooping the boy’s behind. He convinced Lynette to go over to the welfare office and get Baron added to her check. To Lynette’s surprise, the county people didn’t come nosing around. She was required to file for custody, which she easily got. Children’s Services turned Baron over to Lynette without even so much as a household visit. Naming Lynette as a legal guardian was cheaper and more expedient than searching for emergency foster care.

With Baron’s contribution to the amount of food stamps, Rodney was mildly satisfied. Baron’s situation worked to everyone’s benefit; except his own.

Rodney kept the docile youngster in line by giving him a daily whooping. Baron tried to be a good boy, tried to prevent the fiery burn of the belt against his skin. But to no avail. There was no rhyme or reason to ass-whooping time. Baron could be immersed in a favorite cartoon with Lynette’s six children, and Mr. Rodney would stagger in and announce, “It’s ass-whooping time,” as he unbuckled his belt.

“Ooo, you gon’ get it, Baron,” the six children would taunt. Instantly, Baron would walk a solemn path toward Mr. Rodney’s waiting strap.

Sometimes, the lashes took place downstairs in front of the children, but most times Baron was marched upstairs to Lynette and Rodney’s bedroom. “Oh, you don’t feel that fire, boy?” Mr. Rodney would blare, applying harder belt strokes if Baron didn’t scream loud enough during the assault.

Whooping ass made Rodney’s dick angry…hard…erect. After every whooping, he’d dismiss the whimpering child and call Lynette and order her to assume a prone position on the bed. She’d grit her teeth and spread her legs and clutch the bed covers in preparation of a brutal, sexual assault.

When Mr. Rodney was too drunk to give Baron a physical beat down, he used verbal abuse to terrorize the young child.

“You better watch your step, boy. You better do as I say, and do it quick! Shape up or ship out. You’s an ungrateful lil’ nigga. Keep fucking with me and I’ll tell you what’s gon’ happen to you.” At this point, Rodney would twist his drunken face into a detestable contortion. “You gon’ wind up right where you belong—outside. Homeless! Out there on skid row living with the bums. That’s what happens to ungrateful lil’ niggas. They end up living underneath a bridge, inside a cardboard box.”

The threat of having to live under a bridge would send the young boy into tremors of fear—tears and awful, wailing. “Please, Mr. Rodney. Please don’t throw me out in the street! I’ll be good. I promise, I’ll be real good, Mr. Rodney,” the defenseless child would plead.

During ass-whooping time, hearing such a high degree of begging made Rodney feel big and powerful, inspiring the dwarfed man to deliver hard, revitalized blows.

It was just a matter of time before Lynette and her six children jumped on the taunting bandwagon. “You better wash them dishes before you end up homeless,” they’d chant.

Homeless!
That word could produce instant results, could get the young orphan moving swiftly, tackling all household chores: cooking, cleaning, laundry—and of course, he remained a human whipping post.

Before long, Mr. Rodney had progressed from alcohol to drugs. Baron came in handy when Rodney was short of cash or owed his dealer money. Baron’s services were exchanged for drugs.

“Hey, boy! No school for you, today. Frankie got some work for you to do. Put that book bag down and take your ass on over to his house.”

Baron removed the book bag.

Rodney studied the boy’s appearance. “Nah, you better keep that strapped on your back. Makes it look good, just in case those truant officers see you. You can tell ’em you late for school. Make sure you don’t give Frankie a hard time. Frankie’s real good to us, so make sure you show the man some gratitude for giving you work to do,” Rodney reminded the child as he fondled a crack vial. “I know you don’t wanna end up living in a cardboard box, so get on over there and do whatever he wants you to do. Clean up his yard, wash his car. Try to take notice of the things that need to be done. Make yourself useful,” Rodney implored the motherless child. “If I don’t teach you nothing else in life, boy, I’m gonna make sure you show gratitude to the people kind enough to take care of you.”

Baron noticed lots of fallen leaves when he arrived at the home. “You want me to rake up the leaves in the yard,” he inquired, making himself useful.

“Nah, not today, lil’ playa. I got another job for you,” Frankie said, studying Baron. “I got some bricks that need to be moved. You’re perfect for the job. Ain’t nobody gonna suspect a lil’ kid of carrying bricks of weed in his book bag.”

Shortly after, Frankie started referring to the child as Lil’ Playa and sometimes he called him Brick.

Present

M
r. Rodney died of renal failure a few months before Brick got sent to the juvenile center. Brick wept bitterly at his tormentor’s funeral. Mr. Rodney had been the only father figure he’d ever known. The violent-tempered man had convinced Brick that he deserved every beating he gave him; he taught Brick to respect him for taking the time to teach him the meaning of gratitude. His own mother had run off and left him like a piece of trash. Mr. Rodney told him he should have been grateful that he and Miss Lynette were kind enough to raise some trash that had been dumped at their door.

“Instead of crying like a lil’ bitch, you should be thanking me,”
Mr. Rodney sometimes said after giving Brick a harsh whooping. Those words were usually followed with,
“Show some gratitude, lil’ nigga!”

“Dane and I are gonna talk business when he wakes up. After that, I need some alone time with him, so you can take the truck and drive yourself to your gigs,” Misty told Brick.

Brick swallowed the lump of pain that formed in his throat. Bearing Mr. Rodney’s words in mind, Brick said, “Okay, thanks.” Masking humiliation, hiding hurt feelings, Brick stood tall. His body language and stoic expression didn’t give a hint of the pain that threatened to stoop his shoulders and fill his eyes with tears.

“Don’t worry, I’ll fill the tank when I get finished working,” he threw in. Maybe he’d get some alone time, too, if he acted grateful.

Misty nodded absently, poked her head in the freezer, checking out packs of frozen chicken. “How long has this chicken been in here?” she asked, as she inspected the stickers on the packages, her face tight with concentration as she searched for an expiration date.

“Not that long,” Brick responded. “It’s still good. You want me to cook dinner for the three of us when I get home tonight?”

“No, that’s aiight. I got this. I’m gonna fix a romantic dinner for me and my boo.” She blushed and then covered her mouth to suppress a girlish giggle. He’d heard that joyful tinkle in her laughter back when she was dealing with Shane. The only difference was Brick wasn’t jealous of Shane. He loved Shane. He was his best friend and Brick was more than willing to share Misty with his main man. He and Shane had an unspoken agreement. Shane knew Misty was crazy over him, but he also knew that taking her away from Brick would tear him to pieces.

Keeping his jealous eyes downcast, he mumbled, “Oh, that’s whassup. Have a good time. See you tonight.”

Fuck cooking, she’d call a caterer! Hell yeah. She could afford it. She flipped open her laptop, prepared to Google catering services in Philadelphia, but twenty-two unopened emails deserved at least a quick glance. Damn! Juicy had two date requests. One for tonight; the other for tomorrow at six.

How the hell could she get Felice and the trick situated without her whip? Damn.

Irritated by the interruption in her dinner plans, she snatched the phone out of the base. “Hi, Felice. I have two dates for you. One for tonight and one for tomorrow night. The pay is good.” Misty pulled the phone away from her when Felice shrieked with joy.

“Girl, this is right on time. I got fired from my job.”

Whatever!
“There’s a slight problem, though. You’re gonna have to get there on your own. Catch a cab or something. I’m not obligated to provide you with transportation, you know,” Misty said, using a snippy tone.

“Are you gonna reimburse me?”

“Hell no! Do you want the gigs or not. I have tons of other girls,” Misty lied.

“Yeah. Where’s he located?”

Misty checked out the information the client provided. “He’s in Cherry Hill.”

“All the way in Jersey!”

“It’s just over the bridge.”

“I’m not taking a cab to Jersey. Fuck it; you can give that gig to somebody who has a car.”

Misty was stumped. She hadn’t expected Felice to show any backbone. “Hmm. Look, give a few minutes to work something out. I’ll call you back.”

Misty called Brick. “Where you at!” she barked into the phone. “I need you to come home right now.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Where are you?”

“Um, I’m on Kelly Drive right now, heading for my next gig.”

“With who? Herb?” Misty felt hopeful. Herb was a regular. Cooperative. She overcharged him on the regular. He was a push-over; a real sucker.

“Nah, I just left Herb. I’m on my way to Dr. Harding’s office.”

Misty’s mind raced. Dr. Harding was an asshole. Obsessive about time. She couldn’t trust Brick to smooth things over with Dr. Kenneth Harding. She’d have to handle it.

“Okay, turn around and come back home. I’ll call doc and tell him you’re gonna be late.” Misty clicked off, gritted her teeth and called Dr. Kenneth Harding’s cell phone.

“Hey, doc, it’s Misty. Listen, Brick’s running behind schedule. He’s going to be a little late.”

“How late?”

“Half-hour. Forty-five minutes,” she said with forced nonchalance.

“This is unacceptable. Totally irresponsible. I’m a busy man,” he ranted. “I paid in advance and I expect appropriate compensation.”

Cheap ass
. “Not a problem. Next appointment, you can get the first half-hour free of charge.”
You can suck dick on the house, you married pervert!

Muttering as he mulled her proposition over, the doctor snorted, and then begrudgingly agreed.

Punkass!
Misty clicked off the line.

Dane snuck up behind her, kissed the back of her neck. Startled, Misty jumped, let out a tiny yelp. “Don’t sneak up on me like that! You scared the shit out of me. How long have you been standing behind me?”

“What’s going on, playa? You doin’ big things?” There was a teasing light in Dane’s eyes.

“Trying, but I think I’m in over my head. I have all this work…” She gestured toward the open laptop. “But not enough workers. I was planning on fixing a romantic dinner for us while Brick was out working, but there’s a change in plans.”

“Whassup?”

“I had to reroute Brick; he’s on his way home with the whip. I have this chick working for me. She has a gig in Cherry Hill, but she doesn’t drive and the dumb bitch refuses to take a cab over the bridge. Isn’t that the dumbest shit you ever heard?” Misty snorted. “I didn’t buy my whip so I could chauffeur a bunch of mufuckas around. After tonight, she better get herself some reliable transportation.”

“I didn’t know you had women working for you?” Dane feigned ignorance.

“I don’t discriminate.”

“Big pimpin’, yo. I’m impressed.”

Misty smile appreciatively, then her expression darkened. “But everything I’ve tried to build could fall apart if I don’t get some extra help.” She whirled around and faced him. “I thought you were going to recruit some of your people for me.”

“I am. I didn’t know the situation was critical. Didn’t you say you wanted to give them some training before they start?”

“Training?” she scoffed. “Standing up and getting your dick slobbered on doesn’t require listening to a long lecture or taking a pop quiz.”

“True.” He chuckled. “But I thought you wanted me to sit down with the young hustlers, tell him how much paper they can make tricking and then, after I get them all hyped and everything, then I kind of ease in the fact that most of the clients are men.”

“Why you gotta go easy on a bunch of thugs? It’s not like they’re too fragile to handle real life. Take my word for it; any dude out there getting his hustle on has had his dick sucked at some point by another man. Female addicts aren’t the only ones trading sex for drugs. You used to hustle on the corner; you know what I’m talking about.”

“Yeah, I was out there grinding, but I never got down with another man.” Dane cringed at the idea.

“Bet you had a whole lot of offers, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, I’m not gon’ lie. But I’m not a homo; I don’t fuck around with men. Never have, never will.”

“This isn’t about you, Dane. I’m just trying to make a point. Why you taking it personal?”

“I guess I’m homophobic,” he said, laughing. “Speaking of homos, whassup with your boy, Brick? He’s a fag?”

“No!”

“Bisexual?”

“Hell, no. Brick don’t do nothing but get his dick sucked. That’s it.”

“So, what was the deal with him trying to get in the bedroom earlier today? Was he trying to join us?”

“Not really.” Misty chose her words carefully. “We have a special situation. Me and Brick are freaks. That’s what keeps us together. He likes to see me getting fucked and I like the idea that he’s looking. Feel me?”

Dane shrugged. “Not really.”

Misty rubbed her hand up and down Dane’s smooth, hairless chest. “It’s like this…Brick understands that it’s all about me and you now. He’s on the sideline. But you have to share sometimes, Dane.”

“Share? Whatchu mean?”

“Let him watch; that’s all.”

Dane ran it through his mind. If having Brick drooling over him serving Misty would get him the password to Misty’s bank account, shit, what the fuck. “Yeah, aiight. But dude better not touch me.”

“Damn, do you think everything is about you? You’re pretty and everything but you don’t look better than I do. Brick ain’t looking at nobody—male or female—except me. I own that nigga. He lives and breathes to please me!”

Half an hour later, Misty proved her point as she drove Brick to Dr. Harding’s office. Dane sat in the passenger’s seat. Brick sat in the back behind Misty.

“Just the thought of all the driving I have to do is making my neck start to cramp up already.”

Without even being asked, Brick leaned forward and began to massage the back of Misty’s neck. His huge hands worked on her neck and shoulders, kneading and massaging until they reached his destination.

“Feel a little better?” he asked, getting out.

“I guess,” she mumbled, sounding dissatisfied.

“I’ll finish tonight, if you want me to.” Brick’s eyes were lowered; embarrassed that Dane was being allowed to witness the nature of his and Misty’s relationship.

“We’ll see. Yo, Dr. Harding is not a happy camper; dude is talking a bunch of bull because we’re running late. Please stuff his mouth with a big hard-on, so he can shut the fuck up.”

Any other time, Brick would have laughed, but it was embarrassing to have another man privy to his and Misty’s game. Shit, Shane didn’t even know about their private hustle. Brick could feel that he was being forced into a situation that wasn’t working to his benefit. He would be patient for as long as he could, but Misty was putting him in a bad situation. It would be in his best interest if she’d hurry up and get Dane out of her system.