Page 39 of Deep Throat Diva

She laughed, taking another sip of her drink. “Girl, you don’t have to convince me. I believe you. The question is: does ya man?”

“Want another round of drinks?” I asked, avoiding the question.

“I sure do,” she said, gulping down the rest of her Margarita. And for the remainder of the evening we ate, drank and laughed until it was closing time.

I bring my attention back to Felecia. “Girl, please. It doesn’t matter what I think, or you for that matter. Alicia’s a grown woman, making whatever choices she makes by her own free will. What she’s done or is doing has nothing to do with me.”

“Whatever. The shit’s still nasty to me.” She stuffs her bag into her drawer, then locks it. “Annnnnway, I meant to ask you. When’s the last time you went on Facebook?”

“It’s been months, why?”

“Girrrrrlfriend, you are missing out on the dirt. That chick who cut up Big Booty has been reading her for filth on Facebook, posting all kinds of messy shit about her on her wall. Somebody musta tagged Big Booty, and that shit got her cranked up. She turned around and posted all types of shit about what chick’s man used to do to her in bed, challenging her position as his woman and whatnot. And she even got the video of that chick getting stomped down by her kids posted on YouTube.”

“Are you serious?”

“Baaaaaaby, as a heart attack. They’ve been going at it hard for the last two days.”

I roll my eyes, disgusted. I mean, really…grown-assed women carrying on like dick-

whipped school girls is beyond my reach. Whatever beef the two of them have, they need to handle that shit like adults instead of airing out each other’s personal business on some public site for all to see. I have two Facebook pages; one for me, and the other for the salon. And I rarely go on either. I think the last time I actually logged onto my personal page was about two months ago. That’s how far removed I am from it all. And, when I did go on it, half of the people who had requested me as a friend, I declined. And any notes I had, if they didn’t pertain to making money, I ignored.

“If you ask me,” I state, pulling open my BlackBerry and scrolling through my messages, “they both sound like two stupid bitches. Hmmph, I’m glad I don’t waste my time on that shit. Only sick bitches and niggas air out their personal business online.”

And only a sick bitch posts sex ads online, then goes off and has random sex with them. But that hasn’t stopped you. Now has it?

“Well, girl, as true as that may be. I looooove it!” she says, getting up from her seat. She glances at her profile in the mirror hanging on the wall behind the counter. “It keeps me in the loop with all the minute-to-minute details of the latest hood gossip. Them messy bitches make my day, boo.”

“Hmmph. Well, you can have it. And while you’re at it, how ’bout you make yourself useful and maintain the salon’s page, too, ’cause you know I can’t be so bothered with that mess.”

“I got you,” she says glancing at her watch, walking toward the front door. She opens the miniblinds, lets the morning light in. “Just give me the password and I’m on it.” Her iPhone buzzes. She walks back over to the counter and picks it up, then scrolls through it. “Hmmph. Alicia just texted me. She’s not coming in today.”

“I shouldn’t be surprised. Does she have any appointments scheduled for today?”

“Two. But they’re not until later this afternoon. I’ll call them to see if they want to reschedule or see someone else.”

“Okay, well let me let you do your thing,” I say, walking toward my office. “I’m gonna check the emails, then try to go through some of that mail that’s been sitting on my desk for the last few days before my appointment gets here.”

“Okey-dokey,” she says, watering the tropical plants situated around the shop.

I leave her to her task, going into my office. My cell rings. I pull it out of my bag, then glance at the screen, smiling. It’s my seventy-year-old grandmother who we lovingly call Nana. But for me, she’s more than Nana. She’s the woman who loved and nurtured me when my own mother couldn’t. Then she became the woman who would raise me after my father was murdered.

Quiet as it’s kept, because Nana refuses to admit it despite what everyone else in the family, and in the streets, has said about my father—he was a menace. Ralphie Allen, aka The Boogey Man—was a ruthless drug dealer and street bully who muscled up lower-level drug dealers, shaking them for their paper and product. And for the most part, he had niggas shook at some of his crazy antics, like tossing gasoline on someone for not coming up off their money and drugs, then setting them on fire, or biting off someone’s ear for ear-hustling in on a conversation he was having. He had gotten his street name because he was as black as night with dark piercing eyes and a menacing presence. He’d always do his dirt late at night, swooping down on his unsuspecting targets, beating, maiming and robbing them—in no particular order, instilling fear in them. Whomever he thought was caking up that week, could and would get it. So, niggas in the streets stayed strapped and ready; most of the time looking over their shoulders, knowing that The Boogey Man was somewhere lurking in the shadows. Unfortunately for him, he strong-armed the wrong niggas and ended up getting gunned down. My father died of multiple gunshot wounds to the head and chest. I was eleven.

Then, in 1999, my mother was murdered in a car-jacking incident where three men approached her at gunpoint for her ’98 Porsche 911 GT1. When the police finally recovered the car—four days later, her body was found tied up in the trunk. The autopsy showed she had been killed by two bullets to the head. I was twenty.

With no questions asked, Nana opened her heart and doors to both me and Felecia, losing both of her own children—my father, and Felecia’s mother—to drugs in one way or another. In many ways, Nana tried to shelter us and kept us in church, hoping to keep Felecia and me from becoming wayward, like our parents. Though she was strict, she was extremely fair. And, for the most part, she did a damn good job raising us.

“Hi, Nana,” I say. “How are you? Is everything okay?”

“Hey, baby,” she says in her soothing voice. “I’m fine. My knees hurt and I can’t get around like I want some days, but I’m favored and blessed. You know God is good.”

“Yes, Nana, I know,” I respond, hoping she doesn’t get into one of her mini-sermons about sinning and thieving hearts and us living on earth in our last days and needing to get closer to God. I love my grandmother dearly. But sometimes…never mind. “I’m glad you’re doing okay.”

“Yes, baby. God has kept me wrapped in His grace and mercy. And He’s been good to you, too.”

“Yes, He has, Nana,” I say, bracing myself for what’s coming next.

“And you need to give Him some praise.”

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