Knockin' Boots by Tracy Price-Thompson

Author:Tracy Price-Thompson [Price-Thompson, Tracy]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-0-307-53586-3
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Published: 2005-10-14T16:00:00+00:00

THE next day was Friday, and before the sun was up good I found myself leaving Emile a message with the charge of quarters that I was too sick to come in. I laid in bed staring at the ceiling, and two minutes after Fancy left for work I was out the door right behind her.

Without grabbing so much as a toothbrush, I climbed in my car and drove west nursing a sore asshole for fourteen hours straight, stopping only for gas and water, and arriving on Brunson Hill Road well past ten at night.

Everything looked just like I remembered. The house still wore the last coat of paint that me and Emile had put on it. The porch looked smaller. The third step was broken and somebody had set a wooden plank over it that had been worn down to a few raggedy splinters. The screen door was still there, banging in the night breeze. The frame was rusted out and missing the mesh.

I heard music coming from inside, and the sound of crying babies. Somebody got slapped, and wailed at the top of their lungs. I started up the steps and I was twelve again. I paused to listen at the door, just like I always did. If Dirty Sue was in her cups, her cursing and bitching would sure 'nuff send me around to the back door. Or maybe around to Teesha's window. But if all was calm, then I'd go right in.

And that's what I did.

I twisted the doorknob and it turned like always. No body locked their doors on Brunson Hill Road. Nobody had anything that was worth stealing.

The first thing that struck me was the front room. It was overrun with babies and debris. The smell hit me next. Pissy mattresses. Old beer bottles. Teesha's dirty pussy. The funk of my dreams.

“Who dat?” a little boy asked. He was about nine. His shirt was off and his thumb was in his mouth.

The eyes of a thousand dirty children looked up at me and I read them all loud and clear. “Hey, mistah,” one little boy asked, eyeing me eagerly. “You branged us any peanut butter?”

A young girl who looked about thirteen walked toward me and stared. If she wasn't Teesha, then I wasn't Kevin.

“Nah, stupid,” she answered, her eyes glued to my shoes and my watch, calculating their worth. “He the new rent man.” She tossed her little Teesha hips at me and said, “Might as well carry your ass back on outdoors 'cause we ain't got it right now.”

I looked beyond the kids and farther into the room, and that's when I saw her. Lil Mama. Sitting on a milk crate.

“That niggah ain't here to collect no damn rent,” she said, watching me from narrow eyes. She was smoking a cigarette and nursing a baby from the biggest, longest tit I had ever seen in my life. “That ain't nobody but that old Kevin. Whatchoo doin' here, boy?”

“IT … hey, Lil Mama. How y'all been? Where's Dirty Sue?”

She put her head back and laughed.

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