Page 4 of Trading Places

I hop out of my black Infiniti and grab the duffel bag out of the back seat. It’s heavier than usual. Maybe hosting poetry, or whatever the fuck Zari calls it, is a good idea.

I scan the lot before making a move. The parking lot is empty except for the one black car that’s always here.

Tossing the duffel bag over my shoulder, I hit the lock on my car. The car beeps. I shove my keys in my pocket and reach into my leather jacket to feel my nine. Ain’t nobody gonna run up on me, but if they do, I got something for they bitch ass.

As I head into the building, the cars speeding on I-495 echo in the distance. I swipe my card to get inside and head in. The lock clicks behind me.

I head inside the storage spot, my cool grey Jordans tapping against the floor.

It’s colder than a damn hospital in here, and I feel goosebumps on my skin. But it’s aight, it ain’t like a nigga gotta stay here all night. I do what I gotta do and go the fuck home. The low light above me buzzes and shit is low-key annoying.

I pass rows of storage units and turn the corner. I get to mine and open it. The door creaks as it goes up.

I toss the duffel bag on the couch and close the unit behind me cause this ain’t no damn invitation. I’ve been doing this shit with the product for years, switching units every couple of months. Even cycling through storage places. Niggas get caught slipping when they get too comfortable with a routine.

I catch a whiff of something sweet like peaches, and my dick twitches.

That fucking Zari.

She ain’t had no business sitting that juicy ass body in my lap. Them titties were sitting right tonight. I wanted to pop them out and suck em.

We’ve been smoking together for the last couple of months. Sometimes she comes to the jazz club by herself and then sometimes she brings that fucking wack ass square. Even after she leaves, I can still smell her.

My phone in my right pocket buzzes so I pull it out.

Shaneice: Daddy… can you Cash App me?

I don’t even need to ask how much. I switch apps and send her $1000. The confirmation pops up across the screen. I shove the phone back into my pocket.

I unzip the duffel bag and put it on my desk. The zipper is loud as fuck, and I grab my keys to unlock the desk.

I unlock the middle drawer and stash the bands inside. My eyes are heavy as hell. Not from the weed cause my high is gone. It’s been a long night.

After I run through my routine, I head back out to go home. I look down, and it’s already five in the morning.

I head back downtown, taking Duke Street all the way down. I pull up to my mama’s crib and park in front of her place.

No matter how much I’ve begged her, she won’t move out of Samuel Madden. Since my father died, she has used his Social Security benefits for her income.

Even though I told her I’d get her a house. I got the money saved up. She doesn’t care what the Housing Authority is doing; she ain’t leaving until they force her out.

I open the door and quickly lock it behind me. My mama keeps her place spotless. She’s been like that since I was a little kid. I can still smell the Pine Sol we used on Saturday mornings while listening to Parliament Funkadelic.

I head to the back of the house, and I hear the TV quietly playing the TBN channel, some fake-ass preacher talking about buying healing water and a mustard seed. Same shit they’ve been selling for years.

My mama sits up in her hospital bed, and Tammy, the CNA, is sitting in a recliner next to her.

My mama’s eyes open. “Drey… come here,” she whispers.

I nod at Tammy. “Sup, Tammy.”

“Morning, Drey.”

Sitting on the side of the bed, I ask, “What you doing up, old lady?” holding her hand.

“I ain’t too old to beat your ass.” She laughs. “Waiting for you. Turn on the news,” she says, smiling, and then coughing.

A lump forms in my throat cause seeing her like this fucks with me. My mama used to stay moving. She’d go walking with the neighborhood walking club she started when I was like five or six.