hands on the dresser, and as she turned to look back at Yo, Boon felt his stomach balling in knots. It was Mela.
Harlots
Boon rushed out of Yo’s house in a rage. He had always possessed the ability to think clearly under pressure. He ran up the stairs, as if something or someone had been chasing him. But why? He hadn’t done anything wrong. All he did was go to get some bud, and then caught his very recent ex-girlfriend with a nigga who was supposed to be his homie. Boon got back to his loft, knowing that he had deserved none of the shit that was happening to him. He went to his room and sat on his bed.
“Fuckin’ bitch! Triflin’-ass bitch!” he screamed.
As Boon reached for the last of a blunt he had lying in the ashtray on his nightstand, he tried making himself believe he did not care about Mela anyway. It had only been six months; and besides, she didn’t give a fuck about him. The self-convincing didn’t work. Boon lit the blunt and took a long pull on it. That ho looked me dead in my face, he thought, as he exhaled a big cloud of weed smoke from his lungs.
Boon stared off into space, as the pornography from Johan’s room played in his head. He saw her making faces that she normally made with him. She’d never talked dirty for Boon the way she was doing for Yo.
“I just don’t fuckin’ get it,” Boon said, as he sat the blunt roach in the ashtray to let it burn out.
He got up to grab a beer from the fridge and tripped over his footlocker that was open on the floor.
“Fuck!” he yelled, grabbing his toe on the way to the kitchen.
He got even more pissed when he got to the living room and saw the candles nearly burned out and the bottle of Merlot sweating on the coffee table.
“All this Romeo shit for a Jezebel,” he chuckled, as he grabbed a Red Stripe out of the fridge.
When he looked at the beer, he thought about Yo.
“That bitch-ass nigga! Smilin’ in my face, chillin’ in my shit, and drinkin’ with me. And gon’ fuck my bitch!” Boon was getting in his feelings again.
She ain’t my bitch no more though, he thought. I wonder if that’s who the fuck he was on the phone wit’ earlier. He blew out the candles and went back to his bedroom.
Boon woke up with all of his clothes on - even his shoes. He jumped up, as if he was running late for something, even though he was not due back at work or class for two more days. He was used to Mela waking him up to go have breakfast. He slowly came to his senses and the realization that he and Mela were no more. Boon got up to shower and brush the horrid taste from his mouth. Just as he did the night before, he tripped over his footlocker.
“You want me to look in there, huh?” he said aloud, as he stared at his throbbing foot.
He sat the footlocker on the bed and went to the bathroom to clean himself up. He planned to see why his feet seemed so interested in that damn metal box, after his shower.
Boon felt a bit fresher after his shower, even with last night’s transgressions still fresh on his mind. He wrapped a towel around himself and went to sit on his bed. Right there, he poured the contents of the footlocker out. He heard his stomach growl and realized that, in the midst of the madness, he had skipped dinner.
He was thinking of ordering some hot wings and fries. “Where the hell is my phone?” he wondered, aloud. He found it in the living room on the coffee table, next to the bottle of warm Merlot. Boon grabbed his phone and twisted his lips, as he looked at the bottle. Bitch, he thought, walking back to his room.
His cell was dead, so he put it on the charger. He grabbed a pair of silk, Michael Kors boxers out of his drawer, along with a plain T-shirt, and put them on. Then, he slid on some True Religion blue jeans. Before he could find a sweatshirt to put on, he heard his phone buzz and sing a brief melody to notify him that it had powered on. Before he could get close enough to grab it, he heard Meek Mill’s “Ooh Kill ‘Em” start and stop, at least five times. It meant he had a few unread texts. When he did pick the phone up, he saw that he actually had six, unread texts, two missed calls, and one voice message.
Missed calls first, he thought, uncertain as to why he was nervous. The first one was from Johan at 11:40 p.m. The other missed call was from none other than Mela. Bitch. The call registered at exactly 12:21 a.m. Voicemail next.
“Boon, it’s Yo. I see I missed ya calls earlier. I was…a little busy, my nigga. I still got that li’l package for you. Hit me up when you get this.” Boon couldn’t erase that shit fast enough.
Now for the texts. Message number one was from a co-worker named Damian Little.
Damian: Marshall wants files from the Woodard case on Wednesday.
Boon had already taken care of them. He only needed to turn them in. The next three messages were from Boon’s oldest brother, Donovan. All of Donovan’s messages were to remind Boon of their mom’s surprise party in Las Vegas next weekend. Every year since Boon graduated college, he and his siblings threw their mom a surprise party somewhere different. Boon chose Vegas this year. The last two messages were from Mela.
Mela: I saw u see me and I’m ashamed. As a woman and as your ex. Plz forgive me and let me make it up 2 u
It had Boon rather taken aback and uncertain as to how he should react.
Mela: I still have my key, Boon. Will you be there at 9 p.m. sharp? Plz say u still want me…
Boon was confused, but didn’t respond to Mela or Yo’s messages. Instead, he texted Damian, “done”, as it pertained to the Woodard case files and then texted Donovan.
Boon: Cool. see u guys at Mom’s Friday.
He stuffed the contents from the footlocker back in it, locked it, and slid it back under his bed. He was hungry, horny, and heavy with confusion. A couple jalapeño dogs, a large Coke, and some chili fries should do the trick, he thought, as he rushed to put on a sweatshirt, coat, scarf, and skully. Chicago was colder than a hooker’s heart in winter. He grabbed his phone and keys and headed down to his car.
Boon pulled out of the covered parking garage, after warming up his 2013 Dodge Challenger. It was fire engine red, with a deep cherry red interior, 24-inch Forges, and three 12’s in the trunk. He put on his Rich Homie Quan CD and went to search for those hot dogs. Boon looked in his rearview and saw himself in the mirror. “Boy, you know you can do better than these ratchet-ass hoes,” he said to his reflection, as he slid through traffic. Finally, he found a hot dog stand that didn’t have an outrageous waiting line and pulled up. There were only four people in front of him, and one of them had ordered and was already paying for their food.
“I’d rather be with you, yeaa…” his phone began to ring, and of course, it was Mela. He sent her to voicemail.
“What you know about that, young blood?” asked the Sherman Helmsley look-alike in front of Boon.
“Plenty. I wish I didn’t right now, though.” Really, I think it’s time for a new city, he thought, as it was his turn to step up and order. “Lemme get three jalapeño and chili
