Chanel didn’t say anything. If she spoke up and corrected Claire, World War III would break out inside the apartment. Instead, Chanel coolly lifted herself from the couch and left for the bedroom to be alone.
“Daddy, you so stupid,” Claire added, laughing. “Bacardi, you need to come in here and get your husband.”
With her reddish brown skin, freckles, hazel eyes, and red hair like her intoxicated father’s, Claire Brown sat there on the raggedy living room couch trying to look high-class in the ghetto apartment while her mother cooked neck bones, collard greens, and white rice in the kitchen. There was a sickly and sparsely decorated Christmas tree in the corner with no gifts under it.
Butch continued to sing, drink, and dance around the living room like he was getting paid to put on a show for everyone, and he would occasionally stare out the window. It was Christmas Day, and he had the perfect gift in his hand—liquor.
“Butch, you need to go sit your fuckin’ ass down somewhere,” Bacardi hollered at her husband. “It’s too damn early for this shit!”
Butch turned around and smiled at his wife. He then outstretched his arms and jovially exclaimed, “Come dance wit’ me, baby! C’mon, let’s get our groove on . . . oh yeah.”
Butch started to do a hilarious late-eighties Michael Jackson routine by the window. His shoulders shifted up and down in a robot-like move, and then he spun around on his heels and roared with laughter.
Bacardi shook her head at her husband like he was crazy. She wasn’t in the mood to dance. “You’re a damn fool, Butch. Sit your silly ass down before you end up hurting yourself. We ain’t got time to take your ass to no fuckin’ hospital on Christmas.” She went back into the kitchen to check on her neck bones cooking.
Bernice Brown, AKA Bacardi, was a weathered looking forty-year-old with a foul-mouth, dark chocolate skin, a straight nose, and thick permed hair. As her name suggested, Bacardi drank and smoked weed regularly. She had a nice shape back in the day, but now she was thick with a wide butt, matching wide hips, and a protruding gut. Bacardi was proud of two things—her job with the city
at ACS that she hated but was grateful to have, and the three-bedroom apartment in the Glenwood Houses she shared with her husband and three daughters. She believed their apartment was luxury because the Glenwood Houses were one of the better projects in Brooklyn with less violence, but mostly because they lived next door to a white family.
Bacardi was in a foul mood this Christmas Day. She was dead broke and pissed off about it. She had put $500 to the side to get her daughters some gifts for Christmas, but she had gone to her best friend Keisha’s apartment to play cards a few nights earlier. Drinking heavily and winning more than losing, Bacardi got trashed during the card game and passed out on Keisha’s couch. She woke up the next morning to discover that someone had stolen the $500 she had stashed in her bra. As expected, Bacardi became enraged and ready to turn violent. It was all the money she had. Immediately, she blamed Keisha.
“Bitch, who fuckin’ stole my money?!” Bacardi had growled at her friend.
Keisha was completely dumbfounded. She had no idea who took the money, but it was Keisha’s place and Bacardi held her responsible. Bacardi wasn’t leaving without her money. The two ladies came to a compromise, and Bacardi gave Keisha two weeks to replace her money or else trouble would rain down on Keisha, best friend or not. The clock was ticking down on the deadline.
Butch took another mouthful of Hennessy and continued with his erratic behavior. The bottle was nearly depleted.
“It’s fuckin’ Christmas, bitches!” he shouted. He wildly spun around with the bottle and accidentally spilled some of his brown juice onto the couch and some onto Claire and her textbook.
Claire sighed and frowned, suddenly not finding her father’s behavior amusing. But it could be worse. He could be sober and cruel—cursing everyone out and carrying on. His drinking was the lesser of two evils.
Somewhat upset, Claire said, “I’ll be in the bathroom.” She shot up from the couch with her textbook in her hand and marched to the back.
While Butch, Bacardi, and Claire occupied the living room, kitchen, and bathroom, Chanel locked herself in the bedroom she shared with Claire. Her oldest sister Charlie had her own room whenever she was home, but she had been gone for two days now.
Chanel sat by the window and gazed aimlessly outside at the chilly streets from four stories up. Christmas Day in the projects, and everything seemed quiet; there wasn’t a crackhead in sight. Chanel didn’t want any part of her family’s foolish activity in the next room. She didn’t feel wanted—never had.
Chanel was sixteen years old, considered awkward, and she was the black sheep of the family. She wasn’t close with either of her sisters and not even her mother. Her dark complexion and dark brown eyes were the utter opposite of her two older sisters. With her straight nose, full lips, and long, jet black hair that she forever styled in two braids or two ponytails—simple—some said she looked like a young Naomi Campbell. Her natural hair was wavy like her mother’s, but her mother and sisters were always telling her she needed a perm and constantly saying to her, “With your nappy hair.”
A deep sigh emanated from Chanel’s mouth. Outside her window, she noticed a black Jeep come to a stop and park across the street on Ralph Avenue. Chanel watched the doors open, and exiting the vehicle were Charlie and her boyfriend, Godfrey—God for short. Chanel felt no excitement seeing her sister coming home after being gone for two days. The only thing she felt was more drama arriving into the apartment. It was the last thing she needed. Nonchalant, Chanel removed herself from the window and plopped face-down on her bed. Why me?
Hearing knocking at the door, Bacardi ran toward the door like a child expecting Santa Claus to show up. She was all smiles seeing Charlie arrive with God. They came bearing gifts, carrying large black garbage bags full of surprises. Charlie came marching into the apartment wearing a brand new auburn mink coat that swept the floor when she walked. The coat looked a little too big for her, but who cared? It was a mink coat. Bacardi was wide-eyed and in awe.
“Shit, bitch! Who the fuck did you rob?” Bacardi joked.
“You know I couldn’t let Christmas go by without showin’ my family some love,” said Charlie with a wide smile.
Bacardi hugged her daughter and God. “Where’s Fingers at? How’s he doing?” she asked, referring to God’s friend.
“That nigga home wit’ his peoples playin’ Santa. He good, though,” God replied.
Bacardi wasn’t the only one excited about Charlie and God showing up. Butch was all smiles, and Claire was happy to see her big sister too—especially when she saw the bags filled with gifts. It was officially Christmas Day for the family.
Charlie was eighteen years old and she was her parents’ pride and joy. Like Claire, she had reddish brown skin, freckles, hazel eyes, and curly red hair. Charlie was the hustler of the family. She got money, and that was what mattered most to the family.
Reluctantly, Chanel exited the bedroom and joined the others in the living room where Charlie and God stood clutching the garbage bags like Santa’s toy bags. The family was like wide-eyed children anticipating what Charlie had brought them.
“C’mon, Charlie! Let’s get this party started. I’m overwrought and ready to see what I implemented this Christmas,” said Claire excitedly, once again misusing her big words.