Brooklyn Bombshells: Part 1

Bacardi finally shot a hard glance at Chanel. “Claire, you and Charlie come to my room so we can talk.” They marched down the hallway to her bedroom and closed the door, leaving Chanel in the living room alone. She went into the kitchen.

Inside the bedroom, Bacardi and her girls went over the events. Butch was finally passed out on the bed and didn’t look like he was waking up anytime soon.

“Look, this shit is serious,” Bacardi said to Charlie and Claire.

“We know that,” Charlie said.

“The cops are going to keep fuckin’ wit’ us because of that dead cop. So from now on, no more ounces of weed on us, or in this apartment. We smoke that shit and keep it moving. And Charlie, don’t ride wit’ God when he’s dirty.”

While they were talking in the bedroom about what to do, Chanel knocked on the door. She wanted to let them know that she’d made some food for them, thinking that they might be hungry after such a horrendous ordeal. But instead of a “Thank you,” Chanel was instantly met with hostility. Bacardi cursed her out for interrupting them and shouted, “Bitch, don’t knock on my fuckin’ door again.”

Chanel sulked and walked away, but Bacardi quickly called her back. Did she have a change of heart? Chanel wondered. Instead, Bacardi barked at her daughter, “In fact, bring us all a plate of food. And bring me a cup of Bacardi. I need a drink. And hurry the fuck up! I need to calm my fuckin’ nerves.”

Chanel complied.

Chapter Seven

The alarm shattered the stillness of the early morning. Bacardi grumbled and dragged herself from bed. A deep sigh spewed from her mouth. She felt like it was going to be a long day. All the shit that had gone down since late last year was going to have an effect on her future.

She zombie-walked into the bathroom and started to prepare herself for work. She took a shower and did her hair and makeup. She took her time to ready herself. She wanted to look professional and not like a ghetto mess. She decided to dress in a gray pantsuit that fit modestly and some shoes that she could actually walk in. For a while, Bacardi stared at her image in the bedroom mirror. She looked somewhat decent—a professional woman for once. There was no mink coat or red bottoms. It was a New Year, and that meant a new life and new things—better things, she hoped. While everyone was either in school or sleeping, Bacardi trotted off to work.

The train ride was uncomfortable. It was packed with people and she couldn’t find a seat, so she had to stand for nearly forty minutes on the local C train. The morning was a cold 29 degrees, and she had to walk three blocks to her job. It was a life she hated—up early, living paycheck to paycheck, and dealing with coworkers she despised, but it was how she provided for her family and herself. It didn’t stop her from bragging to all her non-working neighbors about her position with the city, though.

Bacardi walked into work and it felt like a bad dream. It was like she’d arrived to work naked and everyone was staring at her. The looks she received were discouraging and judgmental. She took it that her coworkers had heard about the big fight with Keisha and a cop being killed in her building. They stared at her with contempt and disappointment. Bacardi wanted to shout, “What the fuck y’all looking at?” But she didn’t. She kept her cool and continued walking to her cubicle. Bacardi found herself the black sheep at her place of employment. No one wanted to talk to her. There were no “good mornings” uttered to her—just silence and foul looks.

She took a seat at her station, sighed heavily, and sat there for a moment. There was no sign of Keisha around, which was a good thing for Bacardi. She couldn’t be within 100 feet of Keisha. She looked around the office, and the tension she sensed almost felt like she was going to be attacked herself. Bacardi was bracing herself for something. She had no idea what, but it was coming sooner than later. Bacardi wasn’t at her workstation for five minutes before Barron approached her. She looked up at him with a quizzical stare.

He said, “Mr. Richards wants to see you right away.”

“What’s this about, Barron?”

“I don’t know. But he wants to see you now,” said Barron.

Bacardi nodded. This wasn’t good. She picked herself up from her chair and headed toward the supervisor’s office. It was a dreadful walk. It felt like she was marching toward the gas chambers—to her own death. She knew it wasn’t going to be anything good. In the past month she had been overloaded with cases and there were some complaints filed against her. She stood at the door to Mr. Richards’ office and lingered for a moment, trying to delay the inevitable. Finally, she knocked and stepped into her supervisor’s office. He sat behind his cluttered desk looking egotistical, and the look he gave Bacardi was nerve-wracking.

“Close the door and have a seat, Bernice,” Mr. Richards said coolly.

Ten minutes later, Bacardi stepped out of her supervisor’s office to find two security guards waiting to escort her to her cubicle to pack her things. She had been fired. Like she was a prisoner, the guards flanked Bacardi and shepherded her to her workstation. They were there to make sure her departure went smoothly.

She was humiliated. She wanted to act out and go berserk, but she had a case lingering and she did not want to get locked up again under any circumstances. So, she bit her tongue, kept her cool, and packed all of her belongings into one box. She left the office with dignity, her head held high with all eyes on her. God, she wanted to scream and curse so badly. She wanted to go out with a fuckin’ bang! The only good thing about the day was that Keisha wasn’t there to see her departure. That bitch was still out on sick leave after her ass-whipping.

***

Charlie heard the faint sound of a door slamming. Someone was there. It was an hour before noon, and both of her sisters were in school and Butch was in the bedroom doing whatever. Charlie figured her mom was still at work. She stopped sucking dick and sprung up from the bed.

“Someone’s here,” she said to God.

“What? What the fuck you talkin’ ’bout?”

“I just heard the door close.”

God wanted her to finish, but Charlie looked somewhat spooked. After the incident with the police, she felt the urge to be careful. She donned a robe and marched out of the bedroom. God hurriedly put his boxers back on and followed her. In the living room she saw her mother returning home from work.

“What happened?” Charlie asked her.

Bacardi looked like she was going through it. It almost looked like she had been crying.

“They fired me today,” said Bacardi.