Brooklyn Bombshells: Part 2

“Wanda? Then why the fuck you hittin’ my jack? You know I don’t fuck wit’ that bitch.”

“Really? That’s odd.”

“Odd? Bitch, what the fuck do you want!” Charlie roared

“Well I don’t have much money, but my parents gave me a hundred dollars to buy the red bottom sneakers you’re letting Wanda and Bacardi sell for you.”

“Bacardi got Wanda selling my shit?”

“You didn’t know?”

“Bye, girl.”

So Bacardi was selling her good shit. Her mother had disrespected her, and Charlie couldn’t swallow that kind of disrespect. She was ready to confront her mother and pop off.

***

The next day, Charlie got out of the cab in her old neighborhood and marched into her old building with a heavy scowl like she was a soldier ready for war. She left Claire at home. Charlie didn’t need her sister holding her back or trying to give her a conscience. She wanted to handle their mother on her own. She stepped into the pissy elevator and pushed for the fourth floor. She rode it silence, bubbling like a volcano. She was ready to spread her destruction like hot molten lava.

She rushed toward her mother’s apartment door with her hands clenched into tight fists. She was on a mission to get her shit back, even if it meant beating her mother down.

“This disrespectful bitch,” she growled to herself.

She banged on the apartment door like she was the police, knowing it would get her mother’s attention and piss her off. Moments later, the door flung open with Bacardi looming into Charlie’s view.

“Bitch, what the fuck is wrong wit’ you banging on my got-damn door like that!” Bacardi shouted.

“Where my fuckin’ shit?! I want all my shit back, you triflin’-ass bitch!” Charlie retorted.

“I know you ain’t come here for my shit, bitch. You better leave from this fuckin’ door ’fore I beat yo ass down again,” Bacardi shouted.

Bacardi’s eyes shot around the hallway, and she saw that her oldest daughter had come alone. Of course, Claire didn’t have the balls to handle another confrontation with her.

“I ain’t goin’ no-fuckin’-where until I get all my shit back,” Charlie shouted. “You out here tryin’ to sell my shit.”

“Yo shit? Once it’s in my place, it becomes my shit!”

“Fuck you! Ain’t shit belong to you,” Charlie screamed.

Charlie was seeing red. In her eyes, it wasn’t her mother that she was arguing with; it was a foul, disrespectful bitch. Their argument echoed through the apartment and the hallway. It was looking like round two between mother and daughter was about to start. They both were ready for the conflict—ready to tear each other apart.

“You dumb bitch, get the fuck away from my door!”

“I ain’t goin’ any-fuckin’-where until I get my shit back!”

While they argued in the doorway, Charlie glanced past her belligerent mother and noticed something odd. There was some pretty, young bitch walking back and forth like she lived there. She was wearing a long, white T-shirt and leggings, and she stood in the middle of the living room staring with bafflement as Charlie argued with her mother like they were strangers on the street.

Unbeknownst to Charlie, Bacardi had gone online and listed the two bedrooms for rent. It was against the housing authority’s rules, but everyone was doing it. Bacardi was surprised by how quickly she started receiving messages from potential tenants. So many people were looking for a cheap and reasonable place to stay. Bacardi could have rented both rooms, but she was selective, or prejudiced, or both and then some. She only wanted pretty girls—black women, no whites allowed. She told Butch this, and he agreed.

The women had to be fly like her daughters and represent. Once Bacardi got the second room rented, she and Butch could live like retirees, and they were both just in their forties.

But Bacardi’s plan didn’t sit too well with Charlie.

“Who the fuck is that bitch?” Charlie growled.

“She’s none of ya fuckin’ business,” Bacardi shouted back.

Charlie was about to lose it. “I know you ain’t got that bitch up in here sleeping in my fuckin’ bed, the same bed that God and I paid for!”