Christmas in the Hood
Read Christmas in the Hood Online
Authors: Nikki Turner
Also by Nikki Turner
NOVELS
Forever a Hustler’s Wife
Death Before Dishonor
with 50 cent
Riding Dirty on I-95
The Glamorous Life
A Project Chick
A Hustler’s Wife
EDITOR
Street Chronicles: Girls in the Game
Street Chronicles: Tales from da Hood
contributing author
CONTRIBUTING AUTHOR
Girls from da Hood
Girls from da Hood 2
The Game: Short Stories About the Life
Dear Loyal Readers
Nikki Turner
I
’m always trying to come up with unique gifts to give to you, my dear readers, and in my heart of hearts, I wish I could be like Oprah and give you all cars but that’s not my reality. Then one day the idea came to me: a Christmas book. But not just any Christmas book—this gem would feature five of my favorite authors and be presented as volume three of my Street Chronicles series.
But first, I had to examine the direction I wanted this project to go, which wasn’t easy because I have mixed feelings when it comes to Christmas. After all, I don’t feel like I should have to wait for Christmas in order for people to bring me gifts! How can we show so much appreciation for one another on one day and be so cutthroat the other 364 days? The commercialism has gotten out of control like a fat man in a pie shop. The vast majority of our confused population will be in debt for six months after Christmas just to fulfill a fantasy that has been indoctrinated in us generation after generation by some capitalistic mastermind.
Black Friday is the day after Thanksgiving and is the biggest and busiest shopping day of the season. Don’t let me get started on how uncivilized we can get at those so-called sales. I’ve seen brawls in some of the department stores that make the De La Hoya and Mayweather fight look like child’s play. Tell me, are the four a.m. arrivals, the long lines, and the brutal fights even worth it to get the blue-light and early-bird specials? We’ve become convinced that we are saving money even though the day after Christmas we are as busted as a broke-dick dog, and all the stuff that we bought (that was supposed to be on sale) is now fifty percent off. How crazy is that?
Each year, at the beginning of the holiday season, I vow that I am not going to get caught up in that madness, but I just can’t bring myself to disappoint my children. My parents never let me down; they made sure I had everything on my Christmas list that I asked for and then some. So how could I cheat my kids out of something that I enjoyed so much? I mean that’s why we struggle so hard—so our kids can have what we didn’t have, right? And for me, that’s where the Christmas madness begins: the tree, the cookies, the mistletoe, the fellowshipping, the presents, etc. So, I suppose for me Christmas is ultimately about love and sacrifice.
I hope that in the spirit of the season, you read this book, share this book, but at the end of the day, remember what the holiday is all about.
Happy Holidays and love always,
Nikki Turner
PS. I want to thank the writers of these stories who shared my vision. K. Elliott: I love you so much. You have been such a blessing to me and this project. Even though your plate was full as you were becoming the superstar you are, you still made time for me and this project. Seth: one phone call and you had the rough draft to me the next week or so. You held this project down from behind bars. Mo Shines: thank you for seeing my vision and for wanting to make me happy. Dee: the only girl in this collection, thanks for your patience. J. M. Benjamin: you are indeed one of the hardest workers in this business. Thanks for coming in at the bottom of the ninth and getting things done in a matter of days.
Contents
Dear Loyal Readers
by Nikki Turner
A Christmas Song
by Seth “Soul Man” Ferranti
Charge It to the Game
by J. M. Benjamin
Excerpt from Heartbreak of a Hustler’s Wife
Introduction
W
hen I think of Christmas, I think of shopping on Thirty-fourth Street in New York City where people of all colors troop through the cold and slush to get that extra-special something for the occasion. All the vendors work overtime trying to push a bunch of bullshit off on you that you really don’t need, but you might catch a ten-dollar gift for that aunt you never really felt anyway.
Christmas is the one day of the year when people try to be nice to one another, even if they don’t mean it, because of the promise of old St. Nick coming to drop off hope to those who’ve been good and blocks of coal for the naughty. Picture children with rosy cheeks, tucked heavily into mittens and scarves, learning how to ice-skate for the first time, and in the next breath picture the kids that gotta wake up to nothing because their crack-head uncle stole all their shit to get a holiday blast. Can you picture it?
From suburban America to the most battered slums of Louisiana every kid felt that tingle of excitement when Christmas rolled around, ’cause we were all duped into believing that some fat white dude in a red suit was gonna come drop the latest toys down our chimney, even though most of us didn’t have chimneys. Back in the day it made perfect sense, until you got a little older and realized that the life expectancy of an old white man climbing in and out of windows in the hood is short as hell.
Even when the myth was dispelled we still couldn’t wait for Christmas. It was all good because no matter whether we got what we wanted or not, it didn’t sting so bad because we got something new. That was a rare privilege for someone coming out of a single-parent home where the city kicked in more toward the rent than our biological father did. If you wanted the new one hundred and fifty dollar Jordans but ended up getting long johns, you felt like shit on a stick, but you wouldn’t tell your old bird that because you knew what kind of work she had to put in to make that happen.
My most potent Christmas memory was sitting on the lap of a Santa impostor stressing the urgency of me getting a King Kong doll, but instead I got underwear and a cartoon videotape that I couldn’t watch because pops took our VCR. I still owe Santa an ass whipping for that one.
I have my own idea of what Christmas is about and what it has meant to me through the years, but in the pages of this book, you’ll get several different takes, all with the same conclusion: ain’t nothing quite like Christmas in the hood.
K’wan
Bestselling author of
Hood Rat, Eve,
and the forthcoming Blow
Secret Santa
K. Elliott
S
hante Morgan aka Foreplay lay on Club Cheetah’s center stage with her legs spread like a field-goal post, wearing nothing but a tiny pink G-string. She was a tall slender dancer with a twenty-four-inch waist, a perfect round ass, and small but flawless breasts. Her golden hair and piercing emerald eyes mesmerized the audience as her body glistened under the light from baby oil she rubbed on herself before coming out. A small Mexican guy was on the other side of the stage with a fistful of bills. Shante wanted them all. She danced her way to the edge of the stage, where the man stood, and siezed the bills. She hooked her thumbs into the sides of her G-string and slowly worked her thong down her hips.
The man smiled gratefully and took a sip of his beer before sitting down. A skinny guy with braids yelled, “Make it clap.”
“I’ll make it clap if you make it rain,” Shante said.
The man threw down a five-dollar bill.
She flashed a smile showing her brilliant white teeth.
“Nigga, you made it drizzle. I said make it rain.”
“Hell, that’s all I got, baby.”
Nobody had any money, Shante thought. The money at the club had been slow for the past two weeks, and Shante was sick and tired of working all night and being a circus act for broke-ass niggas who didn’t want to pay her. After she finished up onstage, she quickly exited to the locker room. It was time to go home.
Shante Morgan sat on the wooden bench inside the locker room, counting the money she’d made. “Seventy-three dollars,” she said. “This shit is pathetic.”
Shante thought about earlier that day when she’d taken her children to see Santa Claus at the mall. “So what do you want for Christmas?” Santa had asked her eight-year-old son, Chris.
Chris looked serious, like a grown man. He reminded Shante so much of his father. “I don’t want anything; I just want you to bring my mama a house.”
A tear trickled down Shante’s cheek.
Then Chris pulled out his report card and gave it to Santa. She hadn’t even known he’d had his report card with him. “See, I did good, Santa.”
The man playing Santa looked at the report card. “Yes, you did great, young man.” Santa then turned to her daughter, Makayla, who was nine. “And what about you, young lady?”
