Riding Dirty on I-95 (3 page)

Farrah knew Mercy's situation and how important it was for her to hold a job. She stayed on Mercy's case and seemed to enjoy the power she had over her. So many times Mercy wanted to snap the fuck-off on Farrah, but just as Mercy was about to beat the brakes off her, Farrah would say, “If I were you, I wouldn't do anything simple that could land your ass right back on the doorstep of that group home you came from.”

Mercy would faithfully have to remind herself that this bullshit was only temporary. She could handle Ms. Farrah, but what she didn't want to do was find herself back at one of those foster homes where she could barely sleep at night, trying to guard her pussy from the man of the house. And she sure as hell didn't want to go back to the group home, where she had to fight the ugly jealous-hearted bitches while at the same time trying to stay out of the way of the manly dyke broads who had been turned out many years before. Stealing pussy was all they knew. So Mercy immunized herself against Farrah's snide comments.

One day when Mercy rushed into the Ambassador Hotel lobby at 3:15 p.m., she was relieved to see that Farrah was nowhere in sight. Sam, who had worked there for about three years, was the only one at the front desk.

“About time, Miss Thang,” Sam said to Mercy, rolling his eyes. Sam was the tip of a lit match, flaming. He stood six feet tall and couldn't have weighed more than a buck twenty-five soaking wet. He had smooth brown skin and eyebrows that were arched to perfection. His hair was processed with black looped curls. Both ears were pierced, but he never wore his earrings on the job. On the weekends, not only could you find him with earrings in both ears, but you could find him hanging out at Club Colors with pumps and a miniskirt, too.

“I'm so sorry, Sam,” Mercy said, rushing in, trying to hurry and take her jacket off and get in her position behind the counter. “My English teacher stopped me to discuss a book we are reading in class. I missed the 12:40 bus and had to wait on the 12:55 one.”

“Umm-hmm,” Sam said, sucking his teeth.

Just as Mercy was removing her jacket, Farrah got off of the lobby elevator.

“Guyd dayum. Here comes this bitch,” Mercy said under her breath.

“Mercy, come into my office,” Farrah said, not even making eye contact with Mercy. She was wearing her navy blue work uniform, a jacket and skirt. Her curly roller-set neck-length hair bounced with each step she took in her one-inch navy blue pumps. “Sam, I know you were supposed to be off fifteen minutes ago,” she said, stressing the words
fifteen minutes
, “but I just need you to stay a couple more minutes, please.”

As Farrah whisked past the two of them to make her way to her office, she left behind her scent of Tabu perfume. Mercy didn't mind the scent at the local department store, or the softness of it when her mother used to wear it way back in the day. However, on Farrah it made her want to puke.

“I already know what this is about,” Mercy began as she entered Farrah's office.

“And it's a shame that you do,” Farrah interrupted. “You know there is nothing I hate more than a tardy employee. I'd almost rather you didn't show up at all than to strut in here late like everything is okay. This isn't your place. You don't own this hotel, nor are you the manager. You're an employee, and you follow the rules, my rules, or else. And poor Sam had already worked a double shift as it was.”

“I apologize,” Mercy said, putting her head down. “It won't happen again.”

“You don't say,” Farrah said, giving Mercy a fake smile, then quickly dropping it. Mercy stood there. Farrah looked at her as if she expected her to say something.

“Isn't there something you want to say to me?” Farrah asked. “Do you want to try to convince me not to write you up? Perhaps you would even like to apologize a little more humbly before I complete this slip?”

Mercy rolled her eyes. “Apologize?” she said under her breath.

You better be apologizing to me for making me put up with that
strong-ass perfume that smells like you bathed in it
, Mercy thought.
You better be apologizing to me. Bitch, step yo' perfume game up instead of getting that shit off the three-dollar table in Rite Aid. That fragrance was the shit eight or nine years ago, but today that shit is played out like an eight-track.

“I know it's highly unlikely, but perhaps now you'll be on time,” Farrah said, handing Mercy a pen.

Mercy took a deep breath and signed the write-up slip. Farrah held her hand out to take it back, but Mercy slammed it down on her desk and headed out of the office.

As Mercy stormed out of the office, the first thing she saw was Sam standing there with his hands on his hips. “What did the head beyatch have to say?” he said as he began to gather his belongings to leave.

“I got wrote up,” Mercy said, pinning on her name tag.

“Child, ain't that your third one already in four months?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

“Oh, Cruella gon' be all over your ass fo' sho' now just waiting for you to fuck up,” Sam said, throwing his shoulder bag over his right shoulder. “Watch your back, girlfriend.”

“Thanks, Sam,” Mercy said. “Oh, yeah, and sorry you had to stay late on my behalf.”

Within minutes Chocolate Smooth, a frequent customer, entered the hotel lobby. Chocolate Smooth was the nickname Mercy had given him. He was only about five feet, seven inches tall, but he walked like he stood seven feet. When he strolled into the hotel, he had that authority as if he owned the place. Watching his smooth stride, Mercy smiled and thought about the cool-ass dude from
I'm Gonna Git You Sucka
, the one with fish in the heels of his shoes. Chocolate Smooth wasn't dressed like he was stuck in the seventies, but that son of a bitch glided through the doors with the coolness of an igloo.

Chocolate Smooth always pulled up to the hotel in a fly-ass ride. His gear appeared to be right off the rack from either one of two places: the sales floor or the cleaners. His necklace always seemed like it was fresh out of a tub of jewelry cleaner, and his haircut looked like he had just gotten up out of the barber chair. His sideburns were like a neatly manicured lawn. Chocolate Smooth was just that fine, dark-skinned and smooth as a baby's ass.

It never failed, each time he came to the hotel he had a different broad on his arm, sometimes two. He presented an ID that said Ralph Jones, but Mercy knew that his name wasn't no Mr. Jones. She was sure it was an alias and that he was a drug dealer. And if he wasn't a drug dealer, then he had one hell of a perception game.

“How are you today, Mr. Jones?” Mercy asked.

“I'm doing good,” Chocolate Smooth replied in his crisp northern accent. “But I'd be better if you'd look out for me on the price of the room, ma.”

Caught off guard, Mercy said, “I can't.” She then looked over her shoulder for Farrah.

“Why not? You can do what you want to do,” he said. The two women he was with nodded their heads to confirm his statement.

“Yeah, but I can't lose my job over no hookup.”

“Check it, sweetheart. I'm just trying to put some money in your pocket plus keep a little bit in mine at the same time.”

“How is giving you a hookup gon' put money in my pocket?” Mercy said, putting her hands on her hips.

“Look, I know y'all got a vacant room up in this spot. All you gotta do is hook me up with one. Charge me half of what y'all charge for a room and pocket that shit.”

“You're kidding me, right?” Mercy said, chuckling.

“Naw. Ain't you got no hustle about you? Hell, everybody's got a hustle.”

Mercy thought about everything he'd said, and she bet he could see the wheels turning in her head.

“Look, it ain't like there ain't ten other hotels you can check mafuckas in at. If you get busted, which you won't, and lose your job, hell, shawdy, you can come work for me,” he said, and smiled at Mercy.

Mercy laughed.

“I'm serious, fo' real.”

“Okay, look, I see you really trying to get a discount, so I'm gonna give you the Triple A discount. That's like ten percent off,” Mercy said as she proceeded to check him in, then issued him a key to his room.

After Chocolate Smooth was gone, Mercy sat at the front desk and tried to do homework for her English class, but she found herself daydreaming instead. She imagined herself as rich as Chocolate Smooth—richer, going on trips first class to the Bahamas, riding in the back of a limo, talking on her cell phone giving orders and then giggling all the way to the bank when she hung up. She wondered, what would her life be like if her daddy hadn't got killed? She damn sure wouldn't have been stuck behind the counter of this place. Her father had always believed she'd make something of herself. Maybe she would, but what?

She heard Farrah approach and put away her books before Far-rah could start dishing out more duties that were not in her job description.

“I wasn't going to give you a fifteen-minute break, but I feel like being nice today even though you were late. Go take your break before I leave, and you better not come back late.”

Mercy decided to walk to the store right up the street to get something to nibble on. As she passed the hotel parking lot, she noticed that one of the girls who had checked into the hotel with
Chocolate Smooth had run out to his gold Lexus to get something. She was one of the baddest broads Mercy had ever seen him with.

Damn, that girl is lucky
, Mercy thought.
She's living the life. Look at her. Hair laid down, mink coat, and her shoes are right.
As Mercy continued on her way she tried to imagine that girl's life, and as usual, her imagination took over and soon she was making up stories in her head about the girl being a high-class whore and Chocolate Smooth getting abducted by some rival dope dealers. By the time she got to the store, she had created an entire movie in her head.

When Mercy returned to the hotel, she noticed Farrah had placed a bus schedule on top of Mercy's
Sister 2 Sister
magazine. “You better learn to read your bus schedule instead of that gossip column of a magazine,” Farrah said. “Because at the end of the day it's going to be the bus schedule that saves your orphan ass, not that gossip column.”

Mercy rolled her eyes and replied, “Yeah, whatever, Farrah.” She laughed it off just to keep from hog-spitting on Farrah. Mercy looked at the bus schedule to see if she could maneuver around being late again, but according to the way her buses ran, there was no way to have a backup plan. If she missed one bus, she was basically fucked.

“I need a damn car,” Mercy said with a sigh. “Yup, that's all there is to it. I need a little hooptie to get me from Point A to Point B. I'm going to try to save my money and get me a little car. But, hell, what money is there to save?”

F
or the next couple of days, Mercy couldn't stop thinking of ways she could cop a car. She was at the check-in counter at work plotting
hard when an old dude she recognized from the hood showed up. He smiled at her as he paid for his room.

“Y'all got room service?” he asked. “I need me some champagne for my lady friend.”

“No, we don't, sir,” Mercy said. She was sure he didn't remember her. She glanced past him and saw his car out front with a woman sitting in the passenger seat. One glance was all she needed. There was her momma.
Damn
, she thought.
She's still at it. Fuckin' around with any man who can scrape up a couple dollars to stick in her wallet.
Not that her kids had ever seen any of that money. After Mercy's daddy was killed, the good life was over. If it weren't for the neighbors and people like Ms. Pat and Uncle Roland, those kids would have 'bout starved to death. While her mother rocked the latest fashions, she put cheap shoes and Wool-worth's clothes on her kids. While she was out eating steaks, her kids were lucky to have some Beefaroni out of the can.

The man snatched the key from her and ran out like he just couldn't wait to get hold of her momma's worn-out pussy. Mercy felt tears welling up in her eyes. She picked up the phone and dialed the one person she knew could comfort her, Ms. Pat.

“Child, how you doin'?” Ms. Pat asked. “Is school going good? You know, your daddy always wanted you to make something of yourself.”

Mercy couldn't bring herself to tell Ms. Pat she had seen her mother, so she told her about her car problems instead.

“You know, I got a cousin with an old car he tryin' to sell,” Ms. Pat said. “Let me talk to him and see what he want. It's kinda ugly, though. You too cute for such an ugly car.”

“Look, transportation is transportation. I'll look cute when I'm getting out of it on time to work,” Mercy said with a laugh.

“Okay.”

When Mercy hung up the phone, she felt better. There wasn't
nothing she could do about her skanky momma, but at least Ms. Pat was going to help her find a car. But even Ms. Pat's cousin's ugly car wouldn't be free. She'd have to come up with some money—not just for the car but also for the tag and taxes and insurance and all the rest of the bullshit.

As Mercy wondered how she was going to come up with the money, Chocolate Smooth entered the lobby.