The California Saga (2 page)

 

 

“Fuck you, bitch!” I held up my middle finger as I grabbed my oversized Chanel bag then stormed out of my now ex-manager's office. “And take this and shove it up your big, white, cottage cheese ass,” I said to the overweight, unattractive wench that had just fired me. I knocked over the carnation flower arrangement that sat in the waiting area of the medical office then slung a few magazines across the floor on my way out the door.

Thinking of how that wicked witch had just tried to humiliate me, I just wasn't quite satisfied with my tantrum, so I stopped in front of the huge window that covered the entire front of the office and pulled down my pants. “Oh, and you all can kiss my big, plump, juicy ass!” I yelled as I smacked my butt cheeks then ran off laughing. Now my heart was content, and I was able to get in my truck at ease.
That bitch had some nerve calling me out in front of the entire staff and patients, making it seem like I was some sort of incompetent young black chick,
I thought. I started up my white Range Rover, the words
datbitch
on my license plate, a message to let everyone know who was driving this here whip, and zoomed out of the parking lot, leaving nothing but dust.

Evidently that chick didn't read between the lines of my resume. Of course, I had plenty of medical billing experience, but I also was first a born hustler that could game any nigga, and second a ghost writer, which translated to, “I'm not dependent solely on your fucking pissy-ass check, bitch!” That working shit was never for a chick like me anyway.

If it wasn't for my homeboy Touch, I would have never been working in the first place. His words were still fresh in my head as I pulled out the parking lot and onto the busy street. “Keep you a li'l gig on the side, Jewel,” he'd say. This nigga insisted that I should always keep a plan B, no matter how much loot I had coming in. I enjoyed having the extra cash on hand, but I didn't know if that advice was for my benefit or his. I think that was simply a way to keep me out of his pockets.

Touch was my boy, so if I were to ever fall on hard times, he would've definitely come through for me, but he knew that I liked keeping my pockets swollen. Regardless, I was on my grind and had money coming in from every direction. My new career as a ghostwriter was really taking off, and I always had a nigga or two that I was constantly gaming. Hell, that's how I was able to afford my whip and my crib. Me getting fired from that job was actually a blessing in disguise. Now there would be less stress, and more time to focus on my writing, the real money-maker.

I connected my iPod to the radio and blasted the tune “Glamorous” by Fergie as I headed to the bank to deposit my check. I thought about my manager on the way.
That bitch didn't know I was already living the fucking glamorous life. She ain't doing no damage here
. I laughed as I pulled up to the bank's drive-thru.

From the bank, I headed to the nail shop. I began to laugh again as I thought about what was happening.
How many people get fired from their job then go get their nails done? Only a real fucking diva like myself.

I had to call my girl Sasha and let her in on my drama for the day. I smiled as I scrolled to her name in contacts and the picture of her from the back, wearing only a thong, with a whip thrown over her shoulder, popped up on the screen of my iPhone. Sasha was my girl. Although we'd only been friends a couple of years and we'd met on some strange terms at the strip club, she was still on a different level than any of my other friends. She and I had a little closer connection, a connection that I shared with her only.

I waited patiently for Sasha to pick up as I sang along to the reggae tune “Can't Breathe” by Tanya Stephens, which she had set as her call tone. You can always tell what a bitch was going through by her call tone or voice mail.

“Hello?” Sasha answered right away.

“What's up, Boobie?” I called her by her pet name. “I gotta tell you about my day at work.”

“Oh Lord! What the hell that fat bitch done this time?” Sasha was aware of the daily drama I had with my stupid-ass manager.

“Bitch, why that fat cow fire me?”

“For real, girl?” Sasha asked in disbelief.

“Yes, bitch. She gon' come at me with some bullshit about the collections versus production is showing a huge gap”—My sentence was disrupted by the sight of a fine-ass nigga passing by in a black drop-top 2008 Mercedes Benz SL550 that screamed, “I'm that nigga!” My eyes were glued to him as he passed by slowly. I saw nothing but his cornrows, dark chocolate skin, ice grill, at least a three karat diamond stud in his right ear, as he chatted away on his cell phone. It was as though everything was moving in slow motion. I gave him my most seductive look, and he glanced at me from the corner of his eye.

“Jewel! Jewel!”

“Oh, shit. Sorry about that baby. I just saw this fine-ass dude, umph!”

I felt a shiver in my pussy as I thought about what I could do with a guy like him on my team. He could possibly take the place of my MVP and turn him to a bench-rider. His looks were one thing, but his money was what really made my pussy wet. And after getting fired, I was definitely in search for a new player on the team to compensate for my lost wages.

I'd learned the rules to gaming a dude at a very young age. I'd watched my mom use and abuse men my entire life. Her father had left her at a young age, and it seemed liked she was never able to get past it. As a child, my mother taught me to trust no man, never wear my heart on my sleeve, and to always stand my ground, because kindness was a sign of weakness. A while later she taught me the power of beauty and the booty.

As an adult, I'd fallen right into my mother's footsteps. I guess it's true what they say, the apple doesn't fall too far from the tree, because I'd mastered the art of gold-digging, just as she did. It was like a gift. I could look at a guy and assess him in a matter of seconds and know approximately how much dough he was holding, and where it came from. In my book, looks alone didn't get a man anywhere, but money would get him everywhere. Don't get it twisted though, this book I'm referring to isn't titled,
The Whore Handbook
. It's more like
The Gold-digger's Guide to Financial Security
.

“Girl, you crazy. You ain't never gon' change,” Sasha said in a disapproving tone.

“Why you sound like that? Did I say something wrong?”

I could tell by the tone of Sasha's voice that something was bothering her. It was a tone I was way too familiar with. I just didn't know whether it was something I said, or if it was a personal struggle.

When we'd first met, her life was going downhill, but we pulled together to turn things around. Sasha started off stripping at Blue Light in Hampton, a city about thirty minutes from Virginia Beach, and life was good for her. She had a house she lived in, a townhouse that she rented out to Section 8 recipients, and a nice car. She needed for nothing. But when she stabbed a chick during an altercation, she was fired from the club, and her world began to crumble. Sasha decided that the strip scene was no longer for her, and wanted to work.

Although she had little work experience and education, I was still able to put something together for her. Luckily, she'd actually gone to school for medical assistance and worked in a couple of medical offices. But during her time as a successful dancer, she figured she would never see this kind of money working a regular job, so she let her certification expire. Even though odds were against us, I created an exaggerated, yet professional resume and cover letter for her, and used some of my connections in the medical field to land her a job with Sentara Healthcare.

At first, everything was smooth sailing, more or less, but it didn't last long. Nearly a year later it had almost become routine for Sasha to call me with some depressing news. It was as though someone had put a curse on her ass or something. In six months alone she'd gotten in trouble with the authorities for welfare fraud. Then she lost her investment property, and as if things couldn't possibly get any worse, her baby father got robbed.

“I can't take this stress anymore,” Sasha said, bursting into tears.

“What stress, baby?” I asked, wanting to know what was bothering my friend.

“It's like everything is going so wrong so fast. I'm working my ass off, but with my monthly bills, plus the money for daycare and gas, it's just not worth it. I can't keep living like this, Jewel.”

“So what you want to do?”

“I don't know. I guess I'm gonna have to start back dancing. I've got to get these bills caught up. Since Rick got robbed, he ain't been able to help out, and I'm at risk of losing everything I own. I'm gonna lose my house.”

Now my first instinct was to tell her about that deadbeat-ass baby father of hers. There ain't no way a broke-down dude would be living up in my shit and can't even pay a light bill. Who gives a fuck if he got robbed? That's part of the fucking game, and a real hustler always knows how to get back on.

Besides, where the fuck was his stash? I didn't even bother going into that with Sasha because I'd heard all the excuses once before—“He decided to get out of the game since he got robbed. He's trying to start his own business.” Trying to stay focused on Sasha's needs instead of her downfalls, I directed my attention back to her statement.

“So how you gonna do that, Sasha?” I knew that once you got a bad rep in the stripping world in this area, your career was basically over. “I thought you were blackballed on the whole dance scene in this area?”

“Well, I heard girls be going to Atlanta and New York and be racking up. Maybe I could just go to Atlanta for a couple of weeks and then come back and hit New York on the weekends. All I need is money to get my business licenses and plane ticket. Plus, my mom lives in Columbus, Georgia. That's only an hour away from Atlanta. I could take the boys there to stay with her until I get on my feet, and I could crash at her crib the weeks I'm there dancing. What you think?”

I knew Sasha wasn't so much asking me what I thought of her idea, but more so what I thought about giving her the money to carry it out.

“Hey, I've always supported your decision. If you think this is what's best. So I take it you're gonna quit your job?” I asked, since she so conveniently forgot to mention her job when explaining her master plan.

“I have to. I mean, I have no other choice. I need fast money, Jewel. They 'bout to foreclose on my house.”

“A'ight, Sasha,” I said, disappointed in my her actions. We'd gone through a lot to get her that job, and now she was leaving it to go right back where she started. “How much you need for the business license and plane ticket?”

Almost before I could finish my sentence, she quickly responded, “Like six hundred.”

“Okay. I'll call you later, and you can come get it.”

“Thank you so much. I promise I'll pay you back,” Sasha said, full of excitement.

“Yeah, Sasha. I'm 'bout to get my nails done. I'll hit you later.”

I wrapped up the call knowing damn well I would never see that six hundred dollars again. I'd lost count of the number of times I'd lent her money and never saw it again, so I never held my breath on a promise to pay. That was always a promise waiting to be broken.

“Love you,” she sang into the phone.

“Love you too, Boobie.” I disconnected the call and jumped out the truck and headed for the nail shop.

“Hey, Kim,” I said to my nail tech as I walked in.

She said, “Me not Kim. Me tell you every time.”

And she was right. She did tell me every time, but I always managed to forget, until she reminded me.

“I want a manicure, pedicure, eyebrow wax, upper lip wax, and eyelashes,” I said, running off my list.

“Sit here,” she said, directing me to the spa pedicure chair. Then she asked about my homeboy, Touch, who regularly came to the nail shop with me. “Where ya friend?”

“Good question.” I turned on the chair's massager then pulled out my cell phone to give him a call.

I relaxed as I waited for him to answer. Boy, was I drained. I didn't know if it was just the events from the day or Sasha's constant issues that drained me, but whichever it was, it was nothing a little pampering couldn't solve.

“You have reached the voice mail box of . . .” the recording began to say, letting me know that Touch wasn't available.

Maybe to the average chick or someone else he wasn't available, but he was always available for me, so I dialed his other cell phone number.