Read Online Flip Side of the Game by Tu-Shonda L. Whitaker - Free Book Online Page B

and humiliate me? And how could Aunt Cookie let her? Why was it that I had to accept Rowanda? I hated the bitch! I hated the sound of her voice, and the way she reminded me of broken elevators, lion claw tubs, and blood.
    â€œLook, baby,” Taj said, “ease up a little bit. Cut Rowanda some slack.”
    â€œCut Rowanda some slack? What about cutting me some slack?” I said, with snot dripping.
    At this point, I didn’t care what he thought. Hell, he wasn’t my man. I was my own man. I ain’t need him for shit!
    â€œYou got a lot of fuckin’ nerve, Mister Yuppie-ass emergency room doctor! What do you know about being born in hell? You never came from a crackfiend’s pussy. You’ve never seen dope being slowly released from a bloody needle and yo’ grandma moanin’ about how it feel good, and all the while you wondering if she shootin’ up the rent money or the food stamps! You know what it’s like to starve, Taj? I didn’t think so!” I opened my office door and said, “Get the fuck out!”
    Taj turned around and grabbed me by my forearm. “Vera, throwing me out is no issue. I’m a cocky-ass black man from Newark, with a doctorate degree in medicine. I’ve been thrown out by the best of ’em, but you have to live with you. You must stop all of this self-defeating madness or else you will be strung out on a damn nervous breakdown.
    â€œNow, I’m here because you need me here. I’m already in your heart, so you can stop faking like throwing me out is easy. When you’re ready to stop throwing a tantrum, we’ll talk.” And he slammed the door behind him.
    I leaned against the wall and slowly slid down to the floor, feeling as if my chest would cave in. I wanted desperately to run after Taj and beg him to come back, but my pride wouldn’t let me. Instead, I pulled my knees up to my chest, tilted my head down, and cried. I cried so much that when I lifted my head up, my vision was blurry. I wiped my eyes, placed my head back down, and while the whistle of the breeze came through the window, thoughts of Rowanda raced through my mind.
    I thought that at some point I would be able to come back and finish working in the shop, but when I looked around, it seemed that everyone had left. At least five hours had gone by and I hadn’t even noticed.
    The darkness was comforting and cool. The window was cracked just a little, and I could hear the whistle of the cold breeze. The dampness of the wind reminded me of winter in the projects, and of the time when the lights were shut off and there were no candles to burn.
    I was seven years old and petrified of the dark. “I’m scared, Rowanda,” I said into the ear of the darkness. “I’m scared.” Nobody answered, but I could see Rowanda searching for a match, while I crossed my small seven-year-old legs and sat around the stove, wanting desperately to feel the heat.
    Rowanda wore high heels and a blond wig. She snuck out at night and nobody ever noticed. Grandma never cared. Rowanda would say how she always met a john and that I ain’t have to worry as long as she had the block locked.
    â€œWhat you scared of, girl? I’m here.” And she was. Even when her pimp stomped her in the face for not having all of his money, she still made sure I had something to eat. Getting stomped was just a chance she had to take.
    Rowanda found a match, and she reached and placed her head inside the stove. The gas fumes were rising, and when she placed the small fire on the pilot, she never really screamed when her face caught fire. She barely made a noise as the skin curled off, and even when the kids teased her and said that she looked like Scarface, she still hustled the block. She never even worried about how half of her beauty was left burning on the pilot of the gas stove.
    I fumbled along the wall for the light switch, because I couldn’t take my