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Non-fiction / GHETTO MOTHER (Analysis)
It was a Friday evening in June that was not unlike any other Friday in the summer time. People were hitting the house for a triple S-shit, shower and shave- and headed out in the world to get their grove on. Frankie had just gotten off the train, picked up her children from the baby sitter, a elderly Jamaican woman they simply called Jah-Momma, and was headed down Jerome Ave. when, like clock work, she ran into Ricky.
“Sup, girlfriend” yelled Ricky in her usual over the type manner.
The two then embraced one another followed by saliva soaked cheek kisses and hugs to the nappy-headed triumvirate Frankie had in tow.
“Girl what is going on with you tonight,” asked Ricky as she placed a cigarette in her mouth.
“I don’t know,” said Frankie as she periodically counted her little ducklings and picked lint from there tiny heads. “Jah-Momma had family coming over and I don’t feel like dealing with Mary’s ass right now so asking her to babysit is out.”
“Well that’s too bad. I know it’s gonna be some niggas up in the spot tonight girl. Don’t you think it’s about time for you to get there lil’ Negroes a father figure or something?”
“Girl, you know I ain’t in no rush to be with no man these days. There ain’t nothin’ no man can do for me that I can’t do for myself.”
“Well, suit yourself baby girl. When I get me some I’ll be sure to let you know how good it was.”
“Some what,” interjected little Marcus. “Some ice cream? Yeah, Mommy, I’ll let you know when I get some and I’ll tell you how good it was.”
Ricky laughed so hard she began coughing on her cigarette smoke.
“Marcus what did I tell you about getting in grown folks conversation? If you open your mouth one more time I’m gonna put my foot in it. Do you understand me?”
Darryl, always the antagonist, began snickering.
“That goes for you too Darryl,” she growled.
Lenore, fast asleep in her stroller, was oblivious to the entire situation, but began to stir from the sound of her mother’s voice.
“See, Ricky, that’s why I can’t stand your silly ass.
You need to watch your mouth around my kids.”
Ricky shrugged and waved her hand as if swatting a fly. She put a frown on her face, but smirked soon there after. She knew she was wrong and just left it at that. After stopping at Gino’s Fried Chicken for a bight to eat, and to change a rather ripe diaper on baby Lenore, the friends parted ways as Frankie hopped in a cab to go up the hill near 173rd st. As she and the kids situated themselves and got out of the cab at the end of the block, Darryl noticed the red and blue flashes of police sirens in the distance.
“Mommy look,” he pointed. “Our house is on fire.”
Frankie, squinting to see, corrected him.
“No baby, those aren’t fire truck lights. Those are policeman’s cars. But you did a good job spotting them my little Superman,” said Frankie while patting him on the head. Darryl smiled and pushed his coke bottle glasses up on his brow with his index finger with pride. Though the children were becoming a little agitated, they had become well acquainted with public servants and their various modes of transportation. The police cars were not a big deal, but the fact they were in front of the building might scare them a little bit.
“Ok you all,” she told the boys. “I want you to hold on to Mommy’s elbows real tight ok?”
She then started walking at a faster pace. Not to get home faster, but to get to the scene faster and, maybe figure out what was going on before the kids did. And perhaps keep them from being exposed to something nightmare inspiring.
As they got closer to the scene, navigating police cars and bystanders, Frankie could see the men from the county coroner’s office placing what appeared to be a human-sized garbage bag in the rear of a van. There was also a woman sitting on the stoop talking to a female police officer. The woman was dressed in a standard house coat and slippers. She had the big pink rollers with the spongy middle. That outfit seemed like it was standard issue to any house wife or mother back in the 70s. The officer really stood out to Frankie. Not only was she a Black woman, but she was a woman, period! She would see one or the other, but seldom both at the same time and occupying the same space. The officer was writing notes as the distraught woman appeared to plead her case to her. As Frankie and her motley crew watched the scene the officer’s demeanor quickly changed. Like when you reveal to a room full of people that it was you who dealt that foul smell. The officer violently snatched the small woman up from her perch then violently slammed her to the ground on her face. Suddenly, as if smacked in the back of her head, Frankie snapped to a realization. The person answering the questions on the front stoop was Mrs. Vargas, her next door neighbor. She and Frankie would occasionally chat in the hallway while smoking a cigarette, or on the elevator, at the Laundromat or on the way to the corner store, but nothing more. Mr. Vargas was seldom seen, but he was heard all hours of the night drinking and playing dominoes with his friends and, on occasion, kicking Mrs. Vargas’ ass for even the most minuscule transgressions. Starting dinner late, coffee not being too dark, not being as sexy as her sister, not bearing him a son and so on.
The police officer forced Mrs. Vargas to place her hands behind her back. The click-clack of the handcuffs locking was mechanical and oddly sickening. As the female officer dragged Mrs. Vargas to the police car, Frankie could see specks of blood blotches on her house coat and on her hands. It was smeared on her face as well.
“She finally killed his ass,” Frankie whispered.
“Mommy, what’s going on,” whined Darryl. “They’re taking away my friend.”
Mrs. Vargas had always been very nice to him and even told him his glasses made him look handsome. To see her get carted away was disturbing to Darryl, and to Marcus as well. She knew she had to decide whether she was going to go upstairs to the apartment or go else where. Lenore, asleep the whole time, was now stirring in her stroller and would need to be fed and changed very soon.
With a wind of urgency at her back Frankie pushed her way through the crowd of on-lookers and pass the police perimeter. To her surprise, none of the officers said anything as she walked through what appeared to be a crime scene and up to the stoop toward the apartment. As they made their way through the hallway towards the elevator Frankie noticed what appeared to be burgundy foot prints followed by quarter-sized droplets that led down the stairwell and out the door. The children saw the stains as well, but they said nothing of them.
The third floor, the floor on which Frankie and the children lived, was witness to more of the same. Blood spatters and footprints on the dirty linoleum floor. The crime scene investigators and detectives could still be seen in the apartment at the end of the hallway milling around like carpenter ants. Frankie’s apartment was closer to the elevator so, thankfully, she did not have to walk pass another crime scene to get to her front door.
From her angle, she could tell the front door was open and only God knew what type of carnage could be witnessed simply by taking just a few more steps towards the door’s threshold.
After getting the children calmed down and situated, Frankie thought about getting herself calmed down and situated as well. She looked in the refrigerator with the hope that Ricky may have left a tall cold can of Colt 45 the other night. Then she suddenly remembered she had finished that off the night before. Despite all of the curve balls life had thrown her up to that point, she had never been one to use a foreign substance as a crutch. However, New York City, though she loved it very much, was beginning to wear on her something serious. The young mother sat down on the couch and sighed out loud as Marcus and Darryl ran around in circles imitating the way the Skipper chased Gilligan around on Gilligan’s Island.
“I’m gonna get you Gilligan,” shouted Marcus as Darryl laughed with glee.
“I’mma get both of your asses if you knock that T.V. set off the table.”
It was a small black and white hand me down but it, and an old radio, were all she had for entertainment. Try as she might, Frankie could not get the day’s events out of her head. She always knew New York was rough, but she figured she could handle it. Frankie had a few friends in the neighborhood, actually more than most, but no one there on a permanent basis. She wanted a man, despite the words that had previously come out of her mouth, she was beginning to feel like she needed a man. Not just for some passing physical fancy, but someone to help her feel safe. Truth be told, she had not felt safe since leaving Uncle Charlie’s house. She glanced over at Lenore, as she lay her light bulb shaped head to rest on the couch pillow, and swore she would raise her to not feel the need for a man because it was a path to heartache and ruin. But that was a lesson to be learned in the future for Lenore.
Frankie wondered exactly when this need was instilled in her. Was it when her father decided to send her and her siblings to live with his sister and brother-in-law? Or was it when her ex-husband Marcus went off to war? Was it somewhere in between? She did not know for sure when the need began to manifest itself, but, with four children-only three of which were living with her-the feeling was getting stronger by the day.
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IowaDreams reviewed Version 1 -
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Your dialogue is absolutely fantastic and I could really feel the personality of the main character come through in the dialogue. I think you might want to add some thoughts of the main character later on in the story. You see her action, but as the action is happening you seem to focus on everything else that is around the character and what is taking place but only a small amount of what the character is thinking or doing. How does it affect her to see the police. Is she scared, nervous, tense? How does that change her interaction with the people around her. She seems to suddenly go quiet. You might want to continue to dialogue through the later scenes because your dialogue seems to be what drives your writing and you have a knack for it.
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Darkechos13 reviewed Version 1 -
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Just getting interesting when you ended it. Good description though a couple times you seemed to ramble when talking about Mrs. Vargas. I would suggest revising your punctuation overall, the grammar for the narrator. I would like to see you use a bit more humor like part with the coke-bottled glasses. Any ideas as to where you want to go with the story?
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