Psychopomp Magazine Summer 2014 - Page 10

6 | Psychopomp Magazine

With my hand on the handle, I feel somebody steppin’ up on me from behind and a bony hand drop down on my shoulder. I freeze. I don’t turn around in case that hand belong to somebody who don’t want me to see they face.

“Mia, you got—what’s this shit on yo’ back, gurl? It look like—”

I spin around, a Get your fuckin’ hands off me look already on my face, and look into the ugly mug of Redman. This cat here is a strange lookin’ motha with them grey eyes sittin’ in a face that’s kinda red and kinda brown. His lips is all pink and thin and he got freckles that look like brown moles since his skin ain’t really light enough to justify no freckles. He got that good hair and he got it braided back and down to where it curl over his shoulders. I dip my own shoulder so his hand slide off me.

“What,” I say more than ask, and he take a step back and stare at me. I turn back to the car and try to open the door. Only I forget that I still ain’t unlocked it yet, so the handle just jiggle in my hand. I flip the keys out of my pocket, smash down the button on the alarm, and start to open the door again.

“Mia,” Redman say behind me. And again, “Mia,” like I should turn around.

I don’t turn around again. Instead, I just stand there wishin’ he would say whatever ig’nant thing is on his ig’nant mind and go away.

“I ain’t tryna hol’ you up or nothin’,” he say. “But I ain’t seen choo in a minute, sweethawt. I know you my homeboy best, you know, best gurl."

He say that with a smile in his voice and he standin’ there behind me, pausin’ and waitin’ for me to react, but I don’t. I only tighten my hand on the door handle and grit my teeth.

“Anyway, gurl, I jus’ wont choo to know dat if you need anythang, I’m down fa ya. Dat what the homey, Dirty Boy, rest-in-peace, loved, the Redman love.”

Redman talk like honey and most times when he say somethin’, he like E.F. Hutton, people just shut the fuck up and listen.

But then Redman touch me again. This time he put his hands high up on my shoulders. His thumbs rest on the back of my neck and he squeeze like he tryna give me a deep massage, or a deep message.

“You know, Mia,” he say in a low voice I can barely hear over the far away shoutin’ of kids playin’ in the street. “D.B. called me on his cellie that night. He wanted me to come with him. Go take care of some bidness. And, well, you know me, Mia.” Redman squeeze a little harder, diggin his fingers into my neck. “I’m always down for whatever. You know I’m the one brought him home, right? I tried to help my nigga—stop the blood and shit—but he was bleedin too much. I couldn’t stop it.”