Soap Opera – Episode 6

“That’s a nice blouse, Brooklyn.” Armond said as Brooklyn continued wiping off a table. She was still angry with him for running to her Aunt Pearl the night Sean attacked her and had not spoken to him since returning to work. “Look, I was tryin’ to be nice when I just lied about that ugly assed blouse that got your titties lookin’ all long, but if you still want to act stank, it’s whatever, Miss Girl!” Armond snapped his fingers.

“Boy, forget you!” Brooklyn laughed. “I’m still mad at you.” She broke down. “Chile, what did you expect me to do? Your apartment was ransacked, and you were hiding in the closet, hair a mess, clothes a mess and you might as well have been wearin’ the man’s hand around your neck.” Armond said before looking over at the lady at the table across from him, “Would you like some lemon with this good tea, girl? Your business is at table number 7, not over here.” He rolled his eyes.

“Don’t be doing that, boy!” Brooklyn ushered Armond away. “If Buster hears you talking like that to the customers, he’s gonna fire your butt.” “I ain’t thinkin’ about Buster. I got too much of his tea for him to fire me. Linda Gail will be fired before I will.” He laughed.

“You’re too many things, Mond – I swear.” Brooklyn made her way back to her register as Armond followed. “How are you doin’, baby. Really?” He asked, concerned. “I’m OK. I really am… and I want to thank you for lookin’ out for me, bitch.” Brooklyn laughed. “Well, you know how I do,” Armond patted his hair in place, “I heard your cousin Bobby had him beat down, but that didn’t stop nothin’ because he still be at Kenya’s house on the southwest side.”

“Kenya?” Brooklyn perked up. That was the name of the girl who had called her house three days before Sean attacked her, “Yes, Kenya. She lives on Bissonett and don’t act like you don’t know who she is, Brooklyn.” Brooklyn shrugged her shoulders before turning her back. She didn’t want Armond to see that she was upset, “Oh, he still be at her house?” She asked. “Every other night, leg in a cast, arm in a sling, he still a hoe. Trash will be trash.” He laughed.

“That’s what they say.” Brooklyn forced a giggle. “You and him over forreal this time?” Armond asked. “Yeah, I think this one is for good. We’re tryin’ to be friends though.”

“Friends? Hmph, I know what that means.” Armond rolled his eyes. “What does that mean, Mond?” Brooklyn asked, impatiently. “It means, one minute your friend is calling to see how you’re doing, and the next, you diggin’ them fake french tips into his back and screamin his name.” He laughed, “Uh oh… here comes your secret admirer.” Armond knodded toward the attractive couple waiting to be seated.

“You talking about that boy and his girlfriend?” Brooklyn rolled her eyes. “I don’t care who he comes in here with. He spends the whole time watchin’ you, Miss Thing.” “That boy don’t be watching me. They seem like a happy couple. Besides, he’s always with his girlfriend and the last thing I need is another sorry assed man who don’t respect his woman, so I don’t care if he is lookin’.” Brooklyn said, looking at the stranger again. He was fine and she had noticed him before, but never thought that he was looking at her too. He looked like a young professional, or at least a college student. She figured there was no way he’d be interested in her.

“He be watchin’ me forreal, Mond?” She asked, “I thought you didn’t give a damn!” Armond laughed. “Forget you, I was just asking.” Brooklyn swatted him with a towel.
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Bobby and Cinnamon had just made it into Seguin, Texas – about 150 miles outside of Houston when Cinnamon spotted the police car parked in the median on the freeway as it made a u-turn in their direction. “Oh, shit. We got heat, Bobby. Be easy.” She said, nervously.

“Man, what the hell!” Bobby yelled. These Seguin crackers always pulling this racist bullshit! If we get caught with these drugs, I’m goin’ down for at least ten! Crack your window and flip the weed out when I tell you. We can’t do shit about the rocks in the tire,” He said. “Throw it!” He said when the officer was a few feet away from the truck. “Where ya headed?” The officer asked as he stepped up to the window, his right hand holding the weapon attached to his hip.

“We’re going back to Houston, officer.” Bobby said quietly. “Where ya comin’ from?” The officer continued his questioning. Cinnamon couldn’t contain herself, “Why are you asking us all of these questions? We were driving the speed limit, you haven’t asked for a drivers license, registration or insurance, so what do you want? You see a black couple driving down the freeway in a nice car and your cracker ass just automatically pulls us over?” All these people on this freeway running drugs, and shit and you’re stopping us for no reason?” Cinnamon demanded. Bobby couldn’t believe his ears.

“Turn the engine off and step out of the vehicle, Sir!” The officer said firmly. “Ma’am, you sit right there and don’t move.” If looks could kill, Cinnamon would have died on the spot.

(To be continued)