Live And Learn. Niobia Bryant

odors from my apartment. I glanced pointedly at the cigarette, and Dom pointedly ignored me. I rose, walked over to the large bay windows, and flung them open wide.

      “An-y-way,” Moët said. “Y’all down or what?”

      “Ain’t nothing but a thing. Let’s ride,” Alizé said, fingering her necklace. “Rah gave me some money to go shopping today. I only spent a hundred of it, so I still got plenty left.”

      I studied the chain Rah gave Alizé just two weeks ago. Even though it was probably from one of those Chinese-owned jewelry stores downtown, it still was a nice piece. I preferred Cartier, Cassis, Tiffany & Co., or the custom pieces of that brother Chris Aire. I could not afford it, but I definitely preferred it.

      “That man spends that money, huh?” I asked, tucking my bare feet under me on the couch.

      Alizé gave me a look like “Say what!” “Shit, getting money out of him is easier than rain in April,” she bragged, with a little feeling good shimmy of her shoulders.

      “That’s all well and good, but I still could not deal with thugs,” I told her as I reached for Dom’s steadily disappearing pack of cigarettes and put them on the end table by me.

      “Rah’s out the game, Cristal.”

      I looked at her and raised a perfectly arched brow. “Yes, but in or out of the game he still has the clothes, the mean face, and the attitude of a thug. But do you.”

      “Oh, and you know this,” she answered, knocking her leg against my knee.

      “Yeah, but is he still whack in the bedroom?” Dom asked, a sly smile on her lips.

      Alizé laughed. “Girl, please. His thing looks like a damn gherkin.”

      We all joined her in laughter.

      I could not help but picture Rah standing with his hands on his hips, with all his business—what little there was—hanging out.

      “Shit,” she said, drawing out the vowel. “I pray every time we do the do that his ass don’t give me a damn D & C.”

      “I can’t stand an itty-bitty short-dick man for no amount of money,” Moët added.

      “Are you getting any kind of dick, Mo?” Dom asked as she tapped her cigarette ashes into her hands.

      I did not have ashtrays. Dom refused to get the hint.

      “I got a man, thank you.”

      “I’m just saying, you never talk about him.”

      “Don’t worry. He got twelve inches and plenty of money, Dom,” Moët snapped, her eyes flashing.

      “How about Atlanta?” I suggested, trying to change the subject before an argument ensued. Plus, I wanted to steer my girls to the high road, away from the upcoming freak central in Myrtle Beach. I mean please.

      Biker’s Week, the largest rally for African-American motorcycle riders, was held at Atlantic Beach in Myrtle Beach, SC. It was more for a man’s enjoyment than a woman’s. Lots of bikes, loud music, wall-to-wall bodies—most half-naked females. Since I did not care for motorcycles, nor did I plan on shaking my derriere in front of anyone’s video camera, there really was no need for me to go there. Okay? All right.

      “Ain’t Ludacris and Usher from ATL?” Dom asked with a wicked lick of her lips.

      “I’ll take that as a yes for Atlanta from Dom,” I said, turning to Alizé. “Cool?”

      “Cool,” she answered.

      “Moët, you sure your ass can go?” Dom asked.

      Good point. I looked at Moët, and I could see her embarrassment. Her parents were sickening.

      “I’ll think of something,” was her reply.

      Enough said.

      “Ladies, now that we have chosen our destination, I have to get my hands on some money,” I admitted. Being in between “friends” had put a definite strain on my resources.

      “Call Ezekial—” Alizé began, reaching in her purse and pulling out her compact and tube of IMAN lip gloss.

      “Everett,” I corrected her on the name of my last companion.

      “Yeah, whatever. Call him. He’s a big-time corporate lawyer,” she stated as she applied the gloss to her lips.

      “But don’t tell him what you really want it for,” Moët added, her voice soft—almost fairylike. “Tell him you got a bill due or something.”

      It was funny that little Moët was trying to school me on men. Inside I was asking the same question as Dom: just who was Moët’s mystery man? I asked once and I did not get an answer. I was not going to ask her again. I guessed she would tell us in her own time.

      “Cristal, you gonna call him?” Alizé asked.

      “I do not deal with him anymore.” I unfolded my slim frame to walk over to my desk, reaching for my black crocodile address book.

      Dom used slender fingers to hold her cigarette. “You need to leave them damn corporate suits alone.”

      I glanced over at her, pausing in my perusal. “What should I do, get a thug in my life?”

      “Damn right,” Alizé and Dom said in unison, finishing that off with a round of pounds and high fives.

      “Alizé, is this the same corporate world you are salivating to get into? I can sure see a man like Rah attending all those corporate functions with you.” Yes, I meant to sound sarcastic.

      Alizé flipped me the bird. Humph, truth hurts.

      “Look here, bougie,” Dom said, leaning forward on her slender knees to look at me with a devilish hint of a smile in her slanted ebony eyes.

      “Put her d’, Dom,” Alizé added.

      I started to tell Dom that someone should put her down, and that she needed to move her child out of the projects, but I refrained. Instead I closed my address book, using my finger to mark the page, and leaned my hip against the desk as I faced my more than outspoken friends.

      “A brotha that works on a job every damn day ain’t feelin’ givin’ up that money like a thug. And you know why?”

      “Do tell,” I said sarcastically.

      “Because a thug don’t give a shit about that easy money. You know what I’m sayin’?”

      Dom looked to Alizé and Moët for backup.

      Moët reluctantly nodded in agreement.

      “She’s right, Cristal,” Alizé chimed in like a sidekick, pulling a grape Blow-Pop from her purse to smack loudly upon.

      “To Rah, or my baby Lex, it’s like a part of their street cred to lace they women with nice shit. They wanna give up that loot. But a brotha gettin’ up out of his bed every day, bustin’ his ass doing forty or sixty hours a week for a check, ain’t feelin’ it.”

      Dom had a habit of hitting one slender fist into her open palm as she spoke, like she was trying to hit her point home. And although I understood fully what she was saying, I was not getting involved with a grown man whose main ambition in life was to develop his street credibility.

      I wanted a man who was husband material and not jail material. I wanted someone who could offer what I lacked the first eighteen years of my life: stability. A man who played outside the law was not any more stable than someone walking a tight rope in the middle of a hurricane. I wanted more than a friend who would spend his money on me. I wanted a wealthy husband. Period. I was talking permanency and security, because if my future husband left me, there was always alimony. Okay? All right.

      The girls kept on lauding their street warriors, and I politely tuned them out, turning my attention back to my address book