The Candy Shop
Authors: Kiki Swinson
Tags: #Fiction, #Erotica, #African American - Urban Life, #African American women, #African Americans, #Drama, #Drug Dealers, #Inner cities, #Street life
Kiki Swinson
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
The Candy Shop. Copyright © 2007 by Kiki Swinson. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address Melodrama Publishing, P.O. Box 522, Bellport, NY 11713.
www.melodramapublishing.com
Library of Congress Control Number: 2006908572
ISBN-13: 978-1934157022
ISBN-10: 1934157023
First Edition: February 2007
Revised Edition: October 2010
Editors: Tiffany Davis, Candace K. Cottrell
Interior Design: Candace K. Cottrell
(October 17, 2006)
My heart and my feet move at the speed of lightning as I make a desperate attempt to elude this dealer named Papoose. I just beat him for his whole stash of dope. The sandwich bag I have clutched in my right hand has to contain at least one hundred caps of heroin. This is a fresh batch. I saw him stashing it behind the bushes of the run-down and boarded-up abandoned house I once lived in, called the Candy Shop. I used to trick with him a lot a while back for half of bundles of his most lethal dope—and methadone pills when I was trying to kick the habit—but that was before I got all strung-out looking. His twenty-something-year old, nice body-having, hip-hop-loving ass, looking like the R&B singer Tyrese, wouldn’t have me now if I tried to give him some pussy or head for free.
That’s just how bad shit is for me right now. Yeah, I know I look like a fucking zombie, but I haven’t always looked like this. I remember when I used to have niggas salivating over me and always telling me how much I reminded them of the actress. LisaRaye. But believe me when I tell you that we don’t look that much alike. The only thing she and I have in common is that we both look like we’re half breeds with long hair. Plus, we’re fly as hell with thick thighs, a tiny waist, and a huge, round ass.
My husband used to love when I would walk around the house, wearing nothing but a white tank top and a lace thong. His dick would always grow three inches from the sight of the strap of my panties getting lost between my booty cheeks—which was a major turn-on for me—so I’d always bend over and tell him to spread my ass apart and bury his tongue deep inside me. Those were definitely the days, and I would give anything to go back to that life. But I know that’s only wishful thinking, considering how long I’ve been trapped out here in these streets.
It’s been three years, as a matter of fact, with constant episodes of me chipping away at my life and having no place to go at the end of the day. And where I lay my head at night all depends on how the dice are rolled. I’ve seen nights where I’ve stayed at my best friend’s apartment. And then, when the rent got behind and the eviction notice was posted on the front door, I found refuge with a couple of dudes. Now, it didn’t last long, of course, but I made the best out of every situation. And the only thing I could give them in exchange for giving me a place to stay was allowing them to suck and fuck me in every orifice my body had to offer. So far, I’ve been doing heroin longer than I’ve been homeless and have been really fortunate not to have ever caught a dope charge.
So trust me, I am going to try to keep it that way unless they fuck around and run up on me right after I make my score. And of course, if that happens, I know I am going to be in hot shit! Other than that, I am taking the bitter with the sweet because this world I created for myself isn’t anything to play with.
The other dope fiends I get high without here are vicious as hell. They will turn on you for a ten-dollar cap of dope in a heartbeat, especially if their dirty asses are ill. So, it isn’t a secret that everybody has to watch their own backs. Too bad I didn’t plan out my escape from Papoose a little more thoroughly, because if I had, I wouldn’t be running for my life as we speak.
“Bitch! I’m gon’ kill you when I catch you!” I hear him yell from just a few feet away from me with an enormous amount of rage.
Hearing the tone of his voice—and the speed at which he was running—makes me well aware that it’s only a matter of time before I will be begging him for mercy. So, naturally I want to pick up my speed, but for some reason, my feet won’t allow me. And then, all of a sudden, it begins to seem like I am running in slow motion. And as I look around me for an escape route, I notice how all eyes are on me.
It’s very late—two o’clock in the morning to be exact—so the eyes beaming from the sidelines of this dimly-lit street belong to the local crack heads and dope fiends who have migrated to this part of town. Seeing another fiend running for their life, and trying to keep a dope dealer from killing ’em, is nothing unusual. This type of shit happens day in and out, especially when dope addicts like me need a fix and can’t find any other alternatives to copping a pill of dope.
A normal hustle for addicts like me would be to go on a boosting spree and try to find any kind of merchandise with value. A family member’s house would be an ideal place to start, unless they know your situation and wouldn’t trust you to be alone in any part of their house. So, the next best thing is to try to find valuable items outside of their home, or anybody else’s home, for that matter. But, if that plan goes up in flames, then you’re going to either have to run up in a department store, or get gully and get down on your knees and serve up the best head your mouth can perform.
Now you may not get nothing more than five or ten dollars for your services, so just look at it in a way that you didn’t have five or ten dollars to start with and count your lucky stars that you’re on your way to the dope man.
But when all of these options run out, that’s when we result to finding ways to clip the dealers for their package without them knowing it, which is like playing a game of Russian roulette. If you want to know the truth, it’s more like a suicide attempt. Sometimes we come out on top, and sometimes we don’t. The times we don’t mount up to a serious beatdown or even worse, which is exactly what I am about to experience if I don’t find a diversion in the next twenty seconds.
Believe it or not, this nigga is gaining on me. I had a good fifty-foot head start on him, but he quickly made up that distance in speed and now he is on my ass. So, again, I am looking for a way to dodge this maniac. And right when I am about to cross over from one block to the next, I feel a hard blow hit me in the back of my head and the force from it sends me tumbling face-first into the pavement. The very second I hit the ground, my face feels like it exploded. And in the midst of it, I know I hear my jaw bone crack.
But at this point I can’t be concerned about it, because something much worse is about to happen; especially knowing that upon my fall, the bag of dope flew right out of my hand and every pill scattered all over the ground.
“Oh, bitch, you’re dead now!” Papoose screams and then he kicks me as hard as he can in my side with his Timberland boots.
The intense pain from the blow of his boots sends me out of this world. And before I can digest the excruciating pain that impacted my side, he begins to kick me in the same spot over and over. And then he stomps me in my back. I try pleading for my life, but he acts as if he didn’t hear me. So, all I can do is scream and yell for help.
“Bitch, ain’t nobody gon’ help you. You gon’ die tonight for trying to steal my shit.”
“Papoose, I am so sorry,” I cry out. “I promise I’ll pay you back.”
“Bitch, how the fuck you gon’ pay me back? You ain’t got no muthafucking money!” he screams as his anger escalates and the beating gets more severe. “You ain’t nothing but a homeless dope fiend,” he continued, and before I even realize it, he takes out his burner and cocks the hammer.
Right here and now, my life flashes before me and all I can do is think about how I even allowed myself to get to this point. My ex-husband’s and my daughter’s faces appear in my mind and I know now that I have really fucked up my life. But what is really screwed up is that I know deep down inside that I am at the end of my rope, and the only energy I have left in my body is used to call out my ex-husband’s and daughter’s names.
So, as this moment gets dimmer and dimmer for me, I cry out, “Eric . . . Kimora . . .”
(February 14, 2003)
“Eric . . . Kimora . . . breakfast is ready,” I yelled into the hallway from the entrance way of the kitchen. Moments later, they both appeared before me with big, empty stomachs. My husband Eric kissed me upon arrival.
My daughter Kimora, however, dashed right by me and took a seat in her favorite chair at the kitchen table. She made it very clear that her sights were set only on filling her belly. So, I let her be and served her a plate of her favorite pancakes with link sausages. Eric had the same and a side of scrambled eggs with cheese. I, on the other hand, made myself a cup of hot tea since I didn’t have much of an appetite. And after I took a seat at the kitchen table next to Kimora, Eric felt the need to remind me about tonight’s plans for dinner.
“Don’t forget, we got to be at my parents’ house by six.”
I took a sip of my tea and assured him that I wouldn’t miss tonight’s dinner for the world.
“Have you decided which dress you’re going to wear?”
“Not yet. But, I am leaning more toward the lavender one.”
“Mommy, I think you should wear the red one. It’s much prettier than the other one. And besides, it makes you look really sexy,” Kimora commented between chews.
“How do you know what looks sexy?” Eric wondered aloud as he looked directly at Kimora.
“I just know,” she told him.
I smiled proudly and glanced over at Eric, only to hear him say, “How in the world can a five-year-old child make judgment on what’s sexy?”
“Had it ever occurred to you that she may have gotten it from you?”
“Yeah, Daddy,” Kimora agreed.
“Enough with the talking, while you’ve got food in your mouth.”
“Yeah baby, don’t do that,” I said, agreeing with Eric. And then I looked down at my wrist watch. “My God, how times flies.” I took one last sip of tea from my coffee mug.
Two seconds later I stood up from my chair, so immediately Eric wanted to know where I was rushing off to.
“Yeah, Mommy, you just sat down,” Kimora added.
“I know. But, I’ve got to get to work a little early this morning.”
“What’s the occasion?” Eric wanted to know.
“It’s nothing, really. Just need to help a few of my staff set up for the Valentine’s Day cocktail party we’re having for our teachers after school this evening.”
“So, what time is this party over?”
“By six. But, I’ll be out of there way before then,” I assured him as I walked over toward the kitchen sink to dispose of my coffee mug.
“Do you think it would be wise for you to get dressed at work, instead of coming all the way back home?”
“No,” I said, shaking my head. “I’ll get back here in more than enough time to get dressed. And besides, after the long day I’m expected to have today, I’ll prefer to come home and wind down with a hot shower before I even attempt to get dressed and join your parents for dinner.”
“Suit yourself. Just don’t drink too many cocktails,” he concluded.
I smiled with a cheesy expression and assured him that I wouldn’t.
And as I began to make my way out of the kitchen, I reached over and kissed them both and told them to have a nice day.
**********
Upon my arrival at work, the only prestigious performing arts school in the Tidewater area, at which I’m an assistant principal, I noticed my secretary, Teresa Daniels—who also happens to be my best friend—gathering some items from the trunk of her car. Immediately after I parked my vehicle, I got out and approached her. “Need some help?” I asked.
“Yeah. Grab that brown bag right there,” she instructed me as she wrestled with three bags of her own.
“Damn!” I said the instant I grabbed hold of the paper bag.
“It’s heavy, huh?” Teresa commented and then she closed the trunk of her car.
“You damn right it is. What do you have buried under these napkins and paper plates?”
“Liquor and sodas for the party.”
“Did you have enough money for everything?”
“Yes, I did. As a matter of fact, I’ve got about forty bucks left,” she continued while we headed toward the entrance of the school.
“Well, you know what to do with it.”
“What? Keep it.”
I chuckled and said, “No, silly! You’ve got to put it back.”
“No one’s gonna miss it.”
“I will. So, put it back, and while you’re at it, write a receipt for the portion you used.”
“I know. I know,” Teresa said, sighing heavily.
Now by this time, we were both in the teacher’s lounge area. So, I set my bag down, took a deep breath, and said, “I feel like I just had me a little workout.”