Milk and Honey

There’s nothing special about me – I’m just a man who wanted a life of milk and honey.

But sometimes, this chicken-shit life can rob a man of his dignity. Sometimes, circumstance reduces him to nothing more than a boy. Like he's a fish out of water, flopping around. It makes you red with fury. A block of ice-cold resentment settling in your stomach. Red, blue. Red, blue. And you catch yourself asking, “Is this my life? I don’t recognize what’s going on here. Is this really all there is?” Can’t be. My story ain’t supposed to end up this way. It won’t end up this way. Because I ain’t no boy. I’m a man who will hustle his way into the life he deserves. All I really need is opportunity. All I need is to dream up some goals.

I was walking down Sixth. She pulled up in a six.

Sky blue Porsche, matte finish, with a spoiler and sunroof. Cherry leather interior to match her auburn wig. Baby blue eye shadow on dark skin. Lash extensions. A periwinkle dress cut short, leaving little to the imagination. Red, blue. Red, blue. “Hop in this whip.” The sweet words dripping from her glossy red lips like honey. Red, blue. Red flags.

“Bitch, you the feds.”

“Nigga, don’t trip.”

Now, annoyance is splayed all over her face, but it belies something playful underneath; something sinister, something dangerous. Something I was all too game to explore. So, I hop in, as she knew I would – this is a woman who isn’t accustomed to hearing “no.”

She hands me a spliff and we chop it up. Beauty and brains? Gotta be. She’s over here using big words and shit, like “entrepreneur” and "return of investments" and “capital gains.” College or nepo-baby? Or both? A mother. I tell her the kids are cute, I guess, but I ain’t got no plans to be nobody’s father figure. Slow down.

We’re hotboxing the car, zooming through the city. Slooooow down, or we’re gonna get pulled over. “I got bail money,” she says. She’s funny. Those eyes keep staring into my soul. She’s fine as fuck and she’s throwing herself all over me, telling me everything a boy – uh, I mean a man – like me wants to hear.

“It’s yours, babe.”

“I got big money, you need something?”

“I take care of my man.”

“Get you something nice, Daddy.”

“Take my car.”

Now, I’m sprayed all over her face. This is the life. I’m living large, nursing on the tit of the golden calf. Sweet, sweet milk. The fire in my loins is burning red hot. Blue faces on greenbacks stacked all over the crib. Nevermind where they came from. I’m diving deep in her ocean. I’m pricking the pink. This is good, very good. This is life. Sweet, sweet honey. Red, blue. Red, blue.

“If I catch you with other bitches, you a dead man.”

“It’s yours, babe,” I say.

I lie.

Me and my boys are in and out of every club. Pink Pony this, Indigo Girls that. We’re living like we’ve never lived before. Living like we're meant to live. I’m on my worst behavior. Red digits running down credit card statements. Blue shopping bags swinging as we stroll through the grove. Pulling up, just to stunt. Dang, you see what he’s wearing? Where do you even get shit like that? Look at that chain. Blue text bubbles to my suga-mama. Tiffany blue diamonds. Red roses. Aww, you’re sweet like milk, honey! Gotta keep her smiling, I ain’t stupid. What’s that saying? Happy wife, happy life. But I ain’t got no plans to be nobody’s husband. Slow down. She gets angel-time during the day, but it’s demon-time at night.

And when I say demon, I mean hell.

Molly, Xanax, Ketamine, Coke. Ayo, bro, pass the blunt. Dang, look at that watch. He’s the cleanest nigga here. Club. Another club. Another club. Still the cleanest. What time is it? Watch those teeth, bitch! You like that? I know a guy who can get us more. Think that’s enough? Another club. Another club. Damn, check her out. In the red thong. Fine as fuck. Benjamin Franklin covers the floor. This is life. Another club. Lean and Ecstasy. Hold up, Periwinkle Dress is calling. Red, blue. Red, blue. Nah, babe. I’m just out with the boys. Nothing. NOTHING! Poppers and Shrooms. Slurred speech. Niggas is jealous, talking about “slow down.” I don’t need no advice, I’m God – uh, I mean I’m good. Where’s the afters? Another club? You niggas ain’t coming? Who needs ya!? Andrew Jackson. Bring my car around. Sky blue Porsche. Cherry leather interior.

Red, blue. Red, blue.

“Pull over.”

I’m zooming down Sixth, annoyance splayed all over my face. What the fuck did I do? I’m just living the life. Is that a crime? Pigs always come along, looking to eclipse a young Black man just when he starts shining. Just when you start reaching for goals, here they come; oinking. It ain’t a crime to be fly. It ain’t a crime to stunt. What the fuck did I do?

“The plates are illegitimate. Pop up the trunk!”

“Pop up this dick!”

“You move, we shoot.”

Disillusionment sets in and the world has a nauseating swirl to it. I get a hollow feeling in my stomach. Nerves or drugs? Or both? Suddenly, there’s badges and flashlights pouring all over the cherry leather interior and I’m standing on Sixth looking like BooBoo the Fool. A fish out of water. Is this life? They pop the trunk, and when the trunk is popped, there’s snow in the fridge. Heaps of snow. Bundles of Benjamins. Unregistered Smiths and Wessons. This entire time? Couldn’t be, I would’ve noticed. Would I have noticed? Yes, of course! I would’ve noticed. I think I’m going to be sick. The talking pigs are saying big words and phrases like “Grand Theft Auto” and “D.E.A.” and “multiple warrants” and “across state lines” and “felony charges” and I suddenly don’t speak English. I need to sober up. I need to sit down. I need to think. No. I need to talk to Auburn-Wig-Blue-Eye-Shadow-Lash-Extensions. Red, blue. Red, blue.

“It’s yours, babe,” she says. Void of all sweetness. Cold as ice.

“I’m on a G5, I’m gone.”

“Do what you gotta do, but don’t say a fucking word.”

“Nah, nigga. You the one who wanted the big money and to live large and shit.”

“You got the fly chains, and the watches, and the drugs, and the bitches, and the bitches, and the bitches.”

“Deal with the bricks and don’t cry over spilled milk.”

“Like I said, I’m gone, honey. Nevermind where. Gotta go now."

"You say my fucking name, you a dead man.”

I look at the phone and the dropped call; I don’t recognize what’s going here. I look at the sky blue Porsche with cherry leather interior and the mounds of contraband; I think I’m going to be sick. I look at the talking pigs and the red-blue light; my story wasn’t supposed to end up this way. This is bad, very bad. I need to sober up. I need to sit down. I need to think. The world keeps spinning as the icy block of resentment settles deeper in my gut and a biting, bitter realization takes shape.

I am no God, nor am I a man.

I am just a boy who wanted a life of milk and honey.