Looking at my diamond-encrusted watch (a take- me-back-gift from Red, my Butch Bitch), I realized it was about 10:39 p.m. I needed to check in on my son Renaldo and his brother (Red’s son) Jameson (they share the same baby
father, rest his soul) but I really didn’t need to because I could hear them playing John Madden ’08 on Playstation 3.

They loved and breathed that game console the
way I used to breathe my Atari and Miss Pac Man and Pole Position back in the day.

I turned on Patti Labelle. I didn’t know what song played, but I did know she was just what I needed right now.

My sons turned up the volume on the game a little louder.

Oh, no!

Not over Patti!

I stood up, clad in night clothes and red furry
slippers (shaped like the male penis) and beat
on the wall. My breasts jiggled.

“Turn that shit down!”

“SORRY MOM!” They said in unison.

But the sound didn’t relent much. I waited
about five minutes.

Busying myself in the process with putting a few
rollers in my hair, I thought about me and Red’s phone conversation.

She could be a bitch when she wanted to be. I
didn’t want to deal with Mama’s funeral and I didn’t want to talk about it. I still hated her.

The sound of my children’s video game didn’t
decrease and my anger did. I hated when my sons didn’t pay me no mind.

I opened the bedroom door, stamped down the hall, with my hand on my hip and kicked their door open. They were startled, dropping the joysticks on the floor.

“Mom.” Renaldo turned it down. He and Jameson had on Scooby-Do pajama pants and do-rags tied over their silky wavy hair.

Jameson gave him a secret look.

I unplugged the game and slapped them both in
the back of the head when they tried to get rowdy. I stood my ground. “Don’t you two have school tomorrow?”

“Yes,” they said together. I thought it was cute.

They always said the same things.

“Why are you still up?” I hated that 50 Cent poster on the wall. He was aiming a pistol at the camera lens.

Renaldo challenged me. “Ma. I’m not sleepy. I’m
not a little kid anymore. I want more freedom!”
Jameson was his back up. “Yea. And I don’t want
to go to sleep, either.”

“Word?” I said, putting my hands on my hips.

“Mama, people don’t say ‘word’ anymore,”
Renaldo corrected, standing up, stretching. He
wrapped his arms around me and I saw Jameson in my peripheral trying to plug up the game.

“Yea. Get with the times,” said Jameson. When he picked up the plug I back kicked him in the chest and he slammed into the wall.

“Bed time!”

“MAMA!” shouted Jameson. He called me “Mama” and he called Red “Ma.”

“NOW!” I said more sternly. I meant business.

“Come on, bruh,” said Renaldo in defeat. He
crawled in his bed and pulled the covers up to his chest.

“…Let’s go to bed. Red isn’t home and Mom has
to use the toy by herself.”

My mouth fell open in shock. “What did you say?”

“Come on, Mom,” said Jameson, snickering at my shock. “We are teenage boys. We chase girls and we know storks don’t deliver babies. We hear you through the walls.”

“And can you say yuck?” said Renaldo, covering
his face.

I wanted to die.