I was doing
85 MPH, trying to get to Grandma's house in Richmond Heights, Florida (MIAMI). I hated driving fast, I had a Jag and I hardly drove a mile over 50. I had to take care of this car. Hell I had to pay $450 on it for the next 45 months.

But Gramma was my world. And I couldn't afford to fuck around. She might be dying. I knew we all had to go but damn, not now. Not like this.
Turning onto Florida's Turnpike, North from Goulds, I hotrodded around cars traveling too slow for my own taste.

The living room
was filled with family.

There was Hanna, the 15 year old slut. She wore very classy clothes, had that girl next door charm but she was letting anything on two feet break her walls down.

There was Samuel. The Army Vet with diabetes. He talked about any and everyone in the family. If you didn't want somebody knowing your business don't tell him.

There was Ed. The Ho. He fucked any and everything that breathed in his direction. Crack heads. Bassers. Cynics. Married Women. You named it he fucked it, with his tall, sexy ass.

There was Pauline. Harvard College graduate. She was in her grandmother's face, studying her. Concerned, she could hardly breathe.

"Grandma, talk to me. Its me, Pauline."

Her grandmother, looking a little out of it, slowly looked at her and tried to crack a smile. But she didn't. An unfinished quilt on her lap, she was elegantly gorgeous in a black floral dress. All around her was antique furniture that has been in her family for four generations. The clawed feet furniture, the hanging poetry and framed paintings. The old-looking entertainment shelf polished to a shine. Four generations of gold framed photos, some photos yellowed at the edges from the sands of time.

"Grandma," said Donna, Ed's wife. Grandma looked at her and reached out for her hand, squeezing it. She wondred how could a bitch be so damn dumb. Your man is cheating on you left and right and you can't look up to realize it.

"Grandma, want some food?" asked Francine, Arttist's girlfriend. She was a sweet girl, about 24 years old and had her head on straight. But the girl's lips were so uncontrollable, every time she passed by the spare guest room, she was suckign Arttist up like butter on bread.

Francine cooked dinner and she pulled up a wooden lap table, set it up in front of Grandma and set the food on it. Steaming mashed potatoes and gravy. Collard greens. Candied yams. Fried chicken. On the dining room table a few feet to her right were huge pots of cooked food, table settings set up beautifully, shiny silverware, shiny china plates. Sam Cooke sang on the stereo at a moderate tone.

A group of people were shakng and kissing their Grandma, who has been getting a little sick over the past three weeks. Her eyes looked yellow, like had jaundice.

The front door burst open and Arttist rushed over to his lady, his girl, his grandma, pushing people out of the way.

"Grandma, talk to me what is wrong?"

She gripped his hand and she forced herself to talk.

"Everyone I would like to talk to her." Arttist glared at them. ALONE."

When the room cleared out Grandma was her usual fiesty self.

"You know Pauline can't cook, right?" she spat, and Arttist started laughing, gripping her hand. He was on his knees, relieved that she wasn't having a medical emergency.

"She can't?"

She pointed at the table. "Well goddamn, Niggah. Look at all the food on the dining table. For three weeks the non-cooking bitch been cooking up all my goddamn food! And she can't cook. The collard greens is supposed to be cooked with cabage and fat back for flavoring. She puts chicken in it, and hot peppers and bell peppers. In greens? And her cornbread has cake frosting on it. It ain't cake. Its fucking corn bread."

Arttist was laughing so hard he doubled over on the floor, holding his stomach, tears falling down his eyes. Grandma picked up the yarn, needle and unfinished quilt and she said, "And the Cook from Hell comes in my face and has the gall to ask me, Gramma are you ok? Nah, bitch I ain't ok. You can't goddamn cook! Get a new hobby. If I gave her a Hooked On Phonics recipe she'd fuck that up, too!"

Arttist stood up, chocking, laughing. His Grandma flashed those shiny, pearly teeh, standing up, pushing the lap table to the side. "I'll be back. I gotta take a dump Don't come in the bathroom for twenty, to thirty minutes."

And she disappeared up the stairs.


Grandma picked up her phone

when she got in her room and closed the door. It was the neighbor's son. Diamante. He was tall, fine and rumor had it that he was an undercover faggot. She always suspected her grandson Arttist was gay, despite getting his little dick sucked in her house.

She had to find out.

"Yes. Diamante. Hmmm. I'm fine." A phony laugh. She rubbed her string of pearls around her liver spotted neck. "Are you free right now? She sat on the edge of her bed. "Come over. Come up to my room. The cable on the TV is broken. I know you work for Comcast. Come now. When you get here just come up to my room and get started."

She hung up the phone, smiling.

She instantly opened her bedroom door, walking down the hallway, passing hanging photos of Arttist in his cap and gown from high school. There he was in Pre-K graduating to first grade. He was suave, persuasive and would talk Satan into giving up the booty.

When she reached the top of the stairs she called Arttist. Like a bat outta hell he rushed up the stairs. She said, "My cable is out. Could you see about it, please. I'm going into the guest room. Fix it for me, please."
Arttist smiled, kissing her cheek. "I'll get right on it."

Grandma disappeared into the guest room and closed the door. Quickly, leaving the light off, she pranced over to the adjoining door. It led to her bedroom. She unlocked it, opened it and unlocked the adjoining door. She smiled, opening it slowly, just enough so she could peer through the crack.

When Diamante walked into the room, tool bag in hand, clad in blue coveralls, she pulled the chair over to her, sat down, and she whispered, "Let the show begin. I wanna know if my grandson is gay."

She smiled sinisterly.