Chapter 14 Chapter XIII

Branson felt like he was floating on air. He was parked in front of the crib and had just gotten out of the whip, heading upstairs. When he entered his apartment, the smell of home cooking enwrapped him. He took off his sneakers and went directly to the kitchen where Naomi was putting the finishing touches on a baked mac and cheese casserole with chicken and waffles brunch. She saw him and smiled, in only her bra and panties. He understood: she had only the black dress to move about in, for now, since she hadn't brought any other clothes with her last night. Obviously she hadn't known she'd be spending the night, let alone spending the night with him. He held her, oddly comforted by her presence.

"Hey, Bison," she greeted, hugging him back tightly. They kissed in rapid pecks. She put her hands around his neck. "You hungry?"

"Am I!" Branson answered, lifting her up and turning to the fridge. With her hanging from his neck, he reached into the fridge and took out two cans of Twisted Tea. "I could eat a whole buffalo right now."

"Isn't a buffalo a bison?" "I think so."

"So what you're saying," she continued, letting him go and bringing out some breakables to set at the glass kitchen table. "What you're saying is... You're hungry enough to eat yourself?"

"Somebody got jokes today, huh?" Branson replied, poking her in her armpit as he sat down. Naomi jumped, startled because yes, she was ticklish, and finished setting the table; they sat down to a wholesome meal accompanied by jokes and light banter both thoroughly enjoyed.

"You still ain't tell me anything about yourself, Nay," said Branson. He chewed on his chicken rapaciously, also taking a bite out of the cheesy casserole.

"It's a tough world, babe. You know, people aren't as open as back when." "True," he acknowledged.

"In any case, what do you wanna know?"

"For starters, where you live, where you from, where your family at?" Branson paused. "And your favorite ice cream flavor." She laughed.

"Okay. I live on Jamaica Ave. but I'm originally from Jersey City." She pursed her lips, thinking. "Me and my family didn't see eye to eye. I moved out young, lived with some friends, hooked up with a dude I thought was serious and was engaged to for three years," she remembered, the latter time frame spoken angrily. It was a sticking point for many women. They lived in what were actually common-law unions all over the world, with men who had little intention of marrying them but didn't wish for them to be with other men. So the men engage the women and keep them in that semi hopeful state for many years, usually impregnating these women several times so that, by the time the women think about leaving because he couldn't or hadn't fulfilled the issue of marrying, they would either have too many children to be easily accepted by another man or feel constrained to stay with the man for the children's sake. It was an age old act.

"I guess it just wasn't meant to be," said Naomi, shrugging. It had been a painful experience for her, Branson could tell, but life was like that: sudden and unexpected, with whimsical twists and turns that left one dazed and unbalanced by the ostensibly mercurial and socially experimental Prime Cause. The Creator let a lot of bad shit happen to a lot of good people and very few answers were satisfactory enough to assuage the sense of unfair play felt in His creations, engendered by His apparent apathetic approach to said creations.

"And how did you find yourself in New York?" Kingson asked quietly.

"At first I came to model with some help from my older sister, but the money got low and I had to work, so I got a job around my way as a cook for a small Italian restaurant." She took another bite of her chicken breast. "The rest," she said around the bite, "is history." They ate in silence, reflecting on the marvels of how one's path crossed another's through a chance series of infinite other interactions with complete strangers one encountered diurnally.

"So you a model anda chef, eh?" "Something like that."

"How you find yourself with that cornball last night then?" "Bison, I -"

"My name is Branson," he gently corrected her. She looked surprised and not a little pleased. "You can call me Branson, ma. Whatthefuck,Bran? thought Branson. Why had

he just done that?

"Okay, Branson. But be warned - I make nicknames out of everybody's name." Branson shook his head before answering: "Don't butcher mine too much, though." "Gotcha," she winked, pointing a finger gun and winking at him. She ate a bit before

continuing. "Actually, I knew Tray Mac from when he used to streetball out in Jersey back when. I didn't even know he still had my number. He just called me out of the blue last week and invited me to one of his games." Naomi paused again to scoop up some of her fantastic casserole. "I went, he took me out... then I went back home. A few days later, he said we should go out again." She paused to take a sip of her drink. "And that's when and how I met you."

A silence ensued wherein both parties again reflected on their coming together. He had just wanted to show shorty a good time; next thing you know, she spending the night and cooking for him. "Huh," he grunted; not disbelievingly, but rather, in confirmation of

his belief in her. They finished their late lunch and he asked her if she knew how to drive.

"I'm from Jersey. If you can't drive in Jersey City by like, 16, you gay." He barked a laugh, almost choking.

"We gonna go somewhere in a bit, go meet up with a few people. After that we can do some shopping." He finished off the last bit of his mac and cheese casserole with a hunk of thigh meat and then downed the rest of his drink. "That meal was lit, shorty. Good looking." She smiled and shrugged but every man knew that you could

compliment a woman a thousand times and a thousand times she would shrug and still deeply appreciate it. Branson got up and went to the bedroom, Naomi trailing behind him. "Go get dressed, ma. It's about two, we gotta go." Apparently she'd done some laundry because both his and her clothes from yesterday had been washed, ironed and folded and placed on one of the room's small stools near the bed.

He looked around the bedroom as he walked in. She had also washed, ironed and changed the sheets. He glanced over at her, slipping on the all black one-piece dress in the mirror of the walk-in closet. Everything from inside the pockets of his Pellé had been neatly laid on the dresser: his money in a silver money clip, Tray Mac's rose gold chain, his wallet and some coins.

"How do I look?" Naomi asked, striking a decidedly girly pose. Branson put one hand on his chin and pretended to scrutinize her.

"Eh, I've seen better," he shrugged jokingly. Her eyes widened in shock and he

immediately laughed to convey that it had been a joke. She put her hands on her hips in an offended stance. He went over to her and embraced her while she pouted, pretending to still be offended. He lifted her and went towards the bed, but just then his phone rang.

"Yo," Branson answered.

"Yo. I'm on Delancey right now, coming up," said Get Right.

"I-ight. I'm at two fifth, going down," lied Branson. He said he was "at two fifth," meaning he was already on 125th Street but they were talking nigga time, which meant they weren't yet at them places but might be close by. Niggas understood each other.

Kissing Naomi, he signed off with Get Right. "Holla." They kissed for a few moments more, then he buried his face in her beautiful dark hair.

Crocodileaffectionshowingassniggasaid The Voice in his head. "What's wrong, babe?" Naomi asked, drawing back to look at him. "What?" he asked in return, genuinely puzzled.

"Your whole body just tensed up crazy." He merely shrugged as if nothing had happened. She continued staring at him, now frowning.

"We gotta go," he said, breaking off her stare to look at the time on the phone. They walked to the front door where they put on their shoes, stepping off the fine alpaca onto the hardwood. He noticed that she had also cleaned this area earlier. As they were leaving the building, Branson gave her the car keys and showed her how to operate the button of the electronic reader on the small chain. She was a bit nervous and clubfooted to begin with. "Nay, this ain't a truck or a normal four door." Branson explained to her in the car after the seatbelts adjusted themselves. "What you have here is a state of the art luxury car. You don't gotta floor the brakes, just press or tap lightly. That goes for the brakes as well. Also, put your hands at the 9 and 3 position for a couple of seconds before putting the car in drive." She picked up on driving the 4MATIC like a pro and took the streets all the way to 49th Street; they got there in no time.

Aquarios was a family owned Dominican restaurant located between 8th and 9th Avenues on 49th Street. It served a variety of dishes every day, the most popular being the goat meat dish. It was a small place but from the morning until mid-afternoon the line outside extended down to the corner. There were a few tables for diners who wanted to eat in but due to its lack of space, it was seen mostly as a takeout restaurant. This was one of those cult classic spots you got to know by word of mouth. It literally

shared a space with a deliveryway entrance. Branson knew the owner of the place, Freddy, through Chulo, with whose uncles he had grown up together in the old country. A short time later, Get Right pulled up across the street. He crossed the street with a couple of beautiful shorties and they were ushered into Freddy's back office, which doubled as a large and well-lighted storage room. Some workers had set up a large wooden table a few meters down from Freddy's bureau, on which table they were busily arranging a variety of foods and drinks.

"Go to the whip and get that half bottle of Johnny," Branson whispered to Naomi. Get Right and his two fine bitches sat opposite, conversing in hushed tones with each other about something. Naomi left and the light conversation continued with Branson and Get Right wondering where Chulo was. Naomi returned and tried to pour some drinks but Branson told her to sit down. A few more minutes of bantering and Get Right took the bottle and served Branson. Branson returned the gesture. None of the women moved but they were paying rapt attention to what was some kind of ritual of etiquette. Get Right introduced the women by name.

Branson politely asked Naomi to pour some drinks for Get Right's guests. After serving them, she sat down without serving herself some but she was content to watch the proceedings. Branson looked at her briefly; he called out for one of the workers. When the worker came, Branson whispered in his ear and put some greenbacks discreetly into his palm. Branson then introduced Naomi by name. The conversation livened as good food and good company again made a hit, no matter the location.

Suddenly Freddy came into the office, morose of countenance, and went straight to his bureau with a small and distracted wave to the group when they hailed him. He sat down and covered his downcast head with his hands. Branson walked over to him with the last of the remaining whiskey, adding it to the bit remaining in his glass which again filled the short glass to the brim and handed it to Freddy.

Freddy immediately tossed back one-third of the contents.

"Damn, pa, que pasa?" asked Brandon. This was the first time he'd seen papi throwing it back in the daytime. "Que ta pasando?" Freddy looked up at Branson in amazement.

"You don't know what happened?" he replied incredulously, though it came out as judo nowhahapping? Branson's puzzled face said it all. Freddy hurried to take his phone out of his pocket and motioned for Branson to come behind the bureau. Tapping on his IG widget, Freddy accessed his account and brought up a video of a couple fucking. Shorty had the donkey and you could still...

"Oh, fuck no!" Branson exclaimed under his breath when he saw who was getting fucked and where. The most interesting question though was: whowasfilmingthevideo? The person was obviously hidden. Branson downed another third of the drink. Everyone at the dining table was quiet, watching him and Freddy. He motioned for Get Right to come see. Get Right came quickly and when he saw the video he too had the same dumbfounded reaction. He also reached for the glass of whiskey but Freddy beat him to it, emptying the last third of its contents.

"Chulo take the video, mira, eja una puta," fumed Freddy, the last part obviously meant for Ygritte. No wonder Chulo wasn't here yet - he wasn't coming. Plus, he might already be locked up. They returned to their dining table, faces as somber as that of Freddy's just a few minutes ago.

Branson and Get Right went back over to their dining table and held an impromptu war meeting. Naomi would take the Benz and hang out with Imani and Katrina until they could figure out what the fuck had happened. Branson and Get Right would take the Tahoe and do some reconnoitering and fact finding. Branson turned to Naomi and pulled out his wallet. He gave her a thousand dollars in cash and two credit cards. A similar scene was playing out a few feet away between Get Right and his ladies.

"What's my limit?" Naomi jokingly asked Branson as he turned to go. He turned back.

"When you get tired of shopping - that's your limit," Branson replied. He left. Get Right was squeezing both sets of buttocks of his girls, also tonguing down each in prolonged succession. Branson returned.

"Let's go, nigga," he told Get Right. While the latter was detaching from his shorties, the worker whom Branson had sent out a little while ago returned with a plastic bag with something inside. The worker gave Branson the bag and thanked him. Branson nodded and handed the bag to Naomi. "I almost forgot: this for you, ma. Enjoy." Inside the bag was a brand new boxed bottle of Chivas Regal. Naomi smiled and hugged him. He kissed her and made the phone symbol by his ear. She mimicked him, still smiling. On his way out, Get Right threw some notes on the dining table to pay for the food