Junkie's Revenge

Savannah was sitting on a small, comfy pouf as Trixie braided her hair sitting on top of a bar stool. Savannah had decided that it was too risky going to Donna's to get her hair done knowing she didn't have enough money to maintain a perm and weave and all, so she was keeping it braided.  Trixie thought she was being silly because she'd already to Savannah she'd pay for it and not to worry.

But Savannah couldn't help but worry. It had been five months and she was still unemployed. She'd applied to TJ Maxx and gotten rejected. She applied to the phone company and failed their evil online personality test. It kept asking the same damn questions over and over again until she was utterly confused. How many times is it necessary to deny being a thief? The whole process had been an excerise in over-thinking and predictably she'd been rejected. When she applied to the local bodega that afternoon and the Eritrean dude said they weren't hiring Savannah came home and burst into tears.

She couldn't even make it to the couch when she blundered in. She just sat right down in the foyer and sobbed. Savannah was crying so hard and with that abandon that overtakes one in the most desperate black moods. Trixie went to the kitchen brought back two wine glasses and a chilled red, sat right next to her and forced to her to gulp the wine. By the time they finished the second bottle Savannah was able to make her way into the living. It was too difficult to get up and walked so she half-scooted and crawled her way into the room.

Trixie made several trips in and out of the room but Savannah was staring at the ceiling attentively and never bothered to look at what her friend was doing. How was it that she'd done everything right only for everything to be so goddamned wrong? She hadn't gotten pregnant when her other friends did. She stayed in school. She'd always worked and supported herself. She tithed to her church every week. And here she was virtually homeless but for the generosity of her party girlfriend. Trixie and she had been cool before but not exactly tight like all that.

Trixie sat on the couch and positioned Savannah between her knees as she sat on the floor. She hadn't spoken a word at all since Savannah walked in. She began combing Savannah's hair out. Massaged her scalp and oiled it. And little by little these ministrations combined with the wine made her muscles begin to unclench. Trixie stopped briefly to light a fat blunt, drew off it and passed it to Savannah.

She could sense the rhythmic movements of Trixie's hands braiding her hair but Trixie was very gentle. Savannah didn't flinch once.

"Who taught you to braid?" Savannah croaked. Blunts were so damn harsh but that's all Trixie smoked.

"My Auntie," she said, clicking on the radio with the remote. The rapper group Junkie's Revenge was playing.

Yeeah I'm crunk
Nigga don't touch my junk
When I'm sky high I ride that blunt
Nigga betta not touch my junk

My bitch be crunk
She be sucking all on my junk
Bitch don't spit cuz that's bunk
Bitch swallow cuz she ain't no chump

I flow
You follow?
Just like yo' faggoty ass be hollow...

The room was a blue fog of blunt smoke and Savannah was floating high up toward the ceiling.
Trixie was braiding with the blunt hanging from her mouth. "My bitch be crunk. She be sucking all on my junk. Bitch swallow cuz she ain't no chump. I flow. You follow---" she sang mindlessly, keeping the beat in time as as she braided.

"Girl don't you dare say another line of that fucked up nasty ass song!! I'm so tired of hearing that shit!! And what the hell kind of name is JUNKIE'S REVENGE!!! Oh I hate EVERYTHING!! EVERYTHING!!" Savannah hadn't meant to scream but it came out as a primal roar.

Trixie stopped in mid-plait, stunned, blunt hanging from her lip. Savannah was a quiet meek type. She spoke softly. Trixie had never  heard her raise her voice even at the severest provocation. Not that time the man on the train drinking Miller High Life tried to feel up her tits. Not in the all the years they'd been hanging out. And not once in the past few months since she'd been staying here. But all that unvoiced frustration came up and out and it echoed throughout the apartment. Savannah leaned over on the floor and started to keen like an animal.

Trixie put the blunt out and got down on the floor. Held Savannah tightly as an inside spoon until she stopped the unearthly wailing.

Junkie's Revenge was still singing. "You follow? Just like you punk asshole is hollow. I'm crunk. But nigga don't touch my junk--"    

"I hate that goddamn song," Savannah whispered. Between the grief and the blunt she had no voice left. It didn't matter. There was no one to hear her anyway. If her voice disappeared today who would remember it?

"It's got a phat beat though," Trixie said conversationally. Savannah rolled around and gave her a wild look.

"I'm just playing witchu girl. Calm down damn. You gonna be alright," Trixie said bracingly. Savannah sat up and it looked like she was contemplating a fight.

"NO. Look at me," Trixie commanded. "Savannah! It's going -- to --be--alright. I promise you. It will be alright." She hugged her friend tightly until the resistance went out of her body. The wine and weed and head massage had done their work.

Only half Savannah's head was braided so she looked like an escaped mental patient. One half neatly cornrowed, the other standing out all wild. Savannah felt like a escaped mental patient. Exiled. Isolated. Alone.

Trixie hauled her up and bundled her into bed the way one does for babies. Savannah was asleep before her head hit the pillow. Trixie shut the bedroom door softly

That damn song by Junkie's Revenge was caught in Trixie's head now. It really did have a fly beat.