Naughty or Nice by Eric Jerome Dickey

people on my buddy list were floating around in that cyber mesosphere. Pretty soon I was juggling somewhere between six and eight screens, at least five of them guys, two of them former booty calls, trying to decide if I was going to lower myself to my C-list and let one of them come over and tie me to a bedpost. Could use a good tongue bath and toe sucking right about now.
    I’d kicked off my shoes and been online an hour when another IM popped in my screen.
    â€œGlad to see you’re home safe.” It was my fugly date. “I was waiting for your call.”
    I didn’t respond.
    Livvy was still online, not responding to my IMs. Her away message still wasn’t on. After four in the morning on the East Coast and she was still online chatting with somebody.
    Another message from Fugly popped in my screen: “I would like to see you again.”
    I signed off.
    It was bedtime for this Bonzo, so I used the remote to turn everything off, put one fluffy pillow under my head, another between my legs, pulled the covers up to my neck, and welcomed the Sandman.
    Â 
    In my dream I saw Momma. We were in our old house in Inglewood.
    She sat on the edge of her bed, called me over to her, “Frankie.”
    â€œYeah, Momma.”
    â€œCome here. Feel this.”
    â€œMomma . . . you have a lump in your breast. It’s hard.”
    â€œIt doesn’t hurt.”
    â€œYour skin . . . these veins . . . How long have you had this?”
    The skin on her breast and underarm looked swollen. Veins were prominent on one breast. Her nipple looked funny, almost inverted. And she had a rash.
    Her voice trembled, sounded like I’d never heard her sound before. Momma was afraid.
    She said, “I’ve been having some discharge.”
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    The phone rang and woke me up, took Momma away. I was crying when I answered.
    My blurry eyes looked at the caller ID. I cleared my throat, answered, “Hello?”
    â€œFrankie?”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œIt’s Nick.”
    â€œI know.”

T ommie
    T he lights in his living room are on. I see them as I turn left from 63rd to South Fairfax.
    I slow down in front of his duplex, think about pulling into my driveway and calling it a night, think about not being bothered with him, but I don’t make that turn, something won’t let me, makes me sit in front of his building and stare at the lights in his window.
    My cell phone rests in my lap. I push the number three and it speed-dials his number.
    He answers, “Yo, Thomasina McBroom.”
    â€œI hate caller ID.”
    â€œIt betrays anonymity.”
    Happiness floods my lungs when I hear his voice, so deep and resonant.
    â€œWhassup, Blue?”
    â€œHow’d it go tonight?”
    I say, “ ’Bucks was off the chains.”
    â€œYou perform?”
    â€œChanged my mind.”
    Blue pauses for a moment. His thick voice softens. “Sorry I couldn’t make it.”
    â€œWhat happened?”
    â€œBaby momma drama.”
    â€œSorry to hear.”
    â€œUnless you have a hookup at Mobil, gas is too high to burn up like that.”
    He’s in his bay window, looking down at me, watching me idle in front of his building. I turn my wheels, shift to first, and park where I am. His lives in a duplex owned by Frankie too. Not too many people know that because it’s handled through a management company.
    He says, “C’mon up.”
    He vanishes and his porch light comes on. I take out my lipstick, start freshening up.
    I ask, “Need me to bring anything?”
    â€œNah. Thanks.”
    I change my mind about leaving my Jeep right there, make a hard turn and park across the street, in front of the duplex made of light gray stucco, Frankie’s oldest property. Blue lives right across the street from me, upstairs on the east side of South Fairfax. I live upstairs on the west side. The way the buildings line up, when my