Class Hot

The first girls we ever think are hot encompass our entire world.  It isn’t until our early 20s that we all realize that academic structure has defined our social lives and we’re left with churches and bars to fill the void of places to meet people.  Remember how hot that girl in high school was, who went to another school?  But, looking back at it, her hotness was augmented because she went to a different school?  This is the basis of everything we’re talking about here.

Think back to being 16.  You know a few hundred people, most of whom you see five days a week, 30-40 weeks a year.  That pool is then broken down into smaller groups of 10-20 people – classes – where your social selection is extremely limited.  You might be lucky to have a friend or two in a class, and extremely lucky if one of the Top Ten Hotties in the School were in there with you.  So now you’ve got some settling to do: find someone to sit next to who you don’t hate and figure out who the hottest person in class is.

Along with the coolest.

The lamest.

The one you want to murder the most.

High school is a tumultuous time.

But this is where we learn to categorize hotness.  Just because Jessica Biel was my fantasy girl didn’t mean I wasn’t also looking at the OK-looking girl’s ass-crack when she leaned forward in third period.  Jessica was Globally Hot.  Third Period was Class Hot – the hottest in the class.

Work Hot

And so it goes, though school, until we hit the real world.  The system is set up to expand our world incrementally – by our early 20s, we know at least a few thousand people, a few dozen we might see daily, and we’re ready to exit academia and enter the falsely-named Real World.  And in that Real World…we’re gonna’ need jobs.

Working in a “professional environment” is socially oppressive.  Let’s say you’re in an office of a few hundred.  That office breaks down into departments and divisions until you’re left with ten to twenty people you see every day.  For high school kids who are reading this, think of it like this: imagine if your day was one class that lasted all day where it was always the same teacher, same other kids, and you really only worked closely with half of them to accomplish class goals.  That’s the best way I can describe most office life.

So, Class Hot now becomes Work Hot, but your pool has changed.  Now you get to say, “The Hottest in HR,” and “The Hottest in Accounting,” instead of, “The Hottest in Fifth Period.”  You’ll start changing your route to/from the break room to get to walk through the Sales Division just like you used to make sure to walk past certain lockers after lunch in high school.  But even the girl who’s the Hottest in the Whole Damned Office can’t compete with…

Street Hot

Just like the girl at the other school was hot, so is the waiter who just served you lunch.  But, to the waitress who works with him…he’s just “Work Hot.”  She met a guy at a bar last night who’s actually hot, and he’s also the hottest at his workplace, but not the hottest in the building.  And the chick who just walked past you in the mall parking lot was eye-melting hot.

It’s all very complicated.  The more starved we get for selection, the more we value the newest item on the market.  And it continues forever, for everything – sexual attractiveness is only one thing we judge, socially.  We might not look around a room and wonder who the biggest dork is, now that we’re 30…but we might ask which is the most/least financially stable or who’s made the best/worst life decisions, from our point-of-view.  It never really seems to end.

When P and Z finished handing out their Thanksgiving baskets they felt energized and accomplished. So many of the kids’ eyes lit up when they saw all of that food. They stood in the back of the now-empty truck and chatted about their next move for the day.

The girl spotted them immediately and became fixated. She saw them chatting at the back of their truck, laughing and looking happy. They also had on matching short winter white bomber jackets with fur around the hoods. They were wearing stylish colored jeans that hugged the curves of their slim bodies and light-colored snow boots that matched the fur on their coats. They wore their hair long and straight with headbands circling their heads like crowns — they looked like two black Cherokees. They looked confident, bold, happy and pretty.

Quiana instantly wanted to be just like them. Something compelled her to talk to them. She got up from her stoop and walked right over to them.

“Hello!” she exclaimed boldly.

“Hi love,” P said back to her immediately.

“You guys look so pretty. What are your names?”

“I’m Nicole and this is Tamala. What’s yours? And how old are you?”

Quiana was impressed by her proper way of speaking — she didn’t use one word of slang.

“My name is Quiana, it’s nice to meet you,” she said trying to sound the same way. “I’m 16.”

“Miss Quiana Why don’t you have a winter coat on? It is 40 degrees out here.”

Quiana looked down at herself as if she was coming back to reality.  She immediately became ashamed when she realized that she was wearing a raggedy looking jacket and a pair of dirty jeans with scuffed up sneakers. It was as if she was dragged out of her trance and became aware of her reality. She had been teased all of the time at school for how she looked, wore her hair and dressed. She couldn’t bring herself to lift her eyes back to look at them, so she just stared at the ground in shame.

“Do you have a better coat Quiana?” Z asked her seriously.

“No,” she admitted, and tears started to well up in her eyes.

“Where do you live?”

Quiana turned and pointed to the door—number 2110. P and Z looked at each other.

“Well now you have two coats,” Z said. They both unzipped their coats, took them off and handed them to her.

Quiana held the coats in her arms and looked at them in shock.

“What you mean?” she asked, slipping back to her vernacular.

“You own those coats now so take good care of them. They get dirty fast,” Z said. “Go ahead, try one on.”

The girl could hardly believe what she was doing as she took one of the coats and carefully put it over her arms. It felt like warm butter was sliding all over her upper body.

“It looks good on you,” P said with an approving smile as Z closed the back of their rented truck. “We got to get out of here now Quiana. You take care of yourself, and those coats.”

“I will, I promise!” she said back. Quiana watched them closely as they both went to either side of the truck wearing only tight-fitting Hollister sweaters.

“Where are you guys going?” she asked. “Can I come?”

“No sweetie, you can’t right now. But we might come visit you one day soon. You are a very beautiful girl. Make sure you finish school,” Z told her.

Quiana couldn’t peel her eyes away from their truck as they rolled away and turned the corner. In 16 years of life no one had ever called her beautiful—not even her own mother. She was now officially hooked on Nicole and Tamala…

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Two best friends take street justice into their own hands… by any means necessary.

Barry had been sleeping for most of the day as was usual. He made his girlfriend work, pay all of the bills, cook and clean up the house when she came home. If she didn’t do any one of those things to his liking she got a beating. All that he did was smoke weed, drink and watch television and go hang on the block.

Denise thought she had found the answer to all of her prayers when she met Barry in the grocery store that day. She was 42 with three kids and was starting to believe she’d never find someone special. He seemed like such a gentleman and even helped her load her groceries into the car. She gave him her number and within weeks she allowed him to move into her small apartment in Queens.

Just as quickly, things started to change. Denise learned that Barry had a problem with alcohol—once he got started drinking he couldn’t stop. The first time he hit her was when she asked him to turn down the television at 1am because it was a school night and her kids couldn’t sleep. He punched her and left her lying passed out in the middle of the living room floor for over an hour as he continued watching television.

Denise wanted him out, but by then it was too late. Barry knew everything about her, including her family’s addresses, phone numbers, work information and even her social security number. If she called the police to get him to leave, he would just break back into the house hours later. If she tried to leave he would track her down within hours because he knew she would stay local.

Barry finally stirred in bed around 5pm in the evening, the usual time when he got up to start his “day.” He yawned and then scratched his nuts as he rolled over to look out the window. He jumped when he saw two hooded females wearing dark sunglasses sitting in the room watching him silently.

“Hey there Barry Simpson. How are you doing this afternoon?” Heidi P said in a very low tone as she leaned forward and pulled her hoodie off. She smirked at him knowingly and started putting on brass knuckles over her skintight black gloves. They were like a second skin, but tough, and rolled all the way up past her elbows.

After putting on her own knuckles, Heidi Z started taking off her shoes—she liked to fight in socks with rubber grips under them. She thought it made her more agile and gave her more traction than boots, especially on a hardwood floor.

“What the fuck are you two bitches doing in my house?” Barry demanded as he immediately sat right up in bed and put his feet on the ground.

“Your house?” Heidi Z asked with a snort. “From what we’ve heard you haven’t paid a bill in the three years you’ve lived here Barry Simpson.”

“We heard you like preying on desperate older women with kids,” P added.

“Huh? What kind of bullshit is this?” he asked as he stood up. “Who told you that and what the fuck do ya’ll want?”

Heidi P stood up also. She finished wrapping up her hair and putting it in clips. “We want you to fight us just like you fight your girlfriend almost every night.”

“Don’t you like fighting women Barry? At least that’s what we heard.” Z asked as she stood up and eyed him down.

“I don’t know what the fuck you two bitches are talking about, but I know you better get the fuck up out my house before I thrash you both.”

“There goes that “my house” phrase again. Doesn’t your girlfriend pay all the bills here Barry? You haven’t worked a steady job in over five years while your lady goes out every day to bust her ass and put food on the table.”

“Then she comes home and you bust her ass some more as a reward for all her hard work. We know all about it Barry.”

Barry started chuckling nervously and scratching his chin, trying to figure out how they knew all of this. “You bitches are crazy.”

“Yes Barry Simpson. Yes we are,” P agreed…

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The Heidis an Urban Novella by J. Gail

© 2012 J. Gail. All rights reserved.

Shawn was fucked up. His pockets were light, he had just lost out on a major job opportunity, he no longer had his studies to distract him and his body was hurting really bad from a combination of his now-healed stab wounds and his lifelong back problems.

With Kay still out of town and nothing better to do, he of course found his way back down the way to his favorite bar. He sat at the far end of the bar and drank from the afternoon on, thinking and avoiding phone calls; even from his boys. He just didn’t feel like being bothered.

To his great dismay, in walked George’s cousin Kev. Shawn still didn’t like George, but since he was finally trying to get his life together he decided to let his beef with him go—at least for the time being.

“Sup SB,” Kev said with a nod as he sat down just two seats away. He brought with him the strong odor of hydro. He ordered a Hennessey.

Shawn didn’t acknowledge him—he just kept looking at the mirror behind the bar. His cellphone rang again and he pressed the ignore button.

“So SB, I heard about those young buls who shanked you, they still on the run?” Kev asked trying to make small talk.

Shawn didn’t respond.

“So you ain’t gonna do nothin’ ‘bout that?” Kev asked, being nosey.

“Look nigga, if I see ‘em I’ll deal with it at that time. I ain’t thinkin’ ‘bout that bullshit right now,” Shawn said. He was getting more and more annoyed. The incident had happened almost a half a year ago and here Kev was bringing it up again.

“Shit. If they pulled that shit on me I’d hunt them niggas down one by one.”

“Right,” Shawn said and took a shot.

“Don’t tell me you goin’ soft on me SB!” Kev said and laughed.

Shawn clenched his lips together and glared at him as if to say: “You trynna start some shit?”

Kev held up his hands, reading Shawn’s expression loud and clear. He ordered another double shot of Hennessey.

“And get one for my nigga SB here,” Kev added. “Naw matter fact, make that a dacquiri with a little umbrella on the side.”

Kev laughed heartily at the shade he had just thrown and got up to go to the bathroom. He slapped Shawn hard on the back playfully as he walked past him. Shawn snapped. This wasn’t the first time someone had made a comment about him being soft after he decided to let the two young teens who stabbed him slide.

On instinct, Shawn reached forward and grabbed a bottle of cheap whiskey out of the bartender’s rack. With one precise backward swing he hit Kev across the back of his head with the bottle. Kev fell forward onto the dirty bar floor. He started to shake a little before losing consciousness. The bartender and the few other folks in the bar just stood back and watched.

Shawn threw the rest of the bottle down on the ground hard so that it cracked into many pieces. He bit his bottom lip to deal with the pain waving through his own body from making such a quick movement. Glass crunched under his Tims as he went back over to the bar to grab his cell phone. As he was leaving he casually reached over and took Kev’s double-shot of Hennessey, then walked right out of the door with it.

A half an hour later Shawn somehow found himself in front of Kidd’s grandmother Miss Sherri’s house. He saw her out on the porch and she invited him in to eat some leftovers from dinner.

Kidd’s grandmother was a down-to-earth older lady. She had done her share of dirt in her time as did her kids, but ever since her grandson was killed she mostly just stayed to herself. That had been her heart.

“You know Kidd really liked you Shawn,” Ms. Sherri told him as she spooned some gravy over his steak. Shawn devoured the food as if he hadn’t eaten in ages and tried to relax.

“I liked him too. He was a thorough brother Miss Sherri,” Shawn said with a nod.

“And you know, Kidd was really talented as a youngster,” she told him as she watched him eat. “We all thought he was gonna be an engineer or something. Always fixing stuff.”

Shawn nodded.

“He missed his callin’ you know. Couldn’t leave them streets alone,” Miss Sherri said and shook her head. “You know why they killed him right?”

Shawn shook his head no as he continued eating, but his ears were peeled.

“Some little girl told her brother Kidd was beating her up,” she explained. “But come to find out she was pregnant and he just didn’t want nothing to do with her. She got my boy killed.”

“I ain’t know that,” Shawn said shaking his head. Everyone had assumed Kidd was killed because of a drug beef.

“Kidd could have gone to any school he wanted if he had finished high school.”

Shawn nodded.

“How about you Shawn, what did you want to be when you grew up?”

Shawn thought about the question for a while. “Well, I always liked to work with my hands and build things. Maybe own my own construction company. Or maybe become a chef.”

“What stopped you from doing that?”

“I don’t know. Slow money. Having my kids young. I just got off track.”

“Well you know babe, the track still out there. You can jump back on it if you want, anytime you want,” she told him as she got up and went into the kitchen to grab him more food. “Maybe if I would have told Kidd that more when he was younger he would still be here with me.”

Shawn thought about the violent act that he had just committed in the bar and wasn’t sure if getting back on that track was even a possibility anymore…

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