Three
“How did it go, ‘Face?”
I walk into my Daddy’s study in his sprawling Ladera Heights home. Five bedrooms, six bathrooms, full-size front and back yards, with a Jacuzzi and pool. Once his slanging business was doing well enough, he quickly got the fuck up out of Inglewood and was sure to live with the Cliff Huxtables and them.
It’s funny to see Daddy socializing with doctors, lawyers, and judges as his neighbors, knowing he’s probably the number one dealer to their clients unbeknownst to them. But that’s the role he plays – calculated drug lord one minute, friendly Daryn who makes the best ribs the next.
My father is a handsome man, with a salt and pepper goatee, nice fade, and muscular build. Plus, he has an incredibly charming personality. One time he was so charming to the waitress at the local Red Lobster, she wrote down her number on the bill. (My daddy didn’t call, tho; saying something about he wants the chase, not have it being handed it to him.)
He looks like Idris Elba and if it wasn’t for the fact he didn’t have a British accent, he could totally be his doppelganger.
Born Prince Daryn Jones, Daddy made sure he lived up to his name. He always had the flyest gear even back in the day. He’d been hustling and slanging well before I was alive and built an empire.
All the niggas on the street keep talking about playing the game and learning the rules of said game. Daddy was the one that invented it. And he always switched it up. If people went left, he started to go right. He always knew he was being watched and he also knows his neighbors, who always come to his cookouts, are watching every move he makes.
I grew up having the nicest things. Whatever I wanted, my Daddy moved heaven and earth to make sure I had it. Daddy spoiled me rotten and everyone knew it. The only girl out of four children, I was forever Daddy’s princess.
He gave me the nickname angel face when I was a baby and always called me that. Sometimes he would shorten it by calling me ‘face instead. But it was always love.
“I guess it went okay,” Daddy’s maid, Eloisa, hands me a sweet iced tea, and I politely thank her before she leaves us alone. “I don’t know if I’ll get it.”
Daddy is currently looking over some papers and double-checking what he sees with a spreadsheet on his Mac book. His glasses are on the bridge of his nose and he looks over them to lock eyes with me. He’s not angry with me, nor is he disappointed.
But you know how parents give you them looks that says, ‘You best not be telling me any bullshit’? That’s the look Daddy’s giving me now.
“Did you give it one hundred?” He goes back to looking at the computer.
That was always my Daddy’s way of asking me if I gave it my all or if I was just fucking around. Daddy may not have had a formal college education but he seemingly had a degree in analyzing bullshit. “I always give it one hundred but what I think what is one hundred might be fifty percent to somebody else.”
“It doesn’t matter what other people think,” Daddy sternly warns me again, “if you give it your all, that’s all that matters.” He shut down the screen and takes off his glasses. “Never mind that, how do you feel about it? Do you like the firm? Do you like the people? What’s going on there?”
It felt like a place where Negroes are usually clients and not employees. I did count a few brown faces but again, they were just enough but not an episode of Black Ink. “I think the only brown they’re used to might be their gardeners and maids. And maybe, the shit at the bottom of the toilets.”
Daddy chuckles. “Watch your mouth, Face.” He chides. “If you wanna move up in life, baby girl, you need to get used to being one of the few or sometimes the only brown face you’ll see. White people nowadays are making it even harder for minorities to have a grip in society. They don’t mind us entertaining them, cleaning their clothes, shining their shoes, cooking their food, mowing their lawns, and raising their children. But when it comes to us having some equal footing, that’s when they draw the fucking line.” Daddy sighs. “That’s why you gotta step over that motherfucker and demand respect.”
“I feel you,” I nod.
“So,” Daddy interlocks his fingers together, “how’s that boy? Jalen is his name?”
I’ve never lied to my Daddy and I’m not about to start, so I had to tell him about Jalen. Of course, Daddy didn’t and still doesn’t approve. It’s not because Jalen also deals but he just thinks he’s corny as shit and a try-hard.
To be honest, I think my Daddy would prefer I wouldn’t be with someone who was about that life and he’s been strongly encouraging to expand my options as long as the dude I bring home doesn’t resemble Bieber, Timberlake, or any other pale white. “He’s good. I’m about to go see him after I leave here.”
“Heh,” Daddy smirks. “I hope all is well.”
That was Daddy’s way of saying, I hope that motherfucker ain’t wasting your time before I murk his ass. “All is well, Daddy.”
“Excuse me, Mr. Jones,” Eloisa came back in, “lunch is ready.”
“Gracias, Eloisa,” Daddy nods to her, “hungry, Face?”
I’m famished. That little bit of coffee I had earlier went right through a sista. “Starving.”
Eloisa prepared chicken Caesar salad and broccoli cheddar soup for us. Daddy has an iced water while I opt for the peach iced tea. We sat in the backyard on one of the many patios as we talk about nonsensical things.
I ask him if he was dating anyone and he tells me there are a few prospects but nothing serious. He asks me if I’m going to graduate on time and I promise him I will.
It’s only a matter of time before the conversation turns to a topic that’s a bit of a sore subject for both of us. “How’s your moms?”
Daddy knows damn good and well how my mother is doing. She’s on Hip-Hop Wives every Monday night at – you guessed it – VH1. “Really, Daddy?”
Daddy shrugs, silently telling me he knows he doesn’t care but he’s being polite and trying to make conversation. “Just wondering how your relationship was with her now.”
I haven’t spoken to my mother in years. And when I say spoken to, I mean having girl time, shopping trips, spa days, mother-daughter selfies, and the like.
Instead, I get photo ops and special guest appearances on The Shade Room, where thirsty-ass niggas make lewd-ass comment about which one of us they want to tag team.
My mother has always done her own thing. It’s a reason why I’ve always lived with my Daddy and not her. My mama didn’t want the burden of having a young daughter when she was trying to snatch a baller and Daddy wasn’t about to have me home alone or with some potential child molester.
My memories of my mother don’t necessarily consist of her. I have a total of maybe, five pictures of us together. Five. Most people have so many photos with their parents, they can’t even keep track.
My Daddy did the best he could to make sure I was always provided for and loved, but let’s keep it one hundred, there’s nothing like a mother’s love.
“I don’t really talk to Andrea very much.” She’s always been Andrea to me. A parent has to earn the titles of Mommy and Daddy to be called that. “I only hear from her when she needs a storyline or she’s thirsty for likes.”
“Sounds like ‘Drea,” Daddy chews his salad. He pauses for a brief moment and looks up at the bright Los Angeles sky. “You need to make amends with your mother, ‘Face. You only have one mother.”
“I’ve tried making amends with her, Daddy,” I softly plead without sounding disrespectful, “I can only extend the olive branch so many times before I have to say forget it. She cares more about followers and likes than she does about blood.”
“You ain’t gotta be friends with her. But you two need to come to terms with what your relationship will be like. You two might have a good relationship or you might not have a relationship at all. You still need to try, ‘Face.”
I slightly shrug and eat my soup in peace. “I’ll try.” I can’t promise my Daddy anything but if he wants me to do something, there’s not a question I’ll obey.