Miss Wayne and the Queens of DC (The Cartel Publications Presents) (2 page)

This is why my DC house gets a bad name. Everybody knows the DC chapter is not as grand as the one I started in LA. We get money from throwing house parties. Here Miss Tyrone is the mother of the house of DC, which is a rank under me, yet she has no class or loot.

“Girl, move!” she says pushing the coat away. “If anything I’m bringin’ a little excitement to this gawd awful funeral.” Miss Tyrone remains standing and clapping along to the choir’s voices despite their evil stares. What she really has her eyes on is the preacher. She claims they have a thing going on and to tell you the truth, I can’t call it. I don’t put shit past nobody these days, even a man of the cloth.

“You know if my baby hears you down there,” I say pointing at the other end of the wooden row seat we share, “I’m droppin’ your ass with a left and then a right? You do understand this don’t you?”

“She can’t hear me,” Miss Tyrone whispers. “But you know I’m tellin’ the truth. That black ass thing up there don’t look nothin’ like her mother. Dead or livin’! What was she smokin’ before she died? Kerosene?”

I hated to admit it but she was right. I guess all the years of using hard drugs, selling her body and neglecting her only daughter had finally caught up with her.

And when I look to my left, on the far end, I see Miss Daffany’s face. She’s saddened and her energy cuts through me like a knife. When we got on the plane to come back home for the funeral she said she could handle it. Said she knew this day would come and had prepared for this moment most of her life. I guess she underestimated the power it took to bury your mother. This scares me because it’s so important to keep her stress at a minimum…any change in her emotions could cause her immune system to go out of whack and flare up her HIV.

“You okay?” Miss Parade grips Miss Daffany around the waist as they both look at the open casket in the front of the church. Miss Parade is pregnant again for the second time in three years. I swear every time that Jay boy puts his dick in her pussy, two legs and two arms comes out. They already gots twin boys with a baby girl on the way.

You should see those beautiful little boys. They look like little Indians with smooth black skin like their mother and silky black hair like their father.

“I’m fine.” Miss Daffany whispers. “Just wish I was somewhere else. I don’t want to go through with this.”
“She’s in a better place, sweetie you know that.” I reach over and touch her hand.
She smiles.
I smile back.
If ever I doubt what real love feels like, when I see the way Miss Parade and Miss Daffany look at me, I know that there is a God and if he’s blessed me with friends like these, then I must be worthy. I use to be able to look into my mother’s eyes and get the same feeling…but I can’t say that anymore. And no, I don’t want to talk about it right now.
We were just about to give God the praise and the glory when an usher reaches over and taps Miss Tyrone on the shoulder. “Excuse me, sir. We’re gonna have to ask you to put somethin’ else around your waist or remain in your seat. We’ve already gotten several complaints ‘bout your clothin’.”
I shake my head. Oh shit! Here comes the drama!
Miss Tyrone places his hands on his hips and pivots his body around to see all the church members staring in his direction. He was acting as if he was the Messiah, wanting to see which one of his disciples turned on him.
When he didn’t get the pity or the response he wanted, he gripped his collar and says, “How dare you come over here and embarrass me like this, mothafucka!”
“Hold up, Miss Tyrone…we in church!”
“Fuck that shit! This mothafucka got me all the way fucked up!” He yells. The church choir continues to sing although their voices go down a notch. “I don’t recall God sendin’ out an invitation talkin’ about a dress code.” He places his fists on his burly shiny hips. “Now since he gave me these balls,” he slaps his crotch area sending a massive CLAP sound throughout the tiny church, “then if they’re bulgin’ a little, I must be still alright in His eyes.”
The usher’s dark face turns as red as the brand new Sunday morning dress I chose to wear today.
The usher was about to say something else until I say, “Honey, this is a gay man. You done already got cussed the fuck out and called everything but Susan. So unless you want a continuation of this show, co-starrin’ you, I suggest you go on back there and pray he doesn’t read you on the way down the aisle.”
He grips his black leather bible and points it at Tyrone as if to cast out the demons.
“Trust me, them scriptures in the Good Book won’t have nothin’ on the words he’ll give you if you don’t sit on down somewhere. Go on now!”
The usher looks at Miss Tyrone’s troublemaking ass, Miss Daffany, Miss Parade’s nine-month-old belly and turns around to me and says, “God, have mercy on your souls!”
“Girl, I do believe he’s the one who been slayin’ all the drag queens in DC. Look how he tried it wit’ me.”
“Bitch, sit your dry ass down and respect this funeral.” When he doesn’t move quick enough for my taste I say, “Don’t move me to perform acts on you up in here. Sit!”
Finally he does and for the first time since we got off the plane from LA, Miss Daffany laughs. We all laugh. I guess Miss Tyrone’s hot ass mess antics came in handy after all. I love to see my friends happy.
Focusing back on the sermon, the preacher does his best to continue the funeral. But when he messes up a scripture I get angry. You see the bible is the one thing I know from front to back. My mother made sure of it.
What the scripture was supposed to say before he messed it up was,
“Children, obey your parents in the Lord, for this is right. Honor your father and mother— which is the first commandment with a promise – that it may go well with you and that you may have a long life. – Ephesians 6:1-3
Yeah…he had it wrong. I know that one in particular because I was conflicted as a child. Although I loved my mother, I hated my father and found it hard to obey him. To tell you the truth, I hate him to this day.

The hardwood floors in the old Southeast DC apartment carried a brilliant shine. Ten-year-old Wayne Peterson positioned himself in the hallway, a few feet from his bedroom door—his parent’s room was in the middle and the front door was on the opposite end.

Wayne loved to pretend that the hallway was a runway. Then he would dance toward the door. Once at the door, he’d pretend Prince Charming would come rushing inside to whisk him away…but he never came.

One crisp, sunny morning, he decided to open his curtains and let the sunrays shine against the hardwood floors in the hallway. He’d already placed on four pairs of his mother’s brand new stockings to make up for not having dark tights. Then he tied up the back of his white t-shirt and slid on his mother’s white nursing shoes, which were the only shoes resembling high heels in the house. With the shoes on, he ran to his room, pressed play on his tape player and allowed Whitney Houston’s voice to boom through the speakers.

Although his mother was home sleep, suffering from multiple sclerosis—which rendered her unable to care for herself, she didn’t mind the loud music one bit. In fact she loved it. In her mind she was thankful for her blessings and the Lord still seeing fit to allow her to hear despite her failing health.

“Okay, Miss Wayne, work that runway!” he said to himself.
Busy with his one-man show, he heard a noise. At first he thought it was his mother calling him but when he ran to his room and turned the music down for a few seconds, he heard nothing. With nothing left to do, he refocused on his trademark dance.
Stoop and walk. Right Kick.
Stoop and walk. Left kick.
Stoop and walk. Throw arms in the air.
Stoop and walk. Strike a pose.
The large white nurse shoes did not fit properly and flopped under him as he lit the hallway on fire with his moves. But the moment he reached the end of the hall, his father, Bells Peterson, who had returned home early from the war, met him with a hard jab to his tiny jaw. Wayne hadn’t seen him in over six months and this is how he chose to greet him.
“What I tell you about runnin’ ‘round here like a fuckin’ girl?” He frowned down at Wayne, unmoved by the blood that fell from his mouth…dampened his white shirt and glistened against the shiny hardwood floors. “You a boy and I ain’t raisin’ no bitches!”
Although his father had warned him about what he deemed as ‘actin’ like a girl’ he’d never…ever…hit him until that moment. His extra light-skin and eyes were just like Wayne’s and before the alcohol abuse, compliments of the Gulf war, he was very handsome. But like a lot of soldiers, when times got hard, his looks took a toll.
“I’m sorry.” Wayne whined. “I was just dancin’, daddy. I didn’t mean to act like a girl. Really.”
“Sorry ain’t good enough! You got my Daddy’s name and you runnin’ ‘round here like a fuckin’ sissy!” He clenched his fist again preparing to beat the life out of his only child.
Wayne was picking himself up off the floor and then he heard, “Now…I know that ain’t my boy down there on the floor. I know that’s not what I’m seein’.”
When Bells and Wayne looked in the direction of the voice, they saw Marbel Peterson. Standing in her room’s doorway might’ve seemed ordinary for some but for a woman who suffered with MS most of her life, this was a magnificent feat.
“Baby?” Bells said with slight fright in his voice. “What…I mean…how did you get up out of bed on your own?”
“You ain’t hearin’ me. Was that my chile lyin’ on that floor? Please tell me you didn’t place hands on my chile!”
Even though the disease had entrapped her muscles, it didn’t take away her beauty. She was still strikingly beautiful with her deer eyes and beautiful dark skin.
Bells took a deep breath, broadened his shoulders and said, “Yeah I taught him a lesson. ‘Cause it’s obvious that since I’ve been gone, things have gotten out of control ‘round here! This boy act like he don’t know he got balls ‘tween his legs!”
“That’s what you call it when you hit a chile? Teachin’ him a lesson?”
“Sure I do! If he’s gonna be a man, he’s gonna have to act like one. A real man takes care of his family, not act all feminine so somebody can take care of him. Now I’m raisin’ men ‘round here! ‘Specially the ones that got my dead daddy’s name!”
“And I told you before he ain’t actin’ like no girl! He actin’ like our son! Just ‘cause he different don’t give you no reason to hurt him.”
For lack of a better argument he said, “I’m the man of this house and you’ll do as I say, woman! Both of you!”
“Is that right?” she smirked.
“That’s mothafuckin’ right! I pay the bills in this bitch and I demand respect! Now if you can’t fix it to see things my way, then there’s the door!”
Marbel smiled a little. Then she pushed the strength of her body away from the doorway and further into the hallway. She was on her way to him.
“Mama, be careful!” Wayne said running by her side to offer his assistance.
“Move out the way, boy. I gots to address my husband and I gots to address him right now. And for what I’m about to say, I need to look into his eyes so he knows I’m not messin’ around.”
Wayne never saw such power in his mother until that moment. Further and further she scooted down the hallway, leaning on the wall for support. When she made it to Bells, the confidence he possessed when he first came through the door had slightly diminished. He knew it took little masculinity to come into the house and hit a child, but it took courage, strength and love to move a body that refused to budge without help for over a year.
“Now you hear me and hear me good.” She said in his face. “We ain’t hittin’ kids in this house and we not makin’ them feel bad for who they is either. Now that’s my only son,” she pointed at Wayne, “and I loves him…in all his splendor. Now if you’s ashame of him, go on…go back out that door yourself. But me, I’m stayin’ right here.” With that she reached in her cotton robe, flicked a knife and held it against his thin chin. “But you betta neva…eva…put your hands on my son again. Understood?”
He nodded ever so slightly to avoid the slash.
“Great. We understand one another.” She said tucking the knife back into her pocket. “Now welcome home and help me back to bed.”

Adrian and me are in the house chillin’ and surfin' the net in the three-bedroom townhouse on Galveston Street in Southeast DC that Dayshawn rented. I didn’t live here at first, until five months after he bought it, he was havin’ problems payin’ the rent. From then on I’ve been here to help him out. Although we live deep in the fuckin’ hood, if you ask me, I don’t want to be no place else.

Wearin’ black tight shorts and a powder blue baby T, I know I’m killin’ it right now. And once I shave the hair off my face, biiiiitttttcchhh, you won’t be able to tell me nothin’! All I need now is some dick and some smoke and I’ll be good.

Miss bitch-face Adrian over here is wearin’ grey sweats and a plain white T-shirt and I laugh. Lookin’ at Adrian is like lookin’ at a girl. His light brown skin and soft curly hair sits stupidly on his head and I feel sorry for him. I mean…if a man wants to fuck a nigga who looks like a bitch, he’d be with a girl. I’m not hatin’. I’m just statin’.

I will give him credit for one thing, he owns more diamonds than most girls would get in their whole lives. Last time he had it appraised, it went for about ten thousand dollars, and he didn’t leave the house without his diamond heart shaped necklace, bracelet and ring.

On anotha level…lately I have been havin’ so much on my fuckin’ mind. Shit most people don’t have to worry about. I’m a gay man, in my early thirties, and the only thing I care about is getting fucked or fuckin’ someone. I’m not talkin’ about sometimes either. It’s an obsession with me. Like if I can’t have it, I’ma die! I done fucked everybody from my son’s bus driver to my wife Shannon’s brother. I know it’s fucked up, but it is what it is and to be truthful, I could care fuckin’ less what you or anybody else thinks.

I’m a queen.
I’m a mother of the House of Dreams.
And I’m fabulous in all ways.
And while your minds’ are workin’ overtime, let me

put them to rest…yes I did say I have a son and a wife. But she was what we gay men called a
beard.
Because being with her was like wearing a beard in public…she was someone I could pretend to be in a heterosexual relationship with for everyone else’s sake.