Are You My Daddy?

Lexi Davis

“Are you my daddy?”

“Hey-ll no.” I grabbed my pants and jumped away from it—I mean, the kid. Shamir acted like nothing was going on.

“You didn’t tell me you had a, uh—uh—one of those!” I pointed.

Shamir got out of bed, naked and indecent, and put on her robe like it wasn’t nothing. “You didn’t ask.”

“The hell I didn’t.” I swung my legs around to the opposite side of the bed and scooted into my pants, trying to get away from his big spotlight eyes that searched me up and down like he was on the kiddy LAPD squad. “I told you, no kids. I got too much going on. Kids are complications. I can’t even kick it with a woman who has kids, and I for damn sure don’t want none of my own.”

“But, Chris, that’s Nehemiah. He’s special.”

“Special?” I stood with my back against the closet, my mouth all twisted up to show my pissivity.

I looked at the kid. A kid was a kid. This one had the biggest dang eyes I’d ever seen—like that Boondocks cartoon boy. Hair like him, too—a lopsided, oversized Afro. Other than that, Nehemiah—or whatever she claimed his name was—was just another little snotty-nosed brat.

“Where’s his daddy? MIA?”

Shamir nodded.

“Can I call you Daddy?” the little thing standing at the edge of the bed asked me.

“Aw, heelll—” I couldn’t even find the words. I jumped back and banged my butt into the closet doors.

I turned my back to it and whipped on my shoes. I couldn’t believe this mess—something out of The Twilight Zone or some messed-up stuff like that. And I could tell right off the bat something wasn’t right about this kid. She called him special. More like spooky if you ask me, especially with the strange way he looked at me with those big old eyes.

I ignored the kid’s crazy-ass request about him calling me “daddy” and laid into Shamir, who was combing her hair like this was no big deal.

“We’ve been kicking it for two whole months. You never said nothing about a—” I turned to point at it again, but it’d jumped from the door and blindsided me on my left. I whipped around and kept my eye on him. Obviously, he was a sneaky little SOB. He kept his eye on me, too. I couldn’t tell if he was smiling or laughing at my ass.

Shamir said, “I didn’t think it mattered. Chris, you and I get along so good together.”

“It matters. We got along good because you didn’t have a—uh.” I turned to point, but the boy was gone.

He yelled from the other side of me, “A kid!” completing my sentence like I needed help.

I backed away again and stubbed my toe on the bed. “Damn! Stop jumping up on me like that, you sneaky little midget!”

“If you’d just give Neh a chance—” Shamir started, but I stopped her quick with that line.

“I’m going to give you a chance to see the back of my head.”

I snatched up my wallet and the keys to my ride and got ghost, but before I could make it out the front door, that little bugger had run up on me again. He even beat me to the door.

“What the—How’d you do that?”

He had the nerve to grab my shirttail and try to yank me down.

“I said, can I call you Daddy?” He poked his bottom lip out with an attitude, like I owed him an answer.

I leaned down to his level. I removed my shirttail from his sticky little peanut butter grip and looked down at my brand-new white Sean John button-up shirt. Brown sticky stains were smeared all over it. Damn it. I looked into those big old magnifier eyes of his.

“Look here, you little peanut-butter-smelling, magnifier-eyed, big-headed little skunk. The only thing you can call me is Mr. Invisible Man ’cause you ain’t never gonna see me again. Peace out!”

I walked out and slammed the door behind me. He opened the door and hollered at my back. “You coming back tonight? I got checkers. You like checkers?”

I kept walking, didn’t look back. I walked to the curb where I’d parked my ride. I got in, started it up, and shook my head. I couldn’t believe this shit. I’d kicked it with that girl for two whole months. She never said nothing about no kid. Sometimes we’d kick it at my condo, but most times we hung at her house since her neighbors weren’t as close and we could get loud. I’d never seen a toy, a bicycle, a pair of Spider-man briefs—nothing that would clue me in that she had a kid.

I drove back to my place, still shaking my head. Her body was tight, too. Old girl could bounce a basketball off her abs. No stretch marks. Nothing.

I got home, jumped in the shower, and kept thinking. She didn’t act like a mother, neither. She never had to get home early. Never said a thing about finding a babysitter. I’d call her, she’d say what’s up? I’d say let’s go and we’d roll to the beach, a movie, dinner, a club. We even did two weekends in Vegas at a moment’s notice. I didn’t get it. How could she have a kid right under my nose the whole time and I not know it?

I got out the shower and kept thinking about it. The sex. Whoa! No way could she be somebody’s mother. Nobody’s “mama” was supposed to do it like that. Old girl was a freak.

Naked and wet, I picked up the phone and called her. “You lying. That ain’t your child.”

“Yes, it is.”

“You made me think you didn’t have one. You deceived me,” I said, self-righteously indignant.

“You deceived me, too.”

“I ain’t lied about nothing.”

“You said you could last a whole hour.”

“Shut up.” I hung up the phone. This was serious and she was trying to change the subject.

I didn’t have time for this. I got dressed, checked my suit, and slipped my Rolex on my wrist. I rushed out the door. I had things to do. I was Chris “Crisp Dollar” Duckett, owner and CEO of the premier Los Angeles music promotion company, not to mention bachelor extraordinaire. Hard, lean, and mean, that’s how I did things. Ask anybody. They’d tell you. And don’t believe that lie about not lasting an hour. The girl was out of her mind. She lost track of time. Believe that.

I had a meeting with Nelly’s people that morning. I was making power moves, shaking it up and baking things, and as usual, things were going my way . . . until my secretary beeped in.

I pushed the intercom button. “What’s up? You know I’m in a meeting.”

“Yes, but, Mr. Ducket, I think you need to come out to the lobby.”

“I don’t need—” I calmed myself. “This had better be important.” I got up and apologized to the people in my office. “Excuse me for a sec.”

I stepped outside my office, walked down the hall, and opened the lobby door. My secretary and a bunch of other people were standing around a water fountain watching somebody perform.

I walked over there. A little midget wearing sunglasses was standing on top of the water fountain, his pants sagging below his Spider-roo underwear. Nehemiah?

He was blowing up a karaoke microphone hooked up to an amplifier, rapping and impersonating artists I’ve promoted—Bow Wow. Lil’ Flip. Twista. Ludacris. D4L. And the little sucker was good, too.

I squeezed through the crowd as he started his Lil’ Jon impersonation. He deepened his voice, picked up a drink, pulled on his cap, and put in his silver teeth, the whole nine.

“Whaaat? Whaaat? Yeaahh!”

The little punk had mad talent, especially to be only five years old. I ain’t never seen nothing like it.

He had a cardboard sign at his feet: CHRIS DUCKETT DON’T WANNA BE MY DADDY: HELP A LIL’ BASTARD OUT. People were breaking off large bills and tossing them into his bucket.

He spotted me in the crowd and lowered his dark sunglasses. He raised one bushy eyebrow over the top and hooked his big bug eye on me.

He pointed at me. “There my daddy is right there!”

People turned around and started hissing at me.

“I ain’t your daddy.”

He yelled back, “That ain’t what Dana said.”

“Who the hell is Dana?”

“D.N.A.!” Nehemiah started crying. Not a little boo-hoo-hoo, but big old nasty blubbering snotty nose wet wailing like somebody had stolen his candy and smacked him upside his head.

A lady hauled off and clocked me with her Gucci bag. “How could you forsake a little kid like that?”

Another one poked me in my back. “You men like making babies but then don’t want to take care of them.”

Another one shoved me. “Dogs! All of you!”

“He’s lying!” I pushed my way through the crowd, grabbed the cardboard sign, and tore it up. “This ain’t my kid!”

Nehemiah kept crying louder and even started blubbering into the mic, turning the whole water fountain performance into a riot scene. That lil’ bastard really knew how to work a crowd. He moved his little balled-up hands away from his wet eyes long enough to shoot me a smile that nobody could see but me. Could have sworn I saw some fangs on those little teeth.

“You little sucker—” I grabbed his ankle. He kicked me with his other sneaker. I cocked back and was about to smack him when two big, buff, Suge Knight–looking brothers stepped forward.

“What you thinking about doing?” the one with the prison tats snarled at me.

I wasn’t scared.

Hell. Yes, I was. I let go of Nehemiah’s ankle. “I’m thinking about taking him to his mother. That’s all, my brotha.”

I backed up and smiled, but threw Nehemiah an I’m-gonna-kick-your-short-little-ass look.

Nehemiah dried up his tears, leaped off the fountain, and jumped into me, grabbing me around my neck. “Daddy! Daddy!”

The crowd applauded.

The lady with the Gucci bag patted me on my shoulder. “That’s right. Be responsible. Do the right thing. You know you’re that kid’s daddy. Look at his head. It’s big, just like yours.”

I grabbed Nehemiah by the neck. The big guy with the prison tats leaned forward. I smiled, lovingly, and removed my hands from Nehemiah’s neck.

“C’mon!” I shoved the kid out the front door with me. I stomped through the parking lot to my ride. He struggled to keep up.

“Where we going?”

“I’m taking you to your mama,” I threatened him, thinking he’d cry at the prospect of a butt whipping.

He shrugged. “Aw, that ain’t nothing but a chicken wing.”

Obviously, Shamir wasn’t beating his behind enough. I kept walking fast. “How’d you get out here? You ain’t old enough to catch a bus.”

Nehemiah’s dirty little white sneakers did a flurry and he caught stride with me into the parking lot, even passed me. The kid was fast for his age.

He puffed out his little chest. “I don’t need a bus, fool.”

Fool? I bent down to pop him, but he hollered and the buff dude came outside the building. I patted him on his head, threw him into the back of my ride, and pulled off.

I headed down Wilshire. He crawled from the backseat to the front. “I’m hungry! Look! Burger King.”

Burger King was up ahead on the right. He demanded that I pull over and feed him, like that was my job. I stayed in the far left lane and raised my eyebrow at him. His big old round Martian eyes looked at me like he dared me to pass up Burger King.

I said, “You’d better stick your head out the window, open your mouth, and try to inhale, because that’s as close as you’re gonna get to eating a hamburger in my car.”

He lowered one of his bushy eyebrows, narrowed those big old eyes, and glared at me, like he was going to do something.

“What? Am I supposed to be scared or something?”

All of a sudden, the wheel of my ride jerked hard to the right. My car shot across two lanes and cut in front of an MTA bus. The bus slammed on its brakes and skidded. It blasted its horn and came within inches of my back bumper. Every passenger on the bus along with the bus driver yelled and cussed at me through the window. I tried to brake and swerve, but my ride jetted up into the Burger King parking lot, bounced over the curb, sideswiped the drive-through sign, and came to a skidding halt in front of the plastic Burger King talking head. My window rolled down by itself.

The plastic head said, “Have it your way at Burger King. May I take your order?”

I caught my breath and said the first thing that popped into my head. “Oh, shit!”

The plastic head said, “That’s not on our menu. Try up the street at McDonald’s. I hear they serve nothing but oh, shit burgers.”

Nehemiah started cracking up. He crawled over me, stuck his head out the window, and started talking to the plastic king head like they knew each other from way back.

“Whassup, King Homie? Whatchu got cooking today?”

The head said, “Hey, Neh, what’s up, partna? Where you been?”

“Just hanging low, you know how it go.”

Cars behind me started blowing their horns. I couldn’t even drive off because my ride wouldn’t move. And I still felt like I was about to shit my pants.

“What’d you do to my car?” I tried to push Neh off me.

“Wait, Negro. I ain’t ordered yet.”

Nehemiah ordered two of everything on the menu. He turned to me. “You hungry?”

“No! I ain’t hungry.”

He said to the plastic king, “Give my daddy a Whopper.”

When he said whopper he stomped his sneaker down in my lap and crushed my balls. I muffled about twenty curse words and threw him back into the passenger seat. I balled up my fist. He pointed at the plastic king. “They got a camera in his eye.”

I checked myself, muttered a few more four-letter words, and drove up to the window. Three teenage girls ran to the service window, handed me the food, and blew kisses at Nehemiah.

“He’s sooo cute.” They looked at me. “Ooh, is this your daddy?”

Nehemiah giggled and lied, proudly. “Yeah.”

“I’m not his daddy. Look, I just want to get out of here. How much for the food?”

“For cute little Neh, it’s on the house.” They blew him more kisses. He batted his big old eyelashes down over his big old eyes.

I screeched off. Halfway down the block, the smell of that Whopper started tearing up my stomach and hunger pains hit me so hard, I almost couldn’t drive. “Give me a damn bite.”

He threw a Whopper at me. “Told you you was hungry.” The little arrogant squirt laughed like he had some kind of control over me. I hated that, but I tore into that burger like a hungry pit bull. Dang, it was good.

I got to Shamir’s beauty shop, threw my ride into Park, and cut off the engine. “Sit your dwarf behind here while I go get your mama.”

I locked all the doors, rolled up the windows, and activated my car alarm. I was mad. No, pissed. This kid was messing up my whole day.

I stomped into the shop. Shamir was doing a nearly bald-headed lady’s hair. I grabbed her hand as she was applying the hot curlers.

“How you gonna let your badass kid run all around the city while you go to work without getting a babysitter?”

Shamir almost burned me with the hot curling iron. I took it away from her and set it down. Her customer complained. I told her, “Shut up, turn around, and mind your own bald-headed business.”

Shamir made excuses for her parental negligence. “Neh don’t like babysitters. They can’t really control him.”

“That ain’t no excuse. He needs that butt tapped to get him in line. Come get him or else I’m going to—” Before I could finish my threat, my car alarm started blasting.

I ran outside. Shamir followed me. When we got to my ride, the alarm was blasting but the car was empty. No kid. My rear window was busted out.

“What the—I know he didn’t—” I looked inside my car. My CD player was missing. “Aw, hell nah—” I flipped open my cell phone. “I’m calling the police.”

Shamir grabbed my arm. “But he’s just a kid.”

“Nah, he ain’t. He’s a little demonic—” Just then, a squad car rolled by and I flagged it down. The cop got out.

“I’ve just been jacked and I know who did it.” I started giving him a description. “He’s about three feet tall, big lopsided Afro, big eyes like two black flying saucers.”

“A midget jacked you?”

“Nah. Not a midget.”

“An alien?”

“Nah, worse. A kid! About five years old with a weird, spaced-out look about him.”

The cop cocked his head to the side like I was crazy. “Five years old?”

“Yeah, that’s right. It’s her son.” I pointed to Shamir. “Go on, tell the cop about your little spooky Bebe kid.”

Shamir shrugged innocently.

The cop said, “I don’t have time to play games with you, mister.”

“I’m not playing. There’s something wrong with that kid. I locked him up inside my car, rolled up all the windows and—”

“What did you just say?” The officer’s eyes got suspicious. He placed his hand on his gun belt like he was about to arrest me. “You locked a kid inside your car on a hot day like this?”

I backed up. “ Nah, I didn’t really say I—”

“Do you realize I could take you in on a felony for that?”

“I didn’t actually—”

The cop reached for his handcuffs. Just then, we heard a loud bang on top of my car. Nehemiah dropped down from the tree where he’d been hiding. His sneakers put a dent in my hood.

The cop asked, “Is this the kid you locked inside your car?”

I looked at Nehemiah. “Uh—”

The cop opened his handcuffs, pointed at me, and asked Nehemiah, “Did this man right here lock you in that car, little fella?”

Nehemiah said to the cop, “Let me get this straight. If I say yes, you gonna haul his ass off to jail?”

The cop nodded.

Shamir said, “Neh, be nice.”

Nehemiah looked at me. “You coming to my house to play checkers?”

I remained silent. He waited for my answer. I couldn’t tell if that smirk on his face meant he was being nice or if he was laughing at my ass.

I looked at the cop, looked at the handcuffs. I put on a fake smile and lied, “Yeah, little man. We gonna play checkers.”

Nehemiah told the cop, “No, he didn’t lock me in the car. He’s my daddy!”

The cop looked at me. “You’re lucky I’m not arresting you. But you seriously need some parenting classes.” The cop got into his squad car and left.

I didn’t say another word to the kid or his mama. I got into my busted car and started it up.

Nehemiah ran up to my door. “Hey, where you going?”

I gave him the middle finger and drove off.

I ran my hand down over my tired face. Lack of sleep and those big spooky eyes on that weird kid had me on edge. I didn’t feel like going back to my office. I knew they were going to ask me a whole lot of questions I didn’t feel like answering.

I went back to my place. I called around to auto repair shops and arranged to get my window fixed, get new rims, and have a new CD player put in. I couldn’t drive around in a busted car with no music. I had a reputation to uphold.

By the time I got my ride fixed, it was late. I needed a drink. I wanted to forget all about that fine-ass Shamir—the female I’d wasted two whole months kicking it with only to find out she not only had a kid, but had Rosemary’s baby boy. Bebe’s kids ain’t got nothing on that little alien. I flipped open my PDA and went through my “unused” numbers. I always kept a reserve for emergencies just like this.

I called Rachel, a cutie I’d met two weeks ago at a CD release party. I put on my deep Mack Daddy voice and laid down some game real proper on her.

“I been thinking about you for two weeks, girl.” They fell for that line every time. I arranged a date and told her I’d pick her up at seven.

I pulled up to Rachel’s place at eight-thirty looking too good for her to complain. Besides, how many single, fine, designer suit–wearing young brothers with serious bank roll and no baby-mama drama were pulling up in a style like mine to take her out?

Rachel greeted me at the door looking fresh out of the oven, hot and ready to bite. I stepped back and took in the view. I shook my head and bit my bottom lip. “Hmm, hmm. You are looking too good to me, Shamir—”

“What did you call me?”

I opened my mouth to say “Rachel” again, but it came out “Shamir.”

“Shamir? My name is not Shamir.”

“I know your name.” I pressed my lips together and tried to say her name, but something twisted my tongue again and I said, “Shamir.”

Damn!

She yanked down her tight minidress over her shiny thighs, pointed her finger in my face and read me the riot act. “You have the nerve to come knocking on my door calling me by some other woman’s name after I got all dressed up for you!”

“Wait. I—”

She slammed the door in my face. I knocked again. She hollered from the other side of the door, “What’s my name?”

I tried to holler back, “Rachel,” but it came out “Shaaa-mirrr!”

What the freak was going on with my tongue?

Rachel opened the door again, but this time she threw a bag full of white flour into my face, then slammed the door again. I spat out flour and tried to wipe the white stuff off my brand-new designer dark blue suit but ended up smearing it more.

I don’t believe this. I was ticked off, but I couldn’t blame the girl for being mad. I’d tried to say Rachel, but it kept coming out Shamir.

I turned to leave, feeling like a dumb-ass black Casper the Friendly Ghost, blinking and trying to brush flour out of my eye.

I thought I saw something scurry past my foot.

“Ah!” I jumped. The flour in my eye made my vision blurry and I couldn’t be sure, but the thing looked like a big-ass rat with a tiny Afro.

I looked again and didn’t see anything. I hurried to the elevator.

I got in and started to push the button. Instead of buttons, I thought I saw two big round black eyes.

“Aw, man!” I jerked my hand back and banged my back against the opposite side of the elevator.

I wiped my eyes and looked at the buttons again. The round black eyes were gone and the buttons looked normal. I knew some freaky shit was going on, but I didn’t know how or why or what it was about.

“I’ve got to get outta here,” I said to myself.

I got to the lobby. Instead of the black-and-white tile that was there when I came in, the floor was red and black—like a giant checkers board. I jumped across the squares and left.

I trotted to my car, took a water bottle from my trunk, and rinsed my eyes. My whole day had been messed up. I decided I’d call my boys and maybe hang out, shoot some pool, toss back a brew, and do something to get my head right. But everywhere I looked, I saw those big black saucer-shaped eyes staring back at me.

As I reached for my phone, it rang. An unlisted number. I answered. It was Shamir.

“I’m hanging up.”

“No, wait. Chris, I want to apologize.”

I went silent, left her hanging.

She went on, “I was wrong. I should have told you I had a son. But we were so good together. We can’t just end it like this, not without a good-bye. Come over. Let me make it up to you. Let me show you how sorry I am.”

Make-up sex? Every muscle in my body wanted to hang up on her lying behind for tricking me—except one, and it was already standing at attention. I shifted my belt buckle. Kid or no kid, that woman’s sex was off the hook and well worth the gas money it took to get there. But she’d lied to me. Women don’t lie to Chris Duckett and get away with it. I bit my lip and contemplated.

“Is the kid there?” It’s amazing how a man’s pride gets overruled by his horniness every time.

“No. I took Nehemiah to the babysitter.”

Bingo! Exactly what I wanted to hear, but I played it cool. “I may roll by later.”

I hung up. I swung by the 24-Hour Mini Mart and picked up some ginseng. Don’t get me wrong. I wasn’t getting back with Shamir. I had a strict no-kids policy for the women I dated and I intended to stick to it, but I had a feeling that break-up sex with her was going to be off the chain.

I pulled up to her house. It was late, around half past booty call time. She lived in a bad area on a hill overlooking the city. But I wasn’t as worried about thugs as I was about that spooky-ass snot-nose kid of hers. That little alien gangsta made my briefs creep up into my butt.

I looked around for any signs or clues that the ’fro-haired brat was still around. The house looked dark and quiet. Shamir greeted me at the door in a sexy, sheer lingerie piece that I could see straight through to the promised land.

I brushed past her.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“I’m checking the house.” I didn’t see any signs of it, but I couldn’t take any chances. Shamir might be lying again. I looked in every room, every closet, the bathroom, the shower, the laundry room, out in the garage, and even the backyard. No sign of the kid.

“Okay, let’s get busy.” I swooped her up and took her into the bedroom. She kept apologizing for not telling me she had a kid, but all I could hear was her body talking to me. That woman was fine and had a body like whoa!

She nibbled my ear. “I want this to be special tonight.”

“Oh, it will,” I said while I tried to bite off her nightie with my teeth. I was already naked.

“Wait, Chris.” Her voice was soft and sexy. “Lay back, boo. Put your hands up and relax.” She moved my hands up over my head, turned off the lights, and scooted down my body.

“Oh yeah. Now, see, that’s what I’m talking about right there.”

She turned me over on my stomach, came back up, and squeezed my wrists. I heard something go click-click and the sound of metal clamping to the bedpost. She’d handcuffed me.

I tried to pull away, struggled, and turned my head to look back at her. “Hold up, woman. What kind of freaky sh—”

“Relax, Chris. Keep an open mind. You’re going to enjoy this.”

She placed the key to the handcuff on the nightstand next to the bed. She pulled a wet towel from her nightstand and started slapping it across my butt. Whap! Whap!

“Woman! Stop it. I’m not into no sick sex!” I craned my neck around in the dark.

She stopped. In a purry, sexy, innocent, girlish voice, she asked, “What? You don’t like it?”

My body was tingling where she’d spanked me and I was as hard as Gibraltar. I hesitated. “Well, it was starting to feel kinda good. Go ahead. But slow down, and not so hard.”

I turned back over and tried to keep an open mind. I felt her crawl back up on the bed, but after two more whaps, it didn’t feel like a wet towel anymore. It felt more like a tiny sneaker kicking my ass.

“What the—”

I turned back around in the dark. Instead of Shamir in a sexy negligee, I made out the dark outline of a lopsided Afro and a big old pair of eyes looking down at me. Nehemiah was standing up on the bed.

“Aw, hell no!”

Nehemiah turned on the light. “You promised we’d play checkers.”

I tried to yank the handcuffs hard enough to break the bedpost, but it wouldn’t budge. “Boy, does it look like I’m trying to play checkers right now?”

I looked around the dark room for Shamir, cussing, frowning, kicking, and trying to get out of the cuffs. “Get off me, man!”

Stuff had gone from kinky to downright spooky. And all this Stephen King bullshit was really starting to piss me off. “Where the hell did your mama go?”

“I dunno. She’ll be back.” He sounded sad.

I was naked, horny, pissed, and freaked the hell out so I really didn’t give a frig. “Reach me that key!”

Nehemiah looked at the key. His eyes brightened. “We gonna play checkers now?”

“Get the key, unlock these handcuffs, and I’ll think about it.” Yeah, right.

He got the key and unlocked me. I grabbed my clothes and threw them on. I felt like kicking my own dumb ass for getting tricked again.

“We gonna play checkers now?”

“Hell no! I’m leaving.”

“When you coming back?”

“Never.”

“You don’t wanna be my daddy?” Nehemiah’s face crumbled into a mess of tears, but I couldn’t help him. I stopped and turned around in the hallway.

“Look, kid. I’m not your daddy. I ain’t never gonna be your daddy. I don’t know where that cat is, but I bet he ain’t coming back ’cause there’s some weird shit going on here with you and your mama. Something ain’t right so I’m getting ghost, too. As for checkers, I hate the game. Sorry. Peace out.”

I slammed the door. He started sobbing so loud I could hear him through the door. I thought I heard him say something like “You are my daddy and you are coming back!” Yeah, right.

The cold night air smacked me in my face. I trotted to my ride. Shamir’s car was still parked in the driveway. That trick, I muttered to myself. Obviously, she was somewhere hiding and playing games while she turned her demon child loose on me. I didn’t have time for that.

I started my ride, threw it in gear, and floored the pedal. The car moved ten feet and stopped. The engine died.

“What the—”

I turned the key in the ignition again and again. Nothing. I got out, looked under the hood. Something thick, brown, and sticky was smeared over the engine. It was shoved inside all the spark plugs and even oozing out the oil tank. I touched it. I smelled it. Peanut freakin’ butter!

I looked back at the house. The place was dark except for Nehemiah sitting in a window with the light shining behind his big lopsided Afro. Even in his silhouette, I could see those big bug eyes looking at me.

I got back into my car and opened my cell phone. I’d call a buddy or the auto club to come get me, whichever was faster, because I just wanted to get the hell out of there. My cell phone said: No signal. Damn Cingular! It smelled funny. I opened the back of it. Brown sticky goo oozed out. More friggin’ peanut butter.

I looked back at the house. Nehemiah opened the door and waved for me to come back. Yeah, right. Screw you.

I got out of my car, gave him the finger, and took off trotting in the opposite direction. I’d go to one of Shamir’s neighbors’ houses and ask to use their phone. I took two steps and heard a growling sound. It was dark. All the streetlights had been busted out, probably by some bad little neighborhood kids like Nehemiah. He was probably the leader of a kiddy street gang called the Lil’ Spooks. I could barely see the sidewalk. I stamped my feet thinking that growl probably came from a stray dog. The thing growled back and if it was a dog, it was the X-Files kind. I did a quick turn and jumped back into my ride.

Screw it. I was on a hill. I decided I’d coast my car back down the hill to the main street, then flag down a car. Nehemiah was still in the window watching me. I threw my car into neutral, released the emergency brake, and started steering it backward, coasting.

I made it about five feet before I hit something in the road. Whatever it was got jammed underneath my back wheels and it stopped the car. Damn! If it was the X-Files dog, then I’d killed it. Good.

I tried to look out my back window but I couldn’t see anything. I didn’t want to get out of my car to see what it was, but I had no choice. Little Spook Boy was still watching me from the house. I took a deep breath and looked around to make sure the coast was clear.

As soon as I put my hand on the door to open it, something popped up at my window right in front of my face.

“Holy shit!”

It was Nehemiah. His face was pressed so close to the window his breath formed a fog. His eyes were big like bowling balls and stared straight through the window at me.

I jumped back. “Back off me, freak boy!”

I slammed the lock down and edged over into the passenger seat. Slowly, the driver’s-side window started rolling down by itself. I hollered again, “This ain’t right. What the—”

The window cracked opened only about three inches and stopped. Nehemiah looked at me, his face all weird and spaced out. He slowly reached his tiny hand through the crack and slid his arm inside. It seemed longer than it should have been. He reached down and popped up the lock, unlocking the door from the inside.

He opened my door. We stared at each other.

Finally, he said, “You wanna come play checkers now?”

I was like, You must be outta your freakin’ little mind! But I didn’t say that; I only thought it.

On the surface, I tried to keep my cool, but it was hard. I knew my ass was in a jam and my balls were quivering. I’d stepped into some weird shit and I needed to figure out how to get out.

I needed to get to a phone. They had one inside. What else was I going to do?

I swallowed and answered him. “Yeah. I’ll play checkers now.”

He backed away from the door and nodded. “C’mon.”

I followed Nehemiah back into the house. My plan was to act cool like I was going to play checkers and when I got a chance, hit the little sucker in his big head, knock him out, grab the phone, and call 911 . . . or something like that.

When I got inside, I saw that Nehemiah had set up the checkers board on the table. He even had cookies and milk on each side of the game board and two chairs set up—a little one for him and a big one for me. I sat down in the big one and watched him. He watched me.

“Your move,” he said. A tiny smirk drew up the edge of his chapped little lips around his elf-size mouth. I didn’t know if he was smiling at me or laughing at my ass.

I went to move my black checker. As soon as I touched it, all of his red checkers stood on edge and spun around real fast like twirling coins, all by themselves. What kind of—

I knocked over my glass of milk.

He reached for it. I stopped him. “No, it’s cool,” I said.

We sat still. He watched me. I watched him. We watched each other, waiting for the next move.

I made it. I picked up my glass. “I’ll go pour me some more,” I said. He looked at my hands. They were shaking. I played it off. I said, real cool, “I’ll be right back.” Yeah, right.

I got up and strutted calmly to the kitchen.

As soon as I got around the corner, I grabbed the kitchen phone off its cradle, ran out the other side of the kitchen, sprinted down the hallway, and ducked into the bathroom. I locked the door and dialed 911. The operator answered.

“Nine-one-one Emergency. What’s your emergency?”

I started whining like a little girl. “A kid with some big freakin’ eyes spanked me with a wet towel, then put peanut butter in my car, and now he’s holding me hostage and making me play checkers—”

Click.

The operator hung up on me.

Think, Chris, man! Get a grip and use your head! I couldn’t tell them all that—even though it was the truth. I had to think of something to say that would not only make them take me seriously, but would also get the police to rush out to the bad neighborhood in the middle of the night.

I called back.

The operator answered. “Nine-one-one. What’s your emergency?”

I said, “Quick! Send a squad car. I just saw O.J. Simpson running down the street with a knife chasing a white woman.”

There was silence on the other end. I knew I was wrong for that, but it’s the only thing I could think of to get the LAPD out quick, fast, and in a hurry.

“Hello? Did you hear what I said? I said, O.J.—”

The person on the other end started giggling, and then laughing like a child. He said, “You so funny, Daddy.”

Nehemiah!

I dropped the phone. Nehemiah knocked on the bathroom door.

“Go away, you little freak.” I kicked the door to try to scare him away. I hurt my foot.

I looked down. Brown, thick, sticky goo oozed beneath the door and started sliding into the bathroom. Nah! This ain’t happening. It formed a puddle and started bubbling up like gumbo. It rose three feet high into the air and Nehemiah jumped out.

I tried to holler but choked on my own spit. “Eeck-kka!”

Coughing and gagging, I turned and tried to jump into the shower, but when I jerked the shower curtain back, Nehemiah was standing in the bathtub.

I turned back around and shot out of the bathroom. I ran down the hall and darted into Shamir’s bedroom. I locked the door, blocked it off with a chair, and looked for something to swing at the little monster.

I remembered Shamir kept a baseball bat under the bed. I dropped down, reached under the bed, and felt something furry. An Afro. I looked. Nehemiah’s big black eyes were looking back at me.

“Ahh!”

I fell backward, jumped back up, and sprang to my feet. I pulled on the bedroom door but couldn’t get out. It was jammed. Brown sticky muck was all around the door’s edges, sealing it shut like glue.

I turned around and faced the little demon. I balled up my fist. I’d had enough. Screw child protective laws, I was getting ready to kick his tiny dwarf ass. But then he crawled from under the bed and levitated up to my eye level. And I knew that if he could float up in midair like that, then he could kick my ass, too. I lost it. I started crying.

“Why you messin’ with me, man? I didn’t do nothing to you.”

“Why you messin’ with my mama?” he said with attitude.

“You’re just a kid. You’re too young to understand.”

“Too young, my ass!” He floated around me, looking me up and down. “You horny dudes are all alike.”

“Huh?”

“You come in here, you do the nasty with my mama, and then leave. Just like my daddy did.”

“I’m not your daddy.”

“You just like him!”

“I didn’t get your mama pregnant, then leave.”

“But you got what you want from my mama! Now you wanna leave. Can’t stick around, not even to play checkers. You selfish son of a bitch!”

“Hey, wait a minute now.”

“No, you wait.” Nehemiah balled up his fist. I flinched. “And what about my mama?”

“What about her?”

“When y’all leave, you make my mama feel bad and look bad.”

“Your mama don’t look bad.”

“That’s what you think.”

Nehemiah moved over and knocked on the closet door. It opened. Out came a woman in an old dirty bathrobe. She had curlers in her hair, wore raggedy slippers, and was overweight. She was hunched over and hiding her face.

“Shamir? Is that you?” I asked.

Shamir self-consciously pulled at her floppy robe and touched her uncombed hair, embarrassed. She nodded. “This is how I really look, Chris.”

“Da-yum, what happened to you, woman?”

Nehemiah threw his head back and yelled at me, blowing out a hurricane of peanut butter–smelling wind. “You dickheads did this to my mama!”

Nehemiah jumped in front of her and started spinning around like crazy, just like the Tasmanian Devil. I wanted to run but my feet failed me. He made a dusty cloud around Shamir. It circled her and I couldn’t see her. When the dust lifted and the air cleared, Shamir looked hot again—young, thin, hard body, hair done, dressed in a sexy, sheer negligee.

Shamir smiled at Nehemiah, who finally stopped spinning. “See? I told you he was special.”

I stood there wanting to run and wanting to piss on myself all at the same time. This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be. This little boy with the big saucer eyes really was special, and I thought about asking him who he was, where he came from, and how he did that. But then I decided, Screw it! I picked up a brass lamp and threw it like a fastball directly at Nehemiah’s big head.

That little demon child reached out his hand and caught the lamp with his tiny little fingers in midair. Quick as a lizard, he hurled the lamp straight back at me. It cracked me upside my head and knocked my ass out cold.

When I woke up, I was lying spread-eagle on the bed, my face up and my arms and legs handcuffed to the bedposts.

Nehemiah was standing on top of my chest, his dirty little white sneakers grinding into my rib cage. My vision was blurry and I struggled to breathe. For a little squirt, he was heavy.

He looked down at me. He held up his sticky little brown hands. Globs of peanut butter dripped from them. “Tell this turkey about the peanut butter, Mama.”

Shamir came close to the bed, her sexy negligee open, teasing me. “Nehemiah’s peanut butter is no ordinary peanut butter. It’s homemade.”

“Yep. I use special nuts.” An evil little smirk perched on his small mouth.

I got nervous—more nervous. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Nehemiah made a quick grabbing motion at my zipper. I flinched. He didn’t touch me but jerked his hand like he was pulling something off. At that same moment, a thousand screams and pain-filled moans burst through the room like thunder. I jerked my head around to see, but couldn’t see nothing.

“What the freak is that noise?”

Shamir looked apologetic. “Those are the screams from the other guys I dated, who left.”

“They didn’t want to be my daddy, either,” Nehemiah said. “So I made sure they wouldn’t be nobody’s daddy.”

Nehemiah clasped something inside his small fingers. He opened his hands. I looked. Two round bloody nuts were inside. He tossed them like marbles to Shamir. She caught them and put them in this big jar filled with dozens of them, and closed the lid. The label said: NEH’S PNUTS.

“I like making pea-nut butter.” Nehemiah laughed like the bogeyman.

I panicked. Fear seized my chest. Nehemiah ground his dirty white sneakers into my skin and rode my pumping chest like a roller coaster.

He smiled, laughing at my ass, and lowered his big shiny black eyes down to my face, staring at me so close our noses touched. I felt his little fingers circle around my nuts. He squeezed a bit, his little fist tightening around my package.

“I’m gonna ask you one more time. You wanna be my daddy?”

 

 

Shamir and I were married two days later. Not the young, hot Shamir, but the trapped-in-the-closet, overweight, curlers-in-the-hair Shamir. I quit my job as a music promoter and opened a drive-through-only Burger King down the street. We had a real talking plastic king—not a fake one with a microphone hooked up in the back.

Shamir had eight or twelve more babies for me. I’m not sure exactly how many because I stopped counting at six. They were all boys. Though they were mine, they all looked exactly like Nehemiah—big head, lopsided Afros, and eyes as big as bowling balls. Every day we sat inside the Burger King and played checkers. We ate cookies and milk, too.

Every night, they all gathered around me, looked up at me with those big black saucer eyes, and asked the same question, “Are you our daddy?”

And just like Nehemiah, they were all special. That’s why I always answered them the same way, “Hell yes. I’m your daddy!”