Episode One: A Good Place to Begin...



Playing on my mental iPod: Kelly Rowland – Dirty Laundry

My name is Zenobia, I know, it's an odd name for a white woman. It was the name of the second wife of some king in Syria, which is equally ironic, since I appear to be the second woman my husband claims to love. We're what is known as the American family: my husband is a doctor; I'm a manager at a Home Depot; we have two kids and a large house in the suburbs. My story is not a sob story. I'm not here to convince you that my daily struggle is on par with the mess that goes on in the city, but allow me to show you how even out here it is easy to get caught up.

Let me start with my husband: Robert. At this very moment he's at his girlfriend's apartment, trying to calm her thee fuck down. Once a week, Amanda, has a spat after sex. Every time it becomes obviously clear to her that she is nothing more than a side piece. She wants my husband to leave me so she can enjoy the life I have. Do I have to say it... no, but I will. Her expectations are very low.

"Hold on, baby!" Robert bellows as the base of a table lamp zooms past his head. It smashed loudly against the wall behind him. Amanda scrambles among her belongings, finding a boot to toss next. "Wait a Goddamn minute. You think I would leave my wife for some shit like this. Are you fuckin' kidding me?"

Amanda froze in mid toss. She looked as though she could have been the poster of a NFL quarterback. She let the shoe fall from her grip before crumpling to the floor in tears. Robert walked over to her, kneeled down, then put his arms around her shoulders. If he wasn't my husband, the moment would've been quite endearing.

"Listen to me," Robert said in a calm voice. "You mean everything to me. That is why I risk it all to be with you. You understand? My wife don't have nothing on you, girl. That why I'm here. Do you understand? I'm here because of you. So are we okay?"

She nods.

"Yes," she agrees, "but if what you're saying is true... tell her about me."

I dare his ass to tell me some shit like that.

Next is my daughter: Zoey. Senior year of high school, captain of the cheerleading team, beautiful, smart, full ride to any college she wants, and she is still the dumbest kid I have ever met. I can hardly understand her when she talks.

"Mama?" she calls to me from across the plate of bacon on the kitchen table.

"Yes, honey?"

"I need a box of condoms," she said as though she asked for a sheet of paper. I dropped the dish I was washing into the sink causing soapy water to splash all over my face and blouse.

"What?" I rounded on her so fast I was surprised my neck didn't break. I plopped into a seat, my disbelief overwhelmingly apparent. "What do you need condoms for?"

"Well, it's obvious isn't it," she said, looking at me with a confused expression etched upon her face. I know this little shit didn't just roll her eyes at me. "All the girls at school are having sex. If I have condoms to pass out, then none of the girls on my squad has any excuse to miss practice because they got knocked up. Competitions are just around the corner and I don't wanna lose because one of my team members is carrying twins."

At this she got up from the table and stormed out. I watched her, completely amazed by her boldness. But you better believe I got her little ass them condoms. I'm too young to be friends with a grandmother. My son, he's 15, enters the kitchen as Zoey clambers on. He takes a sit down next to me.

"What's with you?" he asked, puzzled. "You look like you just seen a ghost. And why are you all wet?"

I stood up from the table, "Never mind that. Get ready for school."

My son: Jacob. What can I say about him? He has his father's good looks but half of his brains. To put it frankly... he's a teenage boy. And he is the very reason I found myself in the middle of a bind. Jacob is a trouble maker but he is soooo bad at it because he always gets caught. When he was ten, this little idiot took my check book to school. He bought a pair of used Jordans for 500 dollars by writing a check. He'd signed it: Fleek.

He never ceases to amaze me with the crazy shit he does. That is why, later that evening, when I received a text message from him that said, "About to die 911", I came running... to an abandon warehouse by the look of things. The moment I put the car in park, a vehicle with his headlights off approached. It pulled parallel to my window. A dark SUV with bright chrome rims. Music was booming from the back causing my mirrors to vibrate. The driver side window slid down revealing a handsome young black man. He eyed me curiously. I tried hard not to look scared but I was scared. No, scratch that... I was petrified.

"If you wanna see your son again... follow us," he said. For about ten minutes I followed him. Into the city, near the tracks where nothing good ever happens. We finally stopped. 3 men got out of the truck. The one that spoke to me walked to my window. "Get out and come inside," he ordered. I got out of the car. They escorted me into an apartment complex. I could hear dogs barking in the distance. We reached a red door. None of us spoke. I couldn't find the words even if I wanted to speak. The large man in the front knocked twice before it opened.

"MOM!!!" my son screamed before someone smacked him on the back of the head. He was tied to an old rail looking room heater. Without thinking I ran to him. "I didn't think you would come."

I put my hands on his face. He cringed at my touch. Jacob had been crying. He bared marks of being punched several times. "Are you okay?"

"He's fine," said the handsome young black man. "My name is Chris and..."

"What right do you have to put your hands on my son," I sneered, cutting him off. "What did he do to you?'

The large man that knocked on the door began to walk towards us, but Chris held up a hand to stop him.

"You have to forgive my friend Race. Aggressive voices make him a little jumpy," Chris said causally. "Now where were we? Awwww yes, my name. I'm Chris and I am pretty damn sure your son has never mentioned me. Ironic really, since he stole a few pounds of weed from me. The least he could've done was brag to his parents about it."

"My son doesn't do...," I stopped speaking when I realized that it was my own son I was talking about. I looked at Jacob. If I didn't love this little shit, I would've had Chris order Race to beat his ass some more. "How much does he owe you?"

"5 grand," he answered. I think my heart just fell into my stomach.

"5 grand? Are you kidding me?"

"Mom I didn't know," Jacob tried to lie but I wasn't hearing any of it.

"Shut up!!!" Chris and I said simultaneously.

"The money is the minimum of your problems," said Chris darkly.

"I can pay you."

"But can you replace the sells he didn't make?" he replied condescendingly. "Can you replace the new customers he promised me?"

"What are you asking," I said incredulously, thinking hard. I knew what he was saying. This was a drug dealer's way of a parent/teacher's conference. He wanted the dealer. The 5 grand was nothing compared to the money he thought he should have made.

"I think you know," he replied.

"Well I'm not selling to kids."

"YOU?" Chris and Jacob said together.

"Yes me," I said, giving my son the deluxe I'll kill you later stare. "I'll get you the new clients. I'll pay off the debt. Then we're square. Deal?"

Chris, yet again, stared at me curiously. He whispered something to Race before saying, "You fuck this up and we'll cut off a few of your son's fingers." Like magic, Race handed me a brown paper bag with 3 blocks of weed in it. "You got one month. Each month you fall short..."

He snipped at the air with a pair of finger scissors.

"Get them out of here," Chris said before walking out of the room.

Back in the car, I tried like hell not to punch my son in the throat. At least he was smart enough not to speak the entire way home.

"What in the hell were you thinking?" I said in a loud whisper.

"Tommy Knowles was having a party and..." he stammered wildly.

"You lied to a drug dealer to get his weed for a party?" I asked curtly, but it wasn't a real question and he knew that it wasn't. "Get out of this car, go to your room and If I see you, even by accident, I'll cut off your fingers off my damn self."

I took a shower as soon as I reached my bedroom. I tried like hell to wash the stank of guilt off of my skin. When I came out my husband, Robert, was there. He looked passive, probably from a long day of fuckin' and work. I sat on the bed in my bath towel. The moment I started apply lotion to my skin he spoke.

"I'm having an affair," he said not meeting my eyes. For some reason I kept lotioning my arms and legs. I felt as though if I acknowledge what he said I would scream. "Did you hear what I said?"

I nodded, still lotioning.

He continued, "I have no intentions of leaving you but I need to know if this is a problem for you?"



Playing on my mental iPod: Brooke Fraser - Ice on Her Lashes