LITMIR.BIZ

      After I showered, I laid out my work uniform: a black hair net, white short sleeve shirt with IHOP stitched on the collar, a tight fitting black skirt, and a pair of throwback Pumas.

      I walked into the kitchen with Noah, to prepare his bottles before I went to work.

      “Hey Nana’s man,” my mother said as she took the baby from my hands and pointed to the clock. “Why are you still home? Haven’t you gotten into enough trouble being late?”

      I ignored that comment, especially since she worked her work schedule around mine, so that she could babysit (which was the only time I felt like she ever helped me out). I took a deep breath. “Good morning, ma.”

      Her eyes glanced at the clock. “It’s close to being a good afternoon.”

      It was only ten o’clock in the morning. “I was up late last night.” I tried to watch my tone.

      “Of course you were. Crying over a no-good dog is hard work.”

      “Whatever,” I mumbled.

      “Yeah whatever, all I know is you better not come up in here without no job, because you chose to run the streets, and don’t think that just because I don’t see I don’t hear.”

      Here we go…

      “Alright Grier,” Cousin Shake huffed his way into the kitchen. “I already done put it on her, she don’t need no more.”

      To keep from snapping, I thought about humming, but since she was already wired and seemed to be looking for a reason to let me have it, I didn’t hum.

      “I know that’s right,” my mother said, shifting the baby from one hip to the other, “’bout time you learned to be quiet. I’ll tell you this though. I’m tired of you and this Quamir nonsense. If you got to chase a man around in the street then—news flash, Toi—he doesn’t want you.”

      That comment was a clear indication that my sister’s been running her mouth…again.

      “Oh,” my mother continued on, “I spoke to my friend Phyllis, the caseworker at the welfare office, and she said they have a new program for teenage mothers in high school where they will pay for the daycare. I want you to go down there soon and apply.”

      “Okay ma.” I just wanted to shut her up. “I will.”

      “I hope you didn’t answer that quickly just to shut me up.”

      This was a no-win situation, so I simply said, “Bye,” as I left out the room, heading for the bus stop.

      3

      I’d been working at IHOP part time, every day and every other weekend, for about six months.

      As I pushed through the double glass doors the sweet aroma of pancakes and maple syrup floated through the air. The lobby was mad crowded and the floor was overflowing with customers. I was a few minutes late and my manager shot me the eye and pointed to his watch. I went in the back, placed my purse in my locker, and headed to my first table.

      “Hey girl!” I waved at Tay, who was passing by me.

      “Five o’clock, baby girl,” she smiled, “five o’clock.” Immediately, I looked to my right and there was a table full of cuties. “Either they college dudes or big ballers.” She batted her eyes while waving hi to one of them. “I tried to take them off your hands and get them moved to my section, but you know Mr. Stick-Up-The-Ass,” she pointed to our manager, “was all in my grill.” She circled her hand in her face. “Needless to say, they all yours. Just save li’l Idris Elba, the one sitting in the corner, for me.”

      “Alright Tay.” I turned toward the table and as soon as I made eye contact with the cutest one in the clan, I took a step and some kind of way I ended up splattered…all…over…the restaurant’s floor.

      “Help me.” I heard a scratchy voice say from beneath me. “Please Jesus, save a pimp.”

      And when I looked down, I could’ve punched this dude in the face. It was Percy. Three and a half feet tall, Midget Mac, aka Percy Elwood Jenkins and two members of his too short crew: Cle’otis and Shim-daddy. And yes, Shim-daddy was his real name.

      Be thankful that this crew wasn’t in your ’hood, because I swear to you they were the world’s best stalkers. Everywhere we went, they went. Following us, calling our names, tapping on our knees and begging us to please to go out with them. But Percy was the worst. And it wasn’t because he was a dwarf either. Nobody paid any mind to that. It was because he was aggravating as hell, was always trying to get with somebody, and every time I looked at him, in the great words of Cousin Shake, he tore my eyes up.

      He had a perm, Snoop Dogg curls in his hair, Lil Jon’s glow in the dark grill (that spelled his name on the top row of his teeth), T-Pain’s sweat socks to his knees, Andre 3000 plaid short-set, and Bishop Don Juan’s rhinestone-studded-corduroy flip flops.

      “Why is yo’ li’l retarded ass,” I said as Tay helped me up, “always in my way?”

      “’Cause you want me in your way.” Percy growled.

      Instead of cussing him out, I crouched on my knees, squinted my nose, and barked like a German shepherd right in his face.

      And in true Percy fashion, he passed out, spread out on the floor in front of all the customers like he was Jesus on the crucifix. I wanted to smack him. But instead I left him laying there.

      “Psych homie. I was just playin’.” He magically appeared before me. “But your breath was a little tart.” He waved in front of his nose, “Don’t worry, we can get you some Altoids and hook that up. Can’t have you parading through the Little People’s Convention and ya breath stink. People be like, ‘there go Beyoncé, stank-ass breath and all.’”

      God must be punishing me.

      “My little brother,” Tay rolled her eyes at Percy, “is the same size as you.”

      “Then ya mama need to bring him to see his daddy and stop playin’.” He smiled and his mouth lit up. “Ask her what she waitin’ on.”

      “Lil’ Bootsy!” Percy’s mother, who always seemed to appear out of nowhere, screamed. “Why are you always embarrassing me! Boy, get yo’self over here and sit down

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