Find Me In the Club (a short story snippet)

1

                Deni

I heard my mother yelling my name but I chose to ignore the shrill tone because I’d come to recognize that the tone would be followed by a list of chores and commands and I was determined to enjoy the few stolen moments of entertainment.”

“Deni ! You hear me stop bouncing that damn ball in my house and come upstairs and clean up this damn room like I asked you to an hour ago!”

My birth certificate says Denise but I've been called Deni ever since I can remember.  It’s all good because nothing about me or my personality particularly screams the femininity that Denise commands.

“I did ma!”  I yelled back while I still practiced a crossover dribble I’d seen at the playground.

“Oh, I suppose this pile of dirty clothes is going to walk to the laundry room? I guess this pile of lumps is pretending to be a made bed? And, I also suppose I didn't tell you to stop bouncing that damn ball in my house?”  She yelled as she suddenly appeared at the top of the stairs; my visual cue to cease and desist.

Mama was in a cleaning frenzy. She always got mad, crazy, Beverley Hillbillies spring cleaning busy whenever someone said they were going to stop by. The house was always spotless but mama got hyper-vigilant when she was expecting church or family.

I saw no reason to put any effort into my room because it was upstairs; I was never allowed to have visitors in my room, so, they had no reason to see my bed or my laundry.  The thought of dirty laundry sends my mother into an OCD spin out so I ventured upstairs to correct the cited flaws.

As I climbed the stair I could hear my mother in a full on conversation with herself; most people would think a spoken conversation with oneself would indicate some form of mental illness but anyone who has been raised by a black woman from the South will tell you that it is 100% normal; it’s a form of venting frustration.

I stopped and listened as I watched my mother snap hospital corners on her bed linens.

“How, she gonna tell me, at the last minute, that she‘s stoppin’ by with Madea (an age old and traditional mispronunciation of Ma Dear). I guess it’s her way of tellin’ me that I ain’t pulling my weight with takin’ care of Madea. Hell! Her kids are all grown and outta the house. She ain’t got no husband and she’s retired! Why can’t she take care of Madea?”

The escalation of self-talk was a bad sign. I knew that mama and Aunt Delores were going to get into their ongoing argument about taking care of grandma. I also knew that when the argument started no subject would be off limits and I’ve heard enough snide comments about me from my cousins to last me a lifetime; I really don’t need to hear comments directly from the horse’s ass.