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“What the fuck you do to her? Why the fuck is she crying? All you was sposed to do was take her down the street and wait for us.”
    “Yeah,” Roachie said, “but we just got to talking about her man. She started crying. That’s it.”
    Myron says, “That’s it? Man, we all trying to get our dick sucked, why you talking about her man?”
    She’s bawling under the tree talking about how she misses Mikey or some shit. I go over to her, take my dick out, and tell her, “Put this in your mouth; it’ll make you feel better.”
    She starts crying even louder.
    I put my dick away and we leave her there under the tree.

maps of africa
    MY LAST BED WAS HAUNTED . It was my dad’s bed when he lived in LA. He got it from someone else, and when he went back to Detroit, it was mine. I lugged it around town with me from apartment to apartment. I dragged it along.
    I fucked my homegirl on it. The next day, when I was cleaning up the mess, I peeled back the sheet to see a mattress pad covered in stains. She called them types of stains “maps of Africa.” Like if you fuck someone so good, you leave wet marks on the sheets that look like a map of Africa.
    That’s what I’m left with: maps.
    I’ve forgotten half the women who contributed to my mattress. They’ve moved on, got boyfriends, and forgot about me, too. But their marks are still there.
    I stood in the bedroom of my new apartment, the one I was supposed to have gotten with Julie, wet towel in my hand, sopping up this mess I made with somebody else.
    I thought back to an argument Julie and I had had. Shewas sitting on that bed in Burbank, we were yelling at each other. I was hurt about some lame she had slept with when we were broken up. People are gonna fuck who they’re gonna fuck, but some failed rapper turned real estate agent I knew from back home? She couldn’t have fucked an astronaut or somebody worthwhile? She had to fuck a lame from my area code? I was mad she told me about it, I didn’t need to hear about that shit, but since she did, I was grilling her. Where, when, why? How many times? She sat there silent and defiant.
    I said, “Fuck it, I don’t give a fuck who you fuck. You think I care who you fuck? I don’t give a shit. You know how many girls I fucked right there where you sittin’? Right there, in that spot, where you sleep every night? You laying in that shit.”
    She sat there arms crossed on the edge of the bed, right where I had bent over some black hooker and fucked her on her period. Something in me was happy knowing that. She acts like she don’t care. I know she does.
    I was looking at those stains on my bed. My dad’s bed. Thinking about that fight. Looking at all that DNA. Thinking about what a cruel thing that was to say to someone I love.
    I didn’t wanna be able to say that to my next girl.
    I got a new bed now. I’ll make new memories.
    I saw Julie at Target today. She’s lost weight. She was buying travel-size soap and toothpaste. She was reading the labels and didn’t see me. I didn’t want her to.
    I turned around and left the store.
    I thought about where she might be going with her travel-size toothpaste.
    I pushed that out of my mind, told myself to harden the fuck up.



ahab
    EVERY TIME I GO TO flint, i end up at LLT’s, this grimy little strip club on Saginaw. They do a five-dollar lap dance, and I know you shouldn’t go bargain hunting for your tattoos or sex workers, but I just can’t turn down a good deal.
    In my defense, you’ll understand that five bucks isn’t as cheap as it sounds. Flint’s like Detroit except it’s smaller and shittier. It looks like they built a shantytown, dropped bombs on it, and then moved people in. So five bucks in Flint is like ten bucks in Detroit. It’s the Tijuana of the Midwest.
    As plants close and jobs leave Michigan, LLT’s has been a good barometer of how hard the recession has hit. The first time I went there in ’99, I got a lap dance and a hand job from a cute