No, homo…but the nigga’s got real flava. And at fifty-two, Pops looks like he’s still in his early forties, hands down. A nigga can’t front. I’m glad he gave up all that drinkin’ and feelin’ sorry for his ass. It was startin’ to make him look real weak ’n shit. And it got way outta hand when he started wakin’ up and hittin’ the bottle first thing in the muthafuckin’ mornin’. Man, listen. All he did was drink, curse, complain and keep an army of bitches runnin’ in and outta here when he wasn’t passed the fuck out. It’s surprisin’ he held down a job wit’ all that drinkn’ ’n shit. But he got his ass up and went to work e’ery damn day, hung over or not. And get this. He worked as a plant foreman for the Budweiser distillery in Newark. Ain’t that some shit? A muthafuckin’ alcoholic workin’ at a damn beer company! And his ass didn’t even drink the shit.

I guess livin’ in a house wit’ a drunk wasn’t all bad, though. For one, Pops didn’t stress me ’bout no bullshit-ass rules like my moms did. As long as I followed my curfew and took my ass to school, it was all gravy. I could bring chicks to the house and crack this nut up in ’em anytime I wanted. I played varsity ball in high school—all four years, which kept the bitches on my dick. And I even got offered scholarships to play at St. John’s, Syracuse, Howard, Norfolk State, and Hampton. Of course a nigga went to Hampton, and flunked out after two years ’cause I was too busy tryna major in pussy, instead of takin’ my ass to class. But don’t get it fucked up; a nigga ain’t stupid.

“When’d you get in?” I ask. “I didn’t hear the alarm chirp.”

He’s standin’ in front of me wearin’ a white Norfolk State University T-shirt with the green and gold emblem on the front, faded blue jeans and a crisp pair of white-on-white Air Force Ones. I can tell he’s been to the barber today. He’s sportin’ a fresh shape-up, and his mustache and goatee are neatly trimmed. The one carat in his left ear is blingin’. He even got on some smell-good. I bet he got some pussy lined up for tonight.