The only time I see all of ’em at one time is when somebody die, get married, or we have a so-called family reunion—which we ain’t had since ’91. I ain’t been out to visit nobody going on seven years, but that’s only ’cause my cash flow’s been tied up in these Laundromats and I had to remodel the kitchen. It seem like it’s always something going on around here that slurps up all my time, and we don’t even wanna mention money.

Which is something we could use a lot more of. This is one reason why I’m investigating certain mail-order businesses. There’s thousands of low-cost start-up opportunities out here, all you gotta do is take a little time, do your homework, and figure out how to get one going. It ain’t no reason why we gotta settle for being middle-class when we can move into a whole ’nother income bracket if we just picked up the pace. But I got more energy in my big toe than Al got in his whole body, except of course when it come to sex. Most of the time he’s downright sluggish when it come to getting off his ass and thinking fast on his feet. He don’t miss work, I’ll give him that much credit. But I done told him a million times: I’m not gon’ be living in this imitation house when I retire. No sirree. We can do better than this. Much better than this.

The portable phone is just there, staring at me. On one hand, I feel bad for not calling Mama before now. Yeah, it was me who slammed the phone down in her face, but she was yelling at me like I was somebody in the street.

And so what if I didn’t go to college. Janelle and Lewis never finished neither. I’m the only one who ain’t been divorced. I ain’t never slept with nobody’s husband. I didn’t marry no low-life pretending to be no lawyer. I ain’t never done no kinda drugs and don’t have no bad habits worth mentioning. I ain’t never had to call her collect or ask her for no money—for nothing, really—except maybe to watch the kids when they was little, and even then, I paid her.

I’ve done everything in my power to prove to Mama that I’m just as smart and just as capable as Paris, but she just gotta put her on a pedestal, like her shit don’t stink. Paris ain’t no saint. And she ain’t hardly perfect. Yeah, she can cook. But so what? I can burn, too. She ain’t the only one in this family who can read a damn recipe. The only reason she in the position she in is ’cause she know people who know people. These the ones I heard buy her fancy food. But, hell, anybody can start a catering business. If I just wanted to, I could, too. But food don’t mean all that much to me.

Now, Janelle is the one Mama should be handing out advice to by the plateful, ’cause she’s the one with no damn sense, no scruples, and no major ambitions whatsoever. They got books out about women like her, being codependent and shit. She screwed her way to middle-class. She sent me pictures of where she live. Didn’t look like nobody even lived in the damn house. It looked like one of those model homes, only Janelle got weird taste. No class. No taste. No pizzazz.