Call Me Baby #2: Side B

Track No. 9 Wanted DeadAlive — Acoustic Version （Bon Jovi）

CONFESSIONAL BOOTH

“Yeah, I know Andrew Harding.

He found my sister, Marianna—sweetest soul in all of Union City.

Put his mouth on her, then dipped.

She ain’t pretty.

I get to say that, ‘cause I’m her brother.

Marianna’s got that face that makes people squint when lookin’ for a compliment—a round face with her chin meltin’ into her neck, flat-as-hell nose, hair always hangin’ depressed and limp. Hate to say ugly, so I’ll just say what it is: she’s no one’s type.

But she’s a sweetheart, and that’s her curse.

Thinks if she’s a good person, maybe some motherfucker’ll stay.

She buys mugs for her coworkers at the dentist’s office off Palisade that say you’re magic or brave is beautiful for no reason other than that’s how she is. Grabs you Starbucks on her way to see you—shit like that.

I warned her, too. Told her straight up, stay away from any guy givin’ you attention.

‘Cause they ain’t interested in Marianna. They’re interested in her kindness… money… a quick fuck if they’re desperate enough.

Then Andrew fuckin’ Harding strolls in. Next thing I know, she’s sittin’ in our kitchen, huggin’ a mug, starin’ at the wall, daydreamin’ about the kid comin’ back.

‘Frankie,’ she said, serious as hell, ‘he said I was sexy.’

Sexy. I choked on my pork roll—Taylor ham, if you’re one of those North-South Jersey debate types—spit half of it into the sink. ‘Sexy? Nah, Mare. You sure he wasn’t jokin’? He say that shit with a straight face?’

She goes, ‘He meant it.’

Dead serious, for an hour, she laid it all on me, talked nonstop, man. Kept sayin’ she’s gonna wait for him. Even if he don’t want her, she’s gonna try meetin’ people. Put herself out there ‘cause now she ain’t scared.

All I hear? More guys who’ll take and leave. More nights of her cryin’. More rejections. More of her gettin’ used.

That’s when I knew this guy seriously fucked with her head.

‘Cause once Marianna believes somethin’? She don’t let go. She’d make excuses for a hurricane if it said sorry. Could show her a video of a guy robbin’ a bodega and she’d be like, ‘But maybe he’s just tryin’ to feed his family.’

Her puttin’ herself out there? Shit’s dangerous for someone like her.

And this guy?

This legendary Andrew Harding?

Didn’t fuck her or ask for head.

Nah. Didn’t even try to get his dick wet.

Had to hear what happened through some girl from the block, ‘cause Mare sure as shit wasn’t tellin’ me.

He went down on her for an hour, man. Some Make-A-Bitch-Come Foundation.

An’ it ain’t only about him ghostin’ her or fillin’ her head with hope.

It’s that part that don’t sit right with me.

‘Cause who in their right mind stays down there for an hour, then walks away?

You tellin’ me that’s normal? Nah.

Somethin’s deeply wrong with that motherfucker. Real deviant shit. ‘Cause you gotta be real sick to make a girl feel like she’s the only one in the world, say shit like ‘you’re sexy’ while your tongue’s in her, then bounce.

And Marianna? She knows she ain’t pretty. Ain’t had a guy look at her without wincin’ since sophomore year.

Now she thinks there’s hope. More guys out there just like him. And that fucker—Andrew Harding? He knew exactly what he was doin’. He knew what that hook-up would’ve meant to her. He knew she’d cling to it, and he gave it to her anyway.

Which makes him worse than the usual scumbags.

He ain’t a player. He’s a psychopath.

So yeah, I wanted him to look me in the eye and admit he’s a creep. A sadist lowlife with a Jesus complex who gets off on makin’ ugly girls feel special, only to rip it away.

I wanted him to admit he knew exactly what he was doin’.

And admit he fuckin’ liked it.

Then a few weeks later, I catch him outside Brino’s.

It wasn’t planned. I’m not that theatrical. Was on my way home from grabbin’ a slice when I saw him through the window. He had his elbows on the bar, that cocky-ass smirk, and some chick with big-ass hoops in his ear.

So I stood there in the alley by the trash, waitin’.

Ten, twelve minutes go by, an’ he comes out solo—light jacket, hood down, keys jinglin’ in his hand. Didn’t check his surroundings, didn’t even look up—one of them boys who never had to.

I stepped out. ‘Yo.’

He clocked me right away, slowed up, and I swear to God—he gave me that dumb civil nod like we was passin’ each other on JFK, as if he ain’t played my sister.

‘You fucked her up, bro.’

He had the audacity to look confused—brows all pinched, diggin’ through his memory to figure out which girl I'm talkin' about. Which girl. Can you imagine thinkin’, huh, I wonder which sad bitch I broke this week?

‘You got her waitin’ on your ass, man. For weeks. Got her hopes up an’ shit.’

That’s when it hit him.

Right there behind his eyes.

You ever see regret knock the wind outta someone? It was that.

So I swung. One clean punch straight to the stomach, and I felt that shit ring up my arm. Fucker was built like a steel beam—abs like bricks.

He doubled over, hands on knees, coughin’.

And I didn’t wanna stop. I got right up on him, grabbed the collar of his jacket. ‘A fuckin’ hour?’ I said, shovin’ him up against brick. ‘You did that to her, for what? Huh? You sick piece of shit.’

He stared past me, breathin’ hard through his nose to stay calm, actin’ like I was the one losin’ it.

‘The fuck’s wrong with you?’ I shoved him again. ‘You some kind of addict? That it? Addicted to eatin’ pussy?’ I cracked him across his jaw to feel somethin’ give.

His head whipped left, blood trailin’ off his lip. He didn’t wipe it, lettin' it drip with a half-dead smile hangin’ there.

‘You got off on it, didn’t you? You sick skinny-ass motherfucker.’ My spit was flyin’ in his face, an’ he didn’t flinch once.

‘Goin’ down gets you bustin’ in your jeans? That why you eat any pussy with a pulse?’ I shook my head. ‘Probably wouldn’t need a pulse, huh? You sick fuck.’

I hated him more for not fightin’ back, for makin’ it feel like I was beatin’ a corpse. I spit on his Nikes, then shoved him so hard he bounced off the bricks.

He stumbled back, rightin’ himself.

His face was a mess—a bleedin’ statue in a cold-ass alley.

He never said a word, so I walked.

‘Cause if I stayed?

I was gonna fuckin’ kill him.

And I ain’t goin’ down for that piece of shit.

NO. 06: THE SMUG SON OF A BITCH

// GINO; VANESSA’S EX FIANCEE - OCT ’22 - SUNOCO GAS STATION - NEWARK, NJ //

“Harding? Oh Jesus, here we fuckin’ go.

Ayo, lemme set the fuckin’ scene for you: Bronx boy in Brick City on a Wednesday night, tryna gas up and bounce.

I come strollin’ outta the Sunoco off 21 with my usual: grape Arizona, Hot Fries, and a thick-ass grudge I ain’t know I still had simmerin’, and lo an’ fuckin’ behold I see this skinny-ass punk posted up on his dusty Civic, pumpin’ gas while scrollin’ on his phone, hoodie up and head down like he famous.

At first? Didn’t pay no attention to him. He was background noise with one of those punchable pretty-boy faces. Didn’t recognize him at first.

But yo, some faces? You feel it in your fists before your brain catches up. Then I see the Jersey lean and those fucked-up, heavy eyes—half-shut, post-pussy nap eyes. And I’m like nah. Nah. Can’t be him, bro.

But it was that motherfucker.

Been waitin’ months to cross paths with this piece’a shit—months.

This the same Jersey lowlife who bent Vanessa over her own goddamn Camry. Same trunk I used to lean on after teachin’ her how to parallel park up in the Heights. He had her gettin’ her ass ate while she’s sneakin’ a smoke break behind Popeyes. Meanwhile, she got a whole ring waitin’ on layaway.

And me? I’m payin’ for her lashes, her Uber Eats, got her on my Spotify Premium and Netflix accounts, thinkin’ we buildin’ a future, tellin’ my moms she’s the one.

Meanwhile she’s out here gettin’ her pussy licked between fried chicken orders by this wannabe playboy with a five-dollar chain and a Honda soundin’ like it’s got asthma.

I ain’t say nothin’ at first and watched his ass while I pumped my gas, hand grippin’ the nozzle like a .45, tryna keep my pulse from tappin’ outta my throat. Then I ditched the act, walked straight up to him.

‘Yo, you Harding?’

This guy looks up with them droopy-ass lids, an’ he goes, ‘Who’s askin’?’

Fuckin’ Jersey boys—always actin’ calm ‘til you knock their teeth out.

Shit got me heated. ‘Cause my girl cried when she told me what happened. Said he was all talkin’ in her ear, ‘Don’t overthink it,’ right before he went down. Told her, ‘If your fiancé don’t eat your pussy better than me? Leave his ass.’

I got up on him real close, nose to nose. ‘You had the nerve to take advantage of my girl, then never even finished the job.’

His brows bunch up all confused on his lazy-ass face. ‘Couldn’t’ve been me, bro.’ Then he leaned in like we boys. ‘I always fuckin’ finish.’

I snapped with a swing.

One punch, knuckles to the mouth, his head jerkin’ sideways.

He stumbled back, hawked blood right by the squeegee bucket, then wiped his lip with the sleeve of his raggedy-ass hoodie.

‘Don’t front. Had to cancel the whole wedding.’ I narrowed my eyes with a cocked head. ‘Wanna know how much money I lost from that shit?’

This smug sonofabitch looks me dead in the eye, and goes, ‘Yo—whoever your girl was? She begged for it. I don’t go lookin’, man. She came to me. If I would’ve known? I woulda walked. Swear t’God. I don’t touch another man’s girl. She wasn’t wearin’ a ring and she ain’t say nothin’.’

Felt my temples throbbin’. ‘You smilin’? You think this shit’s a joke?’

I shoved his ass, bounced the punk off the pump, an’ he righted himself, all Jersey-proud, glancin’ at the Sunoco sign off the road. ‘Nah,’ he said, wipin’ the blood off his lip with his thumb. ‘But your girl? She’s hilarious. Real committed.’ He lifted his chin. ‘Real wife material.’

Yo, no lie—straight tunnel vision.

‘You really gon’ talk about my fiancée like she’s some side-street slut?’

He held up a hand to stop me. ‘Yo, yo—hold up,’ he said with a fuckin’ grin. ‘You mean ex-fiancée, right?’