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Chapter 8: Easy Like Sunday Morning?
The Morning After Next
(about 8:46am)
It was barely 9:00am and everyone was up. Well, Tommy was. Tommy hated late sleepers. He found it unfair that while common people had the luxury of sleeping in late, whereas it was seldom when he could get a good rest, knowing there was so much work and business to be taken care of. He went outside in front of the house and took out his rocket launcher.
"ka-boom!" Said the rocket launcher. This startled his daughter from a good night's sleep. In a panic, she jumped out of the bed and fell hard on the floor.
"Damn…" she groaned, rubbing her head and sides to ease them from the impact. She put on some flip-flops, walked out her room and headed outside in her swish pants, wife-beater and headscarf.
"Whaaaaaaaat?" Moda asked with a sleepy drawl, shielding her eyes from the sunlight.
"I'm going to work today, kid…" Tommy said, stashing his rocket launcher in the back of the Infernus.
'Big fuckin' whoop!' Moda thought as she stood with a blank face, which quickly turned into a scowl. She sighed, turned around and started to stomp back inside the house.
"Hey! I was still talkin' to you!" Tommy yelled. She turned back around and approached him. "I don't know why you have such a pissy attitude but you're gonna hafta' suck it up!"
Moda rolled her eyes when Tommy wasn't looking.
"While I'm gone, I need you to collect the assets for me, okay?" he said then handed her a crumpled piece of paper with a list of his assets on it. Moda snatched the list and stomped back into the house. "Make sure you're armed and that you take that little puissant with you!" he shouted.
"The hell is your problem?" Tommy mumbled, watching her retreating figure.
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On her way upstairs, Moda decided it'd be best to kill two birds with one stone and visit Claude. She walked into the den to see lil' Claude laying face-up on a couch. He was wearing his cargo pants and had his jacket covering his upper-body like a throw blanket. He did have a major case of bed-head but was still cute none-the-less. Moda smiled then snapped out of her daydreaming. She gently poked Claude on the shoulder.
"Hey…Claude…wake up…" she whispered softly, while poking him harder and harder. Eventually, his brown eyes fluttered open to see her. He flinched, but did little more than that.
"I don't blame him, he ain't really got to sleep since he's been here…" Moda thought then backed out the room, heading to hers to get dressed.
While in her room (which by the way, was a mess), she sniffed the air and was punched in the face by a foul, humid, scent. The scent of all the clothes she had worn this week. Not that her clothes were actually dirty, she just wished she hadn't worn a different body spray with each outfit she chose.
"That's it, it's time to do some damn laundry…" she thought, gathering her Chanel No.5, Cucumber Melon and Hazelnut Coffee scented clothes into two trash bags.
As she placed her belongings into the black, plastic sack, she also came to the realization that Tommy didn't keep any laundry appliances in the house and she'd be damned if she were to hand wash her clothes in the tub. She also realized that she didn't remember every seeing any Laundromats in Vice City except for…wait…no. She couldn't go there…Tommy wouldn't allow it! But then, who knows when Tommy would be back from God-knows-where and he never goes into Little Haiti except to collect money, which he had asked her to do anyway. But then again, he'd be even more pissed if he somehow discovered that she went alone, seeing as how she didn't want to disturb Claude.
After some intensive thinking, she came up with an ingenious idea. Or at least it was to her.
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Moda's P.O.V.
"Dear-Old-Dad" had requested that I drive around the whole of the damn city and collect some of the revenues. I didn't mind that much but was it really necessary for me to be up at quarter-past-dawn? I was sure he didn't appreciate my attitude, but damnit I wanted to sleep in!
I needed to do some laundry but the only Laundromat in the entire city is in the "Bowels Of Hell" as Tommy usually described Little Haiti. Now, being a bystander-slash-participant in the small rumble we had outside the Ice Cream factory a week ago, I can safely assume that they know my face. If I were to clean my clothes and return home safely in one piece, that would have to change.
The most important thing that can distinguish a Haitian from an average black person is their shade of brown. Haitians have notoriously black skin. I was never known as "yellow" but compared to them, you could call me "Lite Brite". So to fix this, I used the darkest foundation I had and spread it evenly over my face, neck and some of my arms. I wasn't as dark as a true Haitian, but I could pass.
Another thing…I look a little too high-class to be considered a Haitian. I've seen them. They remind me of the ghetto children I used to play with and even look like back in Ohio. Just an average t-shirt and jeans, usually dirty from 'rasslin' in the mud, torn from rough-housing on the concrete…Although I didn't have anything "rough", I did however possess an original Haitian gang t-shirt. I had found it in the trunk of the Infernus one day after I went shopping but of course I ain't mention that to Tommy.
I dug in my drawer, found it and put on the over-sized t-shirt, royal purple in color with the word "RELAX" printed in big, bold, white letters. The shirt was huge and looked like a parachute on me so I took the liberty of tying it back into a knot, exposing a little midriff in the process. I dug in my drawer again and found some baggy, Heather-gray sweatpants to wear. I put those on and rolled them up to the shin of my leg. I also walked into the closet and put on the crappiest shoes I had purchased. Some navy-blue, closed-toe, straw-wedge, lace-up sandals, completed my disguise perfectly…almost.
I looked in the mirror again. Since when did anyone ever see a Haitian with smooth, shiny, hair? Haitian hair is coarse, dull, and pretty much poorly-maintained (when not in dreadlocks or in a scarf). Now no amount of dirty clothes could force me to jeopardize the hereditary "Monroe-nice-hair" gene. Luckily, a few years back, one of my neighbors had taught me to braid hair. I used my amateur skills to braid my own hair into cornrows. They looked nice, except all of the hair I had missed on my forehead. No matter, I just combed it with my fingers to the sides of my face.
Now I believe I could pass for a Haitian…Dark skin, gang shirt, bummy pants and shoes, braided hair, oh yeah…I was ready.
End Chapter
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How was that? I had finally got an idea for a twist in the story so I decided to come back to work. R&R. Love ya!