Free A Day Late and a Dollar Short by Terry McMillan Page A

delinquent child support. The figure is humiliating and embarrassing: $3,268. Half of it's interest.
    "Where's my mommy?"
    What a bitch Donnetta is. She know 1 ain't working. She know I been living off disability, and I told her I'd send what I could when I could. The problem was, I couldn't. And I haven't. Shit, after I pay my rent and electricity, squeeze in a meal here and there, that's it. This is why I don't have no phone.
    "Where's my mommy?" the kid asks again.
    "I'll get her," I say, turning toward the bedroom, and then I stop dead in my tracks. "What's your name?"
    "Miguel. And I'm hungry. You have Cocoa Puffs?"
    "Navv, but we'll get you something in a minute."
    When I walk into the bedroom, Luisa is still sleep. I want her and her soil outta here as quickly as possible, but I know I need to be nice. My car ain't running-I blew a head gasket over a month ago-and in order to go see Mania, I gotta catch a Greyhound. I know they got a 1135 to Vegas. My only glitch is I gotta borrow the money from Luisa to catch it. I bend down to kiss her on the lips, but her breath stinks so bad from last night that I let my mouth press against her cheek instead. She kinda stirs. "Wake up, baby," I say. "Your son wants you and I ain't got nothing in here for him to eat."
    She struggles to sit up. Her long black hair floats over her shoulders. Her skin looks like gold. She's a pretty woman-about twenty-something-but her body looks much older than she is. She's built like a round square. I met her at a bar a few weeks ago. She asked me to dance, but I don't dance, so we had a few beers and by the fifth or sixth one she asked if she could go home with me. Hell, I was relieved. I don't like sleeping by myself if I don't have to. My mind is too active, and no matter what kind of mood I start out in, I can think or drink myself straight into being depressed. A lot of times when I'm by myself, drunk, I cry. Sometimes I cry in front of women, too. Not on purpose. All I want is a litde empathy, somebody to feel my pain, somebody to listen, to understand my disappointments, my desires-hell, my dreams. Women love men who cry, which is why I've cried in front of a whole lotta different ones. They feel closer to you after you let 'em see you like this. But it ain't no act I'm putting on. It ain't no performance, and most of the time I don't want nothing except their undivided attention, or maybe some pussy to finish off the evening.
    I won't lie. I miss being married. I miss being a father. I miss my son. And I wish I had more than one. I know it's been almost a year since I seen him. And I can't blame nobody but myself for not going out there, but I can't stand the sight of Donnetta these days. It's true I was a litde drunk the las t t ime I went out there and I did cuss her out in front of Jamil, but that's only 'cause she wouldn't let me in since I forgot to call first, and she sent Chuckaluck-her big brother who makes my six-one ass look like a dwarf1-to the door and I did not feel like fucking with him. But I was still fuming, so I broke the windshield outta her car, and she went and got that restraining order and I ain't been back since.
    Sometimes I hate women. Maybe "hate" is too strong a word. I resent their power. Growing up in a house full of nothing but girls helped me see just how manipulative and slick they can be. How far they're willing to go to get their way. How we fall for the okey-doke every single time. My only problem is, they're also my weakness. They're necessary for my survival, which is why I'm rarely without one. I don't care what color they are, except I ain't never slept with a white woman, but that's mosdy because Mexican and black women been keeping me pretty busy. I know how to make women surrender, can talk 'em into just about anything, because I guess I'm handsome, been told I got sex appeal-whatever that shit means-but I'm also intelligent, and on top of everything: I'm a good lay.
    Little Miguel charges into the