Like a Woman (8 page)

They got off near 19
^th
and Laurel and circled around to get a better look at their target—Roger's Outdoor World. There were two entrances, a park across the street, a nice back alley, and lots of traffic running on 19
^th
. Their moods were improving by the moment.

“Damn, girl, this is perfect. How'd you find this place?” Jackson asked.

“I seen it last week on my way over to Cindy's and came back to check it out,” Taylor said. She pointed up the street. “See where we are? She's just two blocks down on 21
^st
, okay, so if it all goes cool then we meet over there. Otherwise, back at the lot tonight at ten, okay?”

“Cool,” Jackson nodded. “But I want to eat something first. You know how this shit gives me an appetite.”

Taylor grinned over at Jackson—skinny and tough, always eating like a horse, always down for an adventure.

“Wait here. I'll get us something.” Taylor would do this one alone. If waiting for a bus was difficult when they were together, stealing with a black girl was virtually impossible.

Taylor crossed over to the corner market and made a big production of buying a couple of apples to cover putting sardines and cheese down her pants. “Ya got any of them green apples?” she asked the grocer when he looked her way. “You know, those Granny Smith's?” He half-nodded to her and she was able to shift the sardine can and cheese from her sleeve to her pants while he led her down the produce aisle, backs to the cameras. Taylor and Jackson ate happily under the huge sycamore tree, watching the traffic inside Roger's Outdoor World.

Pretty soon Jackson had it figured out. “See that white fool with the pimples and suit? He's the dick, okay. Let me handle him. Those other two jokers in red vests must be the manager and the clerk. I got them too. Now tell me where you need to be.”

“I figure to be somewhere over near that door in sporting goods,” Taylor said.

“Sporting goods? What kind of shit you be needing in sporting goods?” Jackson frowned, raising her upper lip, narrowing her eyes.

Taylor just smiled. “I got my eye on something for you, baby.”

“Damn, I don't need nothing outta no sporting goods store. Unless, of course, you've got your eye on that nice black ten-speed bike over there. I could use me one of those fine things.” Jackson raised her right eyebrow. “But hey, I'll just do my thing and you do yours.” She finished off the last of the sardines. “C'mon. Let's do it.”

“Where you gonna be?” Taylor asked.

Jackson laughed. “There's only one place for a black girl in a sporting goods store and that's in the firearms section. It just makes white people crazy to see a nigga anywhere near their guns. Those boys will be on my ass like white on rice and you can do whatever it is you're needing to do so bad you can't hardly stop grinning. Go on in and check it out and I'll come in about three or four minutes.”

Taylor stood up and tucked in the pink ruffled blouse Jackson called her “white girl stealing shirt.” She combed her hair, something she never did unless she was going to steal, and gave Jackson a wink and a grin. She left her the bulky jacket and headed over to Roger's Outdoor World.

“Can I help you, little lady?”

It just killed her when these fools called her “little lady” or “ma'am.”
This shirt is fucking magic
, she thought to herself.

“Yes, sir. I was kind of hoping to find a nice case for my daddy's hunting knife. It's his birthday coming up.” Taylor thought about Jackson's favorite knife that her brother had brought her from Ghana—the intricately carved black handle and the flashing six-inch blade that she kept so damn sharp it cut right through the oily rags she wrapped around it. Taylor had planned on getting her a fancy leather case, but now that Jackson laid down a dare on that damn ten-speed bike, there was only one thing to do.

She followed the bald head in the red vest over to the cabinet where they kept the knives and cases, noticing that the bikes were not only
not
chained together but they were also ridiculously close to the side entrance with an overhead sign reading
THIS DOOR TO REMAIN UNLOCKED DURING BUSINESS HOURS
.

Damn, there is a god
, Taylor laughed to herself.
This is gonna be too fucking easy. It looks like there's even some air in the tires
.

“Oh, sir, I really like this one,” she smiled, pointing to the black case with turquoise beadwork. She hadn't seen Jackson come in, but she could feel her presence and had noticed both the pimple-faced suit and the other red vest move quickly over to firearms.

Her bald red vest was becoming much less attentive so she figured he had spotted Jackson as well. He took out the black leather case, cradling it in soft, pudgy hands. “Now, this
is
a pretty one. You got good taste, little lady. I know your daddy would really like this one, but it will cost you quite a few weeks of allowance money.”

“Oh, I've been saving up for this,” Taylor crooned. Then the call came over the loudspeaker for manager assistance in the firearms section. Taylor wished she could go over and watch Jackson in action, but she knew this was her move. The red vest excused himself and said he'd let her decide.

“Thank you for all your help. I think I can take care of myself now.”

It was all too easy. Taylor had the knife case in her pocket and was out the door on Jackson's new bicycle in less than a minute. She didn't think anyone was after her, but she tore through the alley down to 23
^rd
before circling back to Cindy's garage just to be sure. Waiting for Jackson, she checked out the bike, thinking,
Damn, leave it to that girl to pick out the best damn bike in the place from two hundred yards away
.

“Nice bike.” Jackson was leaning up against the door, smiling.

Taylor blushed, startled. “I got it for you, baby.”

“They just made that too damn easy,” Jackson said. “My mama always said fools be so busy watching out for black folks that they never see the white ones robbing them blind.”

“I'm not sure this is exactly what your mama had in mind.” Taylor laughed.

“Yeah, whatever. It works. Anyway, I got something for you too, baby.” Jackson pulled something out from under her jacket and handed it to Taylor.

“Hot damn, it's a fucking tool belt,” Taylor exclaimed. “It's beautiful! Check out this leather. I gotta steal me some more tools for all these little holders. What you think goes in here? How the hell did you get this out?”

“Well, those three boys were so busy chasing some skinny white girl on a bicycle down the street, I just figured, what the hey, and helped myself.” Jackson paused. “Probably shoulda gotten me a gun while I was at it.”

“You're the best.”

“Yeah, guess I am.”

the mother sucks the baby's marrow

the mother sucks the baby's marrow out of her existence. the baby curls into her pain, fetal, futile. body closed, eyes closed, mouth closed in toothless grip on tiny pink thumb, feeding herself. little mouth sucking sounds like puppies on a teat. the young girl gnaws her nails down low, biting torn and crooked bits and spitting them away. “I AM NOT GIRL. I AM NOT PRETTY.” eyes glaring. mouth working like a wolf caught in a cold steel trap, leaving its leg behind. the woman's mouth, too, reaches for fingers and nails. a lineage of pain eating at the hunger. because mouths don't think about what it is they're doing. because mouths reach blind for whatever is at hand
.

like a woman

The other girls tell me I am going to have to dress like a woman if I'm going to make it on the street. “Screw you.” I laugh. “I've been fucked all my life and I've never had to wear a dress yet.”

“Just tryin' to help you out, girl,” they call out as they walk on down Santa Monica Boulevard, ankles bowed out over wobbly spike heels, popping their gum and adjusting their spaghetti-strap bras as if they had something special going on down there. Don't none of us 'cept Lisa have any tits yet, and even if I had 'em I wasn't about to go dressin' in no drag shit. For one thing, it costs too much and I've got better things to do with my money. And for another thing I can't hardly walk in that shit, much less run. Or fight. Some girls can, though. I seen one girl whip off those fuck-me pumps and bust some motherfucker trying to get something for nothing across the side of his head quicker than I could have cracked his nuts. Said she fucked up his eardrum 'cause she got the pointy part right inside his earhole and see, check out that blood, girl. I think she was just feeling good 'cause she got his wallet, messed him up and didn't even break a heel.

It was good for me, 'cause she made a buy with the joker's money. That was before I was living on the streets. I just came down to deal, mostly pot but sometimes opium and acid. You had to carry if you wanted to run the serious shit and it wasn't my style. They all laughed and called me Mahatma 'cause I was always reading Gandhi and Thoreau and shit about nonviolence and revolution and civil disobedience, but we was all tight anyway. We watched each other's backs and they knew I could fight like a motherfuckin' crazy person if I got pushed too far or somebody I hung out with was being messed up. There was no doubt but that I'd kill somebody if I had a gun, so it was better to just stick to dealing pot and reading my books. I had a lot of reading to do.

So, yeah, now I'm working the trade. I didn't particularly want to but there aren't exactly a lot of career opportunities for fifteen year-old girls living on the streets of L.A. The truth is, I was getting fucked anyway so I figured I might as well get paid for it, right? You couldn't sleep anywhere without waking up to find some guy's dick poking around looking for some hole, didn't matter which one. Seems like ever since I can remember I been waking up to find some big hairy thing climbing on or off of me. I got tired of it and thought, hell, I can't get any sleep anyway, I'm going to make somebody pay for this shit. At least now I'm calling the shots and making some money. And I was right. Don't need no fancy drag dress. There is plenty of trade. I do all right. Lots of hairy guys just dying to pay for bait. Tell me I remind them of their daughter and then tell me how they want me to fuck them. They got some messed-up shit, man, but the money's good. Better than working at McDonalds, right?

The White Girl

The white girl seems unaware of how the men are looking at her. That's the first thing I notice about her. She does not engage the eyes of the men. Unless, of course, they are looking for drugs. A friend of Trina's, the white girl comes down to the boulevard to deal. She feeds only the hunger for the drugs; ignores the other hungers, ignores the eyes that want her. The fact that she is not soliciting the men makes them want her even more.

I see everything, even myself—a black girl watching the white girl ignoring the men who are watching her, wanting her. I spit and gently finger my knife. There is something slightly dangerous about this skinny white girl who strides the streets in her heavy boots and possible ignorance, half looking like she owns the territory, half looking like she's just landed from another planet. “Jackson, baby, you just leave that white girl be,” my mama warns me. “White girl like that like to get you killed.”

We know it's just a matter of time before the white girl can no longer ignore the eyes of the men and soon she too is selling more than drugs. I watch the eyes of the men in the Pontiacs, Chryslers, and Fords cruise slowly by, watching the girls who pretend to not be watching them. Sometimes the car slows in front of the black girl and I take a long last drag off my cigarette, straighten my tube top and walk over to the open passenger window, clicking the heels of my boots hard against the pavement, determined to make this white man pay for his desire. I watch it all, even as I feel the white boots pinch my feet, even as I smell the booze, aftershave, and lust pour out the trick's open window.

Sometimes the car slows in front of Trina, Francine, or Jo-Jo— the Puerto Rican, white, and half-Chinese girls. “We've got all the flavors right here on this one block,” Trina laughs, calling out to the men. All the girls are young; all the men are not. Sometimes the car slows in front of the strange new white girl and the other girls suck their teeth and frown. “What they want her for anyway?” they complain. “She don't even look like a girl.”

The white girl never wears dresses, never wears heels or makeup. I watch her close. She keeps to herself, fights at the drop of a dime. Fights like a pit bull. Uses her fists as well as her palm. Kicks those heavy black boots fierce and quick as hooves. Keeps an easy grip on her knife, says, “Come on, motherfucker, come on in.” Her hands are strong; nails chewed to the quick. I see everything. The white girl stands on the corner with her striped t-shirt tight against her small breasts, her hands shoved deep into the pockets of her black jeans. And the men slow down, circle back around.

“Oh, she's a girl, all right,” I tell the others. “Even though she doesn't dress much like one.” The men want her because they can see she doesn't want them and yet still they get to have her. That kind of desire cannot be contained. And the white girl makes them pay for their desire, even as she struggles to maintain control over it.

For she does not understand their desire, has not yet learned to use it against them. She only knows to fight or yield. The white girl is tough as nails, but my mama is right—there's a lot she doesn't know. My mama says, “Only white folks can walk around that ignorant and survive. A black girl that arrogant and that ignorant, she'd be dead in a week.”

One day I see the white girl pinned up against the wall behind the 7-11, some john trying to steal what he should be paying for. The white girl's head is bleeding, nodding forward and then back against the brick wall. Her knife is gone. I take mine out from my boot and look around. Trina crosses the street to stand guard and cover me. “You gonna do him?” she asks.