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7 MILE & HELL

 

 

 

Rashindah Watson hated Seven Mile Road. It was a bad place. This was true even though streets were not people. They were dirt, concrete and lines of colored paint, but if there was ever a street that deserved to be reviled, it was this one, she thought.

The cold night rose around her and she could sense the last of winter leaving Detroit. The wind still held onto its chill but you could smell spring just beneath the odors of the city.

Rashindah had made sure she parked below a working streetlight. She had done so without a moment’s thought. She was born and bred in the city and so her head was full of the mantras of survival. Do this and live, do that and take the risk.

She sat in her warm car not too far from the freeway and waited for her friend. That boy was always late, she thought.

A Mary J. Blige song murmured under the sounds from the engine and her lungs were filled with the sour sting of the joint she’d just finished.

“I’m gon’ kill him,” she said out loud to herself as she checked the time again and turned the song up louder.

In Rashindah’s brief twenty-five years, Seven Mile had become a symbol for everything she despised about Detroit.

First, there was always some bullshit going on. If it wasn’t the lowlife drug boys, slinging dope and shooting folk, it was the random thieves who might hurt you just for a damned cell phone or the broke, lowlife neighborhood regulars who were always in your face, trying to screw you without a rubber because they thought all black women were so desperate that they had no standards.

Second, the street itself was whack. It was narrow and always in need of repair. The long winters left potholes big enough to eat your tires and cracks so long and wide that you felt like you were driving on a tightrope, her mother used to say.

At least, that’s what her mama, Donna, said before she was gunned down on Van Dyke near Seven Mile. Fool never even gave her mother a chance. He didn’t say, “Get out the car,” or nothing. He had just shot her and tossed her body aside, like she was garbage. Goddamned crystal meth made crack look like a puppy, she thought grimly.

After her mother was gone, Rashindah went to live with her Aunt Joyce, a Bible-thumping disciplinarian with a drinking habit.

Rashindah noticed that a lot of religious people drank too much. She could remember pastors with a liquor smell wafting from their smooth-talking mouths and Acolytes with their cute white gloves and silver flasks in their purses. She wondered how many smiling Sunday morning faces and Holy Ghost Riders were really just inspired by the power of Johnny Walker. The only question was, did the drink drive them to God or did God drive them to drink?

The church was no refuge for Rashindah. Everything the good church folk did, was undone by the bad church people, including the pastors who were downright notorious.

She missed her mother but Rashindah was used to loss. The first time she saw her father, he was in a casket. She had only been five but the memory was burned into her. She saw a friend get shot in a fight at school and knew at least ten other people who had died or been killed. Yes, she new loss and she bet that it knew her, too.

It didn’t take long for Rashindah to find out life with her Aunt Joyce would be hard. Joyce would drink herself silly and then play gospel records and scream to God to forgive her sin. And the only sin Aunt Joyce ever committed besides getting shit-faced was Jerry Jenkins who lived three streets over. The two had been screwing for years even though Mr. Jenkins had three kids and a wife.

Many nights, Rashindah lay awake listening to the bed thump in the adjacent room and her aunt’s muffled moans of pleasure. Once, she summoned up the courage to peek through the door and saw her Aunt Joyce bent over with the big man behind her heaving like a bear.

The sight of it had hypnotized her twelve-year-old eyes but her stomach was hot and it felt good somehow. That’s what sex was, she thought. It was silly looking and yet it was fascinating at the same time.

Her own sexual awakening had come a year later with Sean, a local boy who had given her things and taken her to the movies for half a year waiting to get some.

She gave in to Sean in his basement while his parents were out. She didn’t remember much about it, only that it hurt for a while and then it was better. But the best thing about it was the power she had over Sean after it was done. The fifteen-year-old boy followed her around like a puppy dog and did everything she asked. She could be mean, sweet or dismissive and he’d just keep following her with that eternal longing in his eyes.

Rashindah soon realized that her power extended to all boys. Soon, Sean was gone, replaced by older and richer boys who bought her more than McDonalds and movies. She was getting watches, jewelry, electronic gadgets, clothes and of course, cash. And for what? Letting them pleasure her. Hell, half the time she would have got with the boy for the fun of it, but that wasn’t how the game was played.

While Rashindah was learning, she had to go to church three nights a week and all day Sunday. She did it because Aunt Joyce would beat her ass if she even looked like she didn’t love the Lord. And every time she did beat her, she’d quote the same line and give her that damned Bible to read.

Donna, her mother, had been gentle, sweet and kind. It always puzzled Rashindah how her mother’s sister could be of the same blood and yet be so evil.

Rashindah’s going to church kept Joyce happy and distracted. She never guessed that Rashindah really didn’t have a part-time babysitting job that paid for all the things she suddenly had.

Rashindah endured five long years of forced sermons and playing the local boys until she became of age. When she was old enough to leave her aunt, the evil street claimed her.

Barely eighteen, she moved out of the house and in with a man named Nathan, who gave her money for sex but came so quickly that it hardly seemed like work. It wasn’t a perfect life but she had a car, and all the current clothes.

When she thought about it, this was the best time of her life. She was popular, satisfied and for the most part, happy. Then coming home from a party one night, Rashindah was robbed and beaten near the hated street. Thank God there was only one man because she managed to fight him off and escape with ripped underwear, a swollen face and a stolen purse.

After this, she’d gotten a gun, learned to use it and now never went anywhere without it.

Rashindah moved on from Nathan after getting a job as a waitress in one of the strip clubs on Eight Mile, a street that was Seven Mile’s retarded brother in her opinion.

At the club, a very clean and rather elegant place called Apples, Rashindah watched the dancers shake, grind and bend over for strange men. They made a lot of money but that could never be her thing, she thought. It was dishonest, a low-rent tease. She was much more noble. She would do you straight up for the right the price.

It was better to be a waitress, she found. She tipped around on her high heels in an ultra short skirt and a sheer top. When she saw a man who looked like a baller, she’d make herself available. The truth was, many men liked to look at strippers but felt that they were dirty and didn’t trust having sex with them.

So Rashindah would let the men get horny off the show and then she’d close in for the kill.

She sidelined as a hooker and always kept her business tight. Rashindah screwed the eager men and would even go down on them if they were particularly nice.

She hooked up once with an NBA player from Philly and thought briefly that he might change her life. This dream was dashed when he suggested that she have sex with him and one of his teammates.

She knew then that no man would be her salvation and closed her mind to it and along with it, her heart. Men were just to be used for as long as you could play them. All they cared about was their need to get off. This defeated every notion of decency and morality they possessed. Whether it was some father of three getting head behind his wife’s back or some businessman who wanted to bang you on his lunch break, they were all weak-minded freaks that could be had for a little fleshy fun.

Now she had a list of regulars, dealers, businessmen and even some local celebrities. But none of them meant anything to her. It was all business.

Rashindah dreamed of getting out, going to New York or somewhere glamorous like that, starting over a new life as a model with a nice, darkly handsome man who could keep it up and who would love her despite her sins.

This dream was reinforced every time Rashindah looked in the mirror. She was a beautiful girl. The only thing her father had ever given her was his genes, but they helped transform her into a gorgeous specimen.

Rashindah was five nine and had very long legs. She was medium brown, just dark enough for her skin to contrast her light brown eyes, another inheritance from her father who was of mixed race. Her body was toned and shapely from her devotion to athletics in school. She wore her hair straight and long and had recently purchased a high-end weave that was almost undetectable.

Her mother had been a lovely woman, too, but she squandered it on a parade of worthless men. In fact, her mother’s whole life had been one big struggle, a fight between the strong gravity of fate and hope’s slim promise. In the end, some half-assed addict with a big gun and a tiny brain stole Donna Watson’s life and the world just kept turning.

Her life would be different, Rashindah thought. Her Grandmother Bessie had been a cook and maid all of her life. Donna and Joyce hadn’t been much more, working for the county in low-grade jobs.

To Rashindah it was evolution: Bessie was an old southern name linked to the bondage of their past. Donna, her mother’s name, was a feeble attempt by black folks to give their kids whiteness. But her name, Rashindah, was Arabic for “Rightly guided.” She was free from the past in all ways and like her name she was headed to a better life.

After her friend got here, she would take the next step in her escape from Detroit. It seemed like a dream sometimes, that she could be in a city where she wasn’t living against the current of life. But she could see it, feel it in her heart.

Suddenly, Rashindah saw a man walking her way. She placed her hand on the .22 she had under her seat. She felt the firmness of the weapon and her nerves eased. She had never fired it at a man but she’d had to pull it out once when a lowlife had become violent with her. The sight of it had ended the confrontation.

She had no doubts that she would shoot if she ever had to. After all the shit she’d been through, she’d kill a man without hesitation.

As the approaching man came closer, Rashindah recognized his face and she loosened her grip on the gun.

“’Bout time,” she said and opened the passenger door.

“’Sup, pretty?” said the man bending over to look inside the car.

“Always late,” said Rashindah. “Get yo’ ass in the car.”

The man got into the car and plopped down hard in the passenger’s seat.

“Had to ride the pimp. Car’s broke,” said the man whose name was Quinten. The “pimp” he referred to was the city bus. “Everybody ain’t rolling in a C-Class, bitch. You coulda picked a nigga up.”

“I know why you late,” said Rashindah smiling slyly. “Busy playing with your new boyfriend.”

Quinten was notorious for his sexual appetite. Sad thing was, he was damned fine, like all gay men, she thought. When she had first met him, her initial thought had been he could get it for free.

“Yeah, he is something,” said Quinten. “Don’t know why they get married.”

“Because that’s how it is in this backwards ass town. You can’t do nothing without everybody judging you.”

“I know that’s right,” he said. “Oh, it got you a present.” He handed Rashindah a medium sized baggie filled with weed.

“Thanks,” said Rashindah. “How much?”

“Didn’t I just say it was a present, bitch?” said Quinten, laughing a little. “Helped a friend cook and move a bunch of it and he hooked me up. Try it. It’s good shit.”

“Normally, I’d give you some but I know you ain’t into vagina,” Rashindah dragged the word out. To her knowledge, Quinten had never been with a woman.

“Don’t tempt me. These damned men are driving me crazy. So what the hell is so important you had to call me away from my life?”

Rashindah’s smile faded slowly. Her face turned serious and her eyes settled into hardness. This was it, she thought; the moment her life would change. She looked at her friend with all the desire and courage in her heart.

“I need you to do something with me...”

 

 



 

 

The car rolled past the little blue Mercedes without notice. It slowed as it went by, then sped up. For those educated on the street, this was a sign that something was not right, that you were being measured, watched. But neither of the people in the car noticed.

The car turned onto a nearby street then parked close to the corner, dousing its lights. The driver quickly got out then moved away, making sure to lock the doors.

You couldn’t be too careful in this part of town.

 

 



 

 

Quinten was speechless. He had heard some crazy shit from Rashindah before but never anything like this. His hand was trembling and he had started to breathe faster. He’d averted his eyes from his friend after she finished the story.

“Well, can you do it?” Rashindah asked him.

“Hell no!” said Quinten. “You are in some deep shit, girl. I may be a lot of things but I ain’t no criminal.”

“It ain’t criminal,” said Rashindah. “It’s no worse than the weed you sell.”

“People get high on weed. Weed don’t hurt nobody and weed won’t find my ass in jail or the cemetery.”

“What you worried about? When we get paid, I’m out of this city and you can come with me.”

Quinten calmed himself a little. He thought of how good it would be to get out of Detroit. Maybe go to D.C. or Atlanta. There were big gay populations there. He could be himself, be free, but then he remembered what Rashindah had asked him to do and reality came crashing back to him.

“No,” said Quinten. “I’m sorry but it ain’t worth it.”

“You are such a fuckin’ fag,” said Rashindah and there was no playfulness to it. Her face was hard and beautiful and her eyes had narrowed to slits. Quinten knew this side of Rashindah and he had never liked it.

“You always talking ‘bout how you want to get out,” she continued. “Well, here’s your chance! But you just another scared ass, running around, living this sick ass life and sucking some married man’s dick.”

“Better than sucking everybody’s dick for a nickel, bitch,” his voice became shrill. “You ain’t one to talk about nobody’s life.”

“Get the fuck out my car,” said Rashindah. “You ain’t down with me, you can step. I’ll call you from New York or Paris or some shit.”

“Right,” said Quinten as he reached for the door. “Paris wouldn’t have your sorry—”

Quinten stopped talking as he saw the man settle outside Rashindah’s window. For as long as they lived in Detroit, they should have seen him coming but they were occupied in their argument.

He was dressed in dark clothes. Quinten only saw his torso as he slid between the window and the street. A second later, the gun appeared. The biggest gun he had ever seen.

Quinten took in air to yell to Rashindah to move, to drive, to do something. For a moment, he thought the man would tap the window and ask them to give up the car but then he pointed the gun and stepped back, bracing himself.

Rashindah saw the panic in Quinten’s eyes and began to turn her head toward the window.

The shot was like thunder. The window shattered as Rashindah’s pretty face jerked and her head tilted unnaturally as the left side of it exploded. The headrest disintegrated into a swirl of flying leather and white stuffing.

Quinten was splattered with her, like someone had swung a wet paintbrush across his face. He felt white heat in his body and he grew rigid. His brain told his hand to open the door but nothing happened. And then he felt it, the warmth from between his legs as his bladder emptied itself.

The man who had just killed his friend lowered his head into the open maw of the shattered window. Quinten turned instinctively. He saw the big gun, which was moving away from the still jerking body of his friend. Deep inside a hooded jacket, he saw only the dark outline of a face.

The killer reached a hand inside the window as Quinten found the door handle and pulled it. He toppled out onto the cold ground.

Time stood still for an endless second and then he saw the killer moving quickly away.

Quinten’s lungs finally rebelled and he let out a yell that rocked the night.