tracks

As soon as Taylor crossed the railroad tracks, she knew something was wrong. Throat tight, she broke into a jog, cresting up out of the last dusty ravine. Behind her, the August sun was setting, turning the smog crimson. Below, inside the wrecking yard she called home, red lights and police radios. The torn section of chain-link fencing that was the girls’ private entrance gaped open, unsecured.

She heard a soft voice call her name and turned to see Jackson, sitting crouched up against a boulder, waiting.

“What the fuck happened?” she asked, looking around. “What the fuck is all this?”

Jackson got up and walked over to her. “It’s over, baby. The pigs got Jimmy. We gotta get out of here.”

“What do you mean the pigs got Jimmy?” Taylor asked, confused. “Jimmy’s clean.”

Jackson glared at her, disgusted. “Girl, you’ve been around enough to know that doesn’t mean shit. Of course Jimmy’s clean. Mama says a successful black man is the biggest threat of all, way more dangerous than the thugs and the junkies. You see how it is. Mama says they take the good brothers down, give the rest guns and the white man’s drugs, and sit back and watch the fun.” She spit on the ground and slowly kicked dry dirt over it with her boot. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter. They got Jimmy, the place is crawling with pigs, and we can’t go back.”

Taylor felt like she was going to be sick. She thought of Jimmy, letting them stay for free in the yard, teaching her how to strip down a car for parts. She thought about how last week he let her rig up the cherry picker and pull an engine out of a wrecked Chevy all by herself. She thought about how happy he was working at the new free breakfast program the Panthers had set up down at the church. Rage rose like bile in her throat as she thought about him in the hands of the police. She wished she could reach over to Jackson, pull her in close, hold her tight up against her heart, but she knew there was no way her lover would let herself be touched right now. “Well,” she said. “Guess we gotta go get our shit out of the fuckin’ camper, and then find a place to stay tonight.”

Jackson pointed to the small pile she had gathered by the boulder. “I got our stash, all my journals and some clothes, and grabbed what I could of yours.”

Taylor picked up the pillowcase, bulky, heavier than she expected. Reaching inside, she rummaged through the books and dirty clothes, felt some plastic crinkling and pulled out the pack of new boxer briefs Jackson had just bought her. She laughed. “What the fuck. Shit’s going down and you grab my fuckin’ skivvies?”

Jackson smiled. “Yeah. It’s like that thing where they say your house is on fire and you’ve only got sixty seconds to get out everything that matters. So, yeah, I grabbed your dope, books, and boxers.” She looked suddenly shy, and sad. “Besides,” she said. “You didn’t really have much to grab.”

“It’s cool,” Taylor said, risking a grin. “I’m glad you grabbed my shorts. So, where do you want to stay tonight? I don’t really want to hit the boxes. We could try Randi, see if he’s working tonight, maybe get us a car. Or see if we could crash in Trina’s room, except we’d probably have to wait until three or four in the morning, whenever they’re done tricking.”

“Taylor,” Jackson interrupted softly, touching her cheek. “I’m not going with you.”

“What do you mean?” Taylor asked. “What are you saying? You said we couldn’t stay here anymore. That’s pretty obvious. So, we gotta find another place to crash.”

“I mean I gotta really get out of here. Here,” she gestured. “This whole fuckin’ place. L.A. The strip. Tricking. The hustle. The whole damn thing. I’m not like you. I just can’t take it anymore.”

Taylor grabbed her arm, turning the girl toward her. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean? Shit. Can’t none of us take it. You just do it anyway. You taught me that. Come on. I’ll figure something out for us. We’ll be okay.”

Jackson leaned back into her lover’s arms. “Nah, baby. I gotta get out of here. I’ve been sitting up on this rock waiting for you, thinking shit through. I can’t do it anymore. I just gotta leave this place.” Anticipating Taylor’s response, she added, “Alone.”

Taylor held on, forcing herself to breathe. “So where you gonna go?”

“I’ve got an auntie down in San Diego, once told me I could live with her if I cleaned up and went to school. Said there’s a community college I could get into and she’d help me out. Mama says I should do it and I’m thinking maybe she’s right.”

Taylor turned and started walking down the trail to the torn fence.

“Taylor,” Jackson called out. “Where are you going? You can’t go back in there.”

Taylor kept walking. “I’m going in to get J. Edgar,” she said. “Jimmy’s gone. You’re gone. Somebody’s got to take care of the damn dog.”

“Taylor, stop!” Jackson ran to catch up. “Listen to me—you can’t go in there. There’s pigs everywhere.”

“I don’t care about the fuckin’ pigs,” Taylor said. “I’m going to get J. Edgar.”

“Goddamnit, Taylor. Stop.” Jackson grabbed her arm. “Will you just fucking stop and listen to me? You can’t go back in and get J. Edgar because J. Edgar is dead.”

Taylor stopped and turned back, her voice hard and low. “What do you mean? What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that J. Edgar is dead. The pigs shot him.” Jackson started to cry. “He was trying to protect Jimmy and the fuckin’ cops just fuckin’ shot him. He’s dead, girl. I saw it all.”

Taylor spun back around, glaring down at the yard where the police cars flashed red blue, red blue, and bright white strobes lit up the back shed Jimmy had made home. Hot rage punched through her chest and she saw herself flying down the hill like a dust devil tornado, crashing through the cyclone fence, kicking out car windows, slugging cops. Just shoot me, you motherfuckin’ pigs! Why you gotta shoot J. Edgar? Come on, you piece of shit coward-ass punks. Just fuckin’ shoot me!

But up on the hill there was nothing to slug, no sheetrock to ram her fist through, no tail lights to kick in, no drunken johns to take down. Taylor heard Jackson softly crying behind her, heard the crackle of police radios in the yard below and the whir of a police helicopter approaching from the south. When she saw the chopper crest the ridge, Taylor turned back to Jackson. “Come on,” she said. “Let’s get outta here.”

The two girls gathered up their bundles and walked the two miles to the Greyhound station in silence. As they said goodbye, Jackson asked softly, “So what are you gonna do now, baby?”

“I’m gonna find me a fuckin’ place to sleep, that’s what,” Taylor answered, avoiding her eyes.

“No, girl, I’m serious. I mean, what you gonna do with your life?”

“My life?” Taylor laughed. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean? My life. What am I going to do with my life? Shit. I thought I was already doing it.”

Taylor walked away, leaving Jackson to catch the next dog going south. She crossed Cahuenga and walked down past Hollywood Boulevard, barely stopping for the lights, glaring at anyone who honked, daring them to get out of their cars and just try and start something with her. She walked past the upholstery shops and taquerias, past the KFCs and burger stands, past the peep shows on Sunset, walked until she found Tyrone, standing on his corner, leaning back against the wall.

“Hey,” he nodded to her, smiling. “How’s my favorite chipper? You looking kind of hungry tonight, girl. Want me to cook somethin’ up for you? I got an extra kit right around the corner, just in case you aren’t carrying yours in your Huck Finn wannabe pillowcase. No charge. It’s on the house.”

Taylor felt her veins jump in anticipation, but just said, “Fuck you. Like I’m gonna use your skanky works. Nah,” she said. “Just give me a couple of nickel bags. You got something good enough to blow?”

She made the buy and continued walking, taking Santa Monica down to Wilshire, walking for miles as the cars turned into Porsches and Bentleys and the trash stayed mostly in the cans. She stopped in front of the Sheraton, stashing her gear in the bushes across the street and watching the valet stand until she saw what she was looking for. She crossed over and caught Randi coming back from parking a shiny new black Mercedes.

“Hey, man,” she called out. “You got any accommodations tonight?”

“Girl!” His hug lifted her off the ground. “It’s good to see you! What you doing in this part of town?”

She pulled away, handed him one of her nickel bags. “Just need a place to crash for the night. Can you help me out?”

He took the packet and looked around. “No problem,” he said, handing her the keys to the Mercedes. “I’ve got just the thing. They’re in for the night. Stay low, sleep tight, and come see me in the morning. I’ll try and get you into the staff locker room and get you cleaned up a bit.”

Taylor went back to get her gear, checked out the surroundings, then climbed into the back of the Mercedes. She locked the doors and let out a sigh, grateful for the dark, tinted windows. Tomorrow, she knew, everything would be just as fucked up, but tonight, just for a while, she would rest. She breathed in the wonderful new car smell, mixed with a faint lingering scent of a woman’s expensive perfume. She imagined Jackson with her, breathing deep, saying, “Girl, can’t you just smell that money!” Taking out her remaining nickel bag, she cut the lines, rolled the bill, and took two quick, deep breaths. Her nostrils burned and she fought the first blast of nausea, then gave in, slumping back into the soft, still-warm, custom leather seats.