Let the Girl Talk

Taylor leaned back into C.N.’s arms and watched Shantelle run her tongue along the perfectly rolled joint. Diane reached over to light the thin, cream-colored reefer.

“Girl, how come you always gotta be using these straw rolling papers, anyway?” Diane asked, tucking the lighter back in her purse. “I think they taste like shit.”

Shantelle took a long drag on the joint, held it for a while under a smile. She leaned her head back and struck a pose. “’Cause, girl, don’t you know,” she said, letting the hit out long and easy, “I just refuse to put my tongue on anything white.”

Diane roared, gave her five, and reached for the joint. “Girl, you wish you didn’t have to be putting your tongue on anything white. Don’t even try and tell me those motherfuckers what come to see you aren’t ninety-nine point nine percent white boys.”

“Yeah, honey, ain’t it the sorry truth,” Shantelle said. “Of course, a girl’s gotta go where the money is. And don’t you know, the brothers don’t need to be paying for this shit anyway.”

The four women were gathered on C.N.’s huge round bed. Taylor felt her lover’s breasts move against her back as C.N. reached over to take the joint. She wished the two of them could just be alone, but she’d learned this Sunday afternoon ritual had to play itself out. Besides, she enjoyed watching Shantelle and Diane in action. Taylor waited for C.N. to exhale and hand her the joint. Instead, she felt C.N. shift from behind her, nuzzling her ear, pulling her hair back out of her face. Taylor turned around and C.N. kissed her hard, blowing the hit deep into her lungs.

“Damn it, you two. Knock it off,” Diane said. “Fucking newlyweds. Can’t you see we be trying to have us a conversation here.”

C.N. busted up laughing. “What’s with this ‘we be trying’ shit, Diane? Since when did God take your sorry white ass and make you black? Why you be talking so funny lately, huh, girl?”

Taylor smiled at C.N.’s imitation of Diane’s recent speech patterns. She thought C.N. sounded more like Desi Arnez doing a Rocky Balboa imitation than anything else, but what did she know. As far as she could tell, all three of the others had more ways of talking than she had even imagined possible. C.N. spoke Spanish, French, and Portuguese, and her English ran the gamut from a soft Southern drawl to a tight East Coast clip. Her accent, like her intelligence, could disappear or emerge at will, depending on her date. She mostly fucked foreign dignitaries, ambassadors, politicians, and she could play the hot and sexy Latin lover or the light-skinned, well-bred, highly educated conversationalist as she pleased, slipping the roles on and off like shoes. Usually, her dates demanded something in between—sexy without being too ethnic, just bright enough to fully appreciate the superior intelligence of the important man escorting her. Shantelle usually worked the entertainment industry and could range from slow and sultry to hot urban sophisticated chic in a snap of her fingers.

Taylor knew she was way out of her league with these women. C.N. and Shantelle both had PhDs, and Diane had just started graduate school at UCLA. Taylor had barely made it through junior high school. Why is it all so fucking complicated? she wondered. Why can’t people just talk like they talk? Her heart gave a tight catch as she remembered how Jackson and Jimmy used to laugh about learning to speak “California black,” and how bewildered she was when Jackson told her she didn’t think, or write, the way she spoke. “I talk like I have to talk,” Jackson would say. “But my thoughts are my own.”

Taylor took the joint from C.N. and weighed taking another hit before passing it on. She’d lost her first hit laughing at C.N., but she didn’t want to look like she was bogarting.

Shantelle reached over and took the joint from her, putting an end to her dilemma. “Hey, leave the girl alone, okay. She can talk however she damn pleases. As long as she’s off the clock, that is.”

Taylor wondered if Shantelle and Diane had something going on, but C.N. had told her they both were born and bred heterosexuals. Diane mostly worked the “Three C’s”—cops, council members, and conventions. So far her biggest trick was with the three Japanese businessmen who’d hired her for a $7,500 all-you-can-eat package that summer—no talking, barely any fucking, they had just flown the big beautiful blond up to Pebble Beach to play golf with them for a week. Lots of photos, another grand in tips.

Now Diane blushed, a blotchy pink flush running down her cheeks and neck. “I don’t know,” she said. “Ever since I got back into school, I can’t remember how I’m supposed to talk. Tricks are one thing, that’s just a role, but this goddamn Academese just turns my stomach, makes me want to puke, makes my juices dry up just when they wanna be flowing, you know? I mean, don’t all that enunciating and pontificating get on y’alls nerves?”

“Yeah, I remember that academic bullshit,” Shantelle said. “Rich white boy fools babbling on and on about problematic this and problematic that, till I just wanted to grab their motherfucking throats and say, ‘Hey, Jack, it ain’t problematic. It’s fucked up, okay. And you’re the one fucking it up.’” She took another hit and passed the joint to Diane. “Yeah, but girl, you might as well give it up thinking you can be talking like any kind of human being if you want to get that degree.”

“Yeah, I know.” Diane sighed. She grabbed hold of Taylor’s knee. “Hey, kid, speaking of talking, how’s your new job working out? You’re awful quiet for someone who gets paid to talk.”

“Yeah, like anyone can say anything once you all get to going,” Taylor said, wishing she’d taken that second hit. The joint was taking forever to come back her way. “Besides, I don’t get paid to talk, I get paid to let the tricks talk. There’s a difference.” She felt C.N. smile into the back of her neck, her arms tightening around Taylor’s chest. “Anyway, it’s okay,” she continued. “Eddie’s cool, takes good care of me. The money’s all right, I get whatever I want to drink, and the motherfuckers can’t touch me or Eddie kicks their asses. I got no complaints.”

“Hey, I’m serious,” Diane said. “What do you guys talk about? I wanna know.”

“Aw, man, that shit would make me crazy,” Shantelle interrupted. “When it comes time to fuck, my tricks better not be trying to make me talk with them. Motherfucker opens his mouth when it’s time to take care of business, he’s gonna get my pantyhose stuffed in it.”

Diane laughed and gave Shantelle a push. “Come on, let the girl talk.”

“Hell, I don’t know,” said Taylor. “Mostly they just talk shit about how their old ladies don’t understand them. Or their bosses. Some assholes just gotta talk about how much I look like their daughter. Once they get to going in that direction usually I gotta call Eddie. Then there’s some just want to talk about their theories.”

“Their theories?” C.N. asked.

“Yeah, like conspiracies. Why they don’t got more money than they do. Who’s really running this country. Who shot Kennedy. You know. Aliens. Economics. Shit like that.” Taylor noticed Diane had let the joint go out. Damn, she thought, these girls know everything about everything except getting high.

C.N. gave her a squeeze. “Hey, baby, tell them about your literary friend.”

“Well, I got this one guy, comes every day at lunchtime, stays for an hour, tips good, and all he wants to do is talk about books. It’s pretty cool, really. Gives me shit, too. Books to read.”

“Sounds pretty kinky to me.” Shantelle laughed. “Why doesn’t the motherfucker just go to the library if he wants to talk about books so bad?”

Taylor reached over and took the joint from Diane. She pulled out her roach clip and lit the joint, taking a deep hit and holding it. She felt suddenly pissed, tired. She exhaled slowly, then said, “Because everybody knows they don’t let people talk in the motherfucking library, that’s why.”

Taylor felt C.N.’s body shake with laughter. Then the other two joined in, hooting, doubling over, holding their stomachs. Taylor wasn’t quite sure if their joke was the same as hers. All she knew was she was gonna hold onto the joint this time and smoke the roach down to nothing all by herself until she was good and loaded and she didn’t care if shit didn’t make sense.