I rummaged through the shelves frantically. Each time a shelf opened, I muttered, “Where...” Each time a shelf closed I continued, “…is it?” It was one of those situations where I knew exactly where what I was looking for was and where it was the last time I saw it, but still I wanted to check every crevice I could, praying it showed up in a spot that I knew it wasn’t actually in. And now I wasn’t closing shelves, but slamming them so hard to the point where instead of closing, they ended up bouncing back wide open.
Roaches were scattering about at my every move. I ignored them because my shoulders were shaking and I was breathing in and out deeply to stop my tears from coming. I could not go out there again and sleep with another man for rent money. God could forgive only so many of my sins.
And of course I knew what had happened. He is what had happened. Yes, my husband was minimized to a pronoun in my eyes, ’cause he sure wasn’t a husband, a father, or a man at that. But my fear of getting stomped by him would never let me utter those words out loud, let alone to his face. And my love−Yes I still did feel that sentiment for him. I was surely a fool.
“Mama, what’s wrong?”
I turned to my ten-year old son. The deep breathing I was doing to calm myself down didn’t stop the tears; they started pouring down my face. I wiped them and stared at my son. He looked exactly like me; it was so funny. Whenever we went somewhere, people would say, “Girl, your husband ain’t had nothing to do with this boy. Looks like you spit him right on out.”
Little Tricie, my seven-year old daughter, however, took exactly after her daddy. Little heffa didn’t look nothing like me. She had his creamy, milk chocolate complexion, a set of high model like cheek bones, and cat like eyes with wide framed lashes that looked like she put on mascara about five times a day. It was those same eyes that her papa got me with. One look my way and I was hooked. Man, they were so dreamy, like he was a movie star or something.
“Mama,” my son repeated. “What’s wrong?”
“I… I can’t find the rent money,” I stammered.
I looked down at our dark carpet, not dark by choice or design, but dark with all the stains from 40’s spilled on it, dried up blood, piss, and vomit from over the years of my husband’s drama. The times he came in pissy, drunk and high. The times that he threw up and sometimes peed all over the place. Then there were the fights between him and his get high buddies where furniture was turned over and drinks were spilled. Not to mention the times the drug dealers chased him right into our living room and shed much of my husband’s blood for money he owed them. They wanted to convince him physically that it was in his best interest to go ahead and pay up. Yep, that’s where the dark in our carpet I cleaned with my bare hands weekly came from. Funny, no matter how much I cleaned it, it remained dark.
Next thing my son and I knew, there was someone not knocking, but banging on the apartment door.
“Shortcake, I know you’re in there.”
That was my name. In fact my mama had named me that because I was the only black woman she knew with light skin, red freckles and red hair. I had red hair that to this day, no matter what the new style was, I still wore a feather tucked in it. I don’t know-it just seemed to fit me. It was like my little trade mark or something.
I grew up in Nickerson Gardens. I was raised by my mother. I never met my father, and if I brought him up to my mother she would go berserk. So over time, I learned to keep my inquiring mind about who my father was, what he looked like and where he was all my life to myself. She said he ran out on her one day and never came back. My mother had been on drugs all of my life so I pretty much took care of myself. I never had any friends because girls in the projects always wanted to fight me or just my luck, jump me. My mom said it was because I was so pretty. I do think that had something to do with it. I also think because my mother was a known drug addict, it gave them something to talk about and tease me about. Everybody had to have a scapegoat. To those girls who terrorized me, that’s what I was. Going through all of that made me more of a loner than anything.
I had my first run-in with the law when I was sixteen. It was actually because of my mother who made me take a counterfeit fifty-dollar bill to a corner store to buy a bag of chips with it so I could get the change back and give it to her. I ended up doing a six-month camp program at Central Juvenile Hall, which actually helped me. My probation officer found out who and what my mother was, because she was arrested right in front of me at the camp during visitation. Shockingly enough, my mother took a mini-break and went into the restroom to get high. When she came back, she was so high that she forgot to put the pipe away and instead stuck it behind her ear as if it were a flower or cigarette. Nothing felt so low as seeing them take her out during my visit in handcuffs. I was teased for weeks after that.
Once I successfully finished my camp program, I was taken from my mother and enrolled in a Transitional Housing Program. The program gave me a place to stay in San Pedro, job training and a job eventually working as a secretary at the Docks in San Pedro. My mother, from the point of me getting arrested and on, never really cared enough to see what happened to me. I only saw her when I went around the Nickerson’s to see her. If I didn’t go see her, we would have never seen each other.
When she died, I was eighteen. The thing was, I was not surprised when I found out. She had been on dope since I was a kid, and I was more disappointed than hurt. So I did not grieve after she died. To me, she always felt more like a distant relative than my mother. All my life dope had her. I had always vowed to be a much different and better mother to my kids, and I was. My mother was always in and out of my life. I was always there for my kids in every aspect. My mother always raged at me because she couldn’t get her dope. I showed my kids patience and love no matter what.
The banging on my door continued.
I turned to my son. “Jo Jo, get Tricie and go to Valerie’s house, and don’t come back until I come and get you.”
“Yes, Mama.” He jogged down the hall to Tricie’s room.
After one too many knocks unanswered, our manager came storming into the living room of our home. He stood in front of me and looked his beady eyes down on me like I was beneath him. To him, I was. He owned the building, and on a daily basis he reminded us all that he was doing us a favor.
Both my kids rushed past him and out of the house. Once they left, he split his two legs shoulder-width apart as if he was getting ready for a battle. He then pulled his arms behind his back. “Shortcake, you know what today is, so don’t give me no mess, girl.”
He was a slick, white apartment manager. He wasn’t but five feet-four inches tall, but he was still taller than me. He had thinning gray hair and saggy, wrinkled up skin. Glasses covered his red and tired looking blue eyes. He looked like a shorter bootleg version of Mr. Roper from Three’s Company.
Dude was always on me about my rent.
I licked my dry lips. “I just need a little more time, Mr. Baker.”
“Girl, I’ve given you two weeks. I ain’t got no more time to give you.” I knew what was next. His doggone “You People” speech. “I don’t think you people realize how fortunate you should feel to be here. Years ago this was considered a cash cow. You know how much I was renting one of these apartments out for?”
“A lot, Mr. Baker,” I whispered, pulling my bottom lip in.
“Girly, years ago the rent of one of these apartments was more than what I charge for all of them now combined. Because I felt sorry for you people and wanted to give back, I lowered my standards.”
Shoot, a couple years ago he didn’t even know me. That’s 'cause I wasn’t living here. Instead, me and my family was living in a better place. We were living in an actual house, raising my family well because my husband had it together. He was working as a longshoreman. Back then my husband was bringing in more money than he or I had ever seen in our lives.
“Girl, are you listening to me?”
Mr. Baker’s sharp voice brought me back to the present. “Yes,, sir.”
Mr. Baker must have thought I was dumb. I knew doggone well that not only was the government subsiding our rent, but Mr. Baker was getting a huge tax cut from Uncle Sam every year as well. Shoot, the way I saw it, he was benefiting now more than ever before. Since the job market was so bad now, couldn’t nobody afford the rent he was charging. He had no choice but to evict the full paying residents and make the building low-income.
“Yes, Mr. Baker, I’m listening. I just need more time, please.” I begged desperately.
He stared me up and down lustfully making me feel dirty. “I could do that, but what are you gonna give me for some more time, huh, Shortcake?”
I was dying inside. But I knew I had no choice but to repeat the magic words: “Whatever you willing to take, Mr. Baker.”
Without reprieve, Mr. Baker unzipped his pants. And like before, I found myself lowering my body to my knees. The entire time my shoulders were shaking.