Gather Together in My Name - Maya Angelou [13]
I was younger but no more interesting than my colleagues, so the pretty men lumped me with them and ignored us all.
I had no chance to show them how clever I was because wit is communicated by language and I hadn't yet learned theirs. I understood their lack of interest to imply that smart women were prostitutes and stupid ones were waitresses. There were no other categories.
I worked cleaning ashtrays, serving drinks and listening for over a month. My tips were good because I was fast and had a good memory.
“Scotch and milk for you, sir?”
“That's right, little girl, you got a good memory.” Though he never saw me, he'd leave a dollar tip.
My first week in San Diego, Mother Cleo had told me she had a room for rent. “I see you a good girl coming over here to see your baby ever day and all, so my husband and me, we ready to let you live here with us. Room'll be fifteen dollars a week. Got a new bedroom suite in it and if you put a rubber sheet on the bed, your baby can sleep with you.” So I became a roomer in the home of Mr. Henry and Mrs. Cleo Jenkins.
My life began to move at a measured tempo. I found a modern dance studio where a long-haired white woman gave classes to a motley crew of Navy wives.
I went to work at six (five-thirty to set up tables, get change, arrange my tray with napkins and matches) and was off at two. I shared a ride with a waitress whose husband picked her up every night. I slept late, woke to fix my breakfast around noon and play with my baby.
He amused me. I could not and did not consider him a person. A real person. He was my baby, rather like a pretty living doll that belonged to me. I was myself too young and unformed a human being to think of him as a human being. I loved him. He was cute. He laughed a lot and gurgled and he was mine.
CHAPTER 11
I had begun to look forward to two women coming in every night. They were both just under thirty and separately they would not have attracted much attention. Johnnie Mae was thin, taller than average, dark-brown-skinned. Her long jaw sagged down, giving her a look of sadness even when she laughed. She wore fuchsia lipstick and most often showed pink smudges on her long white teeth.
Beatrice was plump to ripening. A short yellow woman whose role seemed to be straight man to Johnnie Mae's unfunny but loud humor.
The fact that the pimps and panderers didn't harass them, bespoke the tolerance in the black community for people who chose to lead lives different from the norm. Although they were obviously not sisters, they dressed identically and never spoke to anyone except each other and me.
“Good evening, ladies. Two Tom Collins, I presume.” I was a democrat and treated every lady the same.
“Evening, Rita. That's right.” They must have spent their free time practicing before mirrors. They sounded alike and even the looks on one face were reflected on the other.
“Got you running this evening, ain't they?” The question did not really need answering. My tray was always filled with fresh drinks, dirty ashtrays or empty glasses.
“When you going to come over to our house?” They smiled at each other, then gave me their sly glances.
“Well, I work all the time, you know.”
“Yes, but you have a day off. You say you don't have any friends here.”
“I'm thinking about it. That'll be two dollars, please.”
Lesbians still interested me, but I no longer felt tenderly protective of them: when I was fifteen I had spent nearly a year concerning myself with society's gross mistreatment of hermaphrodites. I was anxious over the plight of lesbians during the time I was consumed with fear that I might be an incipient one. Their importance to me had diminished in direct relationship to my assurance that I was not.
“Johnnie Mae got something nice for you yesterday.”
“Sure did.”
“It's a birthday surprise.”
“But you don't know my birthday.”
“That's how come it's a surprise.”
They laughed into each other's laugh and I was forced to join them. Customers at other tables needed my attention, but the two women stayed on the