Gather Together in My Name - Maya Angelou [57]
She started to her room and turned. “One thing I can say about my daddy”—her lips prissed and she lifted her nose and wiggled it—“he doesn't want me to do anything freakish. No matter how much money is involved. I like that.” She rubbed her hands down her sides complimenting herself. “Better get your bath. Dinner'll be ready soon.”
I sat thinking about the spent day. The faces, bodies and smells of the tricks made an unending paisley pattern in my mind. Except for the Tamiroffish first customer, the others had no individual characteristics. The strong Lysol washing water stung my eyes and a film of vapor coated my adenoids.
I had expected the loud screams of total orgasmic release and felt terribly inadequate when the men had finished with grunts and yanked up their pants without thanks. I decided that being black, I had a different rhythm from the Latinos and all I had to do was let myself learn their tempos.
Clara gave me salts and bath oil and I continued examining the day in fingernailfuls. I was intelligent and I was young. I could teach myself the craft and make loads of money. L.D. might be able to settle his debts before the month was up.
The woman who came in daily at five o'clock to cook reminded me of my grandmother and I had to avert my eyes when she placed dinner on the table.
I reassured myself. I was helping my man. And, after all, there was nothing wrong with sex. I had no need for shame. Society dictated that sex was only licensed by marriage documents. Well, I didn't agree with that. Society is a conglomerate of human beings, and that's just what I was. A human being.
For the next week I vied with Bea for the attentions of Pedros, Josés, Pablos and Ramóns. I brushed up on my Spanish and tried with little success to include tú in my enticing come-ons. The women's conversations interested me more than the tricks' visits. Men came to Clara's house singly, and rather than having an air of celebration, they all seemed to be ashamed of their own presence and at the same time resigned to be there. I never found one man who considered how I might or might not enjoy those three-minute sojourns in the cell-like room. And for my part, I accepted Clara's signature on my tablet as a symbol of being paid in full.
Bea made an attempt at friendliness one morning. She came into the house early and settled on a stiff chair opposite me.
“Sugar, how do you like it?”
Her voice was kinder than usual, which surprised me, and as I had no ready answer, I muttered, “Well, it's … a new—”
“New? Screwing ain't new, is it?” She slipped back into sarcasm easily.
“No. That's not what I meant.”
“Well, don't worry about it. You'll break in.”
“I won't be doing this long.” I had to separate myself from the insinuation.
“Like hell. Wait till you make a nice piece of money. Then your daddy will give you a little white girl.”
“A what? What would I do with a white girl?”
She laughed a tight little laugh. “Not ‘a’ white girl. You don't know what ‘white girl’ is?”
“I don't know what you mean.” I was trying to withdraw.
“They call cocaine ‘white girl.’ Some people call horse ‘white girl,’ too. I don't mess with heroin, though. It makes me sick. But wait till your daddy gives you some coke. Kiss the baby!” Hugging herself, she coasted away for a second on her thought.
I wouldn't tell her that L.D. didn't even want me to smoke pot, but she seemed to pick the thought out of my mind.
“They won't let you smoke hemp, though. They say it makes a 'ho too frisky. 'Hos get their heads bad and forget about tending to business.”
Clara came in bringing coffee, and Bea plunged into conversation with her.
“You know what we did last night? Daddy took me down to a gambling game in Firebaugh … You know who I saw? … Haven't seen that bitch in a month of Sundays …”
I didn't know the people she was talking about and couldn't have cared less what she did the night before, but she had given me something to think about. Since she spoke from experience, she was probably right. But she was talking about pimps and I knew L.D. wasn't a pimp. He was