On the Line

by Donna Hill

  “It was really my friend and former producer, Macy Martin, who came up with the idea to write the book. I took the idea and ran with it.”

  Dallas leans in as if she wants to share a secret. “Joy, I understand that there have been some rumblings from your former callers about using their stories. Is there any truth to that and how do you plan to deal with it?”

  I steal a glance offstage and see Macy standing there biting her fingernails. She nods her head.

  I draw in a breath, realizing that what I’m about to do will change the world’s perception of me, but maybe it will finally set me free.

  “When I first got into the business, I knew that if I wanted to be successful I was going to have to be out there, be different. I listened to all of the talk shows and tried to figure how I could stand out. So I went to WHOT with the idea of On the Line. I told them I even had a letter to kick the show off with.” I clear my throat. “I’d like to read that letter now.”

  Dallas leans back in her seat. “We’re all ears.”

  Shalonda squeezed her eyes shut and imagined luscious green palm trees stretching out to meet deep, relaxing ocean waves. She shivered from the cold breeze that seeped through her windowsill and wondered what it would be like to live in a place where the weather was warm all year round. Maybe someplace down South, where strangers actually smiled at you. A place where life was different.

  At times like these all she could do was imagine the miracle of bright, sunny beaches connected to warm, blue water. It was the only way to survive. She would lose herself inside a hopeful fantasy until the large, sweaty body on top of her collapsed. When the pumping finally stopped, Shalonda didn’t return right away. She lay still and quiet beneath him, willing herself not to look at his face. She didn’t look at faces anymore.

  This was the seventh appointment of the day. The first one talked too much—he was nervous, a kid not much older than she was. The second was maybe about fifty, and he came almost before he could get it inside. Who was the third one? She couldn’t remember. The fourth had a slight limp and claimed he was wounded in Iraq. And the fifth and sixth, they were nothing more than body parts jumbled up together.

  Number seven was almost done. A quick glance when he entered her room brought the blurred image of tall, thin and brown. She clamped her eyes tightly and held her breath to avoid the smell of tacos or nachos as he gasped for air.

  “How much for a second go-round?” the man asked between grunts.

  “Another thirty,” she replied, her stomach suddenly queasy.

  He twisted up his face and rolled off of her. “Ain’t no discount like buy one get one free, or half off the second one?”

  She rolled her eyes in his direction. “Sorry.”

  Grabbing his pants from the floor, the man pulled out three tens from his wallet and dropped them into her slightly opened nightstand drawer. “Well, I want another ride, little girl, ’cause you nice and tight and that won’t last for long.” He walked over to a nearby chair, sat down, pulled the used rubber off and tossed it on the floor. “Come on over here,” he ordered.

  Shalonda obeyed, thanking God for her imagination. Shalonda cringed when Rianna’s dead body flashed into her mind. She had tried to help Rianna develop the ability to see something else, too, be somewhere else in her mind. Too young and too naive, Rianna was no more than thirteen years old when Juice deposited her in the apartment across the hall. Within a year the drugs turned a beautiful little girl with short curly hair and big dimpled curves in her cheeks into a mangled zombie. When decent men stopped paying for her malnourished body, the sicko and weirdo clients stood in line. For fifty dollars, Juice would let them do anything, except kill her. She used a mixture of crank, heroine and alcohol to do that herself.

  Guiding Shalonda onto the edge of his long, spider legs, the man barked instructions. “Just work me around like this and I’ll be hard again real soon.” She used her hands to massage him exactly the way he had shown her. In two years she learned to follow orders meticulously in order to avoid the consequences. She pressed harder when he told her to and faster as he demanded. Once he was ready, she carefully rolled on a new rubber and he thrust himself inside for the second time.

  Rather than feel the throbbing between her legs, Shalonda drifted off again. This time she imagined it was Juice in the chair beneath her instead of a stranger. That’s who she wanted to be with. When they first met, Juice would brag about her to everybody. He treated her to expensive dinners and bought her anything she wanted. But now the only time she saw him was for collection.

  They met in a popular nightclub where Shalonda’s fake ID and suggestive clothes changed her from a tall, awkward fifteen-year-old child into a sexy, well-endowed, eighteen-year-old woman. The steroids in the food had worked over time, so it was not difficult to make people believe what they thought they could see. Technically she didn’t lie to her parents about attending a slumber party at her best friend Donetta’s house that night. There was a slumber party and going to the club was one of the planned activities. With Donetta’s mother working third shift, they dressed to pull. High heels accented big, shapely legs, slinky miniskirts hugged tight to their full hips, and low-cut halter tops showed all they had to offer.

  When Juice entered the room, everything and everybody seemed to stop. He was perfect. A sexy bad boy sporting some serious bling. Two fingers on his left hand were circled by platinum rings, each covered with huge diamonds. A large gold chain swung dangerously from his neck, accented by the diamond-encrusted rugged cross that paid homage to his faith. His black-and-white Sean John ensemble was topped off with two large diamond post earrings that glittered from both ears.

  The women in the club vied for his attention, some flirting subtly, others offering themselves more brazenly. But it was Shalonda who brought the sun up and called it dawn. She knew Juice was drawn to the way the innocence of her smile enhanced the curve of her hips, and after about an hour of teasing and taunting, he finally pulled her onto the dance floor and whispered, “Show me what you workin’with.”

  Shalonda moved impressively, knowing exactly what to do and how to do it. Hours in front of the television watching music videos had boosted her confidence. She twisted and shook and gyrated all around him, knowing she had made her point when she “backed that ass up,” as the song suggested, and felt his hard-on.

  The man inside her now was as hard as Juice had been that night. Shalonda bounced up and down on his lap while his face contorted. He held on to her hips, with both hands shifting her body forward and back or side to side as necessary.

  “I’m coming, baby. This is it,” he finally yelled out just before he exploded.

  She waited to stand up and move away. It was another tough lesson learned. Once, when Shalonda separated from a john too fast, he slapped her across the face so hard that a tooth came loose. She still had the small scar over her left eye where her head had hit the edge of the nightstand. Telling Juice about it brought no sympathy. Instead, he scolded her and said he would have slapped her, too, if she messed up his groove by moving too soon. He went on to chastise her, explaining that when a guy pays his hard-earned money he must walk away completely satisfied.

  “Damn, girl! You was even better the second time.” The john whistled. Shalonda stood up and covered her body with a robe. Without thinking, she glanced at him and looked directly into a mouthful of rotten teeth. Her stomach lurched, and she rushed into the bathroom.

  The man stood up, removed the condom and wiped himself off with a paper towel. He looked over to the bathroom door then at the nightstand. Strolling casually across the room, he glanced behind him one more time before reaching inside the drawer and quickly grabbing a handful of bills.

  By the time Shalonda had rinsed out her mouth and emerged from the bathroom, the man was dressed and on his way out the door. “See you, sweet thing,” he said, blowing her a kiss.

  Shalonda checked the clock. Her next appointment was in forty-five m
inutes, so she made up the bed hastily and ran a tub of hot water. This was not her normal routine. She usually didn’t bother cleaning up until the day was over. But this appointment was different. Rodney had been coming almost every week for the past two months and their time together was special.

  Shalonda lowered herself into the warm liquid and savored how it soothed her battered body. She grimaced when she thought back to the night that she declared her independence and ran away to be with Juice. This was not what she was running to, but somehow this was where she was. This was not the freedom he promised, but it was all the freedom she had. This was not the love she thought she’d found, but it was the only love she knew.

  Laughing was hard when she really wanted to cry. Shalonda had hated her parents for things that now seemed so insignificant. They were snobbish and too old-fashioned. There were too many rules. They wouldn’t let her have any fun. And there was no way she was going to listen when they told her Juice was no good. How could she trust them? They despised, rejected and even feared her generation: the hip-hop generation. They didn’t understand Juice the way she did. He was a black man in America who didn’t have a chance to go to college, making it the best way he could. He was a black man in America who grew up in the projects, a stereotype, no father, a drug addict for a mother. He was a black man in America and the system was not designed to treat him fairly. Everyone was out to get him—especially the police.

  The moment Juice first kissed her, Shalonda felt the guilt of being raised in a middle-class home, spoiled with name-brand clothes, Disney vacations and a college fund. His sad brown eyes endeared him to her and she wanted to be there for him, to support him, to love him. When the phone rang, it startled her.

  “Hello,” she mumbled, after picking up the receiver.

  “Hey, Londa!”

  Shalonda’s eyes shot open when she heard her baby sister’s voice.

  “Mimi? Is that you?”

  “It’s me. How are you?”

  “I’m fine, Mimi. What are you doing? Where did you get my number?”

  “Donetta gave it to me at the mall. She said she didn’t know if it was the right number anymore because she hadn’t talked to you in a while, but I’m glad it is.”

  Shalonda frowned. It was Donetta who had set everything up for the fake slumber party that night. It was Donetta who had arranged for the false ID’s so that they could hang out at the club. As a matter of fact, it was Donetta who had wanted to meet Juice, and when he showed an interest in Shalonda, she was obviously jealous. And somehow it was Donetta who had graduated from high school last year and was now attending college.

  “I’m so glad you called me, Mimi. How is school? How’re Mama and Ben?”

  “I’m going to be in fourth grade next year. I can’t wait. My teacher says I read real good, but I don’t really like reading that much. I like math better.”

  “You should like reading. Reading is a good thing to do, but math is important, too.” Shalonda swallowed hard. “It is so great to hear from you, Mimi. Have you grown taller?”

  “Daddy said I’m taller than you were at ten. But Mama told him not to mention your name. I wish you could come home, Londa.”

  “I’d like to, Mimi, but I can’t. Things are complicated and I don’t think it’s a good idea right now. But I’m glad you’re doing good in school. And I miss you very much.”

  “Mama won’t let me watch the videos on BET because she says that’s the garbage that ruined you. Londa, what does she mean when she says you’re ruined?”

  Shalonda thought for a minute, but couldn’t come up with an answer. Maybe she was ruined. Maybe that was the perfect description of her life. “It really doesn’t matter, Mimi,” she finally replied. “What does matter is that I’m going to come and see you as soon as I can. I promise.”

  “I hope so. I got glasses now, but I don’t wear them a lot. I don’t like the way they feel on my nose.”

  Suddenly Shalonda heard muffled voices over the phone. She sat up straight in the tub.

  “Mimi, are you okay? Are you still there?”

  “No, Shalonda. She’s not here. Why would you call her? What’s wrong with you! You’ve already messed up your life. Do you want to screw up your sister’s life, too? Just stay away from her! Don’t call, don’t try to see her, don’t encourage her to follow you into the gutter!”

  “Mom, why do you always have to—”

  “Don’t act like I did something wrong, Shalonda. We gave you everything and you threw it all away. Your daddy was stupid and you’re just like him. As a matter of fact, your whole generation is fucked-up. A bunch of ignorant niggas bling-blinging themselves to death.”

  “Mom, I’m sorr—” At the sound of the dial tone, Shalonda threw the phone across the room.

  She lay back in the tub and took a deep, long breath. That was her mother, always judging other people. If you didn’t do things her way you were wrong—and despite a serious Christian upbringing, there was no room for forgiveness. So high and mighty, yet Ben, Mimi’s father, her second husband, was a hustler from way back. He kept a string of women throughout their marriage. And each time, her mother wouldn’t forgive, but she would turn her head and let him in the back door. Ben had two other kids by two different women. One was the same age as Mimi.

  Shalonda lifted a vase of lavender and vanilla potpourri up to her nose. The scent was almost gone. In the beginning it was all fabulous. Juice was like a local celebrity in town. He was treated well wherever he went and that meant she was treated well when she was with him. It was easy to get caught up in such an exciting lifestyle. Riding around in his hundred-thousand-dollar Hummer, attending private parties with politicians and popular media folks she had seen on television. When Juice asked for it, she gladly gave up the only thing she had to offer: her virginity.

  When things started to change, she wasn’t paying attention. Shalonda sometimes blamed it on the Baker blood, a family myth on her father’s side. The blood of Baker women ran a few degrees higher than normal and as a result they loved much too hard. There was an aunt who stayed with an abusive husband for twenty years until he eventually beat her to death. And a cousin who died of AIDS a couple of years ago found out that she got the disease from her unfaithful fiancé, but married him anyway. Shalonda knew that Juice used women, but she truly didn’t know how she had become one of them. Maybe it was the Baker blood.

  The appointments were supposed to be a temporary thing. Juice said he was having financial difficulties and he needed her to show him how strong her love was. He said only a strong woman could stand by his side. Shalonda slowly waved her hand through the rippling water. It sounded like bullshit now, but somehow it didn’t then.

  The first time a stranger mounted her for money, Shalonda had held her breath. Now it was as if the act of not breathing could move her out of her body and into another realm. Weeks later she welcomed the fantasies that came. Fields of flowers were followed by deep blue skies and then sandy white beaches gave way to vast ocean waves. In her own mental paradise the men became a blur of contrasting sizes, peculiar smells and distinctive sounds. When temporary turned into permanent, one day she begged Juice to stop and was stunned to hear Mimi’s name come out of his mouth. She watched the curve of his lips as he talked about how pretty Mimi was. And her heart sank when he clearly described Mimi’s purple lace dress blowing in the wind on their backyard swing set.

  A knock at the door alerted her to Rodney’s arrival. He always used one hard rap, then four quick ones. Shalonda jumped out of the tub, bypassing her towel. A light spray of Fendi, followed by a soft, silk robe clinging to her wet body, was all the preparation she needed. When she opened the door, she smiled softly. Rodney was holding a single red rose in his hand.

  “For you,” he said, handing her the rose.

  She giggled and took it. “Thank you.”

  Rodney was an average-looking man. He had big ears, big feet and a big smile. He cared about her, and Shalonda ne
eded someone to care.

  “What you got for me today, pretty lady?” he asked with a wink.

  She opened her robe and allowed him to survey her thin, tan body. The smooth caramel skin and full red lips beckoned for him to take all he wanted. As he picked her up with little effort and carried her to the bed, Shalonda let it all go. This was one of the few times she would open herself up to enjoy a man’s love. Rodney’s kindness and compassion was as close to true love as she had ever been. Afterward, they lay together, her head on his chest, the palm of his hand on her hip and he talked about the wonderful places he wanted her to see. San Diego, Phoenix, Atlanta, the Bahamas, Belize, even Costa Rica. The first time he talked like that, she remembered waiting for a punch line, but Rodney continued to shape a dream of the two of them together until she kissed him passionately. Now Shalonda could see a life traveling with this man. She dreamed that someday he would ride in on a white horse and prove his love just like LL Cool J in Deliver Us From Eva.

  Before he left, Rodney paid the thirty dollars, then he pulled out a twenty-dollar bill and handed it to her. “This is for you,” he said, and with one last kiss he was gone.

  Shalonda lay across her bed, imagining the possibilities until the slamming of a door next door followed by Snoop Dogg rapping about his ability to turn bitches out, snatched her back. She was irritated. Not because of the song, but because she used to play that kind of music. She used to love that kind of music. When her mother once asked how she could support the negative things they said about women, she would shake her butt to the beat and reply, “They’re not talking about me.”

  She covered her head with the pillow, but the obtrusive beat forced her to get up. Stuffing all of the money from the drawer into a brown envelope, she pulled on a pair of jeans, a wrinkled T-shirt and jacket to start the short walk down the street to Juice’s apartment. The extra twenty went into the side pocket of her purse.

  Juice actually owned three apartment buildings on the block and was trying to buy a fourth. Shalonda lived and worked in one of the efficiencies along with about twelve other women. Juice called them his rainbows, and the money they made between their legs went into his pot of gold.