“We couldn’t get in,” she moaned. The man, a good-looking Asian, stood by nervously.
“Susan, you should’ve known better than to bring a man.”
Gretchen made the word man sound as welcome as a rattlesnake. “You remember what happened last time.”
“I know,” Susan whined. She hung her head like a child being blessed out. “But this is different. Donald was a rich, white stockbroker. Roger is an artist and he’s Chinese.”
Gretchen glanced at Roger as if she hadn’t noticed his ethnicity before.
“He even grew up in Chinatown,” Susan added proudly.
Gretchen hesitated and then sighed. “He’s still a man, Susan, and this is a women’s party.”
“Too bad, ’cause there’s no way Roger and I can snort all that coke by ourselves.”
Gretchen’s eyebrows arched with interest. “All what coke?”
Roger’s large dark eyes twinkled, and his thin lips looked like they might break out into a smile.
“The coke Roger’s got on him.”
“Does Pat know Roger’s got coke?”
Susan shook her head. “We didn’t even see Pat. This diesel dyke who answered the door didn’t give us a chance. She just said that I was violating a women-only space. And I’m thinking, Who the fuck are you to keep me out of my own sister’s house?”
“I’ll get you in,” Gretchen assured them. Susan and Roger grinned like they’d just been accepted into the college of their choice. I never would’ve thought that straight people would kiss somebody’s behind just to get into a lesbian party. And as expensive as cocaine was, too. I’d never been around people doing coke, but I’d read about it in my social psychology book. Maybe there was a place in the world more unusual than San Francisco. But I had never been there.
I stared down at the thin line of white powder on the plastic cutting-board, hoping I wouldn’t sneeze. I couldn’t afford for my sinuses to act up at a time like this.
“Hold one nostril and just inhale it in with the other,” Traci said gently. “It’s her first time,” she explained to the group huddled around the dining room table.
My nostril was working like a vacuum cleaner as it sucked up the cocaine. It smelled good, but I couldn’t think of anything it reminded me of. Didn’t people say that cocaine was in a class by itself? I wondered how it would feel once it got into my system. I looked around the room at the people who were already high. They were talkative, energetic, and smiling.
Susan and Roger were in the corner blowing bubbles.
“I want to blow bubbles too,” I shouted. I went over and grabbed the bottle.
“Far fucking out,” Susan exclaimed, admiring my huge bubble.
“So, Stevie, how do you feel?” Traci’s eyes looked brighter than usual.
“I feel pretty.”
“You feel pretty?”
I nodded.
“Sounds like West Side Story,” Traci said.
“Sounds like a nice high,” Pat said, nibbling on a piece of her carrot birthday cake.
“Roger, give me your number before you leave,” Traci winked. “You’re a good connection.”
Things were looking up. KPIX had called me about a production-assistant opening, and I’d interviewed with Vickie again. It had gone well, and I was pretty sure that I would get the job. She hadn’t actually come out and offered it to me, so I didn’t want to count my chickens before they hatched. But I couldn’t help feeling hopeful as I rushed into the apartment looking for Traci.
“I think I might have a job as a production assistant at KPIX! The interview went well. She all but offered it to me.”
“That’s good,” Traci mumbled without looking up. She continued to pore over some figures at the kitchen table.
“Are you balancing your checkbook?”
Traci shook her head. “Stevie, how is your money situation?”
“Tight, my savings are really dwindling. But if I get this job at KPIX, my money problems will be over.”
“We’re trying to put some money together to buy a gram.”
“A gram of coke?”
“Of course. How much can I hit you up for?”
I sat down next to Traci at the kitchen table. There was no money in my budget for drugs. “I barely have enough bus fare to go on job interviews. Even if I get this production-assistant job, it won’t start for two weeks. No telling how long it will be before I see my first paycheck. And the refrigerator is practically empty.”
“We’ve got food,” Traci sounded defensive. “Ain’t nobody here going hungry.”
“I didn’t say I wasn’t dirtying a plate on a regular basis. It’s just that I get tired of eating beans and rice and tortillas every daggone day.”
“We eat healthy. We got all kind of vegetables in there. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I’m talking about variety.”
“I suppose next you’re gonna tell me that you miss the smell of frying bacon.”
“Don’t remind me. Look, Traci, I can live without bacon and steak and pork chops, but I would like to be able to buy some chicken or fish each week. I can’t see spending food money on drugs when we can’t afford certain groceries.”
“Look, just give us what you can. I’ll get you some fish. I get paid next Friday. Jawea gets her SSI check soon.”
“SSI check, what’s that?”
“Social Security Insurance. Jawea’s on for a mental disability,” Traci explained as she drew a glass of spring water from the cooler.
I stood up. “Is Jawea crazy? Am I living with a mental patient?”
“Jawea’s not crazy. She’s just sensitive, that’s all. She’s an artist.”
“How come she qualifies for SSI then? Do you just have to be an artist to get it?”
“Jawea told them that she was a lesbian.”
“So?”
“It was back before the Psychiatric Association dropped homosexuality from its list of mental disorders.”
“Are you trying to tell me that you could just go down to Social Security and tell them that you were gay, and they would start sending you checks?”
“Pretty much. If you were on that list, you were as good as crazy. And up until a couple of years ago, homosexuality was on that list. What could SSI do? Their hands were tied.”
“Well, when the APA dropped homosexuality from its list, how come SSI didn’t stop sending Jawea money?”
“I guess it wasn’t retroactive. Once you’ve been certified crazy, you’re crazy.”
“Incredible!”
“Anyway, Stevie, how much money can you contribute to our cause?”
“What cause?”
“The coke cause.”
“OK, ten dollars,” I answered reluctantly.
“Cocaine will soon be blowin’ through my brain,” Traci sang.
I reached into my pocket and handed Traci my last ten-dollar bill. She clutched it so tight, I swear, she made the eagle holler.
“These are the best of times,” Traci declared. “I’m even gonna be on TV.”
“For real?” I asked, filling up the teapot.
“Yeah, KPIX is doing a segment about people stealing milk crates from the grocery stores. It’s to raise awareness to let folks know that crates cost money and taking them is hurting the stores. I was chosen by the collective to speak for Loving Foods.”
“Where did you get your crates from?”
“I liberated them from a large supermarket chain, nowhere like Loving Foods.”
I didn’t trip. Stealing crates was hardly a federal offense.
“I can’t wait to see you on TV!”
Traci sang, “Kate, thank you for buying us a ‘colored’ TV.” She made her voice sound like Janis Joplin’s. I smiled, but underneath I was tripping about the drugs. I mean, my family had such high hopes for me. What would they think if they knew I was spending my last ducats on cocaine? After they’d worked so hard and made so many sacrifices. It was a high pri
ce to pay just to put something up my nose.
I watched as the husky reporter with long sideburns shoved the microphone in front of Traci.
“Bring back the crates, y’all,” Traci pleaded, wearing her “Sappho Was a Right On Woman” T-shirt.
“Well, I think that pretty much sums up the sentiments of everyone here. Bring back the crates, y’all,” the reporter repeated solemnly. “This is Mark Mitchell reporting from San Francisco. Back to you, Bob.”
“Yea, Traci.” I clapped the loudest among the group of workers and customers gathered in front of her checkout stand.
The cameraman and the reporter were off to the side talking and pointing. They’d probably never seen a store like Loving Foods. Besides food, you could buy all kinds of health products: herbs, lotions, incense, candles, vibrators, backpacks, you name it. And there were posters on the wall like “When God Made Man She Was Only Joking,” “Legalize Marijuana,” and “Free Huey Newton.”
“Didn’t you interview at the station?”
I was headed for Traci, but I turned my attention toward a tall, slim, cocoa-complected man. He looked familiar, but I couldn’t quite place him.
“You’re from Chicago, aren’t you?” he asked.
I nodded. “How’d you know?”
“I was on the desk while the receptionist was on break.”
“Oh, I remember. You’re from Chicago too. At first I didn’t realize that you were with KPIX.”
“Yeah, I’m a production assistant. Sterling Grants.”
“Jean Stevenson, but call me Stevie.”
“I’m just waiting to run the film back to the studio. I heard they offered you the job, but you turned it down.”
“Turned it down!” I exclaimed. “I’ve been waiting to hear from them.”
“If I’m not mistaken, Vickie said your roommate or somebody told her you couldn’t drive a stick. That you could barely drive an automatic. So, they went with their second choice. Vickie said she’d forgotten to ask you at the interview.”
Traci walked over toward me, smiling.
“I done good, huh.”
I frowned. “This man says they offered me the job at KPIX, and my roommate told them I couldn’t drive a stick.”
Traci looked blank.
“I think it was Tuesday, I’m pretty sure Vickie called you on Tuesday,” Sterling cut in.
“You were home on Tuesday,” I said to Traci “I was down at Media Alliance checking their job listings. And Jawea was still in Santa Cruz.”
“Tuesday … Tuesday … oh yeah, somebody did call.”
“I’ll let you two deal with this, they need me. Check with you on my way out.”
“Thanks.” I turned to Traci. “What do you mean somebody did call!” I shouted. “Why didn’t you tell me about it?”
“Sorry, I guess I forgot. Look, I gotta go back to work.”
“You cost me a job!” I said angrily.
“We can talk about it later.”
“I want to talk about it now!”
“Now, don’t act colored.”
“Don’t act colored! I’ll act any way I want!”
“Stevie, be cool, don’t make a scene. Look, I’ve got a break in fifteen minutes. We can talk then.”
It was all I could do not to grab the back of her T-shirt and smash a tomato in her face.
Sterling walked toward me, carrying the film.
“Sounds like a real drag.”
“I could’ve learned to drive a stick if I’d known.”
“I’ve gotta book. Follow me to the car. Give me your number, and I’ll keep an eye out for you. In this business, it’s a lot about who you know.”
“I really appreciate that, Sterling.”
“Hey, I’ll do whatever I can to help a sistah from the Southside.”
I found Traci in the break room. I’d charged around the block a few times, but still hadn’t completely cooled off. She had the nerve to have one of the other collective members rubbing her bare feet.
“I forgot that Hope said that she would give me a foot massage this afternoon,” Traci said.
“What’s wrong with your feet? I asked irritably.
“Nothing, I’m ovulating.”
“Ovulating?”
“Yeah, I get a twinge of pain some months. Hope does reflexology. She can rub places on your feet that correspond with different parts of your body, including your ovaries.”
“Really?” Hope bobbed her head of long, auburn curls up and down. She turned and gave me a silly smile with her dizzy-looking self.
“Well, I didn’t come here to discuss reflexology. And if you want an audience, it’s OK with me. But I’m not gonna bite my tongue. You had no right to tell those people that I couldn’t drive a stick. First of all, it was none of your damn business.”
“I’m really having trouble creating a healing space with your energy,” Hope complained.
“I could’ve learned how to drive a stick in two weeks,” I said, ignoring Hope’s stupid ass.
“Look, Stevie, it’s no point in me bullshitting you. I was high when they called. I had just smoked me a joint. I’m sorry, but when you’re high, you’re more likely to tell the truth. The woman said she forgot to ask you if you could drive a stick. You’d be picking up and delivering stuff all over the Bay Area. I told her that you could barely drive an automatic, which is the truth.”
“You shouldn’t have told her anything. You should’ve stayed out of it and let me handle it.”
“Why would you want to work for the media anyway?” Hope asked, staring over Traci’s foot. “Except for the alternative media, all they do is promote lies and propaganda.”
“I’m not interested in debating the merits of the media with you right now. This is between me and Traci, so why don’t you just butt out of it!”
Hope sighed but otherwise turned her attention back to Traci’s foot.
“Stevie, you ain’t got to get funky with nobody.”
“I wasn’t getting funky, I was just making myself clear.”
“OK, like I said, I was high. Besides, that job might sound glamorous, but wait till you have to drive up and down these hills not knowing where the hell you’re going at breakneck speed. You’d just be a glorified messenger, that’s all. Actually, I did you a favor.”
“Do me another favor.”
“What?”
“Don’t do me any more favors,” I said, turning on my heels and walking out.
I slept in Kate’s room that night and was able to avoid Traci in the morning altogether. I was still fit to be tied, but I was also plain hurt. I wondered why Traci had come between me and a job. If the media wasn’t right for me, I had the right to find that out for myself. So what if I was just a glorified messenger? Traci was just a glorified grocery clerk. She probably just wanted to keep me dependent on her. Deep down, maybe she was afraid that if I got involved in a career, she’d lose me. I was still mad when she called at lunchtime to invite me out to a crab dinner at a restaurant out by the beach. I reluctantly agreed, partly because I couldn’t take beans another night. Traci showed up with a dozen red roses and waving a white handkerchief. I had no choice but to forgive her.
We sat in the cozy restaurant wearing large bibs and sipping wine. It was quite romantic, despite our messy mouths and hands. And I still had to admit that Traci was the cutest person in here. Her reddish-brown skin and silver hoop earrings shone in the candlelight. Her puffy Afro framed her face, and her colorful Guatemalan vest contributed to her artistic persona.
“I believe this is the best crab I’ve ever eaten.”
“How much crab have you eaten?” Traci looked like she immediately regretted her question. I suppose she realized that this was no time to be sarcastic, there wasn’t enough water under the bridge yet.
“I had crab when I was in Boston with the debate team last year,” I snapped.
“I think this is the best crab I’ve ever eaten too,” Traci smiled. “Maybe because it�
��s roasted.”
“It has a nice garlic flavor.”
“That too,” Traci agreed.
We walked along the beach after dinner. San Francisco was in the middle of a heat wave, so it was delightfully cool along the water tonight, instead of the usual plain cold. We held hands and had fun running from the tide.
“Goddamn dykes,” a voice shouted in the moonlight. I glanced over at the hostile group of teenage boys passing us. One of them grabbed his crotch crudely as he walked by.
The teenagers had gone about their business. But their vibe was still in the air. Traci kicked sand in his direction.
“I bet a couple of those boys are worried about their own sexuality,” I said. “Sometimes, they’re the worst ones. People hate what they fear.”
“Fuck all of ’em,” Traci muttered.
“Don’t trip, they’re not worth it,” I said. I didn’t want trouble. But I was angry too. We had a right to be here just like anybody else. And yet a part of me felt embarrassed about being called a dyke. It was like they were saying I was a freak. And I didn’t want to be seen as a freak just because I was in a relationship with a woman.
“Does it bother you to be called a dyke?” I asked.
Traci shook her head. “I’m proud of it.”
I marveled at her ability not to feel ashamed.
“But it does bother me when people use it as a put-down,” she continued. “And I don’t appreciate folks invading my space. You never know if they’re gonna back it up with violence.”
“It’s so unfair. The world smiles on straight people. Every institution is against us, and people still wanna give us a hard time.” I was proud of myself for saying “we” and “us.”
“People are control freaks, that’s the bottom line.”
I stopped and cut my eyes at Traci.
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
“If the shoe fits, wear it,” I answered playfully.
“What do you mean?”
“Just remember that the next time I get a call about a job.”
“I’m willing to grow, Stevie. I realize now I have to step back and let you make your own mistakes.”
“Maybe they won’t all be mistakes.”
“To change the subject, you know one of those bastards tonight could’ve easily been my brother.”
Ain't Gonna Be the Same Fool Twice Page 12
