The Coldest Winter Ever

by Sister Souljah

  “We need a major credit card to secure your registration, ma’am,” the lady at the desk said.

  “You don’t take cash?”

  “Yes, if you would like to pay cash that will be fine. It’ll be two hundred dollars for the room and a twenty-dollar refundable deposit for the phone.”

  Happy to shut the snotty receptionist up, I unzipped my Coach bag and reached in for my roll of twenties. Instead, I pulled out two bottles of Wet’n’Wild lip gloss and a half-eaten chocolate chip cookie. I stood staring at my own hand as if I had six fingers. The picture frame froze. Everything in front of my eyes stuck in the same motionless position. Lauren, described by her sister as “the trickster,” had switched her red leather Coach bag with mine.

  As I squatted down to check the bag, not because I had hopes that it was mine, but out of disbelief, I flipped it over and emptied its contents onto the hotel carpet. There was nothing of value in the bag. The inside stunk from the odor of two bottles of rubbing alcohol she had in there. She must of thrown these in at the last moment so I wouldn’t notice the weight change. As every muscle in my body collapsed from the sheer stress of the situation, my butt hit the floor. The voice of the hotel woman was flying over the counter and dropping down onto my ears.

  “Excuse me miss, do you want the room?”

  “I’ll be back,” I called to her. I used my hands to sweep all the junk, except the crumbs, back into the bag. I walked away in slow motion, lifting my Nike bag off the bellhop’s trolley.

  16

  I found myself seated in the hotel bar. I didn’t have no thoughts ’cause my brain was shut down or frozen or something. I didn’t even know what city I was in. I was able to hold off the waiter who at first was pressuring me to buy a drink. I told him I was waiting for my boyfriend who had a room in the hotel but was running late. After one hour, that excuse was exhausted so I gathered my bags and walked out the front door of the hotel.

  The hotel was situated right off the highway. I could hear the cars passing behind the wooded area that separated the hotel from everything else. As I stepped out into the street I looked to my left and saw nothing but trees. About a half-mile up there was a traffic light. Complete silence. To my right there were more woods, no stores, pay phones, no sign that people even lived there.

  As the winter chill cut through my light red leather jacket I clapped my hands together to keep them from stiffening. When you have someplace to live you don’t think about the weather too much. Facing the reality that I had nowhere to go I realized that it was me versus nature tonight. As I thought of every person I had ever known, my list of who could help me out added up to almost nothing. I had a brainstorm and ran back inside the hotel. I sat in the telephone booth and tried desperately to remember Sterling’s phone number. Calm down, don’t panic, I told myself. You know what Daddy says. But it was useless.

  When I relaxed enough to recall the number, I dialed it and got the stinking operator’s voice. “This number has been changed to a nonpublished number.” In a rage I kicked the folding telephone booth door and injured my own toe.

  In the hotel bathroom I removed my red skirt, white shirt, and stockings. Pulling my jeans, Polo shirt, and Clarks out of the Nike bag, I got dressed to be more comfortable for the unknown. Leaning against the mirror I realized that not only was my diamond jewelry that Daddy gave me and all my money gone, but so was my box cutter. I felt naked without a weapon. I was taught that a girl should always have a razor, switchblade, box cutter, needle, mace, or a burner for her defense. Remembering a Brooklyn specialty, I pulled out a pair of socks from my Nike bag and headed out the door.

  Across the street where the woods lined the outside of the highway, I filled my extra pair of socks with big, sharp rocks. Squatting down, digging in the dirt separating the rocks, the voice in my head said, This is it. Packing the socks in my pocketbook I headed back to the hotel bar. There was no plan. Everything was spontaneous. I didn’t know what to do now, but I would know when the time was right.

  In all the movies I had ever seen, the bartender is always the one with all the information. So I ordered a ginger ale to purchase the right to sit on the bar stool and talk to him.

  “Do you live here?” I asked him.

  “Sure do.”

  “It seems like a small place, I’m from the city.”

  “It’s a great town, Teaneck. We’re part of Bergen County, the third richest county in the country.”

  “Is that right?” I acted casual, unimpressed.

  “We’ve got great shopping malls just a short way down the highway. That’s where all the restaurants are, too. You like dancing? There’s a few clubs out here, but mostly people party at the bar scenes.”

  “Do you have homeless people?” I asked him.

  “What?” he responded, a little puzzled.

  “Ordinary question for a New Yorker,” I smiled.

  “Our homeless live better than I do, and I work! When you live in a town where people have money there’s a lot of charity. Practically any church could point ya in the right direction. Hey! You’re the most glamorous homeless person I ever saw,” the baby-faced white boy said.

  We laughed. He was just passing the time, but I was taking in everything that surrounded me. Every customer was important. I watched the opening and closing of the cash register, and the woman playing the jukebox. There was an elderly woman who entered the bar forty-five minutes later. She caught my interest. She was wearing a Versace blouse, ugly, but expensive earrings, and some fine slacks. As she sat down at the bar and ordered a Bloody Mary she fumbled with her wallet and accidentally dropped some loose twenty-dollar bills on the bar top. When she gathered them up to put them back inside, I saw about seven different credit cards. Her hands kept moving like she had that shaking disease. It only took seconds to catch the pile of diamonds on her wedding finger. The slim driving shoes by Gucci with the leather patch at the heel were being wasted on her old feet. I tried to guess what she had in the Nordstrom’s shopping bag underneath the tissue paper.

  “I guess your boyfriend’s a real jerk,” the waiter said to me. “It’s either that, or he’s some kind of NBA player. You know they stay here sometimes. What kind of guy other than a superstar could leave a beautiful girl like you in the bar alone?”

  “Alright, alright, don’t tell everyone,” I teased him, gathering my stuff and waving goodbye.

  It was only twenty minutes later that the old lady came out into the parking lot. When she saw me emerge from behind the side wall she was startled and placed her wrinkled hand over her heart.

  “I’m sorry,” I said in my most pleasant voice. “It’s just me, from the bar.”

  “Oh not to worry,” she chuckled nervously. As she clutched her bag, zigzagging in between this car and that car, I walked behind her. She was chatting about the cold weather and how she always misplaces her car when she parks.

  “I do that, too,” I told her.

  “But a young girl like you shouldn’t have a memory problem.”

  When she reached the Jaguar parked right beside the shrubbery, I laughed.

  “What a coincidence, that’s my car right beside yours.” We both turned our back to one another. Me to get my keys out, her to place the keys which were already in her hand, in the lock. In a split second she didn’t know what hit her. It was my stone-filled sock up against her head. She withered like a flower and fell to the ground. I had two hundred in cash, one credit card—the American Express gold card—two diamond rings, and those Gucci shoes. I was on my way. Lucky for me I was smart enough to leave her car and that Nordstrom bag right there. I didn’t run or nothing. I just walked up the pathway alongside the woods. The bartender had told me how to get to the bus.

  On the highway route, I discharged at the Holiday Inn. It was sixty dollars for the night, which was more reasonable for me at this time. After a long, hot shower I sat on the bed with the pillows behind me. For some reason I couldn’t settle. I could not sleep. I pul
led out those letters. I would read them all. I would find out Midnight’s address. Maybe I would go wherever he was. He was the only link to my past. The only free person I could trust right now.

  May 1993

  Dear Bilal,

  When I first saw you in the library at Columbia University I assumed you were a student. I’m sure you didn’t notice me. There were many reasons why I noticed you. One, you were reading Hadith. Secondly, you just had a powerful presence. Now this may sound odd but I watch everything and everybody very closely. It’s my way of learning to understand life and people. Most of the brothers at the Columbia campus have no presence at all. In fact, it’s as if they made a conscious effort to reduce themselves so no one would find them offensive, too black or too strong. Even the brothers who are not introverted are not like men. They are like children or caricatures. They play games they should have left behind many years ago, and find it extremely difficult to focus on anything that is not of a required academic nature. So there you were, mature, black, and yes, beautiful.

  I didn’t disturb you because you seemed perfect as you were, uninterrupted. I knew if I did not stop to say what’s up or to introduce myself, I might not ever see you again. After all, I am not a Columbia student and am only on the campus once a week. But still, I let it go.

  After not seeing you for a couple of weeks, I was surprised to notice you heading toward me with Phil, the Columbia student and volunteer in the children’s program where I teach. When finally he introduced us, it seemed that we barely said peace to one another, yet we looked into each other’s eyes, forgetting to drop hands from our initial shake.

  I’d be lying if I said I was surprised when Phil asked me if he could pass you my phone number. Before giving it to him I asked him your age. He said you were twenty-two. He volunteered that you were not a student, just a friend of his from Brooklyn. When I asked him what you do he fumbled around for a few seconds, then said that you were a mechanic.

  If I came off cool when you called, my voice hid my real feelings. Inside I felt everything shift. On a usual day I am so unimpressed with everything and everybody. It seems every word shared between a man and a woman has already been said and nothing could be done that I didn’t already see. And nobody means what they say anyway. So it didn’t really matter. Yet as we talked, I felt my breathing intensify, a sign that I’m still alive and capable of feeling.

  I felt you watching as I taught my students on the day we agreed to go out after class and you arrived early. At the cafe, after debating with you about whether there is hope for a new uprising among today’s youth, the thing that stood out most in my mind were your hands. On one side they were dark and strong, long and thick. On the other side they were soft with deep colored lines. Your nails were clean, I’d even go so far as to say they were manicured as I noticed their dull shine.

  When I asked you one on one what you do for a living, you responded with the same silence that Phil had. Seconds later you said you were a businessman. When I pressed, you said you owned a car service in Brooklyn. It probably was the way that you walked, like you owned all of Manhattan, or the way that you talk in a masculine slow yet steady way, or maybe it’s the way you place your hand in the middle of my back as I’m walking through a door that you’re holding. So I figured an auto mechanic and a businessman with a car service were not so far apart. Besides, you even gave me your business card.

  Because we are both busy, I treasured the time we had after class once a week. I held onto things I wanted to discuss in politics concerning the progress of our people. I knew you would always introduce an interesting angle or unexplored response. Besides every now and then I get sick of staring into the blank faces of students who could care less about world events, politics, or even people they are not directly related to.

  So you got inside of me, not physically, but in more intimate ways. You got inside my mind, my thoughts, my spirit. When a girlfriend of one of the sisters on campus said your name was Midnight, I told her she must be thinking and talking about the wrong guy. But she described you so well, knew the car you drive, and said she heard you were involved in “questionable activities.”

  Sitting in my bedroom one night, I pulled out your business card. It listed the name of your company, B-K Car Service. But nowhere on the card did it say your name, Bilal Jones. The phone number on the card was the same as your home number. When I called information neither your name or the name of your car service was listed. I confess that I went to the address on your business card. There was no car service. It was a mailbox place. So here I am, reviewing everything in my mind, knowing in my subconscious that a man with such a sensual level of confidence about everything, a trait which has been erased from so many black men, had to have some kind of tragic irony to him.

  I flipped through the scenes of our two and a half month emerging friendship. Despite my sweet addiction I have decided to end it. I’m writing to you because it’s easy for me this way. I cannot be deceived or seduced by the passion and strength of your voice. I cannot be persuaded by the power of your reasoning. I will not call you. I ask that you don’t call me either. As this class ends this week, you will not see me anymore. I see no reason to know you, to continue if you are involved in what I suspect. In fact, it makes you so typical and undesirable to me.

  SS

  May 1993

  Sister Souljah,

  All a man has is his business. Without it he has nothing. Women are confused. The same things you love are the same things you hate. Have you ever seen an aggressive, confident man with broke pockets and no business? If you did you would not remember him. If you remembered him you would not respect him. You could have just bounced and not said nothing, no goodbyes. You said something, so what we have between us must not really be over. If I don’t see you now, I’ll see you later. But I will see you.

  Bilal

  July 1993

  Peace Souljah,

  You are always on my mind. Even when I try to push you out, you’re on my radio or on somebody’s television. So you’re holding out on me. I’m surprised, I just knew I would hear from you. I even bet myself it would be a week to ten days after I dropped you a line, but nothing since. So the strong girl thing isn’t an illusion.

  You were right about one thing. Everything being said by the women I date has already been said. Everything being done, I already did. As you put it one time when we was chillin’, “What’s the sense in fucking an empty-headed girl? It’s like fucking a hole in the wall.” I know I bugged you when you said it. I didn’t even consider it seriously. But now that it’s been brought to my attention, I find myself tripping over the words we shared, the thoughts we exchanged and your pretty smile. I miss you. Give a man a break.

  Missing You,

  Bilal

  September 1993

  Peace,

  I reread your letter. You said you like to watch people, that’s how you get your understanding of life. Well I live in these streets. That’s how I get my understanding of life. The hard way. The real way. A man’s way. I heard you talking about black unity the other night on the radio. Look Souljah, I dig you, but you’re fooling yourself. Niggas ain’t never going to be unified. You put all your time into organizing niggas yet you lock out the nigga who’s real with you, me.

  What do you want from me? Can I live? Are you better than the niggas you supposed to be helping? You put yourself in a position to judge. Only God can do that. I want to see you. I know your Columbia classes start up again next week. I’m coming to check you.

  Peace,

  Midnight

  September 1993

  Dear Bilal,

  It’s funny how the same thing a man loves, is the same thing that he hates. What makes me stand out as a woman is that I have nonnegotiable principles, strength, and faith in my people. From the time that we shared you seemed to love that, admire it, even. Now you hate it because my ways have isolated you. The truth is, you’ve isolated yourself.

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sp; I move on a vibe, a combination of what I see, think, learn, and feel. If I was to move strictly on feeling I’d get myself into a whole lot of trouble. I already did that when I was eighteen, nineteen, and twenty. Now I’m twenty-four. I’ve learned a lot ’cause that’s what we’re all supposed to do. Only a complete asshole would keep repeating the same old mistakes and blaming it on something else. Hell, we have all had it hard. It may not seem like it, but I grew up in the projects. I lived in poverty. I didn’t have no father in my house. I’m not asking for sympathy. Every black face has a story, many times a gruesome story. But we have to get over it no matter how bad it might be. We have to re-create our families and build our communities again. It may seem hopeless. Many times I get depressed but I move on because I have to. God requires this from me.

  I do know something. Where there are drugs, there can be no love. There can be no family. Drugs rob every person, man, woman, and child of their beauty. Drugs turn people into animals who can only respond to instincts. Drugs are so powerful they eradicate the God in both the taker and the giver.

  I have worked with prisoners incarcerated in New York, New Jersey, and North Carolina. Hundreds, thousands, and millions of drug-related convictions. The contradiction, maybe I’ll find out after death, is that behind those walls seem to be the majority of black men, and increasingly women. The tall, the dark, the beautiful. But how do we get men and women before they are hunted like foxes and trapped like rats and treated like ants to understand the concept of unity, working, building, living together? It seems the Black National Anthem is If it’s broke, don’t fix it.