Lisa knew she was alive because she was hurting. Once again she had caused her own pain. Nothing could staunch the greedy and needy monster inside her who begged for more attention, more words of affirmation, more acts of affection, more, more, more. Her boyfriend finally peered down the bottomless pit of her need and he too ran off, to save his own life.
Leon had always felt he had to buy love, starting with his parents. His brother was an athlete, Leon was only an A student—commendable, but there was no glory in it, no trophies. His brother attracted girls. Leon earned them with gifts and begging. He was actually better looking than his older brother, taller and with dimples. But girls took Leon for granted, got bored, and eventually hooked up with some bad boy who screwed them over and left them, who they could never get over. Yet they would never take Leon back.
Lisa walked out the back of McClymonds High School, past her car in the parking lot, and out the gates, wandering aimlessly down 28th Street. When she crossed Myrtle she entered into the ho stroll of working girls. Even on the sunniest days this block was in shadow. One skinny, saggy-tittied prostitute, smoking a cigarette, eyed her. Lisa was too sad to fear for her own safety. The prostitute wore resignation like the mask of death. A car slowed, the driver leaning over the passenger side and scrutinizing Lisa, but when he didn’t hear the question, Are you looking for a date? he moved on to the other woman on the block, didn’t like what he saw, and sped off. The prostitute took the cigarette out of her mouth, peered at Lisa with pure venom, then settled in against the wall of the storage mart.
Sturdy brown legs under a white skirt skipped by, the trudging steps of her mother right behind, smiling absentmindedly. There was joy in West Oakland, even in the dark shadow of the ho stroll. Lisa always felt sorry for herself after love went bad. It was time to rewrite the script. She reminded her students that most papers could be saved, in fact were not complete without a good and thorough edit. But like her students, she didn’t have what it took to do it, at least as far as her life was concerned.
She assessed herself. Five foot nine (too tall), caramel skin, size 12/13 (too big). Thick black hair that was prone to getting poufy in this curly weave world, round face, big eyes, negroid nose, and full lips, wearing a black pencil skirt and a fitted white blouse. Not exactly bad-girl attire.
Leon turned his ride at the corner of 28th Street and saw Lisa standing there. She was a different type of prostitute, one for the guys who wanted to take down a businesswoman, a proper girl. Maybe he could pay up front and have exactly what he wanted.
In her sad, suicidal mood, Lisa decided if he slowed she would get into the car. He looked harmless enough. A voice in her head whispered, This ain’t Black Pretty Woman, you know. She ignored the voice and got in. There was something about his face, something about him that made her feel it was okay. Leon drove off. He didn’t speak and neither did she. He turned right onto Market Street. The light caught him on 27th Street. Lisa opened the door just to see if she could, in case she needed to get out in a hurry.
“What’s the matter?” Leon asked. He would be relieved if she got out, but he was also relieved that she stayed. Her energy felt good, it was electrifying.
“Nothing.”
Leon looked at her. “How does this work?”
“How do you want it to work?” Lisa didn’t even know where that came from.
“Uh, I don’t know.” Leon’s cell phone rang and he reluctantly answered it. “Where . . . ? Yeah, I’m just getting off work but I have someone with me . . . Maybe I don’t want to bring them along . . . All right! I’ll pick you up.” He stole a glance at Lisa. “A slight detour, I need to pick someone up.”
“Okay,” Lisa whispered. She thought, Is this the setup for a gang rape?
He sensed her fear and instinctively reached for her hand. But he caught himself; this was no date. What the hell was this anyway? Lisa pulled her hand away at his first furtive movement. Maybe he was trying to hold her so she couldn’t jump out.
What type of prostitute is she? Leon wondered. She seemed too shy to be a whore, but if she wasn’t, why would she get in his car? Why didn’t she talk about price up front? Maybe it was an act to fleece him at the end of the evening. The bitch!
“I would say a penny for your thoughts but I know that wouldn’t be nearly enough.”
“Thoughts? Thoughts are free. I was just thinking it’s good to be with a gentleman.” She was hoping.
“A gentleman?” Leon snorted. “You find many of those cruising 28th Street?” He turned right on 7th Street.
Lisa didn’t answer. They both were thinking, What the fuck have I got myself into?
Leon pulled into the West Oakland BART station. A tall, thin, nut-brown guy with a pile of nappy hair approached. Lisa jumped out of the car and Leon’s heart lurched with the same feeling of relieved if she does, relieved if she doesn’t. Lisa opened the rear door and got in the back. Nobody would slip a garrote around her neck.
Leon frowned at her. Lisa managed, “We can talk later,” before his friend got in, his shock of hair scraping against the ceiling of the car. “Take care of your friend first.”
“Thanks, man,” the guy said. He turned around with a semi-smirk on his face. “Who is this?”
Lisa disliked him immediately.
Leon stammered, “This is—”
“Lisa Boudreux,” she said, extending her hand. The guy turned away without taking her hand.
“This is Ajani,” Leon said.
“Well, Leon, I see you are up to surprises.” Ajani cupped his hand to light up a joint, then turned to Lisa. “You a smoking girl?” He had that same quizzical smirk on his face.
God, she couldn’t stand him. “No,” she said, and shook her head gently.
Leon turned and looked at her. She really was a different type of prostitute. He could use some herbal encouragement.
Lisa noticed the early winter sunset as she watched the bright orange-red end of the joint grow brighter when Leon took a toke.
Leon drove past the Shell station on 7th Street and Market. “I gotta get gas but this place is too high.” He headed down to the ARCO on Grand. When he jumped out to pump gas, Ajani stepped out to get something from the AM-PM store.
“So, who’s this chick?”
“Somebody I picked up.”
“C’mon, man. You don’t pick up chicks.”
“Today I did.” Leon turned his back to the car and leaned toward Ajani. “She’s a prostitute.”
“A prostitute?” Ajani glowered at her. “She ain’t no prostitute.”
“I slowed down where the working girls are. She was there and hopped right in my car.”
Ajani peered at Leon, then over at Lisa.
As soon as the guys got back in the car, Ajani twisted around to face her and asked, “How about a threesome?”
Lisa stared at Ajani unflinchingly and casually said, “A threesome is more. Who’s paying?”
“I don’t want a threesome,” Leon cut in. “This is between Lisa and me.”
“Yeah, I bet,” Ajani muttered. “Tell you what. I got a spot; it’s a place not too many people know about or can know about. You heard about the Power Exchange in San Francisco?” Crickets. “Of course not. Well, this is like the Power Exchange only more relaxed. No one is required to do anything. The place has a really chill atmosphere. It’s called the Upside of Pandora’s Box. You guys seem up for an adventure today, so let’s go.”
Ajani directed Leon back down Market to 18th and made a right and then a left, stopping at a huge house on Linden Street. The ground floor had been turned into a separate apartment. Ajani ran ahead. A hunky black man in a pinstripe suit opened the door and he and Ajani laughed. The brother let Ajani head inside. When Leon tried to walk past, the guy said, “Twenty dollars a person.” Leon paid for Lisa as well.
The smell of sage greeted them as they stepped over salt sprinkled at the threshold. The air was hazy and blue light barely illuminated the place. “A Love Supr
eme” by John Coltrane was playing, followed by Prince’s “Do Me, Baby.” As Leon and Lisa made their way up the stairs they passed Ajani sitting with another guy, pulling on a bong. His eyelids were already drooping. Ajani handed the bong to Leon, who hit, and he passed it to Lisa, and she hit it, and the bong began making its rotations. They didn’t feel anything . . . and then they did. The world changed. All their senses were heightened. They became hyperaware of everything. Their bodies felt lighter. Gravity was no longer in effect.
Couples were dancing sensuously. A man bent a woman over and ran his hands along her breasts and down the length of her body, grabbing her hips and pulling her into him. A girl came in, demure and sad. “Why you feeling blue, Meg?” a man asked. He cleared a long oak table and helped her lie down on it. He began to disrobe her and others joined in. They rubbed her down with oil, from the bottom of her feet to her scalp, massaging her slowly. Some guy bent over and suckled her breast and a girl on the other side did the same. Meg’s eyes were closed as she drank in the tactile pleasures. A man sunk his middle finger between her legs. She gasped and then began a low moan. He mounted her while the others continued to caress her, holding her hands out and rubbing her arms. In a short while she arched her back and pointed her bent legs toward the ceiling. Everyone applauded when they saw the shy smile on her face.
Lisa slurred, “That was lovely.”
“You think so?” Leon whispered. Ajani had disappeared to parts unknown. Leon leaned forward and gently kissed her. “You’re lovely.” He kissed her again, parting her full lips and tasting her.
A wide-hipped woman, looking like Pocahontas with two thick braids, stood up and began dancing alone. She was dancing so slowly and smoothly that in their drugged state, one of her movements seemed to blur into the next as if her body had no lines or boundaries. Lisa leaned in clumsily and kissed Leon and they both fell over. He rolled on top of her luscious thickness and the weight of his body felt delicious. Their pleasure was liquid and insuppressible. He bunched her skirt up around her waist. Neither was conscious enough of their surroundings to care. Leon began tugging forcefully on Lisa’s panties.
“Wow! Can I be next?”
It was as if a beautiful love song playing on vinyl had the needle abruptly ripped off. Lisa and Leon opened their eyes to find Ajani, grinning stupidly at them. The hunky guy in the pinstriped suit was shaking his head at Ajani—his behavior was improper etiquette for the Upside of Pandora’s Box.
“Man, can’t you find yourself a woman?” Leon said. “And find yourself a ride home!”
“Aw, man, is it like that? Over this bitch?”
Leon tilted his head and just looked at Ajani.
“Yeah, man, I can get a ride,” Ajani finally muttered.
“Good!” Leon reached for Lisa’s hand and they made for the door.
When they stepped outside, the cold air dissipated the sexual intensity they had felt inside.
“You want to get a room?”
Lisa looked down. “Yes, I do. But I have something to tell you.”
“You’re not really a prostitute.”
“You knew?”
“I guessed. I don’t really have any experience with this, but what prostitute doesn’t talk money from the jump, unless they want to blindside the guy with the price later? You didn’t seem hard enough for that. But why in the world would you get into a stranger’s car? That’s damn dangerous.”
“I know, but you had a look and I had a feeling. I was feeling low and so I took a chance.”
“Man, that could have been the deadliest chance of your life.”
“Well, why did you pick me up?”
“I was feeling down too. I looked at you and I just did it. Paying for sex, however you want it. At the time it seemed like a good idea.”
They stared at each other for a moment.
“It’s getting late. I better go back to my car.” Lisa said.
“Are we going to exchange numbers?” Leon asked.
“No, the night was perfect. It would probably go downhill from here.”
“You’re probably right.”
“But if I ever see you again . . .” they both said at the same time.
“We’ll know it was fate,” Lisa finished.
He drove her back to 28th Street, the block between Myrtle and Market. A car passed by and Lisa thought she saw Ajani’s face. “Are you sure you don’t want a ride to your car?” Leon asked. “You already dodged one bullet.”
“No, I’ll be fine. Let’s keep the mystery going.”
He kissed her once again and let her out. She was walking back to McClymonds, one short block, when she noticed a lump of something on the sidewalk. When she got closer she saw it was the prostitute in a heap, her eyes half open, a cigarette hanging out the side of her mouth. Lisa didn’t know if she was alive or dead. Either way it was too late for the woman to rewrite this chapter of her life, and Lisa wondered if it was too late for her too. She pulled out her phone to call 911. The heavy footsteps behind her came so fast she had no time to feel fear or dread.
THE THREE STOOGES
by Phil Canalin
Sausal Creek
Tonight the three guys felt good. All of them had scored some schwag and were about to blaze big in a minute. But they sat, stalling and shooting the shit for a little bit, knowing that the first hit was always the best hit, and waiting for it could be almost as good.
They were hanging out in the forgotten back end of Austen Square, near East 22nd Street. Not far from them, a mural had been gloriously painted on the old concrete retaining wall along that portion of Sausal Creek. The mural, about thirty feet long, depicted a woman’s face with a series of scared and startled expressions, ending, or perhaps beginning, with Pinocchio’s cartoon face, also startled, even horrified. Meaning what, exactly? That someone cannot tell a lie? Or that someone’s about to tell a lie? It depended on the direction in which the observer viewed the painted mural, maybe. Either way, a lie about what?
The three of them were all but hidden by tall, grassy weeds and wild shrubs, broad-leafed, hollow-limbed, and ignored for years. None of the boys cared one bit about the artwork or its intended meaning. The boys—really, they were men in stature—sat sprawled atop a portion of the low wall of cheap, crumbling concrete. The city had probably saved a few cents on the dollar using inferior product back when they first put the wall up ages ago, maybe saving a few more cents by hiring inferior city workers.
What was supposed to be a wall to stop Sausal Creek from eroding the land was now a crumbling, unkempt eyesore, like the rest of the creek trail most of the way down to the Oakland Estuary. Hell, a lot people lived in Oakland all their lives and didn’t even know Sausal Creek existed, let alone that it ran from the northeast hills up near Mountain Boulevard down to the estuary and San Leandro Bay. It didn’t help that city forefathers had installed metal culvert pipes to direct much of the creek underground, causing a lot of it to dry up. Even in the winter months many parts of Sausal Creek were thin, filthy beds of jumbled rocks embedded in flat sections of gray, smelly clay. All this was why the three of them could hole up there forever most nights, rarely bothered. Of course, their ragged, dirty clothes and overall grossness kept folks at a distance too.
On one end Maurice was holding up a cheap plastic sandwich baggie, shaking it and gleefully bragging in front of the others. Maurice was eighteen, originally from LA. He’d dropped out of high school after the very first day of freshman year, just never went back. No one cared. His mother and father were already long gone and his sister was a whore. She worked in West LA, making just enough cash to sustain her meth stash and keep a room in a cockroach-infested motel where Maurice crashed. She was so out of it she rarely knew that Maurice was there, sleeping in the bathroom tub, eating stolen food or fast food he bought using money pinched from her. After finally taking off, Maurice never saw or heard from her again. Hell, she may not have realized he was ever there and gone. If she was still alive. Som
etimes, in his dreams, Maurice still heard her (fake) and her johns’ (scary) moans and groans, bleeding through the bathroom walls from the living room. Maurice used to cover his ears and pretend to sleep through it. He was better off alone.
“Got me two good ol’ blunts here, you know. Took them right off that crazy white mo’fo at the 26th Avenue bus stop,” Maurice said. “Dude was soft, man, couldn’t do a thing, you know what I mean? I just took his backpack, took it right from him. Snatch. He thought I was sleepin’.”
Maurice was one of those big, really fat homeless guys. Huge. Gross. He had to weigh at least three and a half bills and he was only five foot five. Maurice rarely had a lot to eat, so keeping all that weight on must have been some biological DNA thing. It didn’t help his girth that he spent so much time lying around sleeping, wherever and whenever he could find some quiet place, alone. Hell, it was all he could do, dragging his humongous body around was exhausting. He had on the usual three pairs of sweatpants, old now, the top one black, soiled and ragged, torn at both knees, a dirty gray one showing through. Maurice also wore a giant navy-blue hoodie beneath a 5XL cotton shirt, fading green and orange plaid, ripped at both elbows and a foot too long for his squat body. When Maurice found something that fit over his huge frame, he held onto it, never sure when the next load of Bigandbigger clothing would come. Covering his fashion ensemble was a simply made poncho, a hole cut out for his head, his arms sticking out of the corners on either side. That poncho was big enough to be a kid’s tent, made of some dark indoor/outdoor material that was soft and pliable, but waterproof and tough. It looked like something a giant cowboy would have worn to survive long cattle drives through harsh winters atop beautiful Wyoming mountain ranges. It was Maurice’s prized possession, cinched at the waist now with a piece of rope, but big and long enough to curl his large body into later, keeping him warm and dry at night, right here atop the ugly, dirty Oakland city streets.
Lawrence Booker, in the middle, spoke: “Lessee what you got, Maurice . . . hhssssp . . . make sure it’s real stuff, not dried-up nickel ragweed. Hhssssp. Don’t want you burning out a lung or anything . . . hhssssp.”
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