“I never thought about it from that angle,” Veronica said after a long pause. “But according to Chap, Jesus died for all of our sins.”
“Let’s say he did. Whoever he is anyway. I don’t trust people I can’t see, didn’t grow up with, ain’t from the same hood or at least from the same circumstance. But let’s say he died so we can sin, which sounds like mean pimp game. Then why is Chap sweating you then? Jesus threw away his life, washed your sins away, hers and everybody else’s. That means everybody is free to do whatever the fuck we want to do. Jesus, whoever that is, took the fall for everybody? That’s what Chap said. Chap’s still doing what she wants to do, even though she knows she’s sinning. So we all even-steven. If everybody minds their own fucking business and does whatever the fuck they want to do, and don’t try to judge, block, stop or control anybody else’s life or choices, it’s all good, right?” I could see in her eyes that my reasoning was working on her. To seal it, I asked her, “So who you suppose to be praying to if Jesus is dead?”
“I didn’t ask Chaplain all dat,” Veronica said, suddenly sounding aggravated.
“Now you won’t have to. There’s nobody to pray to. Nobody is listening. Don’t you think Chap been praying asking dead Jesus for a better job than this fucked up place? Even if somebody was listening, mandatory means exactly what it means. Besides, Chaplain is right in here with us, New York State prison. She ain’t no different ’cept she got a fucking jar of caramels and stolen steaks and we got commissary and gotta pay for what we want. We work in here. She works in here. ’Cept, she gets a little iddy-biddy paycheck. So the difference between her and us is about three hundred dollars a week. You gon’ bow down to a bitch who every other word out of her mouth is a fraud game, who in one week only brings home three hundred dollars? Veronica, you locked up for hustling, making three hundred dollars every three fucking seconds!” Case closed. I won her over. I could feel it.
Veronica never answered me that night. I know she wasn’t sleeping. The next day when we had fifteen minutes to shoot the shit, our girl crew was talking. Simone had told everybody about Veronica’s trip to the chaplain. Asia said to all of us, “If Veronica wants to start going to church and chilling with the chaplain leave her ass alone. It ain’t got nothing to do with us. Most of the hustlers and even the rappers who we know and love be rocking a Jesus piece. It don’t mean nothing. It don’t stop shit from happening. When I was on my knees sucking Rojo’s dick, that diamond-flooded crucifix was swinging side to side right above my head. He wasn’t thinking about Jesus, his wife, or his kids! That nigga was just moaning like a bitch!” We all started cracking up, even Veronica. Next day she was back to confidently doing what we do, with us.
My casket plus my memory of my girls caused me to miss lockup, which I never ever thought was possible to miss. Back in Brooklyn I was used to living with my Santiaga family and running with my hood girlfriends. When Santiaga moved us to our Long Island mansion, I spent all my time trying to get back to my Brooklyn hood, my bitches and my niggas. On lockup I got ganged up eventually and was used to rolling in a crew of my girls. Even when planning my release after fifteen years I had thought to live in the same house with my crew. That’s why this casket shit is bullshit to me. Why am I alone? If hell really existed, which I never really thought about unless some sucker from the group home or the prison bought it up, same as I don’t believe in the boogeyman, or ghosts, or anything like that. Same as I love the haunted house and horror flicks ’cause that shit is all just entertaining bullshit to me that could be enjoyed and laughed at after having a few blunts and beers. And if this is Hell that I’m in right now, why ain’t the place packed? Where is everybody else? I’m game for hell long as I’m not the only one in it. If this is hell bring all of the other motherfucking dead sinners so we can have a party. I can only exist where the action is at.
6.
It can’t be only me here, I thought. But it was. It could have been six seconds, or six minutes, or six hours, or six days, or six weeks, or six months, or six years after my death. I could not tell how much time had passed. All I know is what’s happening to me at the moment. I’m no longer laying flat in my casket. I’m sitting, same as I would be sitting back on my Brooklyn block on a bench or stoop. Really though it feels like I’m sitting on a curb close to the open sewer. The stench is like a beating, a continuous foul smell that only changes from stinky to the stinkiest. The odor is so foul that even after I suspected that the smell might be coming from my unwashed rotting body, I could not confirm it. Must be the stench is traveling in waves of steam coming up from the sewer. I want to get up and walk away from the smell like any sensible bitch would, but my legs cannot move. It’s dark, completely black. There has been no sunshine here or even one speck of light. Not even artificial light, like from a light bulb. That meant there are no days and no seasons. There is no sunrise, and no sunset. I could say it’s like nighttime all of the time where I am now. Even that would be a lie, though. Down here there is no moon and no moonshine and not one single star. So it is unlike nighttime because there is no night shine. Instead of the rotating earth, and the alternation of days and nights, instead of a moving sky or clouds or even rain, snow, or hail, thunder or lightning, there is none of that, just deep blackness. There is only the threat of the unexpected. The stench is the only permanent thing. Could be six months’ worth of odor from my period blood, my poop, my urine, and my sweat combined. Even the thought of that stinks. The odor randomly intensifies ranging from high to higher to the highest foulness, as though it is being controlled like how the knob on the stovetop can lessen or increase the degree of a flame. There is no flame to be seen, though, because that would be a form of light and would upset the theme here. But at certain intervals a heat rushes beneath me that causes me to want to leap up. Yet, I cannot. It’s like here where I am, it will be cold as a freezer, then suddenly it would feel like someone was frying my ass as it sat on the curb, and the soles of my feet as they rested on the street. I’d rather whoever runs this place to decide on one temperature and stick to it.
There is no music here. I ain’t heard a jam or joint in I don’t know how long. But, there are plenty of strange sounds at varying volumes, some soft, like the hissing that comes and stays for what seems like a long while. It is a hissing that makes my skin crawl. Then suddenly it disappears only to be replaced by the sound of cracking, like ninety-nine niggers cracking their knuckles at the same time. If that ain’t enough, next it’s the high-volume sound of bones breaking and the screaming that follows the breaking. Sounds like a whole city of screamers, as though all of the boroughs of New York including Brooklyn, the Bronx, Manhattan, Queens, and Staten Island, more than eight million people, are screaming at one time. The screaming sound is the weirdest to me because I am the only one here. When it comes around I try to ignore it even though it is too loud and impossible to ignore. I just use my determination, go inside of my own thoughts and think about some other shit that I prefer. Once the screams cease, I’ll hear something like grinding. It is kind of like the sound of that annoying drill that the dentist uses. It’s like a million people getting dental work done at the same time. That shit is annoying and even harder to ignore.
Someone was trying to break me, I know. But Winter Santiaga is not easily broken. Number one, I’m not afraid of the dark. Number two, I don’t like the noise but I’ve heard the sound of a hundred bitches banging on their cell doors at the same time. Number three, I’ve heard screaming when the task force forces their way down the tiers and into each prison cell and starts attacking chicks for some trumped-up bullshit reason. Number four, I remember when the prison toilet system failed and instead of all of our shit getting flushed down, it squirted up and into our faces, then flooded our cells. So I’m well familiar with overwhelming stench. Number five, I’ve heard Simone sharpening chicken bones by dragging each bone back and forth on the cement wall till they were each good enough to stab or puncture somebody who wouldn’t bow d
own to our crew. When it wasn’t bones she was sharpening, it would be anything that could be continuously scraped and grinded until it was razor sharp so that she could sell it to some other bitch who wasn’t one of our enemies, wasn’t one of our crew either but was simply a customer who needed to defend herself, which was an everyday thing. As for number six, the hissing, I’m not accustomed to the hissing. If I could choose to dead one sound, that would be it. Sounded like six hundred jealous bitches whispering at the same time about someone whose look or style they simply couldn’t match or touch or tolerate. Come to think of it, I have heard that envy-inspired, whispering-hissing sound before plenty of times.
“How long you just gon’ sit there,” I heard a sexy-sounding male voice say. It had the rhythm and the accent and cockiness of a New York dweller. It was the next unexpected thing happening in this unknown place at this very moment.
“Mind your fucking business,” I replied, all matter-of-fact.
“Hide your fangs, honey. Nobody down here shows all of the cards they are holding when the game is just getting started.”
“Whatever.” I rejected his talk with that one word.
“What’s your name?” he asked me.
“Don’t ask me shit,” I told him.
“Find out if I got what you need before you dismiss me,” he said calmly.
“I know you don’t,” I said dryly. “Nigga you got a palace? A glass shower? Water that actually makes me wet? A king-sized bed, silk sheets, and a whip with navigation to drive me out of this disgusting dark place?” Which I knew he didn’t, otherwise he wouldn’t be here.
He laughed. “You’re real pretty,” he said, dragging out the word real like it wasn’t a short one-syllable word. “But I see you’re the tenacious tough type, like to play hard to get, make a nigga prove himself to you about sixty-six times, and that still ain’t enough.”
“Can you see me?” I asked. I was excited. Him saying and knowing how pretty I am piqued my interest.
“Pretty eyes, and pretty dark eyelashes, pretty skin and beautiful hair, sexy lips and sexy body curves. I see you clearly,” he said calmly. “I especially love the scar. Makes you stand out. I never trust a bitch who doesn’t have a few cuts and scrapes. It means she never lived, never did nothing real.”
I felt myself opening, but immediately closed down on him. He’s suspicious. I thought he was trying to gas me. Don’t go for it, Winter, I told myself. “What am I wearing then,” I asked him in a tone that was all doubt.
“Easy question,” he said calmly. “You’re the only one down here wearing white…” he said strangely. I didn’t see nobody down here at all before he showed up. So what the fuck was he talking about?
“Mink and the python,” he said. I was caught off guard. I couldn’t feel or see my mink or my red boots. I couldn’t see myself. I couldn’t even see him. But, I was starting to like that he could see me, that he acknowledged my look and style and perfection. On top of that, his presence confirmed that it was not me stinking! It must be this atmosphere ’cause no nigga is gonna pull up and kick it to a bitch that smelled like trash mixed with old rotting pussy.
“What do you want?” I asked him with less stress in my voice.
“That’s the question I am supposed to ask you,” he said confidently.
“What you selling,” I asked, knowing full well ain’t shit free.
“Exactly what you want and need,” he said, then added, “Things that you need to have down here that money can’t buy. You gotta just know somebody who knows somebody…” he said, sounding like an old Trick Daddy joint.
“How would you know what I want and need?”
“Let me take a stab at it,” he said. “You need light,” and as soon as he said that a six-foot flame shot up across from me that caused me to lean back. I was so freaking happy to see something, anything! But I played it cool while I let my eyes adjust to the brilliant flame so I could use it to check and see exactly what he looked like. Could be his voice is sexy masculinity, but he was not. I wasn’t gonna just let some fat, bald, old, short, pussy guy push up on me in the dark and expect me to flow with it just because he made a fire. The red flame turned blue. The blue flame emitted black smoke. Out of the smoke walked a six-foot-tall more-than-handsome black beauty. A chiseled man, who flicked a flame off of his muscular left shoulder. It fell to the ground and became a lamp that allowed me to look him over even more carefully. I surveyed him with my game face on. All that time sitting in darkness I had not needed my game face. Now it was on and popping even though I didn’t visibly react.
“Stand up,” he said, extending his hand. I didn’t give him my hand. I didn’t want him to know my handicap. My legs didn’t move anymore. So I remained seated. Suddenly the entire black atmosphere, minus the flame lamp, turned green. I was so accustomed to the blackness that I stared for what I guess was a minute at the green gas-like substance replacing the black. I was thinking, If it’s not blacker than night here, then it’s supposed to be either bright like sunlight or blue like the sky. I recalled the sun and the sky. It had not faded from my memory. So the now-green backdrop threw me off. To break my stare, he leaned in, and grazed my legs with his fingertips. Instantly, I could feel them. Yes! I can feel both of my legs! I extended my hand. When our fingers interlocked, he pulled me up into him as smoothly as though I had not been sitting there paralyzed for six months or six years.
“And you need a man. Not just any man. You need me,” he said. I could feel my pussy pump even though he was spitting a corny movie line.
“Let’s go!” he said. Of course I’m game to get the fuck out of here no matter where we are going next. Long as it isn’t here. We started running hand-in-hand. I was thrilled that my thighs were moving and I could feel my feet hitting the pavement. I was even more excited to have a companion. I don’t trust him, but he gave me the gift of light and made my legs work so fuck it. I’m giving him the benefit of the doubt.
Suddenly a strong wind of the prettiest perfume I ever smelled came breezing through like a powerful hurricane that made it more difficult for us to run. It pushed us both back a bit. The expensive and enticing scent completely replaced the foul severe sewer odor. As we ran against the force of the perfume wind, a sexy lavender sky appeared overhead. So sexy I stopped to watch. He pulled my hand and said, “Don’t stop if you want to ever get out of here.” But I had to stop. I haven’t seen colors in what felt like a hundred years. The lavender sky opened up and began spilling some sparkling stars that were like diamond raindrops. The stars formed into the outline of a feminine figure. I was caught up by the design of it all. Then the unexpected happened. Although I shouldn’t have been surprised, I am.
“Come on. Don’t pay her no mind. She’s my ex,” he said about the sixteen-years-young vibrant dime when she walked out of the diamond rain.
How can I ignore a bitch made up of stars? That’s some new shit. Besides, she looked like me at sixteen. I could see that Santiaga beauty blood running all in her. Had me confounded. Was she Mercedes or Lexy? No, why would any one of them be down here? Maybe one of them did die and that’s why the two Midnight sons were fighting over the only twin left alive? But if one of the Santiaga twins had died, wouldn’t I know it? I am their sister, so of course I would know. Unless they were planning to tell me after my prison release to keep me from feeling pissy going into my big reality-show debut. Yup, that’s what happened, I convinced myself. I knew that a bitch like me who did more then a decade bid only really had word of mouth, gossip, and rumor from the streets to rely on. No details about what was actually going on with my own bloodline behind closed doors, except for Santiaga, who was locked same as me.
“She’s the police! Don’t be fooled by her. She fooled me one time,” he warned. He didn’t have to tell me twice. We ran off for what felt like a long distance. He jumped into a black Jaguar. I heard a female voice calling me back. It wouldn’t have mattered to me none. The police always say some shit like, “It’s t
he police! Freeze!” But in this case, the powerful feminine voice had called out only one word, “Winter!” The volume and intensity of her voice, and the now repetition of my name and just the fact that she even knew my name, sparked my curiosity. Although, it couldn’t and didn’t stop me from jumping in. He pulled off.
Since the Jag windows were tinted, I instinctively turned to look out of the rear. I still couldn’t see anything. The atmosphere had turned completely black again. I could hear whipping winds that howled like a wind war. The winds were so forceful that they rocked the ride from side to side even though it was speeding forward. He didn’t react to the rocking or the darkness or the deafening wind-whip sounds. Instead, he was leaned back in his driver’s seat like a real hustler riding dirty. Chilling so hard as if it was just another day in his neighborhood. He turned on the radio without reaching. Music finally! It was the provocative and arousing instrumental track to the song “When Doves Cry,” by Prince. I pictured him in my mind. Prince was not the style of man I would want to fuck. But he is king of those guitar strings. Furthermore, he is hands down definitely one of the rare ones, who got “that thing.”
“You tryna burn a hole into the side of my face?” he suddenly asked me. I must’ve been staring. I was digging his carved-up arm and the way his strong hand held the steering wheel. Of course I was checking him out thoroughly and examining his whip. Couldn’t believe he had the new joint. I had read about the Jaguar XJ. The timing caught my attention. Both me and the car released in 2010. The dash was mean and the controls were embedded in his steering. He’s shifting gears smoothly while enjoying the sounds. As Prince’s music was ending he lowered the volume with the press of his thumb while reclining. The high speed of the ride decreased and soon we came to a smooth stop. We were sitting there in the blackness. I heard the radio jock say, “And this cut is by the Scissor Sisters. It’s titled, ‘I Can’t Decide.’ ” I never heard of them. How could the DJ try and follow up Prince with some unknown performers singing an unknown song?
Life After Death Page 7