Naked and beautifully buzzed, one leg cocked up and my back against the wall as I sat on my bed, I finally felt at ease enough to plot my next move.
17.
This time, Petra knocked. Good for her. She couldn’t have walked right in anymore. I had removed the towel but left the chair in the jammed locked position. I guessed this was their morning, although I still didn’t know how anyone down here tells time. It felt like I had stayed up all night. Who knows? I did know that it was time to put what I had stayed up scheming on into action. I removed the chair and opened the door gently.
“Come on in,” I told her nicely.
“I can’t. I have to wake up all of the other girls in time for the gathering in the sanctuary,” she said, but then she looked at my hair. “You changed your hair. It looks pretty.”
“I washed it. Thanks for the clean water.”
“That was for your face!” she explained.
“I used the water in the basin to wash my hair and the water in the pitcher to clean my face and hands. Don’t you all have a bathroom and shower in this big place?” I asked.
“The water in the pitcher was for you to drink. I see you are very creative and like to do things your own way.” She stepped inside after saying she wouldn’t. She looked around. “And you have hemmed your dress and embroidered your name across your breasts. Um, that should be fine for today but you will have to do as each soul must do. Nobody here really stands out. We are each here for the same purpose.” She turned to leave after her careful inspection. “I see you are barefoot. Your socks are in the drawer with the slippers. Please put them on before you come out.”
“I only have one sock,” I lied.
“Really? How could that be?” she asked, but I did not reply. “Okay, I’ll get you a new pair.” She left.
I had used one sock to do my hair. It was some old-school Brooklyn shit. When I was like twelve years young, we used a tube top like a headband and folded the hair around the tube top to create the hairstyle that I have now. If you know what you are doing and do it right, no one can see the tube top, headband, or in this case, sock. Of course I did it right. I preferred to rock a bun or a ponytail, but Succubus had torched half of my hair. Only a few inches of it had grown back so far.
She returned with the socks in a jiffy! “You never answered me about the bathroom,” I reminded her as she tried to hurry out.
“Of course we do have a few bathroom and shower facilities, but everybody’s first night here is the same. Each body gets washed and examined by the nuns upon arrival. It’s for all of our protection. You’ll get the tour after the gathering in the sanctuary.”
“Do you work here?” I asked her.
“Yes,” was all she said back.
“How long have you been working here?”
“One Earth year. Now I do have to go.”
It was good enough information for me for now. Really, I was just testing her, seeing how either secretive or flexible she was. I did want to know if this was her job though. That grandmother Maria, who they call Mother Maria, had said that Petra used to be in my same situation. Now I know it is possible to upgrade from being a charity case to having a job in this convent. If I could get one, I would use it to collect information, gain access, and buy time to set my real business in motion.
Once I get to know all of the women here, and all of their stories, talents, assets, and traits, I could use it to get whatever I wanted out of each of them. I was accustomed to shaking down new prisoners on lockup. I would find out where they were from, what crimes they were convicted for, how much they had in their commissary, if they had any relatives or visitors who would be coming upstate on a regular. Plus I was checking if they was about the streets and the hustle, if they could get people to bring shit on a visit that I ordered and would buy from them. Of course other details, like are they related to any cops or corrections officers in the prison where we were locked.
I was gonna play it the same way here. I stayed up all night memorizing that boring-ass Lord’s Prayer. I even ended up having to crack open that dictionary that Siddiqah had stashed in the inside pocket of my saddle bag. I didn’t like the flow of their prayer. It used weird words that as far as I know are never spoken, like thy and thine, and hallowed. I looked up hallowed. The dictionary said it means “sacred.” Then I had to look up sacred just to be sure. The definition of sacred was a bit strange. It said, “Pertaining to God, secured against violation.” So the line in the prayer, “Hallowed be thy name…” which I thought meant that the name is hollow, which would mean empty, actually means “Sacred is your name.” Seems the asshole who wrote the prayer should have just said it plainly unless he just didn’t want anybody to understand on purpose. Not everybody is going to take the time to look all these words up. And besides, the prayer starts off talking about “Our Father…” I was like, Whose father? Not mine! Maybe that works on people who ain’t got parents or memories.
If I could pray to Santiaga, my prayer would be the sincerest, most influential words in existence. No one who heard them would dare say they didn’t understand. They’d feel each word pumping in their veins, thumping in their hearts! Then there was a line in the Lord’s Prayer like, “Give us our daily bread…” To that line I was like, Every fool dead or alive knows that no one just gives you shit. They would’ve been better off saying, “Give us jobs so we can earn some paper and feed ourselves.” Even though I didn’t like the prayer, I could recite it. I planned to impress this old chick in charge and pretend to gobble up all of their gobbledygook. They would in turn let me keep this rent-free room, get me a job assignment, and access. After I got paid and soon as I was set up right, I’d bounce like I was never even here.
* * *
“Who wants to volunteer to lead us in the Lord’s Prayer today?” Grandma Maria said. My hand shot up like I was an eager fifth grader. She chose me. I walked from the rear of the sanctuary in my Prada kicks and upgraded altered dull gray garment. I pretended not to hear the comments as I whizzed by. All eyes on me. The key to grabbing control of a scene is to be so good at whatever you do that everyone there wants to be you. Once they want to be me, that’s when they become either my customer or my victim.
I tripped. The gathered gasped. I almost fell on my face but caught myself before humiliation. When I regained my footing I looked back. All of the women’s faces were feigning innocence. I knew one of them stuck their foot out.
“Are you okay?” One of the grandmothers walked over to escort me like I was some cripple.
“I’m fine,” I said, controlling my anger. When I reached the front, I found myself facing about 150 or so women who were all seated on long rows of wooden benches. Also there were the ones who remained standing on both the left and right aisle. I saw Petra standing. I assumed then that the other women who were standing were also young corridor captains and staff. The grandmothers were up front. I saw their eyeballs roaming over my overnight version of their garment. Grandmother Maria—’cause I’ll be damned if I call her Mother Maria; she ain’t my goddamn mother—had her eyes fixed on my feet. I wasn’t wearing the cheap Chinatown-type flat slip-ons that came with the garment or the paper slippers. Of course I have to draw the line somewhere even when I’m scheming. I will never, ever be a cheap shoe-wearing bitch. But just then when I looked down at my own feet, I saw a scuff mark from almost tripping. That got me pissy. I played it off.
“Our Father who art in Heaven…” I announced and projected. I was so confident. The type of confidence that comes when you don’t know none of the people who surround you, and they don’t know you either. I would impress, use, and discard. “Hallowed be thy name…” They all repeated after me. That’s when I saw one mouth that wasn’t moving. She was standing there in the aisle where I almost fell. Her arms were folded across her chest. It was the pretty young bitch who I bit when I was a dog. The same one who was getting fucked right by Dat Nigga before she turned into a rat. The same one who came and sat next
to me at the UBS Rally of the Sons. I was careful to not let my expression acknowledge her. Game face on!
“Thy kingdom come,” I said. I even began giving eye contact to let the grandmas see clearly that I was not reading from a card or a paper. I learned it by heart. I’m useful. Hire me. “Thy will be done…” I said at full volume, “on Earth as it is in Heaven.”
Once I completed the prayer, a long line formed in each aisle. I was surprised to find out that it was a line for hugs. Women who wanted to hug me for leading the prayer so well. I was like, Hey bitches, just sit back and clap. I’m not all touchy-feely. Especially not with a bunch of broads. I hugged each of them. Over the shoulders of those embraces, I took note and read the faces of the ones who stayed back. I respected them more. I would make a few of them my team. And I now see that one of them was the white woman from the Rally of the Sons who got a whole bunch of bitches to rebel against the sons on the stage.
The corridor captains walked to the front when my fan line ended. Grandmother Maria announced, “Glory be to the Father. We welcome each of you. Assembled up front are our six corridor captains. I will allow them each to introduce themselves. We will break down into groups and your captain, who was the first face you saw this morning, will escort you on the tour of our convent, a transitional home to thousands of souls. This is the place where you will each engage in prayer, cleansing your mind and heart. God is good. We are like a spiritual car wash.” She laughed at her own humor. “Except you women are not cars. The sisters standing beside me are not car-wash attendants. But, God willing, you can understand what I mean.” Each of us guests tolerated her dumb talk and lined up in front of our corridor captains.
“You were up there pretending to be sweet,” the pretty younger bitch said. Then she laughed. “Now we are even. You bit me. I tripped you.” She was obviously on my same corridor. Her and the white woman from the rally were both standing with me in Petra’s convent tour line.
“Ladies, please pay attention during the tour. If you don’t, it makes more work for me because you will ask me the same questions that I have already answered for the group,” Petra said in an even tone.
“How long have you been here?” I asked the pretty bitch. She pulled up her long gray sleeve and checked her Lady Rolex. My eyes widened.
“About six Earth days. Long enough to know I’m not gonna stay. But not long enough to figure out where I’m gonna go. You stitched that yourself?” she asked as she placed her finger lightly over the embroidery.
“Bitch, did I tell you you could touch me?” I spit.
“That’s the real you.” She laughed. “Not the bitch up there talking about ‘hallowed be thy name’!” She cracked up.
“Ladies!” Petra raised her voice as a means of scolding us without scolding us directly. “I am about to open the doors to our main prayer hall. You must be completely silent. Inside, there are many praying for their salvation. This is the place where you also will pray for your own salvation and where you will spend the majority of your stay at the convent.” Trying hard to be quiet, she opened the door. She was right. It was a sea of women, some sitting with the black book in their laps. Some counting a string of beads for some strange reason. Some on their knees facing a statue of that guy bleeding and bound to a cross.
Petra led us in single file through the perimeter. She pointed to the colored-glass window once we reached the front. It was so dim, I could only see the colors but not the detail of the designs. It had faces, though—not beautiful faces but big-eyed people with pitiful expressions. I guess they thought these were scenes that would move a bitch like me to prayer. If I cared enough, I would teach Petra and the other corridor captains and the grandmas a lesson. The key to convincing anybody of anything is by showing them something that is or looks like what they would like to become and who they would be comfortable being. Why break your back praying when this guy at the front is all defeated? I didn’t want to end up in his position. Neither did any of these other chicks here, I’m sure. And the chubby pale ladies pictured on the colored glass, I wouldn’t trade places with them either.
“Bible study will begin as soon as the sand at the top of the hourglass reaches the bottom.” Petra pointed at it. The tour was over. In addition to showing us the entire facility, Petra had pointed out that there was a six-foot-tall hourglass placed in each corridor to assist the welcomed new souls, who are often confused about time, to keep on schedule. She also handed out small palm-sized hourglasses to those of us who had not received one yet.
“Your Bible is in your top dresser drawer. Bring it to Bible study. And for those of you who are eager to learn—like Brooklyn, who learned the Lord’s Prayer overnight, and who was able to recite it so nicely—you may begin reading your Bible before the Bible study session. Okay, relax until then. See you soon.” Petra walked off.
“Brooklyn, is that your real name?” the pretty bitch asked me. “I was born in Brooklyn.”
“What section?” I followed up swiftly. Didn’t believe her automatically.
“East New York,” she replied. “Where all the action’s at.” She smiled.
“Do or die Bed-Stuy,” I smiled. That was like throwing an ace on her king.
“You smoke?” I asked her.
“You copped! I ain’t had none since Dat Nigga—” she said, then stopped herself.
“He’s dead. So you and I, let’s bury it,” I offered.
“You killed him!” she whispered.
“Never that. I had love for Dat Nigga. He had love for me too,” I said. Something inside of me had to let her know that even though she was pretty and younger than I was, when it came to Dat Nigga I was top bitch over every other bitch including her. That had to be understood and acknowledged before we buried the tension between us.
“Love, huh?” was all she replied.
“What room you in?” I asked her.
“Twelve,” she said. “You want to come in?”
“I got the smoke. You come by me. I’m in eighteen.”
“Cool, give me five minutes though. I’ll come way before that boring-ass Bible study. I’ll need the buzz to keep me from feeling like killing myself in that class,” she said.
18.
I looked at the candle. It was still burning, but the melted wax was mounting up. I wondered how much time I had left before the flame burnt out completely. I knew I can just request another candle when it did. However, I was in the rhythm of expecting the unexpected. Therefore, I was looking at this lighted candle in the tall jar as the only one I would ever have here at the convent. I needed it to smoke my weed. However, I wasn’t gonna react to a fear of not having a candle, a match, a lighter or a flame, then rush and smoke it all before the candlelight expired. That would be too dumb and too painful. I’d be left facing the reality of this realm without it.
She knocked. I opened the door. She slipped in. I closed the door and dropped the towel on the floor and kicked it into place. Grabbed the chair and tucked it beneath the knob.
“You can sit on my bed,” I told her. She was standing holding a book. It had no words or art on the cover, just heavy black-inked parallel lines, like the person who placed them there was pressing the pen too hard. Every four lines and there was an even heavier fifth stroke crossing the four straight lines out. It was obviously a count. There were more than sixty sets of five. I guess she wasn’t lying when she said this is how she keeps track of time in the Last Stop Before the Drop. She placed it on my dresser and sat down. As soon as I picked up the blunt, stuck my face to the candle-jar hole, and blazed up, her eyes danced. I purposely passed the joint right to her. She pulled and puffed. She held on to it. Didn’t pass it back right away. I was thinking, Good. The weed was so powerful, she’d be open in seconds.
“Name?” was all I said.
“Call me whatever you like. We’re both dead anyway,” she said casually.
“Well damn,” I said. Even while expecting the unexpected I didn’t expect that reply.
“What? Are ya still in denial? I was too, for about ninety days,” she said matter-of-factly.
“How do you know it was ninety days? How do you keep track of time when there are no mornings, afternoons, evenings, or nights? And no sun, moon, or stars?” I asked her. She picked up her pink book and waved it back and forth. Then she picked up her left hand where she wore her Lady Rolex. “I know the time and date of my death. My watch still works. Each twelve hours I make a mark in my book. Every two marks represents twenty-four hours. There are twenty-four hours in a day. So, I do simple math,” she said casually, while really enjoying the weed. I was replaying her response in my mind. I felt relieved that she must have had that watch on at the time of her death. That means Dat Nigga didn’t buy it for her. Now I had less reason to hate her.
Life After Death Page 19