Copyright © 2007 by Felicia Pearson
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Hachette Book Group
237 Park Avenue
New York, NY 10017
Visit our website at www.HachetteBookGroup.com.
The Warner Books name and logo are trademarks of Hachette Book Group, Inc.
First eBook Edition: November 2007
ISBN: 978-0-446-50098-2
Contents
Also by David Ritz
Copyright
BABY GIRL
THE CLOSET
COLD-BLOODED KILLER
THE SMURFS
KNIGHT RIDER
KEN AND BARBIE
EVERYTHING MOVES OFF MONEY
UNCLE
NINE-MILLIMETER
BOW AND ARROW
“YOU BAD”
AIN’T NO AVERAGE DAYS
“SHE MY DAUGHTER.”
GODMOTHER
HE’S THINKING, SHE TURNED YOU OFF. I’M THINKING, SHE TURNED ME OUT.
DEATH UP CLOSE
“YOU A BOY”
“YOU A GIRL”
BONKERS
LEAD BAT
MURDER WAS THE CASE
MORE THAN A MINUTE
23/1
THE STRIP
“TUPAC SHAKUR SHOT IN LAS VEGAS.”
THE BEST DEAL
A DIFFERENT WORLD
“I COULDN’T HELP IT. THE MAN JUST HATED KIDS.”
“THAT’S WHY THEY CALL IT GRANDMA’S HOUSE.”
GG
DILDOS FOR SALE
THE TRIP
CO
BITCH
BRAIN DEAD
LOOKING UP
THE WORST DAY OF MY LIFE
LOSING IT
DOUBLE WHAMMY
GRACE AFTER MIDNIGHT
HOME STRETCH
THE DAY OF DAYS
LOVE, INSIDE AND OUT
BOYS DON’T CRY
UP
THE LINE
IF AT FIRST YOU DON’T SUCCEED . . .
LUCKED UP OR FUCKED UP?
CAR WASH
LIFE AIN’T NO MOVIE
DICKHEAD
“I’LL BUST YOU WITH THIS BRICK!”
COP SAYS, “CRACK YOUR ASS CHEEKS SO I CAN LOOK UP IN THERE.”
“NO, NIGGA. I HIT THE BLOCK.”
FLIPPING THE SCRIPT
NEW SNOOP
Also by David Ritz
BIOGRAPHY
Divided Soul: The Life of Marvin Gaye
Faith in Time: The Life of Jimmy Scott
AUTOBIOGRAPHY
Brother Ray (with Ray Charles)
Inside My Life (with Smokey Robinson)
The Rhythm and the Blues (with Jerry Wexler)
Rage to Survive (with Etta James)
Blues All Around Me (with B. B. King)
Guide to Life (with Sinbad)
From These Roots (with Aretha Franklin)
The Brothers (with the Neville Brothers)
Reach (with Laila Ali)
Guillaume (with Robert Guillaume)
Howling at the Moon (with Walter Yetnikoff)
Elvis by the Presleys (editor)
Messengers: Portraits of African American Ministers
What I Know for Sure (with Tavis Smiley)
Rickles’ Book (with Don Rickles)
NOVELS
Search for Happiness
The Man Who Brought the Dodgers Back to Brooklyn
Dreams
Blue Notes Under a Green Felt Hat
Barbells and Saxophones
Family Blood
Passion Flowers
Sanctified Blues (with Mable John)
Stay Out of the Kitchen (with Mable John)
THIS BOOK IS FOR ARNOLD LONLY,
THE MAN I CALL UNCLE
R.I.P.
I’m not making excuses, and I’m not feeling sorry for myself. Don’t expect you to feel sorry for me either.
Just want to tell my story while it’s fresh.
Just want to make sure other people know my story, especially the kids on the streets and the kids working the corners.
Just want to let them know that you can get over without killing people and selling packs.
I did all that. Fact is, I was still doing it up till a couple of years ago.
Then something happened.
This book is about what happened.
BABY GIRL
I was born in Baltimore twenty-seven years ago, and then I died—twice. I died both times because my mother was filled with drugs and so was I. Crack babies are messed-up babies, and, according to what the doctors were saying, I didn’t have a prayer.
But they brought me back from death’s door. Someone or something keeps bringing me back from death’s door.
I don’t understand it, but maybe writing this book will help me see who I was and who I became.
Sometimes I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and imagine myself back then:
A little-bitty baby small enough to fit into the palm of the doctor’s hand, no bigger than a puppy or kitten; a baby who has to be fed with an eye dropper ’cause her mouth is too small for the nipple of a bottle; a baby born cross-eyed due to the drugs running through her system.
A baby born to die.
But that same doomed-to-die baby finds a way to live.
How?
Why?
Sure wasn’t because of Mama. Mama was Loretta Chase. The woman may have wanted me—I can’t know that for sure—but I do know that she couldn’t care for me. Later I learned that Mother was the kind of lady that always kept a drug dealer around to fill her needs. She could do that because she had a pretty face, long wavy hair, and a fine figure. Men flocked to her. My daddy ran from her—or she chased him off. I never did get the story.
I didn’t get a lot of the stories about my real parents. They’re ghost figures in my childhood. I saw them in my dreams when I was a little girl. Sometimes they creep back into my dreams now that I’m a grown woman, but they’re always covered in mystery.
The mystery was heavy because as soon as I was born I was put into a foster home owned by two people who had a row house in the toughest neighborhood in East Baltimore. Their names were Cora and Levi Pearson and their place was on East Oliver Street, three doors off the corner of North Montford. That’s where I grew up. Oliver and Montford is where it all happened.
When I arrived the Pearsons were already in their early sixties. Sweet folk. They took care of me, but I still wanted my mama. And when I heard that Mama was calling for me, I got happy all over. I wanted to see her.
All little girls wanna see their mothers. All girls need their mothers. The earliest dreams I can remember are dreams of my mother. I’d see her standing there before me, holding out her arms, hugging me tight, putting me to bed and tucking me in.
“You’re my precious baby,” she’d say.
I’d smile at her, close my eyes, and fall asleep inside my dream.
THE CLOSET
My memories of Mama’s visits are like dreams.
During the first two visits we were at the park. I remember clouds and rain, I remember a dark sky, wet grass, and plastic slides in the playground. I remember Mrs. Simms, the white social worker, who held my hand until, from behind a tree, a woman appeared. The woman was beautiful. She ran to me with her arms wide open. I didn’t move. I didn’t know what to do.
“It’s your mother,” said Mrs. Simms. “Go to your mother.”
&nb
sp; I let the woman embrace me. She smelled of cigarettes and perfume. Tears ran down her cheek. I didn’t know why she was crying. She held me tight and said words I don’t remember. I imagine that she said she loved me. We walked for a while. She, Mrs. Simms, and I went to a candy store where I got a soda and a little bag of M & M’s.
“You and your mother look just alike,” Mrs. Simms said.
I loved hearing those words because I knew my mother looked like a lady in a magazine.
The rain stopped—I can’t remember if this was the first visit or the second—and children were in the park. My mother said something about my pigtails. As a little girl, my hair was done up in little pigtails.
“If you let your hair grow out,” she said, “it’ll look like mine.”
She let me touch her wavy hair.
“Can I bring her to my house? Can I be alone with my daughter?” she asked Mrs. Simms.
Mrs. Simms said, “Maybe. Maybe next time.”
Next time came soon. The night before I was too excited to sleep.
What would my mother’s house look like? I was sure it’d be pretty because she was pretty. I was sure it’d be big. The house on Oliver Street had three floors and three bedrooms, but I knew my mother’s house would be bigger. The house on Oliver Street had all sorts of people living there—grandchildren and cousins to Mr. and Mrs. Pearson. But I was my mother’s only child. I wouldn’t have to share the house with anyone but my mother. Maybe I could live with her forever.
I always hated dresses, but I wore one to visit my mother because I wanted to look pretty. I wanted to look like my mother. My dress, lavender and embroidered with white lace, was brand new. My foster mama had bought it for me to wear to church.
My excitement built as Mrs. Simms drove me to my mother’s. But when we arrived, I was sure she had made a mistake. It wasn’t a house at all, but a tiny one-room apartment with a small kitchen, and a couch that opened up into a bed. The room was messy and didn’t smell good. This couldn’t be where my mom lived. But it was.
When Mrs. Simms left us, my mother sat down on the edge of the bed. Something was wrong. She was crying and shaking. I didn’t know why. She didn’t hug and kiss me like she had in the park. She didn’t even look at me. I just stood there.
Then her mood changed. She got up from the bed and told me to take off my clothes. I didn’t understand why. I wouldn’t do it.
“Do it!” she cried.
She screamed at me until I did it. I took off all my clothes, dropping them on the floor.
“Now get in there,” she ordered, pointing to the closet.
I tried to run but my mother caught me. She pushed me into the closet and locked the door behind me. I began wailing at the top on my lungs.
“Stop crying,” she said. “I’ll be back.”
Then the sound of her leaving the apartment.
The darkness.
The fear of being locked in.
Naked fear.
Baby girl fear.
Pure terror.
I carried on. Kept crying. Kept screaming louder, but no one heard. Cried so loud and long that I cried myself out. I finally fell to the floor and started kicking. I had to get out. Someone had to hear me.
I don’t know how much time passed, but when I heard the voices of Mrs. Simms and my foster father, I screamed my head off. They broke open the door and set me free. I was hysterical.
“Imagine that,” I heard Mrs. Simms tell my foster father, “selling her little girl’s clothes to buy crack.”
I was never allowed to be alone with my mother again.
Sometime in my childhood my mother reappeared at the house on Oliver Street.
Each time the visit was short, and with each visit she looked less beautiful. Her eyes were crazy. Sometimes her dress was dirty and worn. She’d come into the front room and just look at me. She’d try to smile, but the smile wouldn’t come. She’d cry and leave.
Her visits became more infrequent. Finally they stopped.
That’s when Mrs. Pearson became Mama and Mr. Pearson became Pop.
COLD-BLOODED KILLER
For the first eight years of my life, I was not only teased for being a foster child, I was teased for being cross-eyed. Mama told me I looked fine, and so did Pop, but I knew better. I knew because the kids on the block wouldn’t leave me alone. They teased me something fierce. They called me weirdo. Called me ugly. “How many fingers am I holding up?” they’d ask. And they’d laugh and say I was blind as a bat.
At first I didn’t fight them. I was too small. Their cruelty hurt my heart, but I didn’t know what to do about it. Didn’t cry. Didn’t lash out. Just held it in and kept to myself. Became a loner.
“You ain’t ugly,” said a handsome man who came to visit one afternoon. “You as pretty as your mama.”
He wasn’t talking about Cora Pearson. He was talking about Loretta Chase, the woman who took off my clothes and locked me in the closet.
“This here is Bernard,” Pop said to me as we sat in the front room. “This here is your real father.”
Unlike light-skinned Loretta, this man was black as midnight. Like Loretta, though, he had his hair in waves. He brought me a little doll I didn’t want. I didn’t like dolls. As he sat there, I looked into his eyes and saw ice. I felt ice.
“You a good girl?” he said.
I looked down at the floor and didn’t say nothing.
“You got all those pigtails,” he said.
I still didn’t say nothing.
He got up and put his hand on my cheek. His hand was cold.
“Be a good girl,” he said.
He left without another word.
Later I heard Mama and Pop talking in the kitchen.
“He’s a stick-up man,” said Mama.
“Worse than that,” added Pop. “Man’s a cold-blooded killer.”
Didn’t take long to learn what that meant.
Killing was part of our neighborhood. Death lived on our block. Death was the business of Collins Funeral Home, just down the street. Seemed liked death rode down Oliver Street more often than the ice cream truck. Death was a regular. Even as a baby girl, death—up close and real as rain—was part of my life.
THE SMURFS
Death is a lot for a kid to contend with.
The Smurfs are the opposite of death. Smurfs never die. Smurfs live forever in a dreamland where I want to be.
First time I learn about Smurfs is over a friend’s house. They’re on TV.
“Who they?” I ask.
“They the Smurfs.”
I fall in love with the Smurfs, so deep in love until Mama buys me Smurf sheets and Smurf pillowcases. I have Smurf pictures on the walls and Smurfs cartoons by my bed. I surround myself with Smurfs.
Man, I even have me some Smurf dreams.
In one dream I wake up and I’m not on Oliver Street no more. I’m in a mushroom house. That’s right. A house cut out of a big-ass mushroom. Far as I’m concerned, it’s a Smurf World. If you don’t like it, you can go Smurf yourself.
Got me four fingers like a Smurf. Got me a little white hat, puffy feet, and Smurfy eyes. I still got my braids. I’m Braidy Smurf.
Braidy Smurf is meeting Brainy Smurf. Here’s Hefty Smurf who’s got a tattoo on his arm and can kick plenty ass. Harmony Smurf is hanging with Handy Smurf.
I’m chilling with all the Smurfs. Even Smurfette. Especially Smurfette. She’s wearing a dress and high heels. She’s flirting with me just like she flirts with the boys. Invites me to her crib. I go in and get comfortable.
I’m sure-enough falling for Smurfette.
But if Smurfette is a girl, what does that make me?
In real life, I wasn’t relating to girls. I was relating to boys.
In school, the uniform was skirts. But I was bony and didn’t like showing my knees. I wanted to wear baggy jeans like the boys. Soon as I got home I got out of that skirt and put on jeans. Got out of that blouse and put on a boy’s shirt.
“Don’t want to.”
“You need to, baby,” she insisted. “You’re going to make an adorable cheerleader. You’re pretty as a picture and you’re the best little athlete in that school. I want you to try out.”
Loved Mama and wanted to make her happy, so I tried out. Went to the audition where they made you dance like Janet Jackson.
Don’t get me wrong. I been in love with Janet my whole life. Loved her when she was Penny on Good Times with JJ and them. I watched those reruns till I had ’em memorized. When homegirl hit with “Control,” I loved her even more. I love her today.
When “Control” dropped, we were all caught up in the videos. “Nasty,” “What Have You Done for Me Lately”—those jams were poppin’ everywhere I went. But when I went to the cheerleader audition and saw that they wanted me to do Janet’s chair routine from “The Pleasure Principle” video, I said, “Thanks, but no thanks.” Janet can do that stuff, but not Fefe.
Fefe was what they were calling me when my eyes were still crossed.
“Fefe’s fucked up,” said one of the boys who saw how I liked to wear jeans and shoot hoops. “Fefe’s a straight-up bull dyke.”
I didn’t know what that meant, but I beat his little ass anyway.
“Fefe’s a tomboy,” said someone else.
I could deal with that word because it had “boy” in it.
The big change for Fefe came when Mama, bless her heart, paid for the operation to fix my eyes. By then I had taken her name, Pearson, and was officially Felicia Pearson. But it didn’t take long for Fefe to turn into Snoop. Happened when I was eight. I’ll get to that story in a minute.
KNIGHT RIDER
Mama went to a Holy Roller church where everyone was jumping for Jesus. I could feel it. You had to feel the spirit. The music was fresh, the Holy Ghost on the loose, and the people cool. Those big church ladies were out in the kitchen cooking up collard greens, neck bones, and pig’s feet. Jesus was all right with me.
Pop was one of those Jehovah’s Witnesses. I liked going to his prayer meetings ’cause there were all kinds of folk up in there—black, white, Latino—who thought my pigtails were cute. They were always dropping change in my purse.
Grace After Midnight Page 1