“The movie star set me up in business. I was doing extremely well—it was a mail order business—and then I became pregnant. When my first baby came, the movie star left his wife for me. Yes, he did. We moved to a different part of Los Angeles, a very exclusive part, and I became pregnant again. That’s when I knew he was cheating on me. But it didn’t matter all that much because I’d known for a while that he wasn’t the man I’d met in the beginning. He was addicted to gambling, he started getting fat, and his career was going downhill fast. He gave me a settlement for the kids. Big settlement. By then I was fed up with Hollywood. Hollywood is so phony. I wanted to come back to the East Coast where people are more educated and not as crude.
“When I moved back, I had many opportunities to marry. Men have never been a problem for me. There was a banker who wanted to marry me, and there was also a gentleman who owned a chain of fine clothing stores. He bought me a full-length mink coat. I have pictures of me in that coat. I went to New York many times and stayed at the Waldorf, the best hotel in the city, and ate in restaurants that overlooked the river and the bridges. There were very wealthy stockbrokers who wanted to marry me and a man from Egypt who owned factories all over the world. But these men meant nothing to me.
“Then Prince Charming came along. I call him Prince Charming because he was Prince Charming. Tall as a prince. Handsome as a prince. Dark eyes that melted you the minute he looked your way. Big hands and beautiful teeth. Size thirteen shoes. Low, sexy voice like Barry White. He had houses all over the state. A Bentley, a Ferrari, two motorcycles—one white, one black. He had white blood in him, maybe more white than black, because his skin was lighter than mine. He said he had a gold mine in South Africa. He showed me the pictures. He was going to take me there. He said he’d been looking for me his whole life and now that he’d found me, he could never let me go. He was the one.
“We’d talk for hours on end and never got bored. We’d talk all night. We’d love all night. He was one of those men who could control his body. He’d say, ‘I’m not coming until you come at least five times.’ The lovemaking was like nothing I had ever known. Even now, talking about him gets me wet. He was a man among men.
“He was writing a book about his life and told me, ‘Now I have the final chapter. You are the final chapter.’ Different businessmen from foreign countries would come to his house for dinner and he’d introduce me as a queen. He gave me a diamond necklace worth eighty thousand dollars. He gave me a gold diamond watch worth fifty thousand dollars. He took me to Florida where a designer custom-made all my outfits and modeled a line after me. The line became famous. The designer wanted to photograph me for his ads, but Prince Charming wouldn’t allow it. ‘She’s mine and mine alone,’ he said.
“So my life was perfect. Absolutely perfect. He wanted me to go with him to France for the summer. Of course I loved the idea. But then this one little problem kept coming up: my children. He hated children. He said I couldn’t take the children to France. By then, though, Mom had died and all my aunts had moved away.
“‘We’ll hire a nanny,’ I told him.
“‘I don’t want a nanny,’ he said. ‘I don’t want kids. Kids ruin everything.’
“‘I have my kids, though,’ I told him.
“‘Long as you have your kids, you don’t have me,’ he said.
“I tried to reason with the man, but he wasn’t reasonable that way. He had his attitude. He also had his choice of any woman in the world. I knew that. I saw them coming and going. But I also saw that he was ready to make me his queen. How many women get a chance to be a queen? So I did what I had to do.”
L stopped talking. Her green eyes were cold as ice. I didn’t want to ask her, but I had to.
“What did you do?” I pried.
“I burned down the house,” she said matter-of-factly. “But it was okay. The children were asleep. It happened so fast they couldn’t feel anything.”
Wait a second, I was thinking to myself, this crazy bitch done burned her house with her kids inside? And she’s sitting here saying it like it was no worse than overcooking the hamburgers. This is one wack job I’m avoiding for as long as I’m staying at Grandma’s House.
One of the bitches who’d been listening to her along with me couldn’t contain herself.
“That’s some horrible shit,” she said.
“I couldn’t help it,” said L. “The man just hated kids.”
“THAT’S WHY
THEY CALL IT
GRANDMA’S HOUSE.”
I heard a lot of stories about why the Cut started being called Grandma’s House. The one that gave me the most chills, though, came down through a woman I’ll call Z. I didn’t know whether to believe her, but I had a couple of nightmares over her story.
She was in her forties, maybe even older. Had scars all over her face. She’d been cut up and burned something awful. She was ugly to begin with—maybe that’s why she was so pissed off at everyone. If you got close to her she’d hiss at you like a cornered cat, so you sure-enough left her alone. No one wanted to fuck with her. There were dozens of rumors about her case but she never talked to anyone. Then she started playing basketball with us. She was over six feet so we put her at center. Even though she was older, she could keep up with the young girls. With the passes I’d feed her, she scored like crazy. That got her to like me.
One day we won a big game because of her inside moves. That put her in a great mood, and she started talking to me. She had a low voice that was scratchy. Even her lips were scarred something awful.
“I know no one likes looking at me,” she said, “and I don’t give two shits. Fuck ’em.”
I didn’t say nothing.
“Everyone wants to know what happened to me,” she went on. “You wanna know too, don’t you?”
Still didn’t say nothing.
“Everyone wants to ask me but they too scared. You scared too, ain’t you?”
“Hell, yes, I’m scared,” I said.
That made her laugh. Made her like me even more.
“Happened when I young. When I was young. My grandma listened to this song that said, ‘When I was nothing but a child, all you boys tried to drive me wild.’ You ever hear that song?”
“No.”
“Old fucked-up blues song. I don’t know nothing about those old blues. Grandma would drive me crazy with those old blues. Sounded like shit to me. I don’t even like music. Music gives me a fuckin’ headache. You like music?”
“I like Pac.”
“Oh yeah, Pac. Well, that ain’t music. That’s poetry, ain’t it?”
“Yeah.”
“Grandma played her blues music night and day. I hated that shit until I busted up a few of her records. She’d just go out and buy more. She did it to drive me crazy. You know how bitches will drive you crazy.”
“Yeah.”
“You have a grandmother?”
“Well, I have a foster mother who’s like a grandmother,” I said. “I call her Mama but she’s old enough to be my grandmother.”
“You like her?”
“Yeah. She raised me. She didn’t have to, but she did.”
“My grandmother raised me too,” said Z. “My mother up and left after I was born. Just left. How ’bout your mom?”
“Crackhead. She dead.”
“Shit,” said Z. “That’s the stuff that done me in. You ever deal with the pipe?”
“No.”
“The pipe is deep. The pipe is so deep until you ain’t ever the same again. That’s where all these scars come from. You wanna know about the scars?”
“If you feel like talking, I’m listening.”
“I’d pick me the meanest motherfuckers to get high with. Don’t know why. But every last one would be lowdown and nasty. When we run out of shit, they’d make me chase after more. I’m the kind of bitch who’d say, ‘Fuck you. You chase after the shit.’ They’d cut me. I’d cut ’em back. They’d cut me again. And that’s how it go.
Went that way for years. But the thing about the pipe is that the pipe takes you all the way down to places you didn’t know were there. You been to the crack house?”
“I’ve been by to take a look.”
“So you know what’s happening in there.”
“I have some idea,” I said.
“Well, if you hanging in the crack house, you okay. That’s the nice part of it. That means you getting loaded and you cool. It’s when you don’t even have enough money to buy nothing in the crack house—that’s when you fucked up. That’s when you out on the street doing stick-ups and shit. Doing anything to get you some money to buy some crack. You feel me?”
“Oh yeah,” I said. “I seen that my whole life.”
“Well, you ain’t seen nothing like what happened to me. I done so many stick-ups in my neighborhood there was no one left to stick up. So I started robbing my grandmother. Ain’t that something?”
“You ain’t the only one,” I said.
“But I’m the only one who took it as far I took it.”
For a couple of seconds, Z fell silent.
“How far is that?” I asked her.
Z took a deep breath and went on. “She and her three friends play poker every Friday. Penny poker. Her three friends, they grandmas too. Old bitches. They be sitting in there listening to those blues records and playing their little card game. One of those Fridays I came into the house looking for Grandma’s purse. I find it in the bedroom and start snatching out her money. One of the old bitches sees me and starts yelling. Grandma gets up and tries to stop me. I ain’t in my right mind. I’m in my crack mind. Grandma starts smacking at me. I smack her down. Knock her down. The other bitches start screaming.”
Z stopped again. Her eyes got funny. She took all these deep breaths.
I didn’t say a word. Nothing I could say.
“I cut her throat,” she finally said.
I just nodded.
“Killed my own fuckin’ grandma.”
“That’s really something.”
“That’s why they named this here joint after me. That’s why they call it Grandma’s House.”
GG
Called her GG because she wore everything Gucci. Gucci belt, Gucci shoes, Gucci sunglasses. For all we knew, she wiped her ass with Gucci toilet paper.
In real life GG had been a Gucci whore pimped by a cat she called Valentino. Valentino was notorious for training his girls to rob their johns. This here was the story GG told me:
“Valentino was known as the man who couldn’t come. That’s why he was so beloved by his women. They’d be popping off like firecrackers and Valentino, well, he’d be as fresh as when he started. A half hour, an hour, I’ve seen him go ninety minutes on three different bitches. Didn’t make no difference to Valentino. The porn people were all after him, but he said, ‘Fuck y’all. Y’all can’t match the money I’m making out here running my girls.’
“See, to be a Valentino girl was a way to get famous. He didn’t choose just anyone. You had to have class to start with. The right look, right goods, right everything. Once you got the nod, though, that was just the beginning. Then my boy would school you. School you hard but school you right. He’d tell you about johns. When they bumpin’ you, some of ’em wanna last. Some of ’em don’t. Here’s how to make ’em last. Here’s how to pop ’em right quick. Valentino would school you on psychology. The man’s a genius. See, psychology is what it’s all about. Getting inside a motherfucker’s head. If the john want Mama, give him Mama. He want a schoolgirl, you be a schoolgirl. He dreaming of Halle, start purring like Halle. Valentino had this saying, ‘Know your john, double your earnings.’ Valentino was right.
“Problem was, Valentino had him some expensive taste. Loved the big cars and the big cribs and even got him a big boat somewhere out there on the bay. The boat had a captain and a cook. I know ’cause I was about the only working bitch who done seen that boat. Boat was seriously tricked out. Looked like a church with all the marble and gold on the walls. But paying for that marble and gold became a problem for Valentino. He got himself squeezed between two hard-nosed money men. He needed serious cash.
“That’s when Valentino changed up his game. Game used to be, ‘Some guy fucks you and you get paid.’ Now the game was, ‘Some guy fucks you, and while he’s fucking you, Valentino has a dude sneak in the room to take his money.’ So my job is to scream so loud during the fucking until the john can hear nothing but my fuckin’ screaming. That’s kinda fun. But when the john sees what’s happening in the middle of the fuck and jumps off me, I’m supposed to knock him over the head with a chair. I’m no good at that. I don’t like it. ‘Tough shit,’ Valentino says, ‘You’ll do it.’ Did it for a while. More I did it, though, more I hated it. Some guy wanna fuck me, cool. But I don’t wanna fuck him up. See, I’m one of those nonviolent people like Dr. King was talking about. I’m tired of smacking motherfuckers upside the head. I refuse. ‘Fine, bitch, then I’ll smack you upside your head. How you like that?’ I don’t like it. Don’t like it one bit, but Valentino’s getting rougher and I’m getting sorer and the shit’s getting crazier until one night I got a rich john up in there and I ain’t screaming loud enough to drown out the noise of the man robbing the john. The john sees what’s happening and jumps off me right quick. That’s when I’m supposed to crack him over the head, but I ain’t playing. He and Valentino’s man get into it. Valentino’s man ain’t fucking around. He up and shoots the john through the heart. Just like that, we got us a dead body on our hands.
“Valentino’s all pissed. Makes me help bury the john out in the country somewhere. That gets me pissed. Cops come round looking for the dead guy. They start pointing at me. But I ain’t pointing at no one. I ain’t saying nothing. But then they start getting serious with first-degree murder charges and I start pointing to the place where we buried the man. I get accessory to murder. That’s a helluva lot better than first degree. I get to come to Grandma’s House and chill for a minute.”
“How ’bout Valentino?” I want to know.
“Money men who was squeezing him dealt with him.”
“And did what?”
“What do you think? Squeezed the fuckin’ life out of him.”
DILDOS FOR SALE
Doing business at Grandma’s House is a different deal. It ain’t like setting up a Starbucks in the mall.
The girls have different needs and, if you’re interested in making cash, you will find a way to supply those needs.
What does everybody need at Grandma’s House? What does everyone want?
Sex.
So I started thinking about sex—not for myself, but for my business. I was still too cautious to get crazy with sex in the Cut. But sex was happening all around me and, as someone used to hustling one kind of merchandise or another, I was trying to figure out how to combine commerce and sex.
What kind of merchandise did the girls need most?
Dildos.
Whether bi, straight, or straight-up gay, women want it; or they want to give it. Anyway you look at it, they need it.
And since the Cut didn’t exactly have a gift shop that sold sex toys, I figured I’d set up my own. I also figured that I’d keep it simple. One product and one product only. The essential product. The ever-popular dildo, the product that never goes out of style and is always in demand.
Problem is, where do you get them? Who do you order them from? Who’s your supplier?
I saw that I had to be my own supplier. And with that in mind, I’d find my way into the medical supply room to get some Ace bandages. Ace bandages are the building blocks to a good sturdy dildo. If the supply room was closed off, I’d fake an ankle injury and get me some bandages through the nurses.
I took orders.
I crafted them in four sizes—small, medium, large, and extra large. Made them as real-life as possible. Took me a few hours to make a real good one. I knew my workmanship had to be solid or I’d get complaints. Not to brag, but
all the time I was in business, never had one complaint. Word went out—“If you need a do-right dildo, see Snoop.”
Payment would come in different forms. Sometimes cans of soup. Sometimes packs of cookies. Sometimes candy. You couldn’t get rich in the Cut, but you could keep yourself busy.
My dildo business was a good thing.
One girl loved her fake dick so much she gave me a gift. A fat joint. I’m no pothead, but it’s easy to get bored at Grandma’s House. I looked at the joint and said, “Hell, why not?”
THE TRIP
Just one joint—one little innocent joint. A simple commonplace cigarette stuffed with commonplace marijuana.
Or so I thought.
I didn’t have a lab to analyze the shit. Maybe it was something more than pot. Or maybe a strain of pot grown to fuck you up for good. Who knows.
But there I was, sitting out in the yard after having done my clean-up duty early. I had about a half hour to kill. The afternoon was windy. Some of the girls were playing basketball, but I was feeling tired. And the joint this bitch had slipped me was looking pretty good.
Why not?
Off in the corner of the yard, no one was looking my way. Besides, I wasn’t known as a troublemaker. None of the guards gave me attitude.
Lit it.
Sucked up the smoke.
Kicked back and watched the clouds roll by.
Cool.
Clouds are cool.
Weird, but one of those clouds looked like an angry old man. I could see his eyes and his mouth. His motherfuckin’ mouth was moving. I seen it moving. There was some thunder, but, wait—wasn’t thunder. He was talking. Saying something. But what? Holy shit, I could make out his words. His words were, “Snoop, you getting high. Snoop getting fucked up.” The thunder was talking. Thunder can’t talk, but I’d be goddamned if I didn’t hear it again.
Then I seen the girls playing basketball look at me. They heard the thunder. They knew I was high.
Better take another hit.
Grace After Midnight Page 7