Captain Save a Hoe

by iiKane

  Anya snatched her purse off the door knob so forcefully she damn near snatched her arm out of the socket when the strap got hung up. Finally untangling it, she stomped down the hallway, down the stairs, flung open the front door and slammed it behind her. Georgie sat on the bed, his head in his hands.

  “Hey girl, how you? Where you been?” Celeste, another hooker asked, as she gave Anya a hug.

  “I been…sick,” Anya replied, which wasn’t exactly a lie.

  “I know that’s right, shit I’m sick everyday,” Celeste joked to herself and shielded her cigarette from the wind as she lit it. She took a long drag then added, “Mr. BM been around here lookin’ for you. I think he may be ready to propose.”

  Anya mustered a smile. Celeste paused then—since she was almost a foot taller than Anya—squatted down so they were at eye level.

  “Get your game face on, girl,” she remarked and walked away.

  Anya knew that she wasn’t in the right state of mind to be on the strip. Out there, you had to become numb, hollow, bringing nothing but the package because any trace of a soul could be swallowed in one night. Anya never had a problem doing that until Georgie came along. Now, it was like her spirit refused to be quelled, her wings refused to stay clipped, and her heart refused to stay cold.

  “Look alive girls, big money on deck!” Celeste called out. The stretch limo bent the corner, and all the hookers started preening, prepping and strutting like they were on the goddamn catwalk. Anya took one look and knew exactly who was inside. She sucked her teeth and headed in the other direction.

  The limo pulled over to the curb and Georgie stepped out.

  “Lawda mercy, yousa pretty muhfucka! Choose me and I swear it’s on the house!” Celeste creamed, damn near salivating as she eyed Georgie.

  He smiled and brushed imaginary lint from his lapel. He knew that he was cleaner than the Board of Health in his black Armani suit with the gold vest, Egyptian cream-colored Italian loafers and his black gangsta derby, cocked ace-deuce. In his hand, he held a single peach rose. He held it out to Anya.

  “Your magic wand, Madame,” he smirked, deepening his voice for playful effect.

  The inside of her lips were smiling, but the outsides were upside down. “I’m working,” she spat, coldly.

  “I am too! Look at me!” He stepped back and held his arms out for inspection. “You can’t tell me I don’t look like sexual chocolate! Sexual chocolate!” he yelped, stomping his feet like Eddie Murphy in Coming to America, knowing that it was her favorite movie.

  Anya couldn’t help but blurt out laughter before catching herself.

  “Stop being so stupid. Now go, I told you I’m working.”

  “And I’m payin’,” he shot right back, pulling out a wad of money from his pocket, his expression dead serious.

  Anya looked him in the eyes, not knowing whether to slap him or jump into his arms. Instead, she snatched the rose out of his hand and headed for the limo.

  “Fine.”

  Georgie tipped his hat to Celeste, who had been watching the whole exchange, then got in behind Anya as the driver pulled off.

  She laid the rose on the limo jump seat, then reached for his zipper.

  “What you doin’?”

  “You said you was payin’, right? Ain’t this what you’re payin’ for?”

  He pushed her hand away.

  “No, I’m payin’ to take you to dinner, take you to a movie, to have a good time and maybe to the top of the world if you let me,” he replied sincerely. “Now, how much is that going to cost me?”

  Anya just looked at him with her arms folded across her breasts.

  He took her to a small Italian restaurant in the Village that had outside seating. The night air was cool and soothing, perfect for dinner under the stars. A few doors down in a small park a man was playing “A Night In Tunisia” on the saxophone.

  The waiter came. They ordered. He left. They stared at each other, each trying to figure the other out.

  “So…do I at least get to see the kids on the weekend? You keep the dog; I keep the cat? What?” He quipped, but he wasn’t smiling.

  “What are you talking about?”

  Georgie shrugged.

  “I’m sayin’, this feels like a divorce. You told me to stay the fuck out your life. What else am I supposed to think?”

  Anya took a sip of water. She smiled at the waiter politely when he brought bread sticks, then left.

  “You’re complicating my life right now, Georgie, and I just don’t need complications,” Anya said. Georgie leaned his elbows on the table and replied, “You know what brought me to New York. A bullet. Several, actually. That kinda complicated my life. But yo, life is complicated. You know when it gets uncomplicated?”

  “When?”

  “When you’re dead…then it’s easy,” he replied, then grabbed a bread stick and took a bite. “Excuse me for a sec.”

  Georgie got up and walked down the street to the man playing the saxophone. The music went silent. Anya saw Georgie hand him something—she figured it was money—then walked back toward her. A few seconds later, the man began playing a melody that was hauntingly familiar. It reminded Anya of what she loved about New York. The way each note seemed to be telling the story of the night—dark and foreboding, but at the same time tender and inviting.

  Seeing him approach with street swag, tempered by a suave stride, he looked like he just stepped off a runway, his cologne smelling like music and the music sounding like his cologne. Anya felt the irrepressible need to go away, to leave.

  Get up, don’t look back, run!

  The only thing that kept her in her seat was the way he only looked into her eyes as he approached, calming her spirit like the ruffling of a bird’s feathers, making her insides purr.

  “’In a Sentimental Mood’ by Duke Ellington and John Coltrane,” Anya remarked as he sat down. “How you know about that?”

  Georgie sipped his water.

  “My mother. She plays it all the time; well, whenever she’s thinking about my father. God bless the dead.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. How did he pass?”

  “Car accident. Like, a coupla months before I was born. He was a saxophone player.”

  The waiter brought their meals, placed them down, and then left.

  “So tell me something about you. Why you bring all that Georgia to New York?” he asked, seasoning his pasta.

  She hesitated a moment then said, “School. I um, came to go to school.”

  “What school?”

  Another pause, and imperceptible winch, a small bite of linguine.

  “Julliard.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s a school for the arts. I was a dancer.”

  “Was? When did the music stop?” he asked.

  “Georgie, I don’t want to talk about that.”

  He took one look at the pained expression on her face and decided not to probe.

  “I understand. But, can I at least ask what kind of dance? Like, was it river dancin’? Square dancin’?”

  Anya laughed, in spite of herself.

  “Classical dance. Ballet.”

  “Oh, okay. I thought you meant dancing-dancing.”

  Anya looked at him with sass in her expression.

  “What do you mean, dancing-dancing? That is dancing. I can dance.”

  Georgie leaned back in his chair.

  “Why you say it like that, like I’m supposed to be scared or something?”

  She smirked.

  “Don’t be scared, be careful.”

  Georgie howled, wiping his mouth.

  “Hold up, ‘cause I can dance, too. I might not have went to Julliard, but I went to back yard, front yard, junk yard. Sardines! Hey and pork and beans!” he sang, bouncing in his seat, go-go style.

  “Please Georgie, you are not ready,” she taunted, rolling her neck.

  Georgie scooted his chair back.

  “We can take this to the s
treet right now!” he challenged.

  She laughed.

  “I’ve got a better idea. I know a salsa club up in Spanish Harlem…”

  She didn’t get it all out before Georgie hollered, “Check, please!”

  The club was on Broadway, between 162nd and 163rd Streets. The area in front of the club was thronged with people. Expensive cars and limos were double parked up and down the block, so Georgie’s limo blended right in, and with the ghetto Latino crowd, Georgie blended right in.

  “Now, this is New York,” he remarked, as they entered the club.

  The club itself had a narrow entrance that was as clogged as cholesterol in an artery, but once they wiggled through, the room opened up into a wide dance floor, framed on all sides by booths and the bar. Georgie started to head to the bar, but Anya grabbed his hand and led him to the dance floor.

  “We came to dance, remember?” she said, her tone challenging, her gaze meaningful.

  “Then let’s do it.”

  And do it, they did. The night was alive with the sounds of Tito Puente, Willie Colon, Willie BoBo and Elvis Crespo. The DJ blended the rhythms perfectly, taking them on a musical journey through Salsa, Soca, and Calypso.

  Georgie had never done Salsa dancing, but just like when he was younger, it didn’t take him long to catch on. Before long, he was making the dance his own.

  As he danced, he admired the rhythm of Anya’s movements. From the bend of her wrist, the sway of her arms, the way she slid into the pulse of every melody—like she slid into that tight ass dress—the look of abandonment faded from her face as if getting lost in the music was a way to find herself.

  Waters of life, he thought, remembering what her name meant. Looking at her, he could see why. Water flows, rhythm flows, and they are one in the same, music being to the spirit, what water is to the physical life.

  He saw something else: the glow of happiness in her face. She was definitely in her element.

  After what seemed like hours, Anya started to head for a booth.

  “I need a rest,” she remarked, but Georgie grabbed her hand.

  “We came to dance, remember?” he reminded her, then cupped her under the ass and lifted her off her feet.

  Anya wrapped her arms around his neck and legs around his waist, as he danced with her in his embrace.

  “You’re beautiful, you know that?” Georgie said, looking into her eyes.

  She answered with a kiss.

  They danced into the wee hours of the early morning. By the time they came out, the night had turned cool. He draped his suit jacket over her shoulders as they walked to the limo. They got in and headed back to Mid-town.

  “So how I do?” Georgie quizzed, massaging her feet.

  “You did aight, I guess,” she replied with an exaggerated comical expression.

  “Aight?! I tore that ass up!” he exclaimed, tickling her side.

  Anya squealed, jumping away from his hand.

  “You did not!”

  “Right now, the janitor sweepin’ up, talkin’ ‘bout, ‘What’s that? Somebody left a piece of ass on the floor.’” he joked.

  She laughed hard.

  “Oh, believe me, it’s all here,” she remarked, slapping her ass, making it quiver and his heart right along with it.

  “I know that’s right; Georgia on my mind!”

  Their laughter subsided as he continued to massage her feet.

  “On the real though, I ain’t had that much fun in a long time,” Georgie remarked.

  “Me either,” Anya admitted.

  “And I meant what I said before. I believe in love at first sight. I love you, Anya.”

  She drew a breath to speak, but Georgie silenced her by putting his fingers to her lips.

  “Believe me Ma, I’m not talking about a fairy tale love, probably not even perfect love, but I’ll defend it, because I believe in what God intended.”

  “What’s God got to do with it, Georgie?”

  “Because everything happens for a reason. We met for a reason,” he answered.

  Anya shook her head, looked away then looked back.

  “People meet everyday, everywhere. You think God wanted them all to meet?”

  “Only if it feels like this.”

  She looked at him with a look that told Georgie the wall was starting to crumble. The limo stopped. Georgie realized that they were at the apartment building. They got out. Georgie went and settled up with the driver, setting the schedule for the rest of the week. The limo pulled off. They went inside, the only sounds were the scratching of their shoes on the stairs, the echo of the thoughts in their heads. They arrived at Anya’s floor. Georgie took her arm.

  “Come on. I want to show you something.”

  “Come where?”

  “The roof.”

  She hesitated. He smiled and extended his hand.

  “You scared of heights?”

  She took his hand and they ascended.

  The building wasn’t that tall, just twelve stories but when they came out, Georgie announced, “Welcome to the top of the world, Ma.”

  Anya snickered.

  “This is definitely not the top of the world, Georgie.”

  Georgie shook his head, walking her over to the edge.

  “Naw Ma, don’t look down, look out. Wherever you are, if you can see eye to eye with the sun, you’re at the top of the world,” he jeweled her. He turned her body and pointed to the awakening sun, just beginning to pierce the horizon.

  “Look.”

  She turned and watched the night sky—pale and purple—gradually spreading like an orange smile over the city.

  “Here, stand on the ledge. I got you,” Georgie assured her, helping her onto a block of masonry that hung like a lip over the building. He held her at the waist. From there, she was able to easily block out her surroundings—the squalor, the mean streets simmering below.

  “Embrace it Ma. Never be afraid to spread your wings.”

  Anya took a deep breath and raised her arms, welcoming the new day. She looked like Jesus over Brazil, open-armed, christening New York. The sun, like water, bathed her with light up to her waist.

  “You ready to get down?”

  “No,” she replied, eyes closed.

  The new sun—fully arisen—immersed her in its glory, warming her face and reflecting itself in the tears that freely flowed.

  “I’m ready.”

  Georgie lifted her down slowly, until she was back on solid ground.

  When he saw her tears, he lifted his thumb to wipe them away.

  Anya flinched.

  “Don’t…I want to feel them.”

  He nodded understandingly, then tipped up her chin to direct her gaze into his.

  “I’m not perfect, but I’m perfect for you. All I’m asking is for a chance, Anya. Okay? Yes?”

  She kissed him gently, some of her tears rubbing off on his cheeks, then replied “Yes!”

  And then she was gone.

  Georgie realized it when he opened his eyes…sensed it even before he opened his eyes. The room felt colder, lighter, emptier. He laid on the bed trying to process it all.

  He had felt it in her kiss on the roof, he heard it in the timbre of her “yes”—the way it fluttered, like dormant octaves beginning to vibrate in the caged bird’s breast—like she was saying yes to something, just not him.

  He sat up and looked around the room, trying to take into account what else was missing and hoping to find that her absence was temporary, but it just took a brief glance for him to know that wasn’t the case. The only comfort came from the fact that she hadn’t taken any of her wigs, so he knew that she had left her mask behind. That made him smile. He spotted a piece of paper on the pillow where her head should have been. It was a ripped piece of notebook paper, scribbled on in the dark that simply read:

  I’m going to chase the sun.

  For the next few weeks, Georgie stayed in his room and didn’t move. The phone rang constantly with inqu
iries about unfulfilled appointments, but the calls went unanswered. He felt like someone that had been in a car accident because it hurt all over. The difference was, this pain was emotional instead of physical. It was his first heartbreak, and he hoped it was his last. Every song that came on the radio reminded him of something about Anya—her smile, her laugh, her walk, the swell of her hips, the look on her face when she came…

  I won’t pretend that I intend to stop living;

  I won’t pretend that I’m good at forgiving.

  Sade’s “Stronger than Pride” played softly on the radio, when he heard a knock at the door.

  “What?” he called out, with an edge in his tone.

  “Don’t ‘what’ me, boy,” Stephanie replied, walking into the shadowy room.

  “I ain’t know it was you.”

  “Mm-hmm, well be nicer ‘cause it could’ve been.”

  She sat on the bed and kissed him on the forehead, brushing his hair out of his face.

  “Michael told me what happened. You okay?”

  Georgie shrugged, resigned.

  “I’m here.”

  “You sure? I’ve got my Gloria Gaynor tape out in the car if you need it now,” she joked.

  Georgie laughed. It felt good, like a release of children at three o’clock, bursting out of the school’s doors.

  “Naw, Ma, I don’t need no Gloria Gaynor tape.”

  “Just checkin’…but Georgie, didn’t I tell you about playing with these girls’ emotions, huh?” Stephanie scolded him.

  “Ma, it wasn’t that, forreal. I mean, I don’t know what happened, that’s the crazy part. It’s like everything was straight, you know, then bam! She was gone. That’s the part I can’t figure out,” he agonized.

  Stephanie nodded, knowingly.

  “Yeah…well, I don’t know this girl or what was going on with her, but a woman’s heart can be a confusing place, even to her sometimes. But what I want to say to you is, every woman isn’t me.”

  Georgie looked at her quizzically.

  “What do you mean, Ma?”

  “I mean, that you don’t have to be her savior. Just because you know her story doesn’t automatically make her your responsibility,” Stephanie replied.