Price of Fame

by Amaleka McCall

  It didn’t take much convincing for Gordo to agree to come uptown. He agreed to pick her up right in front of the Apollo Theater. She told him she would explain why she wasn’t in Brooklyn when he got there.

  Gordo pulled up in his colorful, pieced-together mini-van. Dominique had heard that Dominicans made their cars, but now she knew the shit was true for sure.

  “Where ju wanna go?” Gordo asked, licking his lips.

  “You wanna get a hotel room?” Dominique asked coyly.

  “Mami, I know no nuthin’ about Harlem,” he said, rolling the “r” in Harlem.

  “Well, I don’t want to go to Brooklyn,” Dominique said somberly.

  “Wassup? Where ju auntie?” Gordo asked. He knew Awilda was never that far when he had his “dates” with Dominique. Awilda had secretly warned him that he better not try any freaky shit with her niece, so Awilda’s whereabouts were of great interest to him right now.

  “She’s around,” Dominique answered evasively. She reached over and began rubbing his flaccid penis through his pants, quickly changing the subject. Dominique felt his little piece of meat grow under her touch.

  “How ’bout we pull over?” Gordo asked. He pulled his van under the FDR Drive, near the jogger’s path. The elevated highway shaded them from onlookers.

  “That’s cool,” Dominique agreed. At this point, she probably would’ve let him have her in a public store window as long as he was paying.

  Gordo pulled his wide body out of the van and went around the side. He flipped down the back seats, making room for their tryst. Dominique got out of the front passenger seat and climbed into the back of the vehicle. Suddenly, a strange feeling of dread washed over her, sending a shiver up her spine. This will be quick. She rubbed her arms anxiously, willing away the sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. She had never conducted business without the sick comfort of knowing Awilda was somewhere nearby on high alert. Dominique was alone now.

  “You want a full fuck, blow job or what?” she asked, speaking like she’d heard Awilda speak so many times. Dominique wanted to get down to the real business at hand.

  “I wanna different thing today, mami. Here . . .” Gordo said, peeling off a few twenty-dollar bills and throwing them at her. Money was no object for Gordo, who owned his own vehicle body shop that doubled as an illegal chop shop.

  Dominique grabbed the bills and stuffed them into her back pocket. She would count them later. “Whatchu want then?” she asked hesitantly, hoping this bastard didn’t want to tie her up or no freaky shit like that.

  “Lemme show you, mami. Relax,” Gordo said, squeezing himself into the back of the van before anyone noticed them.

  Dominique noticed the large plastic garbage bags that lay over his seats. This niggah got the nerve to be protecting his seats from his own nasty-ass cum.

  She worked her jeans down over her hips in the tight space. Dominique didn’t take her eyes off Gordo as he fondled his dick. “You got a condom?” she asked, spitting on her hand and placing it up against her vaginal opening–the poor girl’s lubrication. Dominique knew she wasn’t going to get aroused enough to get naturally wet for his nasty ass.

  “Lay down, mami . . . no worry. I got a wife remember,” Gordo reminded her, evading her question.

  “What the fuck that mean? There are a bunch of nasty muthfuckas out here . . . trust me. Show me the condom,” Dominique replied, not backing down on that point.

  “We no need it, mami,” Gordo said. Dominique squirmed in the tight space. Between slipping on the plastic bags and the nuts and bolts of the flipped seats stabbing her in the ass, she was ready to be done with it. Gordo moved closer to her, pushing her flat on her back. He was on his knees and placed one on each side of her; straddling her as he stroked his erect penis. Dominique swallowed hard, her legs trembling fiercely.

  “Let me do it,” she volunteered, trying to come up on elbows under his weight. She couldn’t move; Gordo had her pinned. She was thinking if all he wanted to do was jerk off she would get him there much faster. He placed his hand up, halting her movements. Dominique lowered her shoulders. Suddenly, Gordo started breathing hard and Dominique closed her eyes. He wants to cum on my breasts.

  “Mmm,” he moaned loudly, like it was about to happen. She closed her eyes. The next thing Dominique felt was warm liquid spilling on her face, her neck, and in her hair. The strong smell burned her nostrils. She jumped back, but Gordo’s full weight pressed on her stomach, immobilizing her. He continued to urinate all over her. Dominique didn’t scream because she didn’t want to risk getting urine in her mouth. She thrashed wildly, throwing futile punches and kicking her legs. She was powerless under his weight. After Gordo emptied his bladder, he was so turned on, he ejaculated all over her.

  “You muthafucka!” Dominique shrieked as he let her up. Gordo let out a high-pitched laugh.

  “No auntie . . . anything goes! Now get the fuck outta my car!” he spat, pushing Dominique out before she could fully put her pants back on. Once on the sidewalk, she bent over and threw up.

  Although it was fall, it seemed like the sun was bearing down on Dominique, angry and unforgiving. Her underarms itched with perspiration. The urine that had soaked her hair was now dry, crusting and matting her hair to her head. Dominique’s legs were lead heavy and ached as she ambled forward. She needed to sit down for just a minute, count the money Gordo had thrown at her and determine if she had enough to get a room . . . at least at the YMCA. Dominique stopped at the first empty stoop she saw and sat down. She unfolded the bills and realized Gordo had thrown only one twenty-dollar bill, the others were one-dollar bills.

  “Urgh,” Dominique growled, gripping the money so tight her arms shook and her nails left moon-shaped craters in her palms. She was tired, mentally and physically. She rested her head in her hands and heard a sweet hum moving toward her. “Hmmm, hmm, hm.” Dominique swore it sounded like the theme song from The Jeffersons sitcom that she used to watch on TV Land when she lived with her mother. Suddenly the hum seemed like it was right in her ear. Dominique looked up to find an old lady standing in front of her. The lady had a cherubic face; the only things letting on to her age were the small pockets of sagging skin under her eyes. She wore a white, wide-brimmed, straw church hat with a small white net that resembled baby’s breath covering her right eye. She was wide, with an ample bosom and a box waist and hips. Dominique immediately took solace in the old woman’s soft eyes.

  “Excuse me, baby,” the woman spoke. She was trying to climb the steps, but needed to use the banister to climb.

  “I’m sorry,” Dominique croaked out. Moving out of the way, she decided it was time to make her way to the Y for a bed. But something kept her rooted in place. The old woman made it up to the front door and fished her keys from her purse. Dominique sat back down and told herself she would just rest for one more minute. After twenty minutes had passed, Dominique still had not come up with a real plan. She didn’t know her way around Harlem like she did Brooklyn.

  “Listen, baby, I don’t pry in folks’business, but you look like you having a rough spot right now.” Dominique heard the soothing melodic voice from behind her. She turned around and swallowed the lump forming in her throat, willing herself not to cry.

  “Are you hungry?” the kind lady asked. Dominique shook her head slightly, quickly wiping away the tears before they had the chance to fall.

  “I’m Ina Mae Grady . . . Mama Grady to all the kids,” the old woman whispered as Dominique followed her like a duckling follows its mother away from danger.

  Mama Grady’s apartment smelled like mothballs and peppermint. Walking in was like going through a time warp to the ’70s. Although Dominique hadn’t been born yet, she’d seen several of the items Mama Grady had in her apartment, like the oversized wooden fork and spoon that hung on the wall outside of the kitchen, just as she’d seen on television sitcoms.

  “Let me fix you some food,” Mama Grady said as she padded through the kitchen, dragg
ing her feet like they hurt really badly. She opened up the old-fashioned Frigidaire and clanked pots. The sound comforted Dominique for some reason. It was like having a nana all over again.

  “So where’s ya mama?” Mama Grady called out from the kitchen to Dominique, who was sitting in the living room. Dominique was amazed at how many pictures Mama Grady had on her walls. These must be her kids and grandkids, Dominique thought.

  “She’s dead,” Dominique answered, clearing her throat. She’d decided a long time ago that thinking about what her life would be like if her mother was alive was a waste of time.

  “Oh, baby, I’m sorry to hear that,” Mama Grady replied, her Southern drawl making Dominique picture the words dragging the sides of her mouth down at the corners. “C’mon here now,” Mama Grady summoned. Dominique went to the small flower-topped Formica table and pulled out one of the old metal-back chairs. Ashamed of her appearance, Dominique asked if she could use the bathroom. She wanted to at least wash her hands and face before she tried to eat. “Right down there, baby,” Mama Grady said, pointing to the doorway leading to the hallway.

  Dominique walked down a small hallway and stepped into the small bathroom. Once inside, she looked around at the pink wallpaper and the soft, shaggy floor mats. The color and the coziness of the space made Dominique want to lie down. She opened the small medicine cabinet that hung over the sink; it was a bad habit. There seemed to be thousands of bottles of medicine. Dominique twisted some of the bottles so she could read them: DIOVAN, COUMEDINE, CODEINE, etc. Dominique was familiar with codeine and its effects. Awilda had given her the pills a couple of times to relax her. Dominique hurriedly stashed the bottle of pills in her sock, washed her hands, and rushed back to the table.

  “You eat smothered chicken?” Mama Grady asked. Dominique nodded. She’d never had smothered chicken but it smelled delicious. Dominique threw her legs under the table and began devouring the food.

  “Hold on now, chile, we says grace in Mama Grady’s house,” she corrected. Dominique hadn’t said grace since she was thirteen. She placed her fork down and bowed her head while Mama Grady prayed.

  When she was done eating, Mama Grady gave Dominique a towel and face rag. “Take a shower and clean yourself up. I will run the machine on your clothes,” Mama Grady instructed, like she helped destitute children on regular basis. Dominique immediately peeled off her soiled clothes and handed them to Mama Grady.

  “You sure you ain’t been on the streets?” Mama Grady asked. Dominique’s cheeks flamed over with shame and she rushed to the bathroom. Stepping under the rusted, old-fashioned showerhead, Dominique inhaled. The water felt so good on her body. She scrubbed until her dark skin felt raw and clean.

  Although trust was not something that came easy for Dominique, she felt like Mama Grady could be trusted. Dominique stepped out of the bathroom into the small hallway, still toweling off her hair. She could hear voices. As she made it to the doorway of the kitchen, she noticed a woman standing in the living room. The woman turned quickly, startled by Dominique’s presence. Her face was familiar. Dominique had seen her in Mama Grady’s pictures; although now small crow’s-feet drew in the corners of her eyes, and laugh lines outlined her mouth.

  “Oh, Mama, not again,” the woman sighed, her eyes hooding over, glaring at Dominique.

  “Sharon, this girl was sitting out there burning up and hungry as a hostage,” Mama Grady explained to her daughter. Dominique went still, her face burning under Sharon’s glares.

  “Look, you always helping these kids. They rob you blind and never come back. Mama, you can’t keep taking in strays off the street. One day one of them gon’ hit you over the head and I’m gonna come home to find you dead. Now, you ought to be more mindful of that. You’re living in a different time, Mama,” Sharon scolded, wagging her finger at her elderly mother like she was the child.

  “This baby ain’t got no mama, Sharon,” Mama Grady mumbled in a low whisper, as if apologizing to Dominique for her daughter’s behavior.

  “I . . . I . . . was just leaving,” Dominique stumbled over her words. When she looked at Mama Grady, her soft, almondshaped eyes sparkled with sympathy. Dominique picked up her freshly washed clothes and went back to the bathroom to put them on. She picked up her stolen stash of pills from behind the toilet and placed them back into the medicine cabinet, determined to prove Sharon wrong about her.

  Dominique walked slowly over to Mama Grady, under Sharon’s close watch. She bent down and hugged the old woman’s wide shoulders. “Thank you for everything,” Dominique managed to squeak out, her tongue seemingly pasted to the roof of her mouth.

  “Hmph,” Sharon snorted.

  “It’s okay, baby,” Mama Grady comforted, patting Dominique on her back. That touch of affection was one Dominique hadn’t felt in years. The tears came down in uncontrollable streams. Dominique turned quickly before Sharon or Mama Grady could see her crying and she rushed toward the door. As soon as she stepped out, she could hear Sharon bolting and chaining the locks on the door. Dominique placed her back up against the cold, uninviting steel of the door, and slid down to the ground. With twenty-six dollars in her pocket, she had to come up with a plan.

  “So, young blood. I see you on the come up. How’s the pimp game treatin’ you?” C-Lo asked, running his tongue over his fronts.

  “Shit is goin’ a’ight. I mean, it’s just like you taught me. Bitches always gon’ try a niggah,” Jordan answered, sitting across from C-Lo in Amy Ruth’s as they broke bread.

  “That’s good, young blood . . . that’s real good,” C-Lo complimented, pushing his food away and taking his tooth-pick from the top of his ear where he’d stored it before they started eating. Jordan smiled; he liked it when he received compliments on his work.

  “Young blood, we need to rap a taste,” C-Lo said, his voice suddenly ominous.

  “Yeah, man . . . wassup?” Jordan asked, shifting in his seat.

  “Word on the streets is you puttin’ your girls on my tracks,” C-Lo said, getting to the point.

  “Nah, man. I would never step on your toes like that. I ain’t that dude who will bite the hand that fed me,” Jordan said, immediately copping a plea.

  “I gave you one track in Harlem and that was generous. I told you take your bitches up to Hunt’s Point or to grimy-ass Brooklyn,” C-Lo said seriously.

  Before he could finish Jordan cut in. “Yo, C-Lo man. I’m gonna find out who is runnin’ their trap and I’ma fuckin’ go up top on a niggah. I ain’t gon’ step on ya toes, man,” Jordan said, looking upset.

  “A’ight, if you say so, young blood. I always give a young dude a choice . . . they can cross me or be straight up. I’ma take your word for it, but if I find out you lied to me, you gon’ have hell to pay,” C-Lo threatened, twirling the little wooden splinter between his fish lips.

  “Yo, I’m telling you I ain’t lying,” Jordan said deceitfully, looking C-Lo right in the eye.

  “Like I said, I’ma take ya word for it, young blood,” C-Lo said, knowing better. He looked Jordan up and down. “Listen, I’m having a party this weekend. Come on through,” C-Lo invited, standing up and tossing $200 on the table, leaving Jordan there.

  Jordan had to think of his next move–fast. He had just told a bold-faced lie to the most dangerous man in Harlem. Before he could come up with a strategy, his cell phone vibrated in his pocket.

  Dominique stayed at the YMCA on West 135th Street for one night–it was all she could afford. The day after, she walked to 125th Street and attempted to apply for jobs at some of the stores. Dominique did not even know her own social security number by heart, and almost every application had asked for it. It dawned on her then that Awilda must have all of her documents–birth certificate and social security card. Dominique also didn’t have a phone number to put down for a call back. What would she wear to an interview? Dominique spent the last of her money on food from McDonald’s.

  It had been three days since she had been in Harlem an
d each day since she had gotten Jordan’s card, she toyed with the idea of calling him. He had said he was a talent scout. Dominique wanted to try to make her own way. Given her history, she was very wary of men. Maybe he was some kind of show business bigwig. People had always told her how gorgeous she was. Walking out of McDonald’s, Dominique decided to call him. She would make an appointment just like anyone else. If she had to audition, she would. Unfolding the crushed-up card, she went to a pay phone, ready to take her future into her own hands.

  “Speak,” Jordan answered.

  “Hi . . . this is Dominique. The girl you called ‘Diamond. I was just calling because I think I probably could contribute to your talent business . . .” Dominique rambled, the words rolling off her tongue heavily and clumsily.

  “Whoa, whoa. Who is this? Slow down,” Jordan said, furrowing his brow as he listened to the rapid string of words spoken on the other end of the line. “Oh, Diamond,” he replied, finally connecting the dots.

  “You remember me?” she asked.

  Of course he did. How could he forget her and that look of desperation on her face? “Look, I can come pick you up. We will talk about my talent scouting business later,” Jordan offered in response to Dominique’s questions about what kind of work he could find her. Jordan could hear the desperation in her voice.

  When Jordan pulled up to 125th Street he could tell Dominique had been through some shit. Her eyes were vacant and rimmed under the bottom, like she hadn’t slept in a couple of days. She had on the same clothes he’d seen her in three days prior and her hair was wild, like a newly tethered bird’s nest. Dominique walked over to Jordan’s car like a zombie, her steps unsure, hesitation and distrust weighing her down.

  “Damn, Diamond, what happened, baby girl? Your visit to Harlem ain’t treatin’ you right?” Jordan asked sarcastically. Plopping into the seat, Dominique slumped her shoulders, bowed her head and just fell apart. The tears ran and ran and never stopped. Without even knowing or caring whether she could trust him, she told Jordan about her mother; her aunt; and her most recent john. Jordan was all ears. “Listen, don’t worry about nothing, Diamond. I can definitely help you out,” Jordan said flatly, driving her toward his apartment.