And what do the others think that they do not argue their own places in the hierarchy? Cherry, for one, is too young, too green, and too fortunate to be a member of this grown-up circle to question its order. These older women do not have to share their weed or alcohol with her, after all, and so she counts her blessings. Katrina, on the other hand, is too much of a part-time member to care either way. Her life is full enough; she is busy with work and children, her mind on so many different things it hardly has time to recognize there even is a question of order to begin with. And Elisabeth? With heartbreak so fresh, she is just happy to have people to love who love her back. Who is she to question the social order put before her, anyway? She just wants to fit in somewhere. She just wants them to accept her.
"Them" is a belch from the lower echelons of poverty. They know about things she will never know about. They know about being raised with two sisters on nothing more than their mother’s SSI check. It was marginally more than traditional welfare, but it was welfare nonetheless, and either way the hairs were split, it still meant shopping out of the bins at Goodwill, where second-hand jeans are paid for by the pound. They know about parents too drunk to work. They know lines: lines for food boxes and welfare checks, lines for clothing giveaways and back-to-school supplies, and—when things really got bad—lines for beds in the local shelter. They know about spit baths in McDonald's bathrooms before school and hiding in the closet under the stairwell when Father had a long day. They know about foster homes and being rescued from that same abusive father and a meth-head mother by the state. They know about double coupons and shutoff notices. They know the value of real work; they learned picking your morning berries and evening beans alongside migrant workers so that they would have clothes for school.
And even though five out of the six of them do have that much in common, Julia likes to say that I am mismatched, that they do not make any sense as a group. "If you were a stranger and you saw us together, you wouldn’t think that we could be friends," she explains.
Elisabeth crinkles her short, freckled nose. "What do you mean?"
"Look at us!"
She crinkles it more. "You’re saying that we shouldn’t be friends because we look so different?"
Julia rolls her eyes. Elisabeth’s naïve political correctness baffles her own sensibility of generalizations. In addition to her enforcement of the unwritten rules of the street, part of what makes Julia a great leader is her penchant for categorization. After all, everybody belongs in a category. At this juncture of their lives, high-school archetypes continue to serve as the roadmap; either you are a gangster, a prep, a skater, a baller, a Goth, a crackhead, or a hick. You can also be a combination of these identities, but you cannot be "none of the above."
Elisabeth twirls her chin-length blonde hair as she contemplates who they all are and how they fit together. She is the mother hen of the group. She keeps the peace, offers heartfelt advice, and always has a shoulder ready to soak up someone’s tears. Elisabeth had planned to have her own children via in vitro, but when Sami left, that possibility went with her, at least for the time being. Now she offers the wealth of her nurturing to this surrogate brood instead. It goes without saying that Elisabeth is not a confrontational person, and although Julia’s claim has burrowed under her skin, she has no desire to push past niceties. She smiles when she repeats her question. "So you’re saying that since we aren’t carbon copies of each other, we have different styles, most people would think we can’t be friends?"
Julia giggles. It is a goaded giggle that she passes around like cheap wine. She doesn’t like to be called out on her beliefs any more than anyone else does. But like any good leader, Julia is only confrontational with the ones who need it. Had it been Cherry or Angela questioning her thought process, she would have verbally laid them out, their pride left to flap like torn clothes in the wind. But Elisabeth? Elisabeth is nice and sweet, the girl next door.
Jane chimes in with, "Who gives a fuck whether people think we should be friends?"
Julia laughs again, then smirks in her friend’s direction, but she does not say anything. It is a tenuous dance these two revel in as they skirt around a rigid line drawn somewhere out there in the proverbial sand. The gray areas are so large and vast, the line could be anywhere. They test each other like newlyweds. Just to see how far they can go in either direction, what they can get away with. They know the line is out there somewhere; they know that if it is crossed, something bad will become of the space between them. And yet they both fumble about, testing boundaries with each clumsy expression and declaration of utter indifference.
Elisabeth intercedes, "I guess I can see where some people might look at us as a group and have some questions—"
"Seriously." Jane cuts her off. "Who gives a fuck what most people think?!" She slurps down the rest of her drink. "Why are we worried about what a bunch of fuckheads think of us anyway?"
"And that’s why we love you," Elisabeth grins.
Jane rolls her eyes in belittled amusement and rises to refill her drink. She finds it a tad annoying, this condescending admiration of a purported fault which she does not, in fact, actually consider to be a fault.
"That shit is gonna give you a heart attack one of these days." Julia points this out every time.
Jane winks back. "You promise?"
What is really going on here, what Julia is really saying, is that not everyone circled around the table fits into the same archetype. Not everyone is gangster. No matter how hard they try to emulate their leader, their original identities still soak through. Elisabeth will always be that sweet girl next door. And yet in her vain attempt to leave her identity behind, she professes grandiose preferences for blue and an aversion to red. She buys blue bandanas to tie in her hair and looks up to Daemon with an unrealistic romanticism of his lifestyle. And while Angela boasts a rap sheet that makes her more gangster than the rest, for her sister, it is a simple costume—a hat she has tried on for lack of satisfaction with single motherhood and tedious employments in a nursing home’s laundry. With her athletic prowess, Cherry doesn’t have to claim as hard as the rest. Her baller status gives her a free pass on the gagster lean from the rest of the circle. Still, like the rest of the girls, she wouldn't be caught dead wearing red. Whether they have tossed all of their clothes of that color or merely hidden them in the anuses of their closets, there is no red to be seen on any of them, ever.
That is, except for this other one again. The one who refuses to conform. Her first act of social disobedience is to question the order altogether. Why gangster? She rolls her eyes. How silly of them. She tops off her rebel sundae with a heavy serving of red sprinkles: red shirts, red shoes, red purse, red car, but no red bandana in her hair or even in her underwear drawer. And yet Julia pokes and prods at the gangster that she sees inside. It is there somewhere, she knows, hidden and lurking about; she begs it to come out and play. She idealizes it, convinced of both its authenticity and its inevitable, if delayed, debut.
There is standard hip-hop on the stereo. Thankfully, their gangster style is one that emulates this—with all of the sleek style and sexual power of female rappers—over the chola fashion most of them cut their teeth on. It would be a lot harder to take any of them seriously if their eyes and lips were both rimmed with black kohl, their bodies clad in jumbo-sized Ben Davis work shirts and Dickies that are too big to stay on their hips even with belts cinched tight.
It isn’t often that all six of them are in the same place at the same time; conflicting schedules mean that I'm rarely whole. Elisabeth is the only nine-to-five among them, and even she has to work weekends. With their fast food employment, Julia and Angela are subject to schedules that run twenty-four seven. Cherry is at least safe from Taco Burger’s call after 11:00 p.m. thanks to her status as a minor. Katrina washes linens and muumuus for elderly and bariatric patients on the morning shift at a nursing facility while her future residents are served copious amounts of liquor late into the nigh
t by Jane. And whereas Angela’s son acts as a portable appendage so long as the party is not at a bar (he will sleep just about anywhere and through anything), Katrina has four offspring who limit her ability to kick it with the group.
The seventh and honorary member, Daemon, is absent. He puts his best food forward to befriend each of the girls, determined to be just a pinch closer to each than Julia is comfortable with. Sadly, the couple uses their cohorts as pawns in the struggle over spoilt milk. When they fight, Julia expects her friends to take her side and shun Daemon. Daemon expects their mutual friends to stay neutral. And despite the universality of being on your girl’s side, a couple of them agree with him, though the rhyme and reason of it all is a bit too tangled to unravel at such an early nexus of their mutual friendships.
Angela pursues her new mark in the kitchen and away from the discussion over how well they do or do not fit together. She follows Cherry’s example in hopes of a better return. Leaning in too close, her hot breath molests her beloved’s ear with a forceful whisper of, "I’ve got some coke."
Jane furrows her brow. "I don’t think vodka and Coke go together. I’ll stick with the Redbull, but thanks."
Undaunted, she laughs in that way that shows her gums. "Not Coca Cola, stupid. Cocaine!"
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(Angela) Ya know how they say, "The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach"? Well, I’m betting the way to this chick’s heart is through her nose.
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(Swisher Sweet) Hey man, alls I ask is dat sumbody smoke me! Dat really ain't too much to be asking, right? I been sitting up in here for god know how long, smellin’ errybody's shit, hearing all dey bull crap. Every goddamn morning, dat damn shower steam attack. Surround me, cover me wif all it wetness ‘n’ shit. Every day dat fucking mist creep more ‘n’ more inta my wrapper. How long’s it gonna be 'fore it reach my smoove brown paper? How long ‘til I be soaked ‘n’ soggy ‘n’ one-hundred-per-cent useless? How long ‘til some asshole just throw me in da trash wifout a second thought? First stop on dat bullshit ride. Off ta dat dere burial ground for unwanted shit: broken, old, smelly, just plain outta style. If sumbody would just smoke me, it'd be all over wif aldready! But no. No, Im'ma doomed to da landfill ‘n’ shit, where Im'ma be stuck in crushed soppiness for thousandsa years. How dis gotta happen to me?
HOOOOOWWW?!?!?!
No one ‘round here'll smoke me ‘cause Im'ma blood. People come ‘n’ people go, but ain't no one picking me. I’m just sittin’ here in silence, under attack, ‘n’ hopin’ dat somebody, sumday'll notice me, appreeshate me! Or, ya know, very least dey could just get it over wif quick: slit me open, dump out my insides. Fill me up wif wuteva: Northern Lights, Boobooberry, wuteva! Maybe throw a little sumpin’ sumpin’ on top dere if dey feeling randy. Kief? Hash? Wuteva, OK? Just gimme a goddamn purpose.
But I ain't got no promise of purpose or any shit like dat; alls I got left is da bafroom traffic, da little bitta entertainment it gimme. In ‘n’ out, in ‘n’ out dey go. Right now, two girls bust in, one after ‘nother. Dey got mischief on dey face ‘n’ drinks in dey hand. Da first one, I think her name Jane, bust in ‘n’ sit on da edge of da baftub, wait dere all quiet ‘n’ shit. Da other one, Angela, she come in ‘n’ do a little victory dance ‘n’ lock da door behind her. She pull her wallet out her back pocket ‘n’ a miniature Ziploc bag outta dat. She shake it back ‘n’ forth ‘n’ dump a clumpa rocky white powder onto da bafroom counter.
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What sweet anticipation there is in cocaine foreplay: the titillation of preparation, the near-virginal curiosity, the blameless voyeurism. With each slice of the blade, each flick of the wrist, the sweet nectar of serenity draws closer. The air is thick with possibilities as tension waits for its relief, as the lumps turn to grains and the grains get smaller and smaller, until all that is left is a fine powder. To watch is to enjoy a sublime torture, a cathartic pre-experience.
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(Swisher) Dis broad don’t do it right. She think showin’ off her testosterone gonna give her da best shot at dem hot, young, ‘n’ curious girls. So she walk like a dude, talk like a dude, chop rock like a dude, must be a dude, but she gotta pussy.
She ain't usin’ nuthin’ but a plastic gift card from her wallet to chop dat shit up either. Starbucks, McDonald’s, wuteva da boss felt like passing out when morale was low. Sliced ‘n’ diced only a coupla times ‘n’ lined up wifout any kinda ‘tention, any kinda pride; this messa thick rocks look downright fuckin’ scary, and I ain't even got no nostrils to worry ‘bout.
That Jane chick, she jus’ stare at da lines ‘n’ den look up at her friend. She don't take da rolled up dolla’ bill dat offered to her.
"Aren’t you gonna snort that?" Angela wave her hands in fronta da girl face.
Jane look back down at dem lines den nod slow.
"Today?"
She nod again.
"Then GO!"
"Can I see that first?" Wifout lookin’ up, she hold her hand out for da plastic card. Angela hand it over, but she roll her eyes first. "You think you can do everything better, don’t you?"
Bent over da sugar, concentrating ‘n’ shit, Jane chuckle ‘n’ shake her head. She answer, but wuteva she say, it just trail off into nuthin. "I don’t think anything . . ." She bite her tongue and lick her lips, flick, flick. I swear I hear her heart racin’ ‘n’ shit, chop, chop. She break it up into four parts ‘n’ den shapes da lines, swish, swish. Angela's watchin’, shakin’ her head ‘n’ shit. "Something wrong?" da Jane girl aks her.
She frown real heavy. Her voice go up a coupla notches. "Why you gotta show me up?" ‘N’ so she start goin' on ‘bout how everybody always do dis to her and how she can't never do nuthin right.
"Oh my god, whatever!" Jane interrupt ‘n’ shit. "Just take your stupid line."
Angela start to put dat rolled up bill to her nose, but den she go ‘n’ change her mind. "Ladies first."
Jane reroll dat dolla’ bill ‘til it a tighter, fresher tube. She lookin' at the other girl out the side of her eyes the whole time.
"See?!"
"Would you get a grip?" She put one end up to her left nostril ‘n’ da other to dat first line.
"Hoover that baby up!"
She do. Angela got some hope.
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(The Circle) For some, the high that cocaine brings is like a beautiful maiden hidden behind lock and key. They can see her beauty, smell her magnetism, and glimpse her heaving bosom. But they can never bed her down, never REALLY have her without the proper key: Cannabis Sativa. It throws the door wide open, tears the clothes from her body, and mounts her, welcome and with conviction. Some things, less familiar things, just don't work without the help of an old friend, a little tease, a little post foreplay. There is a workaround, of course, and it is really all about the cocktail. And so alcohol can stand in, though it is more of a battering ram than the stealth entrance allowed by the simple turn of a key. This path is more difficult most of the time, but here we find our eager friend Jane, having both turned the key and battered down the door, only to find her maiden thrust upon her in the full force of lust.
The nature of this maiden is serenity—an all-consuming spiritual knowledge that everything is going to be all right. Serenity pries open that third eye, exposes it to the possibilities of the universe, fosters grand ideas, and makes molehills out of mountains. From inside out, it envelops her with a very real, yet very exaggerated, sense of the divine self, and it can do anything it sets its mind to. Possibility is limited only by determination. She is absolutely and completely ALIVE and REAL and FUCKING GREAT! Dharma is within reach.
"Let’s take a walk!" she insists. "I need a smoke like no fucking other." The drainage rakes across her gag reflex, an itchy numbness that begs to inflict the wretch. "Ah fuck. I’m out of cigarettes."
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(Swisher) "I got menthols," Angela offer. "Or there’s that nasty-ass blood over there." Again wif da insults! Her teef show, ‘n’ she
laugh at me, "You probably like that don’t you?"
Jane roll her eyes, reach fo' me. I shiver in my plastic wrapper. Is this fo’ real? Finally, sumbody want me? Yes! Yes, it fo’ real! She pick me up ‘n’ roll me 'tween her palms. Finally, finally sumbody want me! ‘N’ just when I done gave up all hope!
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(The Circle) She greets the cigarillo with borrowed flame and short, violent puffs. The smoke scratches away at her itchy uvula. "So, how about that walk?"
Angela stares at the ground with a goofy smile. "OK," she agrees as she squints her eyes in triumph. It’s working!
It’s late, and the streets are quiet with no one but the bar crowd and the cops on the road. An extra layer to the early a.m. cocktail, the brightness of the streetlights lends a peculiar feel. The girls head towards Market Street and follow its empty, damp asphalt. They joke and jest as they bound down the street, boisterous with laughter and overall animation. They look like a budding scene from Cops; your typical hoodlums caught on foot with cocaine in the dead of night. Across the street is a wholesale lot, and Jane spies a classic Jaguar in emerald green and mint condition. She stops to point, eyes wide, mouth agape but mute. Angela has a good laugh at her pantomime until Jane loses it and laughs as well. They sprint across the five lanes deserted by traffic and hop over the shin-high chains that imitate a fence around the lot. Jane fondles the Jaguar’s hood and strokes its sleek body. What would be a mild admiration sober is a pants-creaming obsession in her current condition.
Jane. Page 12