by Meta Smith
“Fuck no! I like the money, but that’s it. Men are pigs!” Ginger flipped her hair and frowned.
“That’s right. I keep forgetting you’re a carpet muncher,” Desiree said, grinning. Ginger flipped her the bird.
“You liked it,” Ginger retorted. Desiree responded by returning the flip-off. “Anyway, bitch, I’m saying we have a little cheese. We get props in the clubs. We get little hookups here and there. All that’s nice, but don’t you ever feel like it’s not enough?” Ginger sat up and looked at Desiree.
“All the time! Is there such a thing as enough money, enough stuff, enough hookups?” Desiree looked at Ginger as if she were insane. Her eyes shone nearly clear in the sunlight.
“You know that’s not what I fucking mean!” Ginger snapped.
“I know. But what you mean is bullshit. Having money is the best thing that’s ever happened to me. You must have had money all your life to not care about it. Only rich people think that way.” Desiree rolled her eyes and flipped onto her stomach.
“Look, I came over here from Haiti when I was five years old. Don’t talk to me about being fucking rich. I grew up thinking that people who could shop at Sears were rich. My dad walked out on my mom and went back to the Dominican Republic, and we didn’t have shit. He didn’t send a chip. My mother’s brother was here in Miami, and if it weren’t for him, we wouldn’t have had a damn thing. But we got treated like shit when we got here. We had to stay in Krome Detention Center. All the shit we’d heard about America being the land of the free was bullshit, cuz Krome is just jail for refugees; now the home of the brave, maybe. I had to be brave; I was a little girl in a new country who barely spoke the language. I had to fight off little boys and grown men who were trying to molest me. And let’s just say I didn’t always win. When we were able to move to Miami Shores with my uncle, you can’t imagine the ignorance I had to deal with. People said we ate cats and did voodoo and had AIDS and all the fucked- up things that people always say about Haitians. I’ve been through shit I wouldn’t wish on a dog. But getting money didn’t make me happier.” Ginger’s eyes reflected pain. Desiree noticed that Ginger had the same spacey look she had when she told her about the trip to St. Thomas.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know,” Desiree apologized.
“Well, how would you have known?” Ginger dismissed the topic with the wave of her hand.
“I guess...But can I ask you something?” “Sure, whatever,” was Ginger’s response.
“If men always tried to hurt you, why do you dance? Why do you trick?”
“You need to ask yourself that same question.” Ginger peered at Desiree over her sunglasses.
“I-I don’t know what you mean,” Desiree stammered.
“Okay. Play the nut role. But remember, I’ve not only been around the block, I own a crib on it. Most of us have been raped or abused or molested. Generally, girls who haven’t been place higher respect on their bodies and sexuality. They value themselves more. Most strippers are
broken people, just trying to find a way to be whole again. Society makes us think that money is the answer, but it isn’t.”
“Well, maybe when I get to where you are, I can feel that way. But I come from shit too, and I have no intentions of ever going back. I might not have what you have, but I’m a long way from where I was. But believe this: I’m going to make it too, just like you.” Desiree’s voice contained more than a trace of jealousy, and anger at Ginger for being so intuitive.
“Please, don’t ever try to be like me. You think I’ve made it? Please, bitch, this is nigga rich. You think this quarter-million-dollar house is something? This crib is the size of the real rich motherfucker’s pool house. You think that you building something with your money by saving it? I didn’t get what little I do have by hiding my money in my room. You got what, fifteen, twenty thousand dollars? What do you think you can really do with that?”
Desiree opened her mouth as if to object, but there was nothing she could really say.
“Look, I ain’t trying to be all in your pocket, but don’t get greedy. The harder you try to hold on to your money, the more it will leave you. Please believe that. You think that money is the solution to everything, but it’s not. It’s a temporary solution to a few of life’s little obstacles. It’s like that song you like, that Scarface type of shit by the Lox and Lil’ Kim. It’s about money, power, and respect. Money is nothing without power,” Ginger schooled her.
“Money is power,” Desiree objected.
“Slow your roll, young grasshopper. Understand this pimping: money is not power. It’s how you use it that’s powerful. These niggas give us money all the time, and they think they have power over us. What they don’t realize is that for all the sweet talk and sex, they’re just another dollar sign. Is that power? Now, if we take their money and go shopping, or go and buy some weed, that may give us a little empowerment, but it’s only temporary and shallow. But if we take that piece of change and flip it, put it into a business or invest it in our minds, then that’s real power.” “I see your point.” Desiree nodded, running her fingers through her hair. Why did Ginger seem to have all of the answers? Why did she have it so together? Ginger had been through a similar situation as she herself had, from what Desiree could tell. Maybe it was because Ginger had a
mother.
“See, when you have money and power, people respect you-most of the time anyway. Most of the time they don’t respect you per se, but they do respect your gangsta. There’s a thin line between respect and fear or
intimidation. But the respect that’s most powerful, the real shit, is the respect that you have for yourself.”
“I respect myself,” Desiree offered, but it didn’t sound convincing, not even to herself.
“Yeah, okay,” Ginger remarked dryly. “Can you tell me honestly that you look at yourself in the mirror and feel a sense of respect for exactly who you are? Are you cool with everything you’ve done in the past?” Ginger met Desiree’s eyes and fixed her stare. “Cuz I can’t even say that, Desi. I got a lot of shit going on inside that makes me feel like I ain’t shit on a regular basis. But I’m finding my way.”
“What are you talking about? You’ve got it going on! Your crib is tight, you have a business, you make money in the clubs, and niggas is all up on your shit. And everyone I see you around respects you, even those assholes at the club.”
“You’re confusing my confidence with self-respect and with self- esteem. And believe me, I had to work really hard to get that confidence, harder than I ever did to get money. But if I really respected myself, I wouldn’t still be dancing. Because I know that it’s my insecurities that fuel my need to do this. It’s my feelings of inadequacy that motivate me to continue to degrade myself, even though I know better, even though from the outside looking in, I am better. Because it isn’t fun to me anymore. It doesn’t feel wrong per se, but it just doesn’t feel good. This business will change you.”
Desiree said nothing; she just waited for Ginger to continue. It wasn’t what she wanted to hear, but Ginger always seemed to make perfect sense. After an awkward silence Desiree spoke.
“You’re a good person. You took me in, and I really didn’t have anyplace to go. You gave when you didn’t have to.”
“Desiree, when I met you, the first thing I did was gaffle you out of some money. And if you weren’t so cool, I would have just turned your ass out eating your pussy, then thrown your buck-naked ass on the Web long ago. I’ve done that shit before. And that was the plan with you. Your ass just turned out to be so fucking sweet. It felt like I was trying to take advantage of a little girl or something. It just didn’t feel right.” Desiree was shocked by the confession, but no more shocked than Ginger was for making it.
“Wondering if you can trust me now, huh?” Ginger looked smug. “Kind of, but not really. If you were truly a bad person, you would
have never confessed. It’s almost like you don’t want me to trust you, though. You don’t want me to get
to know the real you.”
“You’re right, Desi. I told you that I don’t even trust me. I don’t even know the real me. I can only teach you so much, so you’re gonna have to know how to play this game on your own.”
Ginger was always warning her about this or that. She acted like she knew everything. Desiree was beginning to get a bit irritable over Ginger’s constant preaching. It was real easy for her to say things like, “Don’t get greedy.” From what she said, Ginger should have understood better than anyone that greed was a matter of self-preservation. Desiree’s frustration showed on her face.
“Hey, trust me or don’t. Listen or don’t. It’s your life. Life is a fucking crapshoot anyway really. How you gonna win if you don’t play? And how you gonna win big if you don’t bet big? But, Desiree, don’t get caught up. Don’t sell yourself short. I did, but I’m not anymore.”
CHAPTER 8
April 1999
A
LITTLE OVER A MONTH AFTER THE BREAST augmentation, Desiree was cleared to return to work and all of her
regular activities. Her stitches were removed, and her scar was practically invisible. The doctor ordered her to massage her breasts several times daily to break up any scar tissue and make them soft and natural-looking and -feeling. She hadn’t been to work, relying on her stash and favors from men who had no problem catering to her every whim.
Ginger had been helpful as well, cutting back seriously on her work schedule, claiming she was burned-out. Desiree figured that with the money she was bound to make with her new and improved breasts, she was on her way to the top. She would gradually stop dancing as her modeling assignments came in. She would make even more than Ginger.
“Wanna go out?” Ginger asked Desiree while she was squeezing a handful of her new boob.
“Sure. I’m always down to show these bad boys off.” Desiree grinned. “I already know what I’m gonna wear.”
“Cool. You okay to drive, right?” Ginger asked hesitantly. “Sure, why?” Desiree was always thrilled to drive the BMW.
“Because I wanna drop this roll, but none for you,” Ginger explained. “I don’t want none of that shit no way. Not after what I saw the last time. I don’t see why you even deal with that shit. Your brain’s got to be
fried. Desiree pulled her hair up into a bun on top of her head.
“Well, sometimes I need to escape reality, consequences be damned. Besides, this is a different pill. I wasn’t trying to take my chances again with that other shit.” Ginger laughed, and the two prepared to hit the town.
They hit up Amnesia for Rocker’s Island for some dancehall reggae under the stars. Desiree loved the open-air-coliseum style of the Amnesia nightclub. Her first time there she gawked at the fact that there was no ceiling. But more than that, she especially loved the bass-heavy riddims that permeated the venue full of winding bodies. Although she wasn’t skilled at dancing like a true Jamaican, she didn’t hesitate to turn the heads of several men, her enhanced cleavage prominently on display through the plunging neckline of her pale pink top.
“You got any more of those Percocets?” Ginger asked Desiree in the ladies’ lounge.
“Yeah, but should you be mixing X and Percocet and weed?” Desiree asked, half warning her.
“Chill, shawty I know what I’m doing. You’re the amateur, not me.” Ginger sucked her teeth.
“Whatever.” Desiree shrugged as she rummaged through her purse for her prescription bottle. Ginger popped the pill into her mouth and swallowed it dry.
“You okay?” Desiree asked. Ginger liked to party, but lately, it seemed to Desiree that she had been overdoing it. When she did work, she came home so plastered that Desiree was angry she’d even been allowed to drive. And when she stayed home, she got fucked-up by herself. It was so obvious that Ginger was trying to escape something by getting zooted out of her mind.
“I’m cool.” Ginger flashed an artificial smile and bounced out the bathroom, leaving Desiree behind.
Okay. She’ll be all right, I guess, Desiree thought as she saw Ginger
approach a tall, sexy dread and begin to dance with him.
TWO HOURS LATER DESIREE WAS SITTING ON THE
banquettes smoking a fatty with some girls she knew from the Rolexxx. I wonder where Ginger is, she thought, scanning the room for her girl.
“Y’all seen Ginger?” Desiree asked China, a thick redbone with Asian eyes.
“Nah, not for a minute. When I did see her, though, she was fucked- up! I ain’t never seen her so gone.” China slapped her healthy thigh, which was encased in skintight, zebra-print jeans.
“Well, if you see her, tell her to wait for me here. I’m gonna go look for her. “
Desiree strolled around the club bopping to the beat, casually gliding by the men who attempted to dance with her.
“No, no, no,” she sang playfully along with Dawn Penn, her cat eyes narrowed to slits from the cheeba. Then DJ Khaled put on Shelly Thunder, and Desiree got loose. She loved the song “Kuff” and could chant the lyrics as if she’d penned them herself. Lost in the bass line, Desiree closed her eyes and began winding her hips sensually, imitating the chanting of Shelly Thunder. When she opened her eyes, the same dread who’d been dancing with Ginger was standing before her.
“Not bad.” The dread grinned at her.
Desiree grinned back. “That’s nothing. I got my own shit.”
“Yeah, you look like a star.” He stood there smiling, his eyes affixed to her breasts. He snapped out of his trance.
“Your sister is looking for you. But she doesn’t feel too good, so she’s in the bathroom. You should check on her.”
He flashed a row of perfect teeth and disappeared into the crowd. Desiree watched him walk away. Damn, Ginny sure can pick them! she mused before heading to the bathroom.
“Have you seen my sister? She looks like me, but a little taller?” she inquired of the bathroom attendant.
“Uh, yeah. She’s sick. You need to get her out of here and home.” The attendant gave Desiree the stankeye and returned to the Enquirer that was demanding her undivided attention. Desiree huffed and walked down the row of stalls until she recognized Ginger’s shoes. She pushed the door, but it was locked.
“Ginny, open the door! It’s me!” Desiree tapped her foot impatiently. “Mrgrmph,” Ginger mumbled from behind the door. From the slight
echo of her voice, Desiree could tell that Ginger’s head was inside the toilet. She had to be on the verge of death to touch a public toilet seat, let alone sit on the floor with her head in the bowl. God! Desiree thought. What was Ginger’s deal lately?
Desiree was not about to crawl under the door and couldn’t climb over the top of the stall. Thinking quickly, she removed a rat-tailed comb from her purse and fiddled with the lock. Desiree heard Ginger retch and heave. “Oh, don’t mind me,” Desiree said sarcastically to the attendant,
who wasn’t offering any assistance. “I’m fine. I’ll just keep jimmying the lock while my sister is in there dying!” Finally, she felt the lock give way. “Ginny!” Desiree gasped. Ginger was sprawled on the floor, her head resting on the toilet seat. There was vomit all over her top and in her hair. Her nose was bleeding slightly. And she was as limp as a rag doll. Desiree grabbed her arm, carefully avoiding the puke. She removed Ginger’s T-shirt and threw it in the trash can. She knew Ginger would be pissed, but she wasn’t about to carry it or ride all the way home with the smell. Besides, no one would even notice she was just wearing a bra; it was
South Beach.
Desiree thought they would never make it home. Blinded by tears, she crept along the expressway, worried that Ginger might die or that the police would pull them over and haul them off to jail. Ginger puked two times, and each time Desiree had to pull over and help her. She’d debated taking her to the hospital but decided against it. The hospital would ask too many questions, and Ginger had probably emptied her system anyway. She just needed a cold shower and some food. Desiree had unfor
tunately dealt with someone in a similar situation before, her mother having nearly overdosed once. She’d tried to convince Desiree afterward that it was anemia and food poisoning, but Desiree had known better.
At the house Desiree removed Ginger’s remaining clothes, then laid her in the tub. Then she cut on the shower full blast, spraying ice-cold water on her to keep her conscious.
“I’m going to die,” Ginger said in a low voice as she shivered under the stream.
“You’re not gonna die, unless I kill you!” Desiree grunted. Desiree figured that Ginger would be okay, but was afraid that if she let her go to sleep, she might not ever wake up.
Desiree went to her bathroom and took a quick shower and changed into sweats. Then she returned to check on Ginger, who was curled into a ball in the tub, the water pelting her body. Desiree dried and dressed Ginger, then brushed her hair into a bun. All the while she rubbed and massaged Ginger vigorously, to keep her alert.