Ain't Gonna Be the Same Fool Twice (15 page)

There were about ten women, mostly dressed in denim or flannel shirts and jeans, in the homey living room furnished with crates and comfortable old furniture.

“You can hardly hear the music,” I complained to Traci as we headed for a spot on the couch with our drinks and little plates of food.

“Yeah, and it's Sweet Honey in the Rock, too. They're a dynamite a cappella group. Their music has a powerful message.”

“The sistahs sound good. Pump up the volume.”

“Somebody turned it down, said they were trying to have a conversation,” Traci explained between sips of wine.

“You don't go to a party to talk, you go to a party to party,” I whispered.

“Stevie, later on we'll pump it up and turn it out, don't worry,” Traci assured me.

“Give me some couch, I'm gonna get over here in the sistah corner.”

It was Pat, dressed no differently than if she were going camping I dug myself into the corner to make room for her sturdy frame.

“So, you decided to become a native?”

“How can you
become
a native?” Traci challenged her.

“You know what I mean. You know what I mean, right, Stevie?”

I nodded. Two of the white women who'd introduced themselves as Tamar and Miriam edged closer, drawn to us like bees to honey.

“Hey, I told Stevie, you only go around once in life, so you gotta grab for all the gusto you can,” Traci said, gulping her wine.

“Sounds like a slogan from a beer commercial.” Pat laughed. “You made the right decision, 'cause it ain't happening back in Chicago, if you know what I mean,” she added.

Traci nodded, although she'd never been to Chicago.

A knot of white women had drawn close to us. It was obvious that their attention was focused on our little corner.

“In Chicago, the Mafia runs all the bars,” Pat informed us. “Same with Boston,” she added. “‘The Man' ain't getting up off of nothing there.”

Tamar whispered to Miriam, “Who's ‘the Man?'” Miriam pointed to her white arm. It was obvious from the puzzled expression on Tamar's face that she still didn't get it.

“Chicago and Boston are racist as hell.” Pat continued to hold court.

“You see how fucked up they acted in Boston around busing,” Traci reminded us.

“Didn't Dr. King say that Chicago was worse than the South?” Miriam cut in, straightening her glasses. She was the librarian type, with her dark hair pulled back, and her forgettable features.

“Yeah, he did say that,” I confirmed. I remembered the time Grandma and I had marched with Dr. King through a white Chicago neighborhood, and how vicious the taunts had been.

“San Francisco is the only place to be. Can I get a witness?” Pat asked.

Traci raised her glass in agreement.

“What about Seattle?” Tamar asked respectfully.

Traci shook her head. “Rains so much, you'll rust.”

“Seattle's like being lovers with a beautiful woman who's sick all the time,” Pat added.

“I heard that!” Traci smiled, giving Pat five.

“What about New York?” Miriam asked, sounding like a game show contestant.

Pat hesitated. “New York is cool for a visit, but I don't want to smell piss three hundred and sixty-five days a year.”

“New York smells like piss?” I asked.

“Their subways stank,” Traci explained.

“They got too many roaches for me,” Pat added. “I bet even Jackie O's got roaches. Now, you know that's a damn shame.”

“When I visited my cousins, I swear, there was roaches at every meal,” Traci cut in. “I lost ten pounds in two weeks.”

“Stop lying,” Pat laughed.

The white women in the room were now gazing at us like an audience watching a play. I felt a little uncomfortable being onstage, and yet I enjoyed being the center of attention.

“If I'm lying, I'm flying,” Traci insisted between gulps of wine. “You open the refrigerator and ten roaches come out. They up in the bed with you and shit. The killer was when I went to brush my teeth and the mothafuckas was crawling on the toothbrush.”

“Stop!” Pat yelled. “People will lose their appetites.”

“I heard that,” I said. But I realized that I'd lost some of my appetite for visiting New York.

“Not to change the subject,” Pat said lowering her voice considerably, “but, Traci, I can't believe you finally got up with a sistah.” Pat had slurred her words so that most of the white women couldn't understand what she'd said.

“Traci usually likes to play in the snow,” Pat added for my ears only.

“You got your nerve,” Traci whispered, “blonde as Gretchen is. Besides, we integrating your damn party. So, you need to shut your ass up.”

“Hey, y'all look good together,” Pat smiled. “I was just making an observation, that's all.”

I didn't want to stick to Traci like glue, so when Gretchen asked if anyone wanted to go with her on a beer run, I volunteered.

“Coors,” I exclaimed happily, pointing to a case of beer behind the glass door. I remembered how my white dorm-mates had packed their car trunks full of Coors beer after a Colorado ski trip. Everybody put Coors beer on a pedestal. You couldn't get it east of the Rockies.

“Not Coors!” Gretchen shouted as color rushed to her normally pale face.

“Why not? Is it too expensive?” I asked sheepishly.

Gretchen shook her head, her face relaxed, and she sighed as though she'd suddenly remembered something.

“I forgot, you're new. You see, we're boycotting Coors.”

I knew about not eating grapes, I supposed the whole country knew about that. But I had never heard of boycotting beer.

“How come we're boycotting Coors?” I asked, anxious to be considered a part of the “we.”

“Because they're racist, homophobic, classist, sexist, and otherwise oppressive,” Gretchen recited as calmly as a teacher explaining a math problem to a third-grader.

“Oh, I didn't know,” I said. “Here I was thinking that Coors beer was the cat's meow. Thanks for hipping me to the fact.”

“I realize that you didn't know, Stevie. Well, now you've learned something,” Gretchen said in a patronizing voice that made me want to scream.

Gretchen and I walked up the hill, each carrying a six-pack of Miller's. A couple wearing down jackets walked toward us, a man and a woman.

“It's my sister, Susan,” Gretchen muttered. Susan looked like a slightly younger version of Gretchen, except her hair was a darker shade of blond.

“We couldn't get in,” she moaned. The man, a good-looking Asian, stood by nervously.

“Susan, you should've known better than to bring a man.”

Gretchen made the word
man
sound as welcome as a rattlesnake. “You remember what happened last time.”

“I know,” Susan whined. She hung her head like a child being blessed out. “But this is different. Donald was a rich, white stockbroker. Roger is an artist and he's Chinese.”

Gretchen glanced at Roger as if she hadn't noticed his ethnicity before.

“He even grew up in Chinatown,” Susan added proudly.

Gretchen hesitated and then sighed. “He's still a man, Susan, and this
is
a women's party.”

“Too bad, 'cause there's no way Roger and I can snort all that coke by ourselves.”

Gretchen's eyebrows arched with interest. “All what coke?”

Roger's large dark eyes twinkled, and his thin lips looked like they might break out into a smile.

“The coke Roger's got on him.”

“Does Pat know Roger's got coke?”

Susan shook her head. “We didn't even see Pat. This diesel dyke who answered the door didn't give us a chance. She just said that I was violating a women-only space. And I'm thinking, Who the fuck are you to keep me out of my own sister's house?”

“I'll get you in,” Gretchen assured them. Susan and Roger grinned like they'd just been accepted into the college of their choice. I never would've thought that straight people would kiss somebody's behind just to get into a lesbian party. And as expensive as cocaine was, too. I'd never been around people doing coke, but I'd read about it in my social psychology book. Maybe there was a place in the world more unusual than San Francisco. But I had never been there.

I stared down at the thin line of white powder on the plastic cutting-board, hoping I wouldn't sneeze. I couldn't afford for my sinuses to act up at a time like this.

“Hold one nostril and just inhale it in with the other,” Traci said gently. “It's her first time,” she explained to the group huddled around the dining room table.

My nostril was working like a vacuum cleaner as it sucked up the cocaine. It smelled good, but I couldn't think of anything it reminded me of. Didn't people say that cocaine was in a class by itself? I wondered how it would feel once it got into my system. I looked around the room at the people who were already high. They were talkative, energetic, and smiling.

Susan and Roger were in the corner blowing bubbles.

“I want to blow bubbles too,” I shouted. I went over and grabbed the bottle.

“Far fucking out,” Susan exclaimed, admiring my huge bubble.

“So, Stevie, how do you feel?” Traci's eyes looked brighter than usual.

“I feel pretty.”

“You feel pretty?”

I nodded.

“Sounds like
West Side Story
,” Traci said.

“Sounds like a nice high,” Pat said, nibbling on a piece of her carrot birthday cake.

“Roger, give me your number before you leave,” Traci winked. “You're a good connection.”

Things were looking up. KPIX had called me about a production-assistant opening, and I'd interviewed with Vickie again. It had gone well, and I was pretty sure that I would get the job. She hadn't actually come out and offered it to me, so I didn't want to count my chickens before they hatched. But I couldn't help feeling hopeful as I rushed into the apartment looking for Traci.

“I think I might have a job as a production assistant at KPIX! The interview went well. She all but offered it to me.”

“That's good,” Traci mumbled without looking up. She continued to pore over some figures at the kitchen table.

“Are you balancing your checkbook?”

Traci shook her head. “Stevie, how is your money situation?”

“Tight, my savings are really dwindling. But if I get this job at KPIX, my money problems will be over.”

“We're trying to put some money together to buy a gram.”

“A gram of coke?”

“Of course. How much can I hit you up for?”

I sat down next to Traci at the kitchen table. There was no money in my budget for drugs. “I barely have enough bus fare to go on job interviews. Even if I get this production-assistant job, it won't start for two weeks. No telling how long it will be before I see my first paycheck. And the refrigerator is practically empty.”

“We've got food,” Traci sounded defensive. “Ain't nobody here going hungry.”

“I didn't say I wasn't dirtying a plate on a regular basis. It's just that I get tired of eating beans and rice and tortillas every daggone day.”

“We eat healthy. We got all kind of vegetables in there. I don't know what you're talking about.”

“I'm talking about variety.”

“I suppose next you're gonna tell me that you miss the smell of frying bacon.”

“Don't remind me. Look, Traci, I can live without bacon and steak and pork chops, but I would like to be able to buy some chicken or fish each week. I can't see spending food money on drugs when we can't afford certain groceries.”

“Look, just give us what you can. I'll get you some fish. I get paid next Friday. Jawea gets her SSI check soon.”

“SSI check, what's that?”

“Social Security Insurance. Jawea's on for a mental disability,” Traci explained as she drew a glass of spring water from the cooler.

I stood up. “Is Jawea crazy? Am I living with a mental patient?”

“Jawea's not crazy. She's just sensitive, that's all. She's an artist.”

“How come she qualifies for SSI then? Do you just have to be an artist to get it?”

“Jawea told them that she was a lesbian.”

“So?”

“It was back before the Psychiatric Association dropped homosexuality from its list of mental disorders.”

“Are you trying to tell me that you could just go down to Social Security and tell them that you were gay, and they would start sending you checks?”

“Pretty much. If you were on that list, you were as good as crazy. And up until a couple of years ago, homosexuality was on that list. What could SSI do? Their hands were tied.”

“Well, when the APA dropped homosexuality from its list, how come SSI didn't stop sending Jawea money?”

“I guess it wasn't retroactive. Once you've been certified crazy, you're crazy.”

“Incredible!”

“Anyway, Stevie, how much money can you contribute to our cause?”

“What cause?”

“The coke cause.”

“OK, ten dollars,” I answered reluctantly.

“Cocaine will soon be blowin' through my brain,” Traci sang.

I reached into my pocket and handed Traci my last ten-dollar bill. She clutched it so tight, I swear, she made the eagle holler.

“These are the best of times,” Traci declared. “I'm even gonna be on TV.”

“For real?” I asked, filling up the teapot.

“Yeah, KPIX is doing a segment about people stealing milk crates from the grocery stores. It's to raise awareness to let folks know that crates cost money and taking them is hurting the stores. I was chosen by the collective to speak for Loving Foods.”

“Where did you get your crates from?”

“I liberated them from a large supermarket chain, nowhere like Loving Foods.”