Ain't Gonna Be the Same Fool Twice (21 page)

“Is she still praying for you?”

I nodded. “She says nothing will be right in my life until I get right with God.”

“Yeah, hint, hint,” Traci sighed. “I bet if your Mama kicked back with a joint, everything would be cool.”

“Traci, drugs aren't the answer.”

“Don't tell me you're crusading against a little weed. Hey, coffee is a drug and cigarettes are drugs. Alcohol is a drug.”

“I don't smoke cigarettes and I hardly ever drink coffee. And I'm far from being an alcoholic.”

“You took some aspirin for your cramps the other day.”

“So, there's a big difference in taking aspirin for pain and taking drugs to get high.”

Traci filled up the teakettle. “There's different kinds of pain, Stevie. People get high to take them away from their pain. Just 'cause you like a drug, doesn't make you a drug addict. I like coke, but I'm not addicted to it.”

“You seek it out.”

“So? You seek out ice cream, but does that make you addicted to it?”

“I only eat ice cream about once a week, big deal.”

“That's about how often I do coke.”

“Yeah, well that's still more often than we make love.” My stomach churned. I was surprised that I'd come out with that. But I wasn't ready to take it back, because it was true. Our sheets hadn't smelled like french fries in a long time.

Traci's face looked hard as she filled the strainer with tea leaves. “So, this is what this is really about, sex.”

“It's just that we hardly do it anymore. It's been almost two weeks now.”

“So, you've been keeping a record?”

“No, I mean I've read that lesbian couples have less sex than anybody else. But I didn't expect it to decline in the first two months.”

“It takes two to tango, Stevie. I mean if you've wanted to have sex, why haven't you said anything?”

“I guess you just haven't seemed in the mood and I didn't want to push the issue.”

“Stevie, right now I'm in the mood to get high. If you've got the time, I've got the coke.”

“OK, Traci,” I sighed. Maybe cocaine would change her mood.

I'd be lying if I said I wasn't intoxicated by the sweet smell of cocaine. “You're getting good at snorting this stuff.” Traci grinned as my right nostril sucked up the white line on our kitchen table.

“I like the way it smells. It smells almost as good as my grandmother's bread baking.”

“I like the way it makes me feel.” Traci balled up her fist and stretched her arms out. “Like I'm on top of the world!”

“I wouldn't go that far. I still think that cocaine is overpriced and overrated.”

“Overrated!” Traci pretended to be alarmed as she began smearing the little pile of cocaine onto my gums.

“Traci, what are you doing?” I asked trying to talk through her fingers.

“Helping you to get higher. You will never say cocaine is overrated again.”

I began to feel a rush and led the way to the bedroom.

“This reminds me of speed,” I said, tumbling onto the bed.

Traci hugged me and kissed me. “It's better than speed,” she insisted with her soft lips. “Way better than speed,” she added, sucking on my tongue.

My heart was beginning to race; it was like I had drunk ten cups of strong coffee. It had never had this effect on me before.

“I only did speed a couple of times, but I didn't like it. I don't like to feel tense and speedy. And that's how I'm beginning to feel now,” I said nervously.

Traci ran her fingers through my Afro. “Don't you love it though? Doesn't it make you feel like you've got everything under control? Like you can accomplish twenty things at once?”

“I think you gave me too much,” I panted.

“Don't worry, you'll be OK.”

“I don't feel OK. My heart is racing a mile a minute right now!”

Traci put her arms around me. “Just relax, Stevie, just relax, everything is cool.”

“Everything is not cool! Don't you understand? I can't relax. How can I relax, when I might be OD'ing!”

Traci held me tightly. “You're not OD'ing, you didn't have enough to OD. Now don't panic. You can get through this.”

My body felt stiff and my heart continued to race. Traci had failed to convince me. “Maybe you better call San Francisco General!”

“Are you sure?”

“Call them!” I gasped. “My heart feels like it's coming through my mouth!”

Traci stood up to go.

“No, Traci, no, don't leave me!” I shouted. I was afraid to be alone. It felt like I was giving birth through my throat!

“You said you wanted me to call General. The phone's in the kitchen.” Now Traci sounded scared and confused.

“Never mind, I'll be OK, it's slowing down. I think the worst is over,” I panted.

Traci wrapped her arms around me. “You scared me for a minute.”

“I liked to have left here. I thought I was about to see my life passing in front of me.”

“You're gonna be OK. Next time you'll be bragging about how high you were.”

There's not gonna be a next time, I thought to myself. I'd had enough.

11

I'd just been turned down for a mailroom job at KTVU because I had too much education and not enough experience. The job hunt just wasn't panning out. My savings were practically gone. Grandma had sent me twenty dollars the other day, but I didn't want to ask her to pay my portion of next month's rent. Especially with her being retired. And besides, I didn't want to be dependent on my family.

It was damn near September, time to swallow my pride and go down and apply for food stamps. Like Traci said, a person with a college degree can get just as hungry as a grammar-school dropout.

Mothers fussed at children in different languages, the odor of raggedy hippies interfered with my breathing, and older people stared into the palms of their hands. It has come to this, I thought, sitting in the large, crowded welfare office, waiting for my name to be called.

I sat across from a big-boned eligibility worker with dark stringy hair and bags under her eyes who'd introduced herself as Mrs. Kimbroke. I started to tell her that I had almost majored in social work. Then I caught myself; I didn't need to come across as Mrs. Kimbroke's equal in this situation. So I waited quietly while she reviewed my application.

“You will receive forty-eight dollars' worth of food stamps each month.”

“Is that all?” I asked.

“You will get a card each month, in the mail,” she continued like a robot. “You will redeem your coupon for food stamps at an outlet in the Mission District. You should receive your first allotment in about fourteen days.”

“Fourteen days!” I said. “Are you saying that it might take two weeks before I receive any food stamps?”

“Yes, if everything goes well.”

I swallowed. “It's just that our refrigerator is almost bare.” All we had at home were wilted vegetables, outdated bread and yogurt from Loving Foods, bottled water, and recreational drugs, I thought.

Mrs. Kimbroke raised her eyebrows. “You're not sharing food with anyone are you? Because, if you are, I will be forced to void this application.”

“No, no,” I pleaded, imagining that voiding an application might be routine for her.

“We would then have to base your grant amount on the resources of your entire household.”

“No, we don't share food,” I assured her. “Just the empty refrigerator.”

Mrs. Kimbroke narrowed her eyes. “You do have your own clearly marked shelf in this empty refrigerator?”

“Of course,” I continued to lie.

“Good, well, I'll get this processed as quickly as possible.”

“I'm just not sure I can last two more weeks.”

“You're not eligible for emergency food stamps because you've indicated that you have cash on hand.”

“Seven dollars!”

“That's more than most people have. I see people with kids every day who are down to their last dime. You're lucky. You're young, you don't have any children, and you've got on a pair of nice, comfortable shoes.”

“See, I told you it pays to be open,” Traci said, hanging up the phone.

“What's going on?” I asked, looking up from the cutting board where I was slicing a potato to fry. I was always taught to peel potatoes, but Traci had convinced me of how important it was to eat the potato skins. She'd told me that there was this huge family in Mexico, and everybody had malnutrition but this one boy. The doctor was baffled until he learned that the boy was the only one in the family who ate the potato skins.

“That was Susan's boyfriend, Roger,” Traci reported.

“How's he doing?”

“Fine, he just got his work accepted into a gallery.”

“That's great.”

“He said one of his paintings is going for five thousand dollars!”

“Wow!”

“He'll get half and the gallery will get the other half.”

“I'd like to see his art.”

“Well, you're in luck, because he's invited us over next Saturday night to party. He's going to show slides. He's supplying everything: food, drinks, drugs, music; all we've got to do is bring ourselves.”

“Well, I'm not turning down free food. Not when I'm still waiting for my food stamps.” Grandma had paid my September rent, but I was still broke.

“I heard that. And I sure as hell ain't turning down no free drugs, I'm sorry.”

I felt myself tense up. It bothered me that Traci placed so much value on getting high.

Traci was cracking eggs to make the omelettes. We had just a little bit of cheese left. I liked that when it came to household stuff we were really equals. We shared the chores, we weren't into roles, and when we did have sex, we took turns making love to each other.

“So, Traci, what did you mean when you said that it pays to be open?”

“I mean like if we were hung up on race, our sorry asses would be stuck out in Hunter's Point or West Oakland or somewhere like that. But instead we're going to be in a SOMA loft, hobnobbing with artists.”

“What's SOMA?”

“South of Market Area. It's mostly a gay men's scene; leather bars and glory holes, but quite a few artists have moved there recently. It's like up and coming.”

“What are glory holes?”

“Clubs where men go and stick their dicks in holes in the walls and other men service them. It's the ultimate in anonymous sex.”

“You can say that again,” I said, glad that Traci hadn't served the omelette yet, 'cause the cheese would look nasty.

You can't judge a book by its cover, I thought, looking around at Roger's loft. The outside of the warehouse building wasn't hitting on anything. But his huge space with high ceilings and cement floors covered with oriental rugs was a different story. Roger had it furnished with antiques, plants, and interesting art.

Susan and Roger looked straight out of Banana Republic in their matching safari outfits. Susan's suntanned face and new shag haircut added to her outdoor appearance. Traci and I had coordinated our clothes too. She wore a white T-shirt and black jeans, and I had on a black leotard and white jeans. But Susan and Roger took the cake.

“This place is beautiful,” I marveled.

“Glad you like it.” Roger beamed, his arm around Susan.

“We're not early, are we? Where is everybody else?” I asked.

“Yeah, we called ourselves being fashionably late,” Traci added.

“A few of our friends couldn't make it.”

“A lot of people are out of town,” Susan cut in.

“Anyway, we decided to just stick with you two and get to know you better.”

“That's cool.” Traci smiled.

“Yeah,” I agreed, feeling honored.

We sat around drinking wine and shooting the shit while Roger farted around in the kitchen.

Roger brought out a tray of sushi and held it in front of me.

I stared at the assortment. “I thought that you were Chinese.”

Roger laughed. “I am Chinese, but I don't have to eat only Chinese food.”

“You're right, it's just that I love Chinese food.”

“You've never had sushi before?” Traci asked.

I shook my head. Susan pursed her thin lips. “Come on, Stevie, try it, you'll like it. Start with the tuna,” she pointed.

“OK,” I agreed, reaching for a piece of something pink with rice wrapped around it.

“This stuff could grow on you,” I said, washing down my fourth piece of sushi with white wine.

“Let's see where you paint,” Traci said.

Roger ushered us into a far corner of the room where several paintings of vegetables and fruit sat on easels.

“That's what he's working on now.” Susan pointed proudly to a painting of a head of lettuce with pink-tinged leaves.

“It's gorgeous,” I said.

“Doesn't it remind you of a cunt?” Susan asked.

I almost choked on my sushi.

Traci nodded.

“I love women; everything I paint has to do with women. Female energy is the source of my creative expression,” Roger informed us.

Susan turned toward Traci and me. “Are either of you familiar with Judy Chicago's work?”

“Stevie, you're from Chicago,” Traci reminded me.

“Yes, and I am familiar with Judy Chicago's work. I saw the dinner party exhibit with my old roommate, Celeste,” I said.

“Uhmm,” Susan nodded respectfully. Even Traci came to attention. I was so glad finally to know something about something!

We settled back in the comfortable old loveseats while Roger showed his slides.

“Your paintings are fantastic!” Traci exclaimed. She and I were cuddled across from Susan and Roger.

“My sentiments exactly,” I agreed.

“Thank you.”