La Familia 2 (3 page)

I had no idea what I was doing. Stripping was harder than I thought it was, from moving your backside to the beat, climbing the pole, spreading your legs and removing your clothes to put on a show and entertain these horny hound dogs. But show some flesh, caress your breasts, play with your nipples, and shake your ass with the beat or not, these niggas didn't care; they still paid to see.

And that night, I made $300. It wasn't much, but it was something and I was able to keep my lights on and buy groceries for the apartment. Niggas wanted a VIP with me, but I had my limits; stripping was already farfetched in my book, but to become a whore, nah, never. And since that night, I never looked back. Stripping in Crazy Legs became the normal for me. It was my income, because God knows Rico wasn't able to do shit to help me out.

When I walked into my room and saw a few of my things had been disturbed, I flipped out. Someone had the audacity to violate my things. I didn't have much in life, but what I did have was precious to me. What infuriated me more was seeing my notebook of rhymes and poetry ripped apart. My words, my heart and soul, my works, they were destroyed, ripped away from my spiral book and torn to pieces, then thrown everywhere in my room like a simulated snowfall.

I wanted to cry. I loved my words. I loved my writing and I put a lot of effort and soul into my writing. Every night I wrote in my book. Every night it was a pleasure expressing myself. My book of rhymes and poetry became my own personal journal, my teenage diary. I had platinum-selling stuff inside that book and one day the world was going to hear my words, my voice so loud and clear. But now I lost everything; my words were in shreds. It felt like I was a mute. I picked up what was left of my words and cried. When it rains, it pours; but my life was becoming a fuckin' downpour with a hurricane on the side.

I snatched up what was left of my works from off the floor and gripped them in my clenched fists. I stormed out of my room in tears. Someone had disrespected me on a whole new level and I had an idea who it was. There was only one person in this shelter who hated me: Dietra.

I marched toward her room looking for revenge. I wasn't putting up with her bullshit anymore. The bitch pushed me too far and I snapped. That was my shit she fucked with, and she might as well punch my daughter in her face, because you fucked with my daughter or my rhymes, and I was ready to kill you.

I heard Dietra talking to someone in her room. They were laughing and mocking someone, saying, “She's a dumb, bird bitch,” and I assumed it was me. I appeared in the doorway suddenly, scowling, quickly catching Dietra's and her friend's attention. Dietra cut her eyes at me and exclaimed, “What, bitch? Your feelings are hurt?”

“You fuck wit' my shit?” I shouted.

“What shit, bitch?” Dietra retorted.

“That book, them words, they was my fuckin' life,” I screamed out. “My fuckin' shit!”

“Bitch, you can't write anyway,” she returned with attitude.

I heard enough and had my proof it was her. Hearing this fat, bird bitch insult me and my talent made me go temporarily insane. I was ready to take my chances, because I was tired of this bitch. I knew if I fought, there was a great chance of being kicked out of the shelter. But when you're upset, and when enough is enough, and you feel threatened, rational thinking goes out the fuckin' window. So I charged into her room and punched her in the face so hard she went flying off her feet. Her friend in the room was stunned, but pussy. She ran out the room while I viciously tore into Dietra.

She fought back, swinging at me. I gripped a fistful of nasty weave and tried to roughly pull out all of her tracks. We fought tearing her room apart, knocking shit over and breaking shit. I repeatedly punched Dietra in her face and took my nails and scratched her heatedly, drawing blood on the side of her face.

“Get the fuck off me!” Dietra yelled.

I was just getting started.

I was somewhat short, but I had the advantage over this trifling bitch. We tussled like wrestlers in the ring. I tore open her shirt, snatched an earring from her ear, and then cold cocked her in the temple.

“Fuckin' bitch! Don't you ever touch my shit again,” I screamed heatedly.

I found myself on the floor, on top of Dietra with my hands entangled around her weave and banging her head against the floor repeatedly. Blood had spewed and she was clearly defeated, but I didn't care. I had gotten worked up into a vicious frenzy that I couldn't stop. I hated this bitch. I kept on going, punching her madly and viciously banging her head against the floor like a mad bitch. She became unconscious and I had her blood on my hands.

Suddenly I felt myself being pulled off of her by several pairs of arms grabbing me roughly. The staff had come into the room and broke it up. I had blacked out. I lost it. She pushed me to my breaking point and I snapped like a twig. I glared down at Dietra thinking that I went too far and killed her. She looked lifeless. The nurse in the building quickly went to her aid while they were dragging me out of the room. The chaos I created stirred up the place like a hornet's nest.

I heard someone shout out, “Call 911!”

Damn, it had gotten that serious so fast. Instantly, my daughter came to mind. I left her in my friend's room sleeping. Everyone was so busy trying to aid Dietra that the people who were supposed to detain me temporarily had forgotten about me. It gave me the chance to flee. I knew I was going to be kicked out of the shelter right away. I had broken their cardinal rule: no fighting in the shelter and definitely no trying to kill another resident. But I figured getting kicked out of the shelter was the least of my worries; they were definitely going to call the police and have me arrested for assault. I fucked up Dietra really bad. I couldn't go to jail. I couldn't abandon and leave my daughter's side and have her in the care of some stranger.

I rushed to my friend's room and snatched up my daughter from her bed, saying to her, “Eliza, baby, c'mon, we gotta go,” and hurried back to my room. I grabbed a black trash bag and hastily tossed everything I owned into the Glad bag, which wasn't much, just some clothes, personal items, and the notebooks I had left. With Eliza in one arm and the trash bag in the other, I hurried away from the threat of being locked up. My heart was beating like a hundred times per second. Panic started to set in, and the homeless shelter was in disarray over what I've done.

I hurried from the second floor down to the first. I walked briskly toward the exit and when I was near leaving, I heard one of the staff members shout, “Mouse, don't leave. We need to talk to you.”

Of course I wasn't going to listen to their demands. I didn't even turn around to see who was calling me. I took off running toward the exit with my daughter clutched tightly in my arms and barely hanging on to my belongings. She started to cry, knowing Mommy was in trouble.

“Mouse, c'mere!” he shouted.

I bolted through the front doors and ran into the cold New York street not once turning around to see if I was being chased. I heard yelling and police sirens in the distance, which made me panic even more. They were coming for me. The winter cold hit me and my daughter immediately; we didn't have on any coats and the brisk air attacked us like we were in UFC match.

I ran for what seemed like an eternity. My adrenaline pumped through me vigorously, but I only covered about six blocks until I finally stopped to catch my breath and collect myself. I found myself what seemed like the middle of nowhere, though we were in Harlem. The cold and night made the streets empty. A few snowflakes started to rain down from the heavens, which made my predicament even more alarming. I was cold and my daughter was freezing. We weren't going to survive like this, out in the cold, hungry, and scared. I had to find some shelter for us promptly.

“We're gonna be okay, baby,” I said to her. She was crying and shivering. I didn't want to panic, but thinking about my daughter getting sick with pneumonia and dying, I did what any desperate mother would do for her kids. I ran into the wide street with Eliza glued to me and tried hailing down a passing cab in this cold and wintry weather. The streets were sparse with traffic though, and barely any cabs were passing by.

I looked around frantically; every store was closed for the night. The streets seemed evacuated and there appeared not to be a soul around for me to cry out for help. I kept worrying that police were going to roll up and arrest me. The shelter wasn't that far away and I was desperate to leave the area. I wanted to go anywhere. I couldn't stay in Harlem.

I desperately tried to hail down any passing car in the night, but everyone seemed aloof to a woman in the cold with her one-year-old daughter. Every car that passed me by, not giving a fuck, it angered me so much that I wanted to pick up a rock and throw it at the next passing car. I would definitely get their attention then.

Fifteen minutes went by; my daughter wasn't looking too good. She was crying and sleepy. I was trying to keep her warm the best that I could. I was getting desperate. I was tempted to hotwire and steal a car, go back to my heyday of when I used to steal shit to get paid. Maybe I could break into a parked vehicle to find some warmth for the night. I needed to do something.

Fuck it; to save my daughter's life, I was ready to go back to the shelter and turn myself in. Eliza didn't need to be out here this long in the cold because of something I did. She didn't need to suffer like her mommy. She was only one year old and so innocent.

The tears flooded my eyes; the panic settled so deeply in me that it was breaking me down like a building collapsing. The air coming from my breath was ice cold and I felt my fingers numbing up. I found myself in the middle of the wide two-way street desperately trying to flag down any passing car. I gazed at a pair of headlights approaching my direction. I was ready to jump in front of the moving car, taking the chance that it would strike me and my daughter.

The car was approaching slowly though, the headlights becoming blinding in front of me. I was so cold, I felt like a snowman.

“Please stop, please stop, please stop,” I chanted uncontrollably. I didn't know what I was going to do if this car passed us by like so many others. New York was a heartless place.

Fortunately for us, the car stopped in front of us and I never felt so relieved. The driver's door opened up and a tall, lean man stepped out. It was a gypsy cab and the driver was Haitian. He looked at us and asked, “You need a ride somewhere, ma'am?”

I didn't answer him. I rushed his way and climbed into the back seat trying to clutch to the warmth of his car. I was shivering uncontrollably and my daughter was too. The heat blasting from the dashboard felt like paradise to us.

“Thank you,” I uttered.

“Where to?” he asked.

Yes, where to?
I asked myself. I didn't have too many friends out there and too many places to go to. I was alone. I was desperate to find somewhere warm and welcoming. The driver turned and looked at me, waiting for my reply. I uttered, “Take me to the Bronx, Edenwald.”

He nodded and pressed down on the accelerator. I grasped Eliza tightly to my chest with my arms wrapped around her like a blanket and tried to nestle her with some warmth. My baby was suffering and she needed to be somewhere safe and warm. My breathing was labored and my hands were so cold that they felt like they were about to snap off like icicles.

The cab driver crossed into the Bronx borough and we getting closer to Edenwald. I didn't have any cash to pay him, so I only had one option: once he stopped, just run off. Maybe he would give chase, maybe he wouldn't. I had the disadvantage though; I had a baby and a trash bag to carry. But I was anxious to do something. The only location I could think of going was to my friend's place, Erica. She had spent some time in jail for drug use and violation of her parole, but I heard through the grapevine that she was home again. Erica was my only hope.

The gypsy cab came to a stop in front of the building on East 229th Street. He had the car idling and turned around looking at me, expecting payment.
Shit,
I thought. How could I run when I was tangled with so many things? There was no way I was going to outrun this muthafucka.

“That'll be twenty-five dollars,” he said in his thick Haitian accent.

“Can you give me a minute? I have a friend in the building who's gonna pay my fare for me,” I lied.

He looked reluctant to let me leave. We locked eyes; I was hoping he would believe my lie, but he didn't. “You go, the bag stays,” he said. He wasn't stupid.

“I need my stuff, though,” I begged. “I'm not gonna jerk you, yo.”

“You get your stuff when I receive my fare,” he countered.

I sighed with frustration. Everything I owned was in that garbage bag, and Eliza's things were also inside there. The driver was adamant though. He kept his eyes on me, knowing the scheme, knowing that people from my neighborhood always fled without paying their fare.

I had no choice. It was heartbreaking, but I removed myself from the back seat of his cab, leaving all my belongings behind, and went to see if Erica was able to take us in. I was so desperate that I was willing to do anything. I slowly walked away from the cab. The driver sat behind the wheel waiting for my return, but I knew I wasn't going to return. I had to take it as a loss; my shit was gone and he would be left with clothes and womanly and baby shit.

It was the middle of the night, and Edenwald appeared quiet for once. There was no one lingering anywhere. The frigid cold kept everyone inside; even the drug dealers and fiends looked like they retired for the night. I hurried toward Erica's building towering over the urban area. I rushed into the lobby and got inside the elevator. It was just me and my daughter, nothing else. I pushed for the eighth floor and the door closed, and the foul, pissy-smelling elevator ascending toward my floor. I stepped into the narrow, graffiti-scrawled hallway and walked toward Erica's apartment. I was so nervous. I hadn't seen or spoken to Erica in years, since we were fifteen years old. The bitch was always in and out of jail for numerous transgressions: drugs, prostitution, assault and battery, shoplifting, disorderly conduct, grand larceny, and more. She was hood and didn't give a fuck. But she was always a friend to Sammy and me.

I sighed deeply standing in front of her door and hesitated to knock. She could be a friend to me, or she could tell me to fuck off. I was in a bad predicament and had to rely on friends I hadn't spoken to or seen in years. I didn't even know if she still lived in the same apartment; everything was an assumption.