Feminism, Part 2: September 29, 1995
I wake up the next morning and I can feel the flutter of panic just beneath the surface, the quiver in my stomach, the nerves jumping in my body, and JP does not believe me when I tell him I AM GOING SICK. JP is not going sick. Lou is not going sick, or at least Lou hasn’t said anything—he is in the den, on the sofa under the window, sprawled on his back and fast asleep. So I am the only one GOING SICK and I explain this to him, patiently, and feel my skin start to crawl and jump. I yawn, jaw-crackingly.
“I need a shot,” I tell him.
“It’s all in your mind,” he tells me. And that may be, but whatever is in my mind is also GOING SICK because there was no shot last night before bed and there is no shot this morning for waking up and there is nothing at all, except this stubborn man in front of me who will not listen when I tell him: I AM GOING SICK.
After the tenth or fiftieth or ten-thousandth repetition of the facts of the situation, he sighs sharply and says “Fine. I’ll go out there on the bus.”
Every nerve relaxes and prepares for the shot.
“But you’re coming with me,” he finishes.
“What??” I ask him. “Are you crazy?”
“You’re coming with me,” he repeats. “You’re the one who says you’re going sick, so you can come with me.”
We walk down to the bus stop at Chicago and Ashland, get off at Hamlin., and walk up towards Division. I have never done this before—always JP and Lou were the ones who actually made the score. I have driven here in the car so many times, but I have never gotten out, never actually walked these streets. I feel naked, my purpose here obvious.
“You shoppin’?”
A young black woman is sitting on a red plastic milk crate, her back braced against the bricks of a building.
“Yeah,” JP says.
“Over there.” She waves us in the general direction of the corner. We walk past the other security man, sitting further down the side of the same building, to where several men mill around, talking and laughing. One of them points JP over to an abandoned two-flat, around to the gangway. He is gone for what seems to be a very long time.
I try to stay out of sight as best I can, flattening myself against a corner of a building, waiting for JP. Finally I can stand it no longer and I walk over to the man who showed JP where to go.
“So…is it good today?” I ask him.
He looks me up and looks me down, smiling broadly. “Baby,” he says, “this shit’s the BOMB!”
I grin back at him and he gives me another long, evaluative look. “How ‘bout if you and me go over there and…well, you know…and I’ll give you a free bag?”
“Nah,” I say. “I’m with him,” and gesture toward the gangway where JP disappeared.
“How about if I give you the whole pack?” He smiles again.
And even though I would never hurt JP and would never cheat on him or compromise what we have in any way, some small rogue part of my mind begins a session of Advanced Junkie Algebra. One pack equals twelve bags divided by three people equals… As this calculation is going on, my mouth opens and says again, “Nah—I’m with him.”
The man’s smile snaps shut like a Venus flytrap as he reaches around his neck and pulls out a badge on a chain. “Well he’s with US now,” he tells me. “Now get your white ass home.”
I stand there, staring at the badge uncomprehending for a moment, my mouth hanging open. “Oh. Shit,” I say, and back slowly down Thomas Street as the undercover man laughs. Behind me a police wagon rolls up and into the alley behind the building where they sent JP.
As I walk back toward Hamlin I pass again the “security man” we’d passed on the way. He beckons me over.
“So,” he says. “Now you know, right?”
I nod.
“Where you live?” he says.
“Division and Ashland,” I tell him.
“I didn’t ASK you for an intersection, I ASKED you for an ADDRESS,” he says. I recite the address like an obedient child, and he scoffs. “That ain’t no Division and ASHland,” he says. “Get out of here. Go on, now.”
I do not argue. I walk up Hamlin to Division, to catch the #70 bus back home. On the way home I realize: JP was carrying the keys—not just the housekeys, but the keys to the car, now parked on a flat tire over near Maplewood and North. As I walk back to the house, the sickness comes in loud and clear over the shout of adrenaline and I realize: this has the makings of a very, very long day.
“I need a shot,” I tell him.
“It’s all in your mind,” he tells me. And that may be, but whatever is in my mind is also GOING SICK because there was no shot last night before bed and there is no shot this morning for waking up and there is nothing at all, except this stubborn man in front of me who will not listen when I tell him: I AM GOING SICK.
After the tenth or fiftieth or ten-thousandth repetition of the facts of the situation, he sighs sharply and says “Fine. I’ll go out there on the bus.”
Every nerve relaxes and prepares for the shot.
“But you’re coming with me,” he finishes.
“What??” I ask him. “Are you crazy?”
“You’re coming with me,” he repeats. “You’re the one who says you’re going sick, so you can come with me.”
We walk down to the bus stop at Chicago and Ashland, get off at Hamlin., and walk up towards Division. I have never done this before—always JP and Lou were the ones who actually made the score. I have driven here in the car so many times, but I have never gotten out, never actually walked these streets. I feel naked, my purpose here obvious.
“You shoppin’?”
A young black woman is sitting on a red plastic milk crate, her back braced against the bricks of a building.
“Yeah,” JP says.
“Over there.” She waves us in the general direction of the corner. We walk past the other security man, sitting further down the side of the same building, to where several men mill around, talking and laughing. One of them points JP over to an abandoned two-flat, around to the gangway. He is gone for what seems to be a very long time.
I try to stay out of sight as best I can, flattening myself against a corner of a building, waiting for JP. Finally I can stand it no longer and I walk over to the man who showed JP where to go.
“So…is it good today?” I ask him.
He looks me up and looks me down, smiling broadly. “Baby,” he says, “this shit’s the BOMB!”
I grin back at him and he gives me another long, evaluative look. “How ‘bout if you and me go over there and…well, you know…and I’ll give you a free bag?”
“Nah,” I say. “I’m with him,” and gesture toward the gangway where JP disappeared.
“How about if I give you the whole pack?” He smiles again.
And even though I would never hurt JP and would never cheat on him or compromise what we have in any way, some small rogue part of my mind begins a session of Advanced Junkie Algebra. One pack equals twelve bags divided by three people equals… As this calculation is going on, my mouth opens and says again, “Nah—I’m with him.”
The man’s smile snaps shut like a Venus flytrap as he reaches around his neck and pulls out a badge on a chain. “Well he’s with US now,” he tells me. “Now get your white ass home.”
I stand there, staring at the badge uncomprehending for a moment, my mouth hanging open. “Oh. Shit,” I say, and back slowly down Thomas Street as the undercover man laughs. Behind me a police wagon rolls up and into the alley behind the building where they sent JP.
As I walk back toward Hamlin I pass again the “security man” we’d passed on the way. He beckons me over.
“So,” he says. “Now you know, right?”
I nod.
“Where you live?” he says.
“Division and Ashland,” I tell him.
“I didn’t ASK you for an intersection, I ASKED you for an ADDRESS,” he says. I recite the address like an obedient child, and he scoffs. “That ain’t no Division and ASHland,” he says. “Get out of here. Go on, now.”
I do not argue. I walk up Hamlin to Division, to catch the #70 bus back home. On the way home I realize: JP was carrying the keys—not just the housekeys, but the keys to the car, now parked on a flat tire over near Maplewood and North. As I walk back to the house, the sickness comes in loud and clear over the shout of adrenaline and I realize: this has the makings of a very, very long day.
posted by GJC at 9:57 PM
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