Ain't Gonna Be the Same Fool Twice (16 page)

I didn't trip. Stealing crates was hardly a federal offense.

“I can't wait to see you on TV!”

Traci sang, “Kate, thank you for buying us a ‘colored' TV.” She made her voice sound like Janis Joplin's. I smiled, but underneath I was tripping about the drugs. I mean, my family had such high hopes for me. What would they think if they knew I was spending my last ducats on cocaine? After they'd worked so hard and made so many sacrifices. It was a high price to pay just to put something up my nose.

I watched as the husky reporter with long sideburns shoved the microphone in front of Traci.

“Bring back the crates, y'all,” Traci pleaded, wearing her “Sappho Was a Right On Woman” T-shirt.

“Well, I think that pretty much sums up the sentiments of everyone here. Bring back the crates, y'all,” the reporter repeated solemnly. “This is Mark Mitchell reporting from San Francisco. Back to you, Bob.”

“Yea, Traci.” I clapped the loudest among the group of workers and customers gathered in front of her checkout stand.

The cameraman and the reporter were off to the side talking and pointing. They'd probably never seen a store like Loving Foods. Besides food, you could buy all kinds of health products: herbs, lotions, incense, candles, vibrators, backpacks, you name it. And there were posters on the wall like “When God Made Man She Was Only Joking,” “Legalize Marijuana,” and “Free Huey Newton.”

“Didn't you interview at the station?”

I was headed for Traci, but I turned my attention toward a tall, slim, cocoa-complected man. He looked familiar, but I couldn't quite place him.

“You're from Chicago, aren't you?” he asked.

I nodded. “How'd you know?”

“I was on the desk while the receptionist was on break.”

“Oh, I remember. You're from Chicago too. At first I didn't realize that you were with KPIX.”

“Yeah, I'm a production assistant. Sterling Grants.”

“Jean Stevenson, but call me Stevie.”

“I'm just waiting to run the film back to the studio. I heard they offered you the job, but you turned it down.”

“Turned it down!” I exclaimed. “I've been waiting to hear from them.”

“If I'm not mistaken, Vickie said your roommate or somebody told her you couldn't drive a stick. That you could barely drive an automatic. So, they went with their second choice. Vickie said she'd forgotten to ask you at the interview.”

Traci walked over toward me, smiling.

“I done good, huh.”

I frowned. “This man says they offered me the job at KPIX, and my roommate told them I couldn't drive a stick.”

Traci looked blank.

“I think it was Tuesday, I'm pretty sure Vickie called you on Tuesday,” Sterling cut in.

“You were home on Tuesday,” I said to Traci “I was down at Media Alliance checking their job listings. And Jawea was still in Santa Cruz.”

“Tuesday … Tuesday … oh yeah, somebody did call.”

“I'll let you two deal with this, they need me. Check with you on my way out.”

“Thanks.” I turned to Traci. “What do you mean
somebody
did call!” I shouted. “Why didn't you tell me about it?”

“Sorry, I guess I forgot. Look, I gotta go back to work.”

“You cost me a job!” I said angrily.

“We can talk about it later.”

“I want to talk about it now!”

“Now, don't act colored.”

“Don't act colored! I'll act any way I want!”

“Stevie, be cool, don't make a scene. Look, I've got a break in fifteen minutes. We can talk then.”

It was all I could do not to grab the back of her T-shirt and smash a tomato in her face.

Sterling walked toward me, carrying the film.

“Sounds like a real drag.”

“I could've learned to drive a stick if I'd known.”

“I've gotta book. Follow me to the car. Give me your number, and I'll keep an eye out for you. In this business, it's a lot about who you know.”

“I really appreciate that, Sterling.”

“Hey, I'll do whatever I can to help a sistah from the Southside.”

I found Traci in the break room. I'd charged around the block a few times, but still hadn't completely cooled off. She had the nerve to have one of the other collective members rubbing her bare feet.

“I forgot that Hope said that she would give me a foot massage this afternoon,” Traci said.

“What's wrong with your feet? I asked irritably.

“Nothing, I'm ovulating.”

“Ovulating?”

“Yeah, I get a twinge of pain some months. Hope does reflexology. She can rub places on your feet that correspond with different parts of your body, including your ovaries.”

“Really?” Hope bobbed her head of long, auburn curls up and down. She turned and gave me a silly smile with her dizzy-looking self.

“Well, I didn't come here to discuss reflexology. And if you want an audience, it's OK with me. But I'm not gonna bite my tongue. You had no right to tell those people that I couldn't drive a stick. First of all, it was none of your damn business.”

“I'm really having trouble creating a healing space with your energy,” Hope complained.

“I could've
learned
how to drive a stick in two weeks,” I said, ignoring Hope's stupid ass.

“Look, Stevie, it's no point in me bullshitting you. I was high when they called. I had just smoked me a joint. I'm sorry, but when you're high, you're more likely to tell the truth. The woman said she forgot to ask you if you could drive a stick. You'd be picking up and delivering stuff all over the Bay Area. I told her that you could barely drive an automatic, which is the truth.”

“You shouldn't have told her anything. You should've stayed out of it and let me handle it.”

“Why would you want to work for the media anyway?” Hope asked, staring over Traci's foot. “Except for the alternative media, all they do is promote lies and propaganda.”

“I'm not interested in debating the merits of the media with you right now. This is between me and Traci, so why don't you just butt out of it!”

Hope sighed but otherwise turned her attention back to Traci's foot.

“Stevie, you ain't got to get funky with nobody.”

“I wasn't getting funky, I was just making myself clear.”

“OK, like I said, I was high. Besides, that job might sound glamorous, but wait till you have to drive up and down these hills not knowing where the hell you're going at breakneck speed. You'd just be a glorified messenger, that's all. Actually, I did you a favor.”

“Do me another favor.”

“What?”

“Don't do me any more favors,” I said, turning on my heels and walking out.

I slept in Kate's room that night and was able to avoid Traci in the morning altogether. I was still fit to be tied, but I was also plain hurt. I wondered why Traci had come between me and a job. If the media wasn't right for me, I had the right to find that out for myself. So what if I was just a glorified messenger? Traci was just a glorified grocery clerk. She probably just wanted to keep me dependent on her. Deep down, maybe she was afraid that if I got involved in a career, she'd lose me. I was still mad when she called at lunchtime to invite me out to a crab dinner at a restaurant out by the beach. I reluctantly agreed, partly because I couldn't take beans another night. Traci showed up with a dozen red roses and waving a white handkerchief. I had no choice but to forgive her.

We sat in the cozy restaurant wearing large bibs and sipping wine. It was quite romantic, despite our messy mouths and hands. And I still had to admit that Traci was the cutest person in here. Her reddish-brown skin and silver hoop earrings shone in the candlelight. Her puffy Afro framed her face, and her colorful Guatemalan vest contributed to her artistic persona.

“I believe this is the best crab I've ever eaten.”

“How much crab have you eaten?” Traci looked like she immediately regretted her question. I suppose she realized that this was no time to be sarcastic, there wasn't enough water under the bridge yet.

“I had crab when I was in Boston with the debate team last year,” I snapped.

“I think this is the best crab I've ever eaten too,” Traci smiled. “Maybe because it's roasted.”

“It has a nice garlic flavor.”

“That too,” Traci agreed.

We walked along the beach after dinner. San Francisco was in the middle of a heat wave, so it was delightfully cool along the water tonight, instead of the usual plain cold. We held hands and had fun running from the tide.

“Goddamn dykes,” a voice shouted in the moonlight. I glanced over at the hostile group of teenage boys passing us. One of them grabbed his crotch crudely as he walked by.

The teenagers had gone about their business. But their vibe was still in the air. Traci kicked sand in his direction.

“I bet a couple of those boys are worried about their own sexuality,” I said. “Sometimes, they're the worst ones. People hate what they fear.”

“Fuck all of 'em,” Traci muttered.

“Don't trip, they're not worth it,” I said. I didn't want trouble. But I was angry too. We had a right to be here just like anybody else. And yet a part of me felt embarrassed about being called a dyke. It was like they were saying I was a freak. And I didn't want to be seen as a freak just because I was in a relationship with a woman.

“Does it bother you to be called a dyke?” I asked.

Traci shook her head. “I'm proud of it.”

I marveled at her ability not to feel ashamed.

“But it does bother me when people use it as a put-down,” she continued. “And I don't appreciate folks invading my space. You never know if they're gonna back it up with violence.”

“It's so unfair. The world smiles on straight people. Every institution is against us, and people still wanna give us a hard time.” I was proud of myself for saying “we” and “us.”

“People are control freaks, that's the bottom line.”

I stopped and cut my eyes at Traci.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

“If the shoe fits, wear it,” I answered playfully.

“What do you mean?”

“Just remember that the next time I get a call about a job.”

“I'm willing to grow, Stevie. I realize now I have to step back and let you make your own mistakes.”

“Maybe they won't all be mistakes.”

“To change the subject, you know one of those bastards tonight could've easily been my brother.”

“What do you mean? They weren't black.”

“I know, but Dwayne's got the same attitude.”

“That's a shame.”

“He wants to be free to hate and discriminate against gays, but then he wants to holler about how he's being mistreated as a black man.”

“Yeah, we're the perfect scapegoats these days.” I was proud of myself for saying “we” again.

“You wanna sit down on this log for a while?” I asked.

“Cool,” Traci nodded as we faced the ocean. There were a number of people out strolling. So, actually I felt pretty safe. Traci put her arm around me, and I didn't trip. Most folks in San Francisco were more tolerant than those jokers we'd encountered earlier. I leaned against Traci. The wind was beginning to kick up.

“That's why my brother can kiss my ass,” Traci continued. “He's always crying about the black man this and the black man that. As if black women don't have to deal with racism too. Not to mention sexism.”

“I'm hipped to what you're saying. We've been dogged royally and so have they.”

“Yeah, and they never let you forget it either. I just can't get behind this ‘stand by your man' shit. My mother's into that ‘put the man first' bullshit. Hell, that's masochistic. I'll be damned if I'm gonna be in collusion with my own oppression.”

“They're not all dogs. There are some good men out there.”

“That doesn't negate what I just said. Why are you arguing with me?”

I realized that I was afraid that being with Traci and living in the women's community, I was becoming too cut off from men. That worried me because I wanted to have men in my life outside of my family.

“I don't wanna hate men,” I said, smelling the breeze.

“Look, I don't hate men. I just believe in calling them on their shit. When a woman refuses to be in collusion with her own oppression they call her uppity, then they call her a dyke. The only choice in this world a woman has is to be a feminist or to be a victim. And black women are only fooling themselves if they think that racism is their only problem. They wanna act like feminism is a dirty word.”

“They see it as a white thing, and so they're skeptical,” I said. “You know we've always wanted the privileges we saw white women enjoy. When we were women, they were ladies. Now they wanna be women. But some black women still haven't gotten the desire to be treated like ladies out of their systems. And a lot of sistahs are also afraid of driving a wedge between them and brothas; which I can understand.”

Traci sighed. “Like if racism ended tomorrow, black men would suddenly start treating them like queens. They have to see the white woman as their enemy because the truth is too painful.”

“Look, they haven't always been in our corner. White women can be racists too, you know.”

“Obviously, but I've also seen righteous white women be there for black women who are victims of rape and domestic violence. And I've heard sistahs say, ‘She asked for it.'”

“That's why in the end, you have to see people as people,” I said gazing up at the stars.

“And that's why I'm willing to struggle with men. I've even demonstrated with straight white men against nuclear power at Lawrence Livermore Lab. And of course I will struggle with brothas, I just won't give them a pass. If they're not willing to confront the destructiveness of patriarchal oppression, they're not my allies. I'm waiting for black men to confront those issues.”