Space Between the Stars (6 page)

One afternoon, on my walk up Harold Avenue after work, absorbed in thoughts about living on my own and going to college,
a loud honk beside me made me jump. In the middle of the street, a two-toned beige camper lurched to a halt and a tall, cinnamon brown man with dark, curly hair and a wide, impish grin jumped out.

Leaving the engine running and the door wide open, he swaggered toward me, like a pirate caught on dry land. His berry-black eyes scanned my body from head to toe. He wore butter-yellow leather knickers with two-inch fringe hanging down the sides. Furry brown boots came up to his knees. The fringe on his black leather jacket swung as he walked. He looked completely out of place, his clothes a colorful plume against the cement and asphalt of Harold Avenue.

As he came closer, my heart boomed in my chest. It was Sly Stone. I had just seen him on
The Ed Sullivan Show
with his band, Sly and the Family Stone, a few Sundays ago. Now he stood in my path and stretched his arms up to the sky, as if to pounce on me like a wild cat. His clothing was a little bit Haight-Ashbury, with Fillmore Street mixed in—the black neighborhood where soul food and holiness churches shared space with Black Muslims baking bean pies and saying
Ah Salaam Alakaam
(peace be unto you) and pimps sending women out to work.

“Who are you?” he asked in a deep baritone. He walked around me in a circle, looking me over with a smile and glimmering eyes. “Do you live around here? You've gotta go out with me.”

Moisture beaded on my upper lip; a warm blush rose from my neck to my cheeks. I could not find a voice to answer him. He was standing too close. I leaned my body back to get some distance from his strong and overpowering energy. “I don't think so,” I said.

“Let me drive you home,” he drawled.

“That's okay. I just live up the hill.” I wished my voice wouldn't shake so much.

“Then, at least give me your phone number. Please—” Sly moaned.

His eyes bore through me. I was accustomed to men making passes at me, even stopping their cars to tell me how “fine” I was. But I had never given anyone I had met on the street my phone number. I debated silently:
This is crazy! But it's Sly Stone. He's from San Francisco. You've seen him on TV. He's practically a neighbor.

I stood there as he ran back to his camper, returning with a pen and paper, which he pushed into my hands. I wrote down my name and phone number. Our hands brushed, and I shivered at his touch. Beaming, he jumped back inside his camper, slammed the door, gave me a quick wave, and took off with a roar.

I turned and began walking up the hill, dazed. I worried I had done the wrong thing. What if he did call? What could I possibly say to someone famous?

In junior high, Kitsaun and I had gone with Karmen and her sister Johnette to see Johnny Mathis in concert. We loved his voice so much that we found his home out in the Avenues. We had spied on the house one evening until we saw lights. Holding hands and giggling, we rang the doorbell, squealing with delight when the door opened. Mr. Mathis answered and told us his son was out. That was the only musician I had been in love with. Earl Fatha Hines had lived in our neighborhood, but he was old, and Dad never brought his musician-friends home. He kept his music world separate from us. Mom said that because
many of the musicians depended on Dad, calling to borrow money, often drunk, Dad didn't want anyone from that world around his daughters or wife.

When I walked in our front door, the phone was ringing.

Kitsaun called, “Deb, it's for you.” When she handed me the phone, her wide-open eyes and pursed lips formed a question mark.

“Hello?”

“This is Sly. Let's go out tonight.” His voice was like a DJ on the radio, smooth and sure.

“I can't believe you called. But, I can't go out tonight. I have to work tomorrow.”

“Okay. When?”

“Maybe Friday.”

“Good. What's the number of your house? I'll pick you up at seven.”

I told him. He hung up. Had I said yes? He was coming here Friday. I put the receiver back and leaned against the wall.

Kitsaun stood outside the kitchen door. “Who was that?” she asked.

I started talking as we walked to my room.

“Whoa. Slow down.”

We sat on my bed, and I recounted every second from the horn honk. It seemed like a dream. Sly Stone had asked me out. Kitsaun and I tried to think of all the songs we knew by his band, Sly and the Family Stone. Laughing and screaming, we danced around the room. “Different strokes for different folks. So on and so on … Shoobey, doobey doo bah … III am everyday people.”
Kitsaun flopped into the chair by my desk. She patted the edges of her rounded hair, now puffed out into an Afro like Kathleen Cleaver's. “Dad will never allow you to see him! How old is he?”

“I don't know. I won't tell Dad who I'm going out with until he gets here,” I said, planning. “I'm eighteen, you know.”

Kitsaun rolled her eyes toward the ceiling. “Good luck,” she called, shaking her butt and swinging her arms over her head as she danced out of my bedroom.

I swung the door closed and lay back on my pillow. Sly's eyes had sparkled, almost teasing me. I rolled every word he had said over my tongue. They tingled through my body and made me want to laugh out loud.

All day Friday, I was nervous. Had I been crazy to say yes to a date with a man who seemed so different from me? My heart jumped each time I thought of seeing him again. I plugged my headset into the switchboard and answered, “Operator. May I help you?” But I couldn't wait for my shift to end.

At home, I tried on outfit after outfit, my wardrobe in a pile on the floor in front of my closet. I didn't know what to wear to go out with Sly Stone. My clothes were fine for high school dances, but I was going out with an adult—and one whose sense of style obviously outshone mine. My dressy clothes were fine for church, but even my fancy graduation dress was a prim, high-neck number. I finally decided on a gold gauzy top over brown bell-bottom cords, not daring, but at least hip. My hair, tied back with a purple scarf, fell in smooth waves down my back.

Dad asked, “Who did you say you were going out with?”
“Sly Stone, Dad.”

“You mean that character with big hair and fur boots? Looks like a clown?”

“Dad!” At least he hadn't said I couldn't go.

By 6:45 P.M., I was pacing the living room. A loud engine rumbled outside. I peeked out the front window. The longest, shiniest car I had ever seen was in the street by our driveway. It looked like the cars in gangster movies. Low and sleek, it was pale yellow with four chrome pipes hooked from the side fenders to the vented hood. The black canvas convertible top had an opaque plastic window in the back. The driver's door opened. I jumped back from the window. Sly rang the bell.
Will he hear my heart pounding?
I opened the door.

“Hi,” I said, motioning for him to come in.

He smiled at me and bounced and bobbed like a boxer. He wore skintight brown leather pants, a silky, purple, V-necked shirt, and sunglasses that covered half his face. “Let's go,” he said.

“I'm going,” I yelled back into the house. I heard footsteps heading toward us and shrugged my shoulders: He would have to meet my parents.

Mom still wore her dress from work, knowing I was going out. She stood next to me and looked Sly over from bushy head to leather boots. “Mom, this is Sly.”

“Hello,” she said, folding her thin arms across her stomach.

Sly added, “Sylvester Stewart, Mrs. King. Nice to make your acquaintance.”

Dad came up from behind Mom. His cheekbones were sharp; his lips closed. Not a hint of a smile. “Dad, this is Sly. This is my father, Saunders King.”
Dad pumped Sly's hand, glared into his eyes, grunted, and walked to the living room. Dad stared out the window as he spoke: “Where do your folks live?”

“On Urbano, sir, about half a mile away.”

“Have her home by midnight.”

Sly grabbed my hand, pulled me through the threshold, and we ran down the stairs to the roadster. He opened my door, and I sank into the deep leather seat as he ran around the back of the car, opened his door, and jumped in. I looked up and saw Dad's face in the window, grim, without the pretense of a smile. Disapproval and wariness were in his eyes, but I put my parents out of my mind when I turned to my date.

Sly tipped his head and smiled wide. He turned the key in the ignition. The engine growled, and we took off in a leap, my head jerking back on the headrest. My heart idled as high as the motor. Sly maneuvered the car onto Ocean Avenue, turning right toward the freeway. I felt the chill from the fog out on Ocean Beach. I felt small, out of place in the luxury car, next to Sly in his expensive clothing.

“Where would you like to go?” His voice was deep, his words articulate. He cocked his head and peered at me from above his shades.

“I don't care.” I tried to keep my eyes on the road, but I kept staring at him. His skin was dark and moist, like clay before you mold it. His hair was two different textures: tight black spirals at the root, rising into loopy curls that sat loosely all over his head.

“What kind of car is this?” I asked.
“A Cord Duesenberg—it's made of Fiberglas. There are only a few in America.”

“Where are you from? You sound like you have a Southern accent.”

He laughed, a big, boisterous laugh. When I looked at him, he pointed his finger at me, lowered his sunglasses, and winked. I noticed his teeth were very square. “You ask a lot of questions,” he said. “My people are from Texas. Are you hungry?”

“Not really.”

“Then we'll just drive,” he said in that dreamy voice.

I sat back as he wound the car through city streets. I peeked at him as he drove, fidgeting with cassettes, looking for one he wanted to hear. On his left pinkie he wore a thick gold ring with a diamond set in the center. I looked down at my own light brown hands, fingers long and slim, perfect for playing piano, my parents always said.

San Francisco sparkled with a luminescence that came from the sun touching the bay and bouncing back to caress windows and faces. We drove to Coit Tower, which looks out over the pastel buildings that curve up and down Telegraph Hill. Sly parked and came around to open my door. We walked to the stone wall surrounding the parking lot and looked out at the city.

Sly asked, “What do you do? You're so beautiful. Are you a model?” He took my hand and looked in my eyes.

“No.” I laughed. “I modeled once for a friend who designs clothes. Now I work at the phone company, but I'm going to college in September—Cal State Dominguez Hills, outside Los
Angeles. And you?” I pulled my hand from his and covered my face. “Oh, God! That was so stupid. I know what you do.”

“Well, I'm a musician, a songwriter. I play piano, guitar, and drums. I used to be a DJ at KFRC. My sister Rose and my brother, Freddy, are in my band. I have a little sister, ‘Vet,’ and an older sister, Loretta.”

“I have an older sister, Kitsaun. My dad's a musician. My mom works for Social Security.”

“Your dad looks pretty tough.” Sly put his arm around my shoulder. “My dad, KC, is our road manager.” He pushed his leg against mine, his leather pants straining at the seams. Every cell in my body was awake.

Sly took my hand and led me back to the car. As I stood beside the Cord, he leaned against me, pressing his lips on mine in a long, wet kiss. He stood back, grinning, and I collapsed into my seat. He jumped into his seat like an elf, pulled up his pants leg, and removed a small cigarette from his boot. He lit the joint and passed it to me.

“No, thanks. I don't smoke.” So many people had tried to get me to smoke pot. I hated the smell, the choking fumes, and the spacey way people talked after they did it. He shook his head, laughed, took a few puffs, and snuffed it out before returning it to its hiding place. “You're something. Different … different.” He turned on the engine. “Now I'm hungry.” He chuckled. “I want to take you to this oyster place on Polk Street. It's a gas.”

We roared down the hill, drove to Polk Street, and parked. Sly held my arm tightly as we strode down the sidewalk. We sat at the counter, and he ordered a dozen raw oysters in shells with hot sauce. I ordered soup. I had never even seen a raw oys-
ter up close, much less thought of eating one, but Sly was determined I try. The waiter set a silver tray on a pedestal with opened gray shells piled on rocks of ice. Prying my lips apart, Sly slipped a cold, slimy mollusk onto my tongue. As it wiggled down my throat, I tried not to gag.

Sly was on, joking with the waiters and me. They knew him by name and came over every few minutes. Sly bantered with the men, making rhymes of their names. “Jim, you're so slim. Harry, please don't tarry.” They laughed together, and I ordered root beer to burn away the oyster taste.

Sly picked up the bill. He reached inside his boot, pulled out a roll of cash, and slapped down a fifty.

We drove noisily up my street a few minutes before midnight. “Thank you for taking me out. It was fun.” Sly leaned over me, looking up at our living room window. He kissed my cheek, then put both of his hands on my face and turned me full into his lips. “Good night,” he said. “I'll call you.”

I stepped out of the car, stood back, and watched Sly Stone turn his Cord around and blast off down the street. I sat on the steps outside our simple house. What a night. Sly had so much power. I felt like a doll in his hands—like he was playing with me, too.

I opened the front door. “Deb?” Dad was awake.

“Yes, Dad, I'm home,” I answered, floating into my room. My mind buzzed with Sly's big face, his words. He had a way of holding my eyes in his gaze for a moment, then looking away with a chuckle. Maybe that was the weed. Too thrilled to sleep, I lay on top of my bed, a smile across my face.

Sly called again, and we went out. He was different from
anyone I had ever known—twenty-five years old and traveled, he played his newest songs for me. I was overcome by his world. He whispered in my ear, and held me close to him when we walked, possessive of me in a way that made me feel special, beautiful. When he called, I dropped whatever I was doing to wait for him to pick me up. My plan was to work through summer, then pack for Cal State Dominguez Hills, where I would move on campus to begin classes at the end of September. Being with Sly took over my life, and I didn't make time to be with my friends or family. He took me to his house on Urbano Drive, where he lived with his parents, Mama and KC. Sly had the whole bottom floor of the house. His Great Dane, Stoner, liked me right away, and I would sit on the couch and pet him while Sly played the piano, writing lyrics on yellow tablets and setting notes and chords onto staff paper. His sister Rose and his brother Freddy would come by and hang out with us, then we would go upstairs to see Mama and KC.