The Collected Autobiographies of Maya Angelou (48 page)

“New girl gets to break luck.” Clara laid on a little authority. “You know how it goes.”

The language was new but its meaning was clear, and I wanted above all things not to appear stupid and not to display my immobilizing nervousness. I tried to concentrate on what the women were doing. Their fingers darted making knots in long strings of heavy white twine.

Bea looked up at me, disdain a mist across her face. “You a cherry, ain’t you?”

“Yes.” Lying would get me nothing.

“Well, that’s a thirty-second business. When you turn the first trick, you’ll be a ’ho. A stone ’ho. I mean for life.” She grinned sourer than a rotten lemon, but her make-up and jewelry and air of abandoned sex gave her a glint of glamour.

Clara wedged in a peacemaker’s tone, “Well, that won’t be so bad will it? I mean you’re a whore.”

“Hell, yes, I’m a damn good one. I’m a mud kicker. In the streets I
make more money by accident than most bitches make on purpose.” She rolled her head and twisted her body. “And it’s more action, too. I mean the lights and tricking all night till the sun comes up.”

I wondered why she left the streets.

“I just got too hot. I was getting busted two, three times a week. So my daddy brought me down to this crib. Let the heat get off. Then I’ll be back switching and bitching and getting merry like Christmas.”

They both stood up and shook out strings in their hands. Clara walked to the living-room door and attached two strings to tacks over the lintel. She took matches from her robe pocket and lighted the ends that swung lazily near the floor.

“You burn string in the morning for luck, Rita. When it reaches the first knot the tricks begin to walk.”

Bea had left the room to place string over the other doors.

Clara went back to her uneasy chair.

“Now, Rita, let’s have a little talk. You were so tired when L.D. brought you in last night, I thought I’d wait till morning to tell you how I run this place.” I pulled my attention from the little red mouths that were nibbling up the string.

“L.D. said your work name was Sugar. I think that goes with you. You so young and quiet. Now, here’s how it goes. In your room you have a tablet, and when you take a trick he pays me; and after, I sign your book. If you didn’t have a man of your own, I’d give you your money at the end of the day and you could leave. But what’ll happen is, at the end of the week Lou will come and I’ll give it to him. He’ll straighten out your bills, room rent, board and liquor.” She caught herself. “ ’Course you don’t drink and soft drinks are free. Then you get your day off and get to stay all night with your man.

“All my tricks are Mexican. They’re fast but not too clean. Each girl has her own trick pan and towels. You wash them first and after. Then you take fresh water and wash yourself good. Since you’re a cherry, I have to tell you Mexicans aren’t built very large, but don’t open your legs wide. They are tricks, not your old man, so don’t try making love to them. That’s why they call them tricks.”

Clara’s superstition about the burning string had already disenchanted
me, and her conversation on deception of customers erased any respect I had for her. The only way I could be in the business was to give due service for the money paid. I decided privately that I would make each trick (each man) happy and forget the unbearable loneliness that sent him out in the rain searching for love.

“They walk in here,” she continued, “and take their choice of you or Bea. L.D. said you shouldn’t use make-up and ought to keep on wearing those junie flip clothes. That’s all right with me. When you get regulars, Bea is not allowed to pull them, unless you’re busy and they can’t wait. That’s the same with her steadies. Anything you want to know, ask me.”

The doorbell rang.

See, Rita! Look at the string.” The red dot had reached a knot on one of the strings. “Trick time.”

Bea came running into the room, and the sound of her footsteps was a little more audible than my heartbeat. The moment of truth had gotten stuck in my throat and saliva refused to go around it.

Clara went to open the door.

“Hello, Papa, come in. I’ve got something special for you today.” She stage-whispered, “A school girl.”

My God, she was lying. I was already going to be a whore. Take this man’s hard-earned money, go to bed with him without love. Why add lying to it?

They came in view. Clara had her arm around the shoulders of a short little fat man who wore matching gray khaki pants and shirt. He looked Indian.

“Sugar, come over and say hello to Papa Pedro.”

I walked over as if I were being introduced in my mother’s living room.

“Buenos días, Señor Pedro.”

His eyes left my flat chest and narrow hips.
“Oh. Hablas español?”

My mind flinched at his use of the familiar. It should only be used between family members, close friends and lovers, according to my high school teacher.

“Sí. Yo lo puedo hablar.”

“Okay, Sugar. Take him in the back and show him a good time.”

Bea’s voice hacked through from the corner. “Yea, Pedro. If she don’t give you enough, you can see me after. Remember the last time?”

His glance didn’t stay two seconds in her direction.

Clara took us both by the hand. “Come on, you two. You’re wasting time.” And drew us to my bedroom door. “Get in there and have fun.”

I found my voice.
“Viene con migo, señor.”

He stood in the middle of the floor, looking like a bemused Akim Tamiroff. I had to say something but didn’t know how to say “take your clothes off” in Spanish, so I asked how he was. He said well. I pulled off all my clothes during the long pause and he opened his pants. Dignity rode his face bareback.

I washed him and all I remember of my first great slide down into the slimy world of mortal sin is the scratching of the man’s zipper on my upper thighs.

—

At sundown Bea washed her face and spent a few minutes in Clara’s bedroom. She came out clicking her purse shut.

“I’m nearly shamed to show this little money to my daddy. I’ve spoiled that man.” She looked at me, and without the cosmetic she was ten years younger. “How you feel?”

I didn’t know how I felt. I said, “All right, thank you.”

“Clara, you ought to get the news over to the camp. Tell them that you got a cherry. Maybe that’ll stir up some tricks.” She walked to the door, shaking her hips from side to side. “You won’t be a cherry long, little girl. Better git it while the gittin’s good. See you all in the morning.” She slammed the door behind her.

Clara followed and snapped a double lock, then drew a chain across the door.

“Sugar, you better take a long bath. Put some Epsom salts in the water. Take out the soreness.”

I said nothing because I thought nothing.

“Don’t worry, you didn’t do so good today, but then, you’re just starting. I’ll give you a few tips. Don’t take off all your clothes. It takes
too long. And remember, the men come here to trick, not to get married. Talk to them dirty but soft. And play with them.”

She hmphed to herself.

“You got it easy. I was turned out with white men. They want to talk all the time. They tell you how beautiful you are and how much they love you. And wonder what you’re doing being a whore all the time they’re jugging in you and paying for it. Then when they get finished they got the nerve to ask you how you liked it. And talk about your freaks! White men can really think of some nasty things to do.”

She started to her room and turned. “One thing I can say about my daddy”—her lips prissed and she lifted her nose and wiggled it—“he doesn’t want me to do anything freakish. No matter how much money is involved. I like that.” She rubbed her hands down her sides complimenting herself. “Better get your bath. Dinner’ll be ready soon.”

I sat thinking about the spent day. The faces, bodies and smells of the tricks made an unending paisley pattern in my mind. Except for the Tamiroffish first customer, the others had no individual characteristics. The strong Lysol washing water stung my eyes and a film of the vapor coated my adenoids.

I had expected the loud screams of total orgasmic release and felt terribly inadequate when the men had finished with grunts and yanked up their pants without thanks. I decided that being black, I had a different rhythm from the Latinos and all I had to do was let myself learn their tempos.

Clara gave me salts and bath oil and I continued examining the day in fingernailfuls. I was intelligent and I was young. I could teach myself the craft and make loads of money. L.D. might be able to settle his debts before the month was up.

The woman who came in daily at five o’clock to cook reminded me of my grandmother and I had to avert my eyes when she placed dinner on the table.

I reassured myself. I was helping my man. And, after all, there was nothing wrong with sex. I had no need for shame. Society dictated that sex was only licensed by marriage documents. Well, I didn’t agree with
that. Society is a conglomerate of human beings, and that’s just what I was. A human being.

—

For the next week I vied with Bea for the attentions of Pedros, Josés, Pablos and Ramóns. I brushed up on my Spanish and tried with little success to include
tú
in my enticing come-ons. The women’s conversations interested me more than the tricks’ visits. Men came to Clara’s house singly, and rather than having an air of celebration, they all seemed to be ashamed of their own presence and at the same time resigned to be there. I never found one man who considered how I might or might not enjoy those three-minute sojourns in the cell-like room. And for my part, I accepted Clara’s signature on my tablet as a symbol of being paid in full.

Bea made an attempt at friendliness one morning. She came into the house early and settled on a stiff chair opposite me.

“Sugar, how do you like it?”

Her voice was kinder than usual, which surprised me, and as I had no ready answer, I muttered, “Well, it’s … a new—”

“New? Screwing ain’t new, is it?” She slipped back into sarcasm easily.

“No. That’s not what I meant.”

“Well, don’t worry about it. You’ll break in.”

“I won’t be doing this long.” I had to separate myself from the insinuation.

“Like hell. Wait till you make a nice piece of money. Then your daddy will give you a little white girl.”

“A what? What would I do with a white girl?”

She laughed a tight little laugh. “Not ‘a’ white girl. You don’t know what ‘white girl’ is?”

“I don’t know what you mean.” I was trying to withdraw.

“They call cocaine ‘white girl.’ Some people call horse ‘white girl,’ too. I don’t mess with heroin, though. It makes me sick. But wait till your daddy gives you some coke. Kiss the baby!” Hugging herself, she coasted away for a second on her thought.

I wouldn’t tell her that L.D. didn’t even want me to smoke pot, but she seemed to pick the thought out of my mind.

“They won’t let you smoke hemp, though. They say it makes a ’ho too frisky. ’Hos get their heads bad and forget about tending to business.”

Clara came in bringing coffee, and Bea plunged into conversation with her.

“You know what we did last night? Daddy took me down to a gambling game in Firebaugh … You know who I saw?… Haven’t seen that bitch in a month of Sundays …”

I didn’t know the people she was talking about and couldn’t have cared less what she did the night before, but she had given me something to think about. Since she spoke from experience, she was probably right. But she was talking about pimps and I knew L.D. wasn’t a pimp. He was a gambler. I couldn’t allow myself to entertain corrosive thoughts. All I had to do was do my best to help him and keep my thoughts clear and unpolluted. I decided I wouldn’t even mention the conversation to L.D.

In the long waits between customers, Bea and Clara talked about money, their old men, other whorehouses and their old men and travel to nearby towns and their old men. They both called their men “Daddy,” and when speaking of them even when relating the beatings they had received from “Daddy,” their voices tightened into lurid imitations of baby talk. Their faces softened and their lips pouted (Clara could wrinkle her nose and wiggle it like a bunny).

I wondered if prostitutes as one suffered from an Electra complex and were motivated by a need to have a daddy, please a daddy and finally make love to a daddy.

“My daddy said he’s going to take me to Hot Springs ‘for the season.’ ” Bea sat in her chair by the door and shook her delight.

“Daddy and I went to the Kentucky Derby last year. We had a ball.” Clara began to shake her nose. “Everybody was there. I met sports from New York City and Detroit and Chicago.”

“My daddy says those Eastern pimps are colder than a whore’s
heart in Nome. I believe him too. Look at their faces. They chilly. If they don’t kill their whores, they make them wish they were dead.”

“Well, my daddy didn’t never hit me except when I needed it. Oh, he whip my ass then. Better believe it. But no scars. He ain’t never left a scar on me.”

Bea grinned as if she had outwitted the men. “They ain’t crazy. They wouldn’t hurt their little moneymakers.”

Their conversations were tightly choreographed measures, and since I didn’t know the steps, I sat on the sidelines and watched. They would hardly be interested in my dance career, or my son, or the books I’d read. And I flatly, on principle, refused to call L.D. “Daddy.” I mean, I protested to myself, my father, Bailey Johnson, Sr., was in San Diego, posturing and er’rering his pretentious butt off. Daddy Clidell was my one-time stepfather, but he and Mother had signed divorce papers. Mother’s men, whom I had called Daddy Jack, Uncle Bob or Hanover Daddy, came and went with such regularity that whatever name I tacked on after the paternal title escaped me after a few months. I decided I wouldn’t discuss L.D. at all. They were too cynical to understand that we were in love and that after I had helped him out of trouble, after he had a divorce, we were going to be married and live in a dream house with my son and lots of flowers. I would not share my plan with hard-hearted whores.