Girl, Too
Angela Jackson-Brown
1979
“You buying, kid?”
I jumped at the question from the man behind the counter of the J-Town Liquor Store. I was so deep in my thoughts on all the different things to pick from—potato chips, potted meat, sardines, Snicker bars, Nehi grape sodas and the like—I hadn’t even noticed his black ass peering down at me. His voice was slow and painful to the ears. It sounded like he had to push out each individual syllable. He and I were just a few feet from each other with nothing but that counter separating us. He coulda reached out and grabbed me if he’d wanted to. I backed away a bit.
This was my first time coming in this store. There used to be a grocery store down the way some Chinamen ran that I’d go to, but a bunch of Negroes in the neighborhood burnt them down the other day.
“Them gooks got what they had coming to them,” this boy named Gator told me while he and I stood together and watched the flames with all the other gawkers. The firemen were trying to put out the fire, the police were trying to figure out who started the fire and the two Chinamen who ran the store were running about yapping in that Chinamen language of theirs. Then there was this woman, I spect she was the wife of one of them men. Well, she was crying and wringing her hands, looking at all of us with sad eyes. Made me feel a little bit sorry for all of them.
“Th-th-they ain’t gooks,” I mumbled. “Th-th-they Chinamen. The gooks was the J-J-Japs.” I knew this cause my foster mother’s brother fought over there in Vietnam and he told me all about them Japs. But Gator wasn’t looking for no history lesson. He just looked at me and rolled his eyes.
“Same goddamn difference,” he said. “They all got slanted eyes and they all trying to get over on us niggers.”
I didn’t say no more. Gator was a badass. I wouldn’t be surprised if he had helped start the fire. But I didn’t have time to be thinking about him or them Chinamen. I had my own worries.
So here I was at the liquor store. It was the only thing opened late and I had to go there to shop for the things I needed.
The store smelled like Clorox. Every corner of it. You couldn’t getta smell of nothing but bleach. It was like the cleanup person (who I’m guessing was the Liquor Store Man behind the counter) was trying to mask the smell of the sweaty old drunks who’d come in there with their last couple of dollars to spend on happiness in a bottle.
The old Liquor Store Man cleared his throat, Harrumph, and I reached my shaking hand into the dime store handbag I was carrying. Men folk always seemed to have a way about them that made me get the shakes. Old or young, didn’t make no never mind. They’d get me to stuttering and sweating. It never failed.
I touched the little coin purse that held one dollar and some change. All the money I had in the world. I fingered the little tube of pink lipstick by Maybelline I sometimes wore when I was trying to look growner than I was and the pair of fingernail clippers I’d found one night when I was out walking. I raked my hand across the bristles on the hairbrush I didn’t need no more since I cut off all my hair. And then I stroked the little, ole pistol I was carrying. Didn’t know what kinda pistol it was. It used to be my foster daddy’s. It was one of the few things of his I took when I run off from home.
I looked around the store again, trying to figure out what to buy. I could still feel the old man’s eyes on me. Felt almost like he was stripping me down with them goochy-looking eyes of his. I wanted me a pack of smokes. I’d took to smoking when I was just ten years old. At first I did it to fit in with the older kids. Then I did it ‘cause it helped calm my nerves after my foster daddy died when I was eleven. I’d steal a smoke out of my foster mama’s handbag. She never knew it was me. She figured it was her baby brother who did it and she never said nothing to him about nothing ‘cause he was her heart.
But I didn’t have enough money for no smokes. I didn’t have enough money for hardly nothing. My last period I had to borrow a Kotex from one of my friends.
“Kid, what you doing back there?” the Liquor Store Man called out to me.
I took my hand out of my handbag ‘cause I could tell he was getting nervous. I held my hands up and waved them a bit— almost like those old ladies in church do when they get the Holy Ghost.
“I-I-I’m thinking. Just give me a m-m-minute. You got too much t-t-to choose from in here,” I said, smiling, trying to make my voice sound all light and airy like that white girl in them Gidget movies. Tried to sound like I was all carefree and on vacation or something. You know, like I was ‘bout to go surfing with Moondoggie or somebody like that. But all I could do was stutter like some damn halfwit.
I was two days by Greyhound away from the place I’d been living with my last foster family. I’d been with them the longest. Near ‘bout six years. Weren’t much there in the town they lived in. It was just a little country town with a school, grocery store, a Baptist church for the Negroes and one for the whites and a post office. Not much more than that. I run off about three months ago to this city with its street lights and trolley cars. At first it felt good to be lost in a place. I hadn’t never felt that feeling before. Now I felt like I was getting eaten up by this place. Eaten up and spat back out with no money and not a whole hell of a lot of options.
I smiled up at the Liquor Store Man and kinda moved around from one shelf to another. Picking up and putting things back down real casual-like. I looked down at the Mickey Mouse watch my foster daddy had gotten me for my tenth birthday. It was about nine o’clock and was just getting dusky outside. Late enough for me to come out of hiding.
My foster daddy was a nice man. I think he kinda cared for me. In a fatherly kinda way. That watch was the last thing he gave me ‘fore he died. I bet if’n he was around he woulda took care of me. Seen to it that no harm came my way. I believed that to my heart.
But the milk was done spilt so weren’t nothing to do but try and clean it up the best I could. That’s why I ran off. And that’s why I spent my days in an abandoned warehouse where I lived with about six other street kids like me. Some stole, some begged, some sold themselves to nasty old men over by the corner of Perry and Jackson Street, but everybody contributed. I was at first but once my money got low, I didn’t have nothing to give. I ain’t never stole nothing in my life but some smokes from my foster mama, but I knew I had to come up with some money soon or I was gone have to start ripping off old ladies for their purses.
I wondered for a minute if I should rip off a few cans of potted meat or sardines but I could tell old hawk eyes behind the counter weren’t gone take his eyes off me. He was used to kids like me coming in and taking his stuff. But he didn’t know I had a big old monkey on my back and its name was Lemonhead. Some way or another I had to go back home with something—money, food, something.
Just the other night, Lemonhead, that’s what everybody called him, stepped to me. I was sitting over in a corner off to myself enjoying a smoke I’d bummed off this girl who slept next to me called Precious. We was like them hippies you see on television, all living together and sharing what one another had. ‘Cept we weren’t running ‘round holding up signs about Love and Peace or wearing them mismatched colors like them white hippies did. We was just a bunch of Negro kids who was down on our luck trying to hold it all together.
Lemonhead plopped down beside me. He had just finished smoking a reefer. I could smell it on him. I’d smoked some of them reefer cigarettes myself once or twice before. Didn’t care for them much. They made me lightheaded and hungry, so I just stuck to my regular tobacco smokes. Lemonhead was sixteen and the oldest of us kids. He was kinda the man in charge you might say.
“We ain’t running no charity. You got to pull your weight. You better be finding you a hustle or finding yourself some place else to lay your head.”
“I-I-I’m gone get it together, Lemon. J-J-Just give me a day or two. I-I-I swear ‘fore God, I’m gone get it together. Got something already lined up. Sw-Sw-Sw-ear it.”
Course I lied ‘cause I knew Lemonhead weren’t funning around. One kid named Lucius got kicked out a few weeks ‘fore I got there. That’s why I had to talk to this fella called T-Bird.
“You hear me talking to you, kid? I ain’t gone have no kid ignoring me,” the Liquor Store Man raised his voice. Evidently he’d been talking to me for a minute or two and I hadn’t heard a word he said.
I squinted as I looked up at him (mainly ‘cause I couldn’t half see at times and needed me some glasses). Then I reached back in my purse and stroked that pistol again. It felt cool to the touch. The old Liquor Store Man reminded me of somebody. Somebody from back home. Then I remembered. This Liquor Store Man looked just like this old blues guitar player named Skinny Bone who played at one of the jukes near the place I came from. That Skinny Bone could play one mean guitar. Sometimes that foster uncle would take me to the juke to hear him play. He’d make that guitar cry out like one of them banshees.
Liquor Store Man had the same fresh off the boat from Africa, black skin like Skinny Bone did and both of them had enough wrinkles that made them look old enough to be Moses’ first cousins. And this old dude was just as tall and bony-looking as Skinny. I bet either the Liquor Store Man or Skinny Bone could have taken on Kareem Abdul-Jabbar in a game of one-on-one back in their younger days.
“G-G-Gimme a minute,” I said to him. I took my hand out of my purse again. Who’d of thought there’d be two Skinny Bones in the world.
“Don’t have time for you kids to be messing around in my store. Either you buying or you flying.”
I nodded my head, saying, “Yes sirrrrr,” real slow so I wouldn’t stutter so much. But I stood rooted to my spot ‘cause outta the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of T-Bird driving up just as pretty as you please. I turned towards the glass door and watched as T-Bird brought his car to a fast stop. The very man I needed to see. Must have wished him up. I glanced back over my shoulder at the Liquor Store Man. He looked like he was about to come from behind that counter after me. “Yes sir, I’m b-b-buying. Gimme a minute though. Can’t be rushing ‘cause I-I-I ain’t made of money.”
I moved to the back of the store, waiting for T-Bird to come inside ‘cause weren’t no other stores open on this side of the street ‘cept the liquor store. I picked up a bag of Funyuns and turned the bag over like I was reading the ingredients or something. Then I heard the little tinkling bell at the door signifying somebody was coming in. T-Bird glided into the store almost like he was on skates or something.
He was one smooth Negro for sure. He was honey-beige colored—like God took some caramel candy, melted it down and made it into a man and called him T-Bird. He weren’t dressed loud like a lot of men in his line of business either. He had on a dark suit and he wore his hair cut low, not in one of them big afros everybody was wearing now. T-Bird put you in the mind of a preacher or an undertaker ‘stead of a pimp. He looked all serious. Like he was a man who was all about business.
I hated him. Hated I was gone have to step to the likes of him asking for favors.
“What’s happening, Old-timer,” T-Bird said to the Liquor Store Man. Liquor Store Man flashed T-Bird a snaggle-tooth grin. Any fool could tell he wasn’t gone be rushing T-Bird like he’d been rushing me. Hell, T-Bird coulda probably browsed in that store ‘til day in the morning and old Liquor Store Man wouldn’t of said one damn word. Just woulda kept standing there grinning like the old Cheshire cat himself. Stupid old man.
I felt a rumbling in my belly. I hadn’t ate nothing since the day before. I was so hungry my head was pounding right along with my gut. I’d sometimes get a headache if I went too long without eating. I decided on getting the potted meat and a Nehi grape soda, but I weren’t gone buy them ‘til after I’d talked to T-Bird. I figured that would be my treat to myself for taking care of my business so well.
Meanwhile, the Liquor Store Man kept calling T-Bird Youngblood and Big-timer. Like they was the best of buddies or something. I coulda gone up there and spat in that old man’s face. I hated him too right then.
You don’t know I got me a gun in this here purse could blow you both to Kingdom and Come, I wanted to yell. But it was enough for me to put the Funyuns back down and reach into my purse again and start stroking that gun some more. Sometimes at night I would lay on my old mattress with no covers and hold that gun close like I was cradling a baby doll. Didn’t never show it to nobody and I made sure nobody knew I had it. I didn’t want a whole bunch of people knowing about it. Scared they might take it from me or try to make me use it ‘gainst my will.
This time, whilst I stood listening to T-Bird and the old Liquor Store Man talk, I picked it up a bit. Didn’t take it out of my purse or nothing. I just let my finger brush against that trigger a little. Closed my eyes and thought about what all I could do with that gun. Doing that seemed to help me with my breathing, so for a few minutes, I just stood there with my eyes closed, stroking that gun and listening.
Then I heard the clinging of the register so I knew T-Bird musta been done getting what he was gone get. I watched while the Liquor Store Man put a bottle of Jack Daniels and a Coca-Cola in a brown paper bag.
“Keep the change, Bro,” T-Bird said. I squinched up my eyes to try and see what T-Bird handed the old man. I wasn’t for sure but I thought T-Bird paid with a twenty. I wished that coulda been me selling him that Jack and Coke. That change alone woulda bought me another day or two of freedom from Lemonhead’s evil eye for sure. T-Bird reached out and shook the old man’s hand and then glided out the door just like he came in it. I rushed to the front of the store, knocking down a cut-out picture of the Marlboro man sitting up on a horse smoking a cigarette.
“You gone buy something?” the old man asked me again but I wasn’t paying him no never mind. I took off after T-Bird. I needed to talk business with him. I hurried out the door behind him.
Even though it was late, it was sticky hot outside. Heat was so thick in the air it felt like if you opened your mouth and bit down you could eat that heat. Some boys older than me had opened up the fire hydrant a few nights before. We’d all danced and pranced in that water like we was a bunch of wild Indians celebrating after we’d called the water down from the heavens.
I got the good hair so my hair didn’t get all nappy in that water like some of the other kids. I was the only girl out there whooping and hollering with the boys. Guess the other girls didn’t want to mess up their press and curls. I didn’t mind being the only girl though. I had myself one good ole time that night.
Before I ran up to T-Bird, I looked down at what I was wearing and made sure I smoothed out any wrinkles I saw with my hands. I had on some short shorts and a tee shirt with The Jackson Five on it. Tito was my favorite. Not Michael or Jermaine like everybody else. I’d gotten the shorts and the tee shirt at the Goodwill. I could feel big drops of sweat rolling down my chest but I didn’t pay it no mind. Plus, I thought I looked cute. Cute enough that T-Bird would have to give me a job.
“H-H-Hey, Mr. T-Bird. You got time to holla at me for a m-m-minute?” I tried to use my most grown voice and I tried hard not to stutter like some ignorant fool. Tried to sound like Diana Ross did when she was talking to Billy Dee in Mahogany.
T-Bird looked me up and down. “Holla at me ‘bout what?”
“C-C-Can we turn the corner?” I said real soft and slow. I didn’t want everybody knowing my business. There were a few folks, mostly drunks and hookers, milling around, but still, I didn’t want them sniffing around me and T-Bird’s conversation.
He looked at me and smiled a little. “You don’t want to turn no corners with me. And anyway, what the hell are you? A girl or a boy?”
“Wh-Wh-What I look like? I’m a woman.” I was mad. How the hell was he gone disrespect me like that? Yeah, my hair was short and I was small, but any fool could see I was female. But I stayed cool. I needed him. I spoke slow. “I’m looking for some work, Mr. T-Bird. I know the work you’d be needing me to do. I know it well.” I was proud of myself. I didn’t stutter one time while I was making the case for him to hire me on as one of his girls.
But he just shook his head. Laughed even. Showed a mouthful of white teeth. “Can’t use you. You look too much like a little boy. No hair on your head. No tits. Can’t use you.”
“B-B-But—”
“Go grow some hair or some tits and then come back and talk to me,” he said, and left me standing at the corner of 126th Street and Royal Boulevard. I reached into my purse and stroked the gun. I almost pulled it out. Almost.
I wanted to explain. Tell him what went down. Let him know I could do the work he needed. Money was getting low and I needed him to know. Needed him to know that—I cut my hair. That there was a reason. I just needed him to stay and let me talk to him a bit. But he didn’t even look my way again as he walked off. He went on and got into his Pontiac Firebird and raced the hell off. Left me standing there looking like a fool.
“But I need— ” I didn’t even know how to finish the sentence. I needed too goddamn much that was for sure.
“Let me tell you. Let me tell you why. Why I cut my hair. Let me tell you—” I mumbled to myself, slumping down to the ground. Even though it was late, the sidewalk still felt warm to the touch. I don’t think you coulda fried an egg on it or nothing, but you coulda come damn close to it. I pulled my legs up to my chin. What now, I thought. “What now,” I said out loud.
“Son, you got to move on,” a voice said. I looked up. It was the Liquor Store Man.
“You want to hear a story?” I asked him. I didn’t even correct him about me not being a boy.
“I ain’t got time for no stories.”
“Fine. Then I’m gone go back inside your store, get me a tin of that potted meat and a Nehi grape soda and I’ll be outta your hair for good. How ‘bout that?”
“Fine. Make it quick. I’m shutting down early tonight.”
I got up and followed him back into the store. I went to the back of the store where the potted meat sat on the shelf. I looked at it for a second or two. I knew once I got it and the soda, I weren’t gone be left with much of nothing. “And hair and tits don’t grow overnight,” I muttered under my breath.
I walked back to the front of the store where the old Liquor Store Man stood behind the counter looking dark as a thunder cloud.
“You ain’t got nothing in your hand. Look kid. You gotta—”
I pulled out the gun and pointed it at him. I’d been taught how to hold a gun so I knew I was holding it proper. The old man’s eyes got big.
“I’ma gone tell you a story. You listen up and then I’ll be on my way. Somebody’s gone hear me today. Understand, Mr. Liquor Store Man?”
“Kid, put that—”
I cocked the hammer. One squeeze and this man would be dead. I soaked up all that power I was feeling. I backed my way to the door and locked it closed, never once taking my aim away from that man’s face. There was an Open/Closed sign. I flipped it to Closed and turned the lights off. The switch was right there by the door. There weren’t no light in there except from the street lamps and the little bathroom light from the restroom over to the side. That old Liquor Store Man looked like a tall, black shadow behind that counter.
“You gone listen to me,” I said inching back slowly to the counter. I could smell the old man’s fear and it made me feel as powerful as a god. He shut up real good. Stood there and stared at me with them goochy eyes of his. I bet his eyes were all bloodshot and teary-looking. He realized I was in charge now. You’d think a man his age wouldn’t be scared to stare death in the eyeballs and not blink nary a time but this old fool was near ‘bout pissing his pants.
I commenced to talking and my voice was strong and sure. I didn’t stutter once.
You see, I cut my hair and then I run off. I had fifty dollars to my name—all saved up from past Christmases’ and birthdays. Since then I’ve been living on these streets. Making myself invisible like that nameless dude in Ellison’s book.
“Who?”
“Don’t matter. That ain’t the story. The story is ‘bout the cutting.”
“You mighty young to be on the streets. Ain’t there somebody can see after you? Ain’t you got a ma and a pa?”
I rolled my eyes at him. “Everybody’s got a ma and a pa,” I said. “Mine just didn’t want me. They put me in the system when I was a baby and I got bounced from one foster home to another. So no, I ain’t got nobody. Social worker said once she thought I had some people down south. Further south than where I last stayed—further south than here. Probably old folks. Old country folks. Probably too old to take care of the likes of me. But let me tell you. Let me tell you ‘bout the cutting. See, that’s the whole point of the story.”
I cut. I cut and run, you might say. I didn’t want to run but I didn’t know what else to do. You’d of run too, okay? A body can just take so much ‘fore it just swells up and bursts. I’d got to the point where it weren’t nothing left for me to do but burst.
You see it was two days after my fourteenth birthday when I decided I had had enough. I knew he’d come to my room that night. My foster mama was away and he’d been drinking all afternoon. My foster uncle came to my room all drunk, wild-eyed and his mind fixed on making me love him. That’s what he’d say all the time. “Love on me, Scratch. That’s all I need you to do. Just love on me.” He was the one started calling me Scratch. Said he called me that ‘cause I was thin as a scratching hen.
I stared hard at the Liquor Store Man. “I hate that name and ain’t nobody gone call me that name again. Guarantee you that, Sir.”
“Is there somebody I can call?” the Liquor Store Man asked again. He was looking around like he was trying to find a place to run. Why should he have a place to run when all them times that foster uncle of mine came knocking on my door and all I could do was stay and take it? All I was asking this Liquor Store Man to do was to just be still and hear a story. And he couldn’t even do that one thing right, I thought as I stepped a little closer, keeping my aim steady and sure. Funny. It was Foster Uncle who taught me how to shoot a pistol. Said I never knew when I might need to protect myself. Now weren’t that a hoot? Him teaching me how to protect myself.
“Done told you I ain’t got nobody. This story ain’t gone take long. But I need to tell it. I need to tell you—somebody—about the cutting. Got to tell —”
I begun the story again.
He didn’t even knock. Just barged on in on me. Most times he would knock. My mind should have told me this weren’t the time to try and have a conversation with him. I was laying up in my bed. I had me some Cinderella sheets. What he would do to me ought not never be done on no Cinderella sheets.
“Maybe we shouldn’t talk about this,” the Liquor Store Man said. He was backing up like I was some yard dog done cornered him and was about to bite. I shook that gun a little and he got still again.
I said to my foster uncle that night, I want us to be normal. No more night visits. He said, ‘You got a boyfriend or something? Is that what this is about? You messing around with some nappy head?’ Then he pulled me by my legs and threw me to the floor. He punched my face and it felt like it was going to cave in on itself. He’d never been rough before. Oh it had hurt but it weren’t ‘cause he was trying to make it hurt, least ways I don’t think he was.
“Honey, we can call the police. They can—”
“Hush up, Mr. Liquor Store Man. I’m almost done. Hush up and listen to me.”
Every other time that foster uncle man had spoken gentle—been so gentle with the taking that I had always been able to escape in my mind and fast-forward to when he’d try and make up. One time he brought me this little cross necklace. I still got it in my purse. I don’t wear it. But I didn’t get rid of it. Other times he’d take me to the Maxie Movie Theatre. We’d go see some movie with Billy Dee or Sidney. But this time he was like some dark stranger I’d never met before. This time was different.
“Chile—,” the Liquor Store Man started but stopped. I kept on a-talking.
He’d been drinking. I knew I shoulda just hushed. Shoulda waited. But I was fourteen. I figured if I didn’t take a stand then, what with me being near ‘bout grown, I never would. I’d been beaten down all my life. That night I was ready to punch back at life a little. ‘Fore I could say something he slapped me. Hard.
“Chile, you don’t—”
“I don’t what?” I screamed, waving that gun towards his face. I was standing so close to the counter, I knew if I squeezed that trigger a little harder it would blow him away. Poof, he’d be gone. But I didn’t want to kill him. I just wanted him to listen. To hear me out. I kept talking. “I don’t what, Mr. Liquor Store Man? I don’t have to tell you he held me down on that floor and jammed his pee pee inside of me and near ‘bout tore my privates to pieces?”
I couldna told you for true but I imagined that there were tears rolling down that old Liquor Store Man’s face. Crying tears for me. But I couldna told you that for sure.
“I came in here to try and get me something to eat. And then I tried to do some business with that T-Bird fella so I could pay my way. Contribute, you know. But no. Ain’t nobody want to hear this story. So I’m just gone finish telling it and you gonna listen. Don’t say no more.”
The Liquor Store Man nodded.
There were scissors in the kitchen but I needed my foster mama’s scissors.
“Y-Y-You understand, Mr. L-L-Liquor Store Man?” I asked, the gun shaking in my hand. I took my left hand and reached up and helped my right hand steady itself so that gun stayed aimed at that old man’s face I could barely make out in the dim light of the room.
He didn’t say nothing. He just shook his head at me. I started talking again.
Her scissors were the good kind. They were sharp. They would cut my hair good. They could cut through leather. I’d seen them do it. I needed those scissors.
“A-A-All this making sense to y-y-you now?”
I looked at the Liquor Store Man but he wasn’t moving.
I was hurting that night. Couldn’t hardly put one foot before the other. My whole body hurt. Every inch of it. My mouth felt bruised inside and I had a terrible taste that started in the front of my mouth and trailed all the way down my throat ‘cause that ole foster uncle made me…swallow his…I wondered if I should go brush my teeth, but first, first I knew I needed to cut my hair.
“M-M-Mr. Liquor Store Man is you e-e-ever felt m-m-maggots on you?”
The old man spoke. “No. I ain’t.”
“W-W-Well it ain’t a good f-f-feeling I can t-t-tell you that,” I said, looking dead at that old man’s face. It seemed like his face and body was starting to melt and fade away. Like everything around me was just fading away. Seemed like I was all of a sudden back at the foster mother’s house and all these things I was talking about was happening all over again. Maybe even more realer than before.
I think I started patting my foot. Can’t say for sure. I think I faded away a bit myself too. But the words. The words kept coming. Running out of me like creek water—just flowing and flowing. Couldna stopped the words if I’d wanted too. Weren’t nothing left but the words.
I hadda cut them son’s a bitches out, see? Them maggots was eatin me alive.
I could feel my heart pounding inside my chest like it was gone take one big ole hop and jump outta my throat and flop down on the floor next to my feet. I knew I had to finish the telling.
You see, I knew if I cut I would be fine. Just fine and dandy. So I went on to my foster mama’s room and I pulled down that big ole red sewing kit from the top of her shelf in her closet. I had to jump to reach it.
I started jumping up and down in that liquor store. Just like I did that night. I was reaching with the hand that didn’t have the gun. The tears in my eyes stung me so I couldn’t hardly see straight but I stayed focused on the story.
So, when the case hit the floor the lid flew open spilling everything—needles, threads, buttons, scraps of material and them scissors. I grabbed them goddamned scissors in my right hand, see. Then I grabbed a chunk of hair with my left hand and I cut, Mr. Liquor Store Man. I cut! Cut! Cut! Cut! Cut!
With each Cut! I screamed. I shot six bullets through that Liquor Store Man. It was like something outside of myself took hold of me and did the shooting. I didn’t know I was gone do it ‘til I did it. All I’d meant to do was tell him ‘bout the cutting. ‘Stead of doing just that I cut that old man down.
“Oh God,” I moaned. Everything was coming back into focus. I was seeing everything. I dropped that gun and it made a sharp sound like something that had cracked in two. I didn’t look down at it though. Instead, I watched that old man fall. Watched as that Liquor Store Man staggered, swerved left, jerked right, then fell forward. His head cracked down on the register. Them bells on that cash register went off like he’d just made a sale. Then he slumped down to the floor. His body made a terrible sound when it hit the concrete. I wanted to reach for him, to do something, but I couldn’t move. I was trapped in my spot.
Then there weren’t no sound left in that liquor store ‘cept for the Rrrring sound of them refrigerator cases that kept the perishables cold and the sound of me taking deep, ragged breaths. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out.
“You buying, kid?”
I jumped at the question from the man behind the counter of the J-Town Liquor Store. I was so deep in my thoughts on all the different things to pick from—potato chips, potted meat, sardines, Snicker bars, Nehi grape sodas and the like—I hadn’t even noticed his black ass peering down at me. His voice was slow and painful to the ears. It sounded like he had to push out each individual syllable. He and I were just a few feet from each other with nothing but that counter separating us. He coulda reached out and grabbed me if he’d wanted to. I backed away a bit.
This was my first time coming in this store. There used to be a grocery store down the way some Chinamen ran that I’d go to, but a bunch of Negroes in the neighborhood burnt them down the other day.
“Them gooks got what they had coming to them,” this boy named Gator told me while he and I stood together and watched the flames with all the other gawkers. The firemen were trying to put out the fire, the police were trying to figure out who started the fire and the two Chinamen who ran the store were running about yapping in that Chinamen language of theirs. Then there was this woman, I spect she was the wife of one of them men. Well, she was crying and wringing her hands, looking at all of us with sad eyes. Made me feel a little bit sorry for all of them.
“Th-th-they ain’t gooks,” I mumbled. “Th-th-they Chinamen. The gooks was the J-J-Japs.” I knew this cause my foster mother’s brother fought over there in Vietnam and he told me all about them Japs. But Gator wasn’t looking for no history lesson. He just looked at me and rolled his eyes.
“Same goddamn difference,” he said. “They all got slanted eyes and they all trying to get over on us niggers.”
I didn’t say no more. Gator was a badass. I wouldn’t be surprised if he had helped start the fire. But I didn’t have time to be thinking about him or them Chinamen. I had my own worries.
So here I was at the liquor store. It was the only thing opened late and I had to go there to shop for the things I needed.
The store smelled like Clorox. Every corner of it. You couldn’t getta smell of nothing but bleach. It was like the cleanup person (who I’m guessing was the Liquor Store Man behind the counter) was trying to mask the smell of the sweaty old drunks who’d come in there with their last couple of dollars to spend on happiness in a bottle.
The old Liquor Store Man cleared his throat, Harrumph, and I reached my shaking hand into the dime store handbag I was carrying. Men folk always seemed to have a way about them that made me get the shakes. Old or young, didn’t make no never mind. They’d get me to stuttering and sweating. It never failed.
I touched the little coin purse that held one dollar and some change. All the money I had in the world. I fingered the little tube of pink lipstick by Maybelline I sometimes wore when I was trying to look growner than I was and the pair of fingernail clippers I’d found one night when I was out walking. I raked my hand across the bristles on the hairbrush I didn’t need no more since I cut off all my hair. And then I stroked the little, ole pistol I was carrying. Didn’t know what kinda pistol it was. It used to be my foster daddy’s. It was one of the few things of his I took when I run off from home.
I looked around the store again, trying to figure out what to buy. I could still feel the old man’s eyes on me. Felt almost like he was stripping me down with them goochy-looking eyes of his. I wanted me a pack of smokes. I’d took to smoking when I was just ten years old. At first I did it to fit in with the older kids. Then I did it ‘cause it helped calm my nerves after my foster daddy died when I was eleven. I’d steal a smoke out of my foster mama’s handbag. She never knew it was me. She figured it was her baby brother who did it and she never said nothing to him about nothing ‘cause he was her heart.
But I didn’t have enough money for no smokes. I didn’t have enough money for hardly nothing. My last period I had to borrow a Kotex from one of my friends.
“Kid, what you doing back there?” the Liquor Store Man called out to me.
I took my hand out of my handbag ‘cause I could tell he was getting nervous. I held my hands up and waved them a bit— almost like those old ladies in church do when they get the Holy Ghost.
“I-I-I’m thinking. Just give me a m-m-minute. You got too much t-t-to choose from in here,” I said, smiling, trying to make my voice sound all light and airy like that white girl in them Gidget movies. Tried to sound like I was all carefree and on vacation or something. You know, like I was ‘bout to go surfing with Moondoggie or somebody like that. But all I could do was stutter like some damn halfwit.
I was two days by Greyhound away from the place I’d been living with my last foster family. I’d been with them the longest. Near ‘bout six years. Weren’t much there in the town they lived in. It was just a little country town with a school, grocery store, a Baptist church for the Negroes and one for the whites and a post office. Not much more than that. I run off about three months ago to this city with its street lights and trolley cars. At first it felt good to be lost in a place. I hadn’t never felt that feeling before. Now I felt like I was getting eaten up by this place. Eaten up and spat back out with no money and not a whole hell of a lot of options.
I smiled up at the Liquor Store Man and kinda moved around from one shelf to another. Picking up and putting things back down real casual-like. I looked down at the Mickey Mouse watch my foster daddy had gotten me for my tenth birthday. It was about nine o’clock and was just getting dusky outside. Late enough for me to come out of hiding.
My foster daddy was a nice man. I think he kinda cared for me. In a fatherly kinda way. That watch was the last thing he gave me ‘fore he died. I bet if’n he was around he woulda took care of me. Seen to it that no harm came my way. I believed that to my heart.
But the milk was done spilt so weren’t nothing to do but try and clean it up the best I could. That’s why I ran off. And that’s why I spent my days in an abandoned warehouse where I lived with about six other street kids like me. Some stole, some begged, some sold themselves to nasty old men over by the corner of Perry and Jackson Street, but everybody contributed. I was at first but once my money got low, I didn’t have nothing to give. I ain’t never stole nothing in my life but some smokes from my foster mama, but I knew I had to come up with some money soon or I was gone have to start ripping off old ladies for their purses.
I wondered for a minute if I should rip off a few cans of potted meat or sardines but I could tell old hawk eyes behind the counter weren’t gone take his eyes off me. He was used to kids like me coming in and taking his stuff. But he didn’t know I had a big old monkey on my back and its name was Lemonhead. Some way or another I had to go back home with something—money, food, something.
Just the other night, Lemonhead, that’s what everybody called him, stepped to me. I was sitting over in a corner off to myself enjoying a smoke I’d bummed off this girl who slept next to me called Precious. We was like them hippies you see on television, all living together and sharing what one another had. ‘Cept we weren’t running ‘round holding up signs about Love and Peace or wearing them mismatched colors like them white hippies did. We was just a bunch of Negro kids who was down on our luck trying to hold it all together.
Lemonhead plopped down beside me. He had just finished smoking a reefer. I could smell it on him. I’d smoked some of them reefer cigarettes myself once or twice before. Didn’t care for them much. They made me lightheaded and hungry, so I just stuck to my regular tobacco smokes. Lemonhead was sixteen and the oldest of us kids. He was kinda the man in charge you might say.
“We ain’t running no charity. You got to pull your weight. You better be finding you a hustle or finding yourself some place else to lay your head.”
“I-I-I’m gone get it together, Lemon. J-J-Just give me a day or two. I-I-I swear ‘fore God, I’m gone get it together. Got something already lined up. Sw-Sw-Sw-ear it.”
Course I lied ‘cause I knew Lemonhead weren’t funning around. One kid named Lucius got kicked out a few weeks ‘fore I got there. That’s why I had to talk to this fella called T-Bird.
“You hear me talking to you, kid? I ain’t gone have no kid ignoring me,” the Liquor Store Man raised his voice. Evidently he’d been talking to me for a minute or two and I hadn’t heard a word he said.
I squinted as I looked up at him (mainly ‘cause I couldn’t half see at times and needed me some glasses). Then I reached back in my purse and stroked that pistol again. It felt cool to the touch. The old Liquor Store Man reminded me of somebody. Somebody from back home. Then I remembered. This Liquor Store Man looked just like this old blues guitar player named Skinny Bone who played at one of the jukes near the place I came from. That Skinny Bone could play one mean guitar. Sometimes that foster uncle would take me to the juke to hear him play. He’d make that guitar cry out like one of them banshees.
Liquor Store Man had the same fresh off the boat from Africa, black skin like Skinny Bone did and both of them had enough wrinkles that made them look old enough to be Moses’ first cousins. And this old dude was just as tall and bony-looking as Skinny. I bet either the Liquor Store Man or Skinny Bone could have taken on Kareem Abdul-Jabbar in a game of one-on-one back in their younger days.
“G-G-Gimme a minute,” I said to him. I took my hand out of my purse again. Who’d of thought there’d be two Skinny Bones in the world.
“Don’t have time for you kids to be messing around in my store. Either you buying or you flying.”
I nodded my head, saying, “Yes sirrrrr,” real slow so I wouldn’t stutter so much. But I stood rooted to my spot ‘cause outta the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of T-Bird driving up just as pretty as you please. I turned towards the glass door and watched as T-Bird brought his car to a fast stop. The very man I needed to see. Must have wished him up. I glanced back over my shoulder at the Liquor Store Man. He looked like he was about to come from behind that counter after me. “Yes sir, I’m b-b-buying. Gimme a minute though. Can’t be rushing ‘cause I-I-I ain’t made of money.”
I moved to the back of the store, waiting for T-Bird to come inside ‘cause weren’t no other stores open on this side of the street ‘cept the liquor store. I picked up a bag of Funyuns and turned the bag over like I was reading the ingredients or something. Then I heard the little tinkling bell at the door signifying somebody was coming in. T-Bird glided into the store almost like he was on skates or something.
He was one smooth Negro for sure. He was honey-beige colored—like God took some caramel candy, melted it down and made it into a man and called him T-Bird. He weren’t dressed loud like a lot of men in his line of business either. He had on a dark suit and he wore his hair cut low, not in one of them big afros everybody was wearing now. T-Bird put you in the mind of a preacher or an undertaker ‘stead of a pimp. He looked all serious. Like he was a man who was all about business.
I hated him. Hated I was gone have to step to the likes of him asking for favors.
“What’s happening, Old-timer,” T-Bird said to the Liquor Store Man. Liquor Store Man flashed T-Bird a snaggle-tooth grin. Any fool could tell he wasn’t gone be rushing T-Bird like he’d been rushing me. Hell, T-Bird coulda probably browsed in that store ‘til day in the morning and old Liquor Store Man wouldn’t of said one damn word. Just woulda kept standing there grinning like the old Cheshire cat himself. Stupid old man.
I felt a rumbling in my belly. I hadn’t ate nothing since the day before. I was so hungry my head was pounding right along with my gut. I’d sometimes get a headache if I went too long without eating. I decided on getting the potted meat and a Nehi grape soda, but I weren’t gone buy them ‘til after I’d talked to T-Bird. I figured that would be my treat to myself for taking care of my business so well.
Meanwhile, the Liquor Store Man kept calling T-Bird Youngblood and Big-timer. Like they was the best of buddies or something. I coulda gone up there and spat in that old man’s face. I hated him too right then.
You don’t know I got me a gun in this here purse could blow you both to Kingdom and Come, I wanted to yell. But it was enough for me to put the Funyuns back down and reach into my purse again and start stroking that gun some more. Sometimes at night I would lay on my old mattress with no covers and hold that gun close like I was cradling a baby doll. Didn’t never show it to nobody and I made sure nobody knew I had it. I didn’t want a whole bunch of people knowing about it. Scared they might take it from me or try to make me use it ‘gainst my will.
This time, whilst I stood listening to T-Bird and the old Liquor Store Man talk, I picked it up a bit. Didn’t take it out of my purse or nothing. I just let my finger brush against that trigger a little. Closed my eyes and thought about what all I could do with that gun. Doing that seemed to help me with my breathing, so for a few minutes, I just stood there with my eyes closed, stroking that gun and listening.
Then I heard the clinging of the register so I knew T-Bird musta been done getting what he was gone get. I watched while the Liquor Store Man put a bottle of Jack Daniels and a Coca-Cola in a brown paper bag.
“Keep the change, Bro,” T-Bird said. I squinched up my eyes to try and see what T-Bird handed the old man. I wasn’t for sure but I thought T-Bird paid with a twenty. I wished that coulda been me selling him that Jack and Coke. That change alone woulda bought me another day or two of freedom from Lemonhead’s evil eye for sure. T-Bird reached out and shook the old man’s hand and then glided out the door just like he came in it. I rushed to the front of the store, knocking down a cut-out picture of the Marlboro man sitting up on a horse smoking a cigarette.
“You gone buy something?” the old man asked me again but I wasn’t paying him no never mind. I took off after T-Bird. I needed to talk business with him. I hurried out the door behind him.
Even though it was late, it was sticky hot outside. Heat was so thick in the air it felt like if you opened your mouth and bit down you could eat that heat. Some boys older than me had opened up the fire hydrant a few nights before. We’d all danced and pranced in that water like we was a bunch of wild Indians celebrating after we’d called the water down from the heavens.
I got the good hair so my hair didn’t get all nappy in that water like some of the other kids. I was the only girl out there whooping and hollering with the boys. Guess the other girls didn’t want to mess up their press and curls. I didn’t mind being the only girl though. I had myself one good ole time that night.
Before I ran up to T-Bird, I looked down at what I was wearing and made sure I smoothed out any wrinkles I saw with my hands. I had on some short shorts and a tee shirt with The Jackson Five on it. Tito was my favorite. Not Michael or Jermaine like everybody else. I’d gotten the shorts and the tee shirt at the Goodwill. I could feel big drops of sweat rolling down my chest but I didn’t pay it no mind. Plus, I thought I looked cute. Cute enough that T-Bird would have to give me a job.
“H-H-Hey, Mr. T-Bird. You got time to holla at me for a m-m-minute?” I tried to use my most grown voice and I tried hard not to stutter like some ignorant fool. Tried to sound like Diana Ross did when she was talking to Billy Dee in Mahogany.
T-Bird looked me up and down. “Holla at me ‘bout what?”
“C-C-Can we turn the corner?” I said real soft and slow. I didn’t want everybody knowing my business. There were a few folks, mostly drunks and hookers, milling around, but still, I didn’t want them sniffing around me and T-Bird’s conversation.
He looked at me and smiled a little. “You don’t want to turn no corners with me. And anyway, what the hell are you? A girl or a boy?”
“Wh-Wh-What I look like? I’m a woman.” I was mad. How the hell was he gone disrespect me like that? Yeah, my hair was short and I was small, but any fool could see I was female. But I stayed cool. I needed him. I spoke slow. “I’m looking for some work, Mr. T-Bird. I know the work you’d be needing me to do. I know it well.” I was proud of myself. I didn’t stutter one time while I was making the case for him to hire me on as one of his girls.
But he just shook his head. Laughed even. Showed a mouthful of white teeth. “Can’t use you. You look too much like a little boy. No hair on your head. No tits. Can’t use you.”
“B-B-But—”
“Go grow some hair or some tits and then come back and talk to me,” he said, and left me standing at the corner of 126th Street and Royal Boulevard. I reached into my purse and stroked the gun. I almost pulled it out. Almost.
I wanted to explain. Tell him what went down. Let him know I could do the work he needed. Money was getting low and I needed him to know. Needed him to know that—I cut my hair. That there was a reason. I just needed him to stay and let me talk to him a bit. But he didn’t even look my way again as he walked off. He went on and got into his Pontiac Firebird and raced the hell off. Left me standing there looking like a fool.
“But I need— ” I didn’t even know how to finish the sentence. I needed too goddamn much that was for sure.
“Let me tell you. Let me tell you why. Why I cut my hair. Let me tell you—” I mumbled to myself, slumping down to the ground. Even though it was late, the sidewalk still felt warm to the touch. I don’t think you coulda fried an egg on it or nothing, but you coulda come damn close to it. I pulled my legs up to my chin. What now, I thought. “What now,” I said out loud.
“Son, you got to move on,” a voice said. I looked up. It was the Liquor Store Man.
“You want to hear a story?” I asked him. I didn’t even correct him about me not being a boy.
“I ain’t got time for no stories.”
“Fine. Then I’m gone go back inside your store, get me a tin of that potted meat and a Nehi grape soda and I’ll be outta your hair for good. How ‘bout that?”
“Fine. Make it quick. I’m shutting down early tonight.”
I got up and followed him back into the store. I went to the back of the store where the potted meat sat on the shelf. I looked at it for a second or two. I knew once I got it and the soda, I weren’t gone be left with much of nothing. “And hair and tits don’t grow overnight,” I muttered under my breath.
I walked back to the front of the store where the old Liquor Store Man stood behind the counter looking dark as a thunder cloud.
“You ain’t got nothing in your hand. Look kid. You gotta—”
I pulled out the gun and pointed it at him. I’d been taught how to hold a gun so I knew I was holding it proper. The old man’s eyes got big.
“I’ma gone tell you a story. You listen up and then I’ll be on my way. Somebody’s gone hear me today. Understand, Mr. Liquor Store Man?”
“Kid, put that—”
I cocked the hammer. One squeeze and this man would be dead. I soaked up all that power I was feeling. I backed my way to the door and locked it closed, never once taking my aim away from that man’s face. There was an Open/Closed sign. I flipped it to Closed and turned the lights off. The switch was right there by the door. There weren’t no light in there except from the street lamps and the little bathroom light from the restroom over to the side. That old Liquor Store Man looked like a tall, black shadow behind that counter.
“You gone listen to me,” I said inching back slowly to the counter. I could smell the old man’s fear and it made me feel as powerful as a god. He shut up real good. Stood there and stared at me with them goochy eyes of his. I bet his eyes were all bloodshot and teary-looking. He realized I was in charge now. You’d think a man his age wouldn’t be scared to stare death in the eyeballs and not blink nary a time but this old fool was near ‘bout pissing his pants.
I commenced to talking and my voice was strong and sure. I didn’t stutter once.
You see, I cut my hair and then I run off. I had fifty dollars to my name—all saved up from past Christmases’ and birthdays. Since then I’ve been living on these streets. Making myself invisible like that nameless dude in Ellison’s book.
“Who?”
“Don’t matter. That ain’t the story. The story is ‘bout the cutting.”
“You mighty young to be on the streets. Ain’t there somebody can see after you? Ain’t you got a ma and a pa?”
I rolled my eyes at him. “Everybody’s got a ma and a pa,” I said. “Mine just didn’t want me. They put me in the system when I was a baby and I got bounced from one foster home to another. So no, I ain’t got nobody. Social worker said once she thought I had some people down south. Further south than where I last stayed—further south than here. Probably old folks. Old country folks. Probably too old to take care of the likes of me. But let me tell you. Let me tell you ‘bout the cutting. See, that’s the whole point of the story.”
I cut. I cut and run, you might say. I didn’t want to run but I didn’t know what else to do. You’d of run too, okay? A body can just take so much ‘fore it just swells up and bursts. I’d got to the point where it weren’t nothing left for me to do but burst.
You see it was two days after my fourteenth birthday when I decided I had had enough. I knew he’d come to my room that night. My foster mama was away and he’d been drinking all afternoon. My foster uncle came to my room all drunk, wild-eyed and his mind fixed on making me love him. That’s what he’d say all the time. “Love on me, Scratch. That’s all I need you to do. Just love on me.” He was the one started calling me Scratch. Said he called me that ‘cause I was thin as a scratching hen.
I stared hard at the Liquor Store Man. “I hate that name and ain’t nobody gone call me that name again. Guarantee you that, Sir.”
“Is there somebody I can call?” the Liquor Store Man asked again. He was looking around like he was trying to find a place to run. Why should he have a place to run when all them times that foster uncle of mine came knocking on my door and all I could do was stay and take it? All I was asking this Liquor Store Man to do was to just be still and hear a story. And he couldn’t even do that one thing right, I thought as I stepped a little closer, keeping my aim steady and sure. Funny. It was Foster Uncle who taught me how to shoot a pistol. Said I never knew when I might need to protect myself. Now weren’t that a hoot? Him teaching me how to protect myself.
“Done told you I ain’t got nobody. This story ain’t gone take long. But I need to tell it. I need to tell you—somebody—about the cutting. Got to tell —”
I begun the story again.
He didn’t even knock. Just barged on in on me. Most times he would knock. My mind should have told me this weren’t the time to try and have a conversation with him. I was laying up in my bed. I had me some Cinderella sheets. What he would do to me ought not never be done on no Cinderella sheets.
“Maybe we shouldn’t talk about this,” the Liquor Store Man said. He was backing up like I was some yard dog done cornered him and was about to bite. I shook that gun a little and he got still again.
I said to my foster uncle that night, I want us to be normal. No more night visits. He said, ‘You got a boyfriend or something? Is that what this is about? You messing around with some nappy head?’ Then he pulled me by my legs and threw me to the floor. He punched my face and it felt like it was going to cave in on itself. He’d never been rough before. Oh it had hurt but it weren’t ‘cause he was trying to make it hurt, least ways I don’t think he was.
“Honey, we can call the police. They can—”
“Hush up, Mr. Liquor Store Man. I’m almost done. Hush up and listen to me.”
Every other time that foster uncle man had spoken gentle—been so gentle with the taking that I had always been able to escape in my mind and fast-forward to when he’d try and make up. One time he brought me this little cross necklace. I still got it in my purse. I don’t wear it. But I didn’t get rid of it. Other times he’d take me to the Maxie Movie Theatre. We’d go see some movie with Billy Dee or Sidney. But this time he was like some dark stranger I’d never met before. This time was different.
“Chile—,” the Liquor Store Man started but stopped. I kept on a-talking.
He’d been drinking. I knew I shoulda just hushed. Shoulda waited. But I was fourteen. I figured if I didn’t take a stand then, what with me being near ‘bout grown, I never would. I’d been beaten down all my life. That night I was ready to punch back at life a little. ‘Fore I could say something he slapped me. Hard.
“Chile, you don’t—”
“I don’t what?” I screamed, waving that gun towards his face. I was standing so close to the counter, I knew if I squeezed that trigger a little harder it would blow him away. Poof, he’d be gone. But I didn’t want to kill him. I just wanted him to listen. To hear me out. I kept talking. “I don’t what, Mr. Liquor Store Man? I don’t have to tell you he held me down on that floor and jammed his pee pee inside of me and near ‘bout tore my privates to pieces?”
I couldna told you for true but I imagined that there were tears rolling down that old Liquor Store Man’s face. Crying tears for me. But I couldna told you that for sure.
“I came in here to try and get me something to eat. And then I tried to do some business with that T-Bird fella so I could pay my way. Contribute, you know. But no. Ain’t nobody want to hear this story. So I’m just gone finish telling it and you gonna listen. Don’t say no more.”
The Liquor Store Man nodded.
There were scissors in the kitchen but I needed my foster mama’s scissors.
“Y-Y-You understand, Mr. L-L-Liquor Store Man?” I asked, the gun shaking in my hand. I took my left hand and reached up and helped my right hand steady itself so that gun stayed aimed at that old man’s face I could barely make out in the dim light of the room.
He didn’t say nothing. He just shook his head at me. I started talking again.
Her scissors were the good kind. They were sharp. They would cut my hair good. They could cut through leather. I’d seen them do it. I needed those scissors.
“A-A-All this making sense to y-y-you now?”
I looked at the Liquor Store Man but he wasn’t moving.
I was hurting that night. Couldn’t hardly put one foot before the other. My whole body hurt. Every inch of it. My mouth felt bruised inside and I had a terrible taste that started in the front of my mouth and trailed all the way down my throat ‘cause that ole foster uncle made me…swallow his…I wondered if I should go brush my teeth, but first, first I knew I needed to cut my hair.
“M-M-Mr. Liquor Store Man is you e-e-ever felt m-m-maggots on you?”
The old man spoke. “No. I ain’t.”
“W-W-Well it ain’t a good f-f-feeling I can t-t-tell you that,” I said, looking dead at that old man’s face. It seemed like his face and body was starting to melt and fade away. Like everything around me was just fading away. Seemed like I was all of a sudden back at the foster mother’s house and all these things I was talking about was happening all over again. Maybe even more realer than before.
I think I started patting my foot. Can’t say for sure. I think I faded away a bit myself too. But the words. The words kept coming. Running out of me like creek water—just flowing and flowing. Couldna stopped the words if I’d wanted too. Weren’t nothing left but the words.
I hadda cut them son’s a bitches out, see? Them maggots was eatin me alive.
I could feel my heart pounding inside my chest like it was gone take one big ole hop and jump outta my throat and flop down on the floor next to my feet. I knew I had to finish the telling.
You see, I knew if I cut I would be fine. Just fine and dandy. So I went on to my foster mama’s room and I pulled down that big ole red sewing kit from the top of her shelf in her closet. I had to jump to reach it.
I started jumping up and down in that liquor store. Just like I did that night. I was reaching with the hand that didn’t have the gun. The tears in my eyes stung me so I couldn’t hardly see straight but I stayed focused on the story.
So, when the case hit the floor the lid flew open spilling everything—needles, threads, buttons, scraps of material and them scissors. I grabbed them goddamned scissors in my right hand, see. Then I grabbed a chunk of hair with my left hand and I cut, Mr. Liquor Store Man. I cut! Cut! Cut! Cut! Cut!
With each Cut! I screamed. I shot six bullets through that Liquor Store Man. It was like something outside of myself took hold of me and did the shooting. I didn’t know I was gone do it ‘til I did it. All I’d meant to do was tell him ‘bout the cutting. ‘Stead of doing just that I cut that old man down.
“Oh God,” I moaned. Everything was coming back into focus. I was seeing everything. I dropped that gun and it made a sharp sound like something that had cracked in two. I didn’t look down at it though. Instead, I watched that old man fall. Watched as that Liquor Store Man staggered, swerved left, jerked right, then fell forward. His head cracked down on the register. Them bells on that cash register went off like he’d just made a sale. Then he slumped down to the floor. His body made a terrible sound when it hit the concrete. I wanted to reach for him, to do something, but I couldn’t move. I was trapped in my spot.
Then there weren’t no sound left in that liquor store ‘cept for the Rrrring sound of them refrigerator cases that kept the perishables cold and the sound of me taking deep, ragged breaths. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out.