PART I:
"Leave me alone," the dark haired girl whines, running her hand through her curls. She's vain about her hair, making damn sure that every strand is in perfect order. Daring to mess all that up by running her fingers through is a gesture of frustration from her childhood that she's never quite gotten over.
"Just leave me be, ok? I can't be dealin' with this right now," she protests again, lightly shoving the tall man crowding her at the 145th subway station.
Now she runs her hands down her clothes, but immediately pulls them away as though her her navy blue and white blouse is scalding at the touch. She's remembered that the gel she's laid down to keep her hair in place is not yet dry and she can't risk smearing that on her blouse. Not today, when everything needed to be perfect.
Her mother had given her this blouse two Christmases before. They had sat across from one another, mother and daughter, the garish white plastic Christmas tree on the table slightly obscuring each other's faces. The small, tidy apartment in the Mott Haven section of the Bronx was as festive as the the home ever got, and in the background an old style boom box played Nat King Cole quietly.
The graying walls held pictures of Ayla at varying stages. Here, she was a kindergartener, accepting her "gradution" diploma. There, she was a smiling 5th grader, at St. Francis' middle school "promotion" ceremony. There were no pictures from high school graduation, but then, Ayla hadn't made it to that milestone.
That winter had been extremely cold, and Ayla had been glad to huddle inside the large, overheated building that had once been a warehouse. She hadn't seen her mother since the summer, when, as always, they'd had a disagreement over money. and her job as a promoter. and her friendship with Terri.
As Ayla came through the door of her mother's apartment, the scent of curry and fried grease from the meal's preparation pervaded the space. Still, a vague aroma of soot and gasoline lingered, a seemingly permanent remnant of the gross fires that had consumed the neighborhood some 20 years before.
She'd hadn't been surprised that Ma Bailey had gotten her a gift. They'd gone months without talking before, but her mother was always sure to remember Christmas and her birthday, even through these silences. Ayla, of course, hadn't brought anything. She knew that even if she had, her mother would have refused it anyway, saying that she should spend any money she had on "improving herself first and foremost."
From the moment she had removed the article from the Macy's blue and black wrapping paper, Ayla had hated the blouse, with it's old school, conservative cut, and it's pathetic navy blue and white checkered pattern. But for the fact that she was here on a mission, Ayla would have chastised her mother about the fact that she, in her 21 years of existence, had never, ever worn a blouse. She had never been a girly girl (save for her obsession with her hair) and she resented her mother's constant attempt to make her act more like a "proper lady."
"Ma," Ayla said, gingerly placing the blouse under the folding chair she sat on, "I'm pregnant."
Ma Bailey's impassive face looked up from the curried goat she had been viciously attacking and gave her daughter her patented dead eyed stare. She chewed deliberately, her prominent jawline and long oval face making her appear very much like the quadruped she supped on.
Like many West Indian women, she wasn't a smiley person, but she wasn't mean either. She was a dogmatic figure, firmly set in her ways, and as intransigent as amalgamated steel. Children (pronounced "chilrren") needed to avoid "rudeness" (said with a rolled "r") and "back chattin" demanded immediate and violent corrective action, no matter the situation or age of the child. For Ma, the world existed only for those whom she interacted with. The Jews she cleaned apartments for were rich and cheap but "the white people" (everyone else) were "natural evil". All the St Thomians she went to church with all the way in Brooklyn were "a lazy bunch" (herself excluded of course) and the Jamaicans and Trinidadians talked too much. The Dominicans who lived next door couldn't be trusted, but her Puerto Ricans neighbors were flat out "thieving" (pronounced "tee-vin).
Ma didn't offer much on the subject of love, though she seemed to have a mild contempt for the male species. As a child, when Ayla had been curious about who her father was Ma had pointed to her night stand, where a small black and white picture of an exceptionally handsome white-looking man in soldier's garb rested. He had thick curly hair and light, almost translucent eyes.
"He's dead, child, and it's probably better that way," she'd said in a matter of fact tone. "Now quit all your gabbin, and do your chores like I asked you too."
Now, as Nat King Cole drawled "Have Yourself a Merry Christmas," Ma considered her daughter, in her "OBEY" t-shirt, and her oversize baggy jeans, her short curly hair, and her septum piercing.
"Well, " she said, picking at a piece of Johnny cake on get plate, "is he white?"
Ayla sighed, and put down her fork, suddenly feeling a loss of appetite. "He's Puerto Rican."
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PART II:
"Just leave me alone boy, I ain't PLAYIN' with you," says the curly haired girl with light, almost translucent eyes.
Today is her big interview, a huge opportunity.
The last three years had been a blur. The sudden passing of her mother. The long unexpected period of mourning that had consumed her. Her rash decision to get her GED one night while putting away shots of Bacardi with Terri at the lesbian bar over in Tremont. The softening transformation that came over her as she began wearing makeup and removed her most obscene piercings. Her enrollment in community college classes while Terri stayed with the baby. Her graduation just last week with an associates degree. And today, an interview with a dental practice looking for a hygienist.
The man in front of her leans in and gives two sloppy kisses, sticking his tongue out in wet hot anticipation. His hands, jittery with excitement, grabs everywhere, now grazing her ass, now passing over her breast.
"Stop it nigga, go home. I ain't got shit for you "
The man smiles condescendingly, and unsteadily reaches out, pulling her bag.
" No, Brandon-"
In a flash of strength, the man yanks the satchel bag, and laughs out loud when Ayla yelps in outrage.
"GIMME BACK MY BAG, YOU CRACK HEAD!"
In an instant, the playfulness in the man vanishes and is replaced with a violent hard edge. In a swift motion, his hands are wrapped around her wrists, digging deep into her flesh. His blue eyes glitter in malice and pleasure, and a bright sheen of sweat dots his golden skin.
Ayla had once thought those blue eyes had been pretty. They'd always been mean, but their scariness had been enticing. dangerous. alluring. She'd met Brandon Gonzalez at Zeus, the small tattoo place on Christopher street. He'd been the tattoo artist who had worked on Ayla's first, a skull and heart from the indie band Rice. She'd tattooed the area between her toes, a decidedly uncomforatable place for needle work, but she'd been determined to appear hard and unbothered.
He had been deeply amused by her. She was hot as fuck but, it seemed to him, determined to hide it behind a hipster/goth facade. He found out that getting into her pants was only a matter of complimenting the shit out of her. Still, he had a Catholic sense of duty in him and when he'd gotten her pregnant after a month of hooking up, they'd moved in together.
Now, as she stared into the hapless eyes of her first love, she wondered if she should have known then that this dude was hyped up on all kinds of shit. He'd lost his job long ago they'd stopped living together soon after, before her baby boy had been born.
Still, when things were particularly bad for him, Brandon always managed to show up in her life, always at the most inconvenient times, always demanding her attention, always taking her money...
"Listen, you fuckin dyke," Brandon hisses, his mouth inches away from Ayla's ears, "Don't talk to me that way. I will fuck you UP right here, right now."
A young man nearby on the platform, turns his head way, pretending to be buried in a novel. A woman in her janitorial suit puts on her Dr. Beats headphones, oblivious. The high school students a couple of feet away gawk for a moment, before moving down the platform. The officer down the way casually glances over and then contently whistles to himself.
"I'm sorry Brandon," Ayla says, taking a breath and speaking as sweetly as her voice allowed.
"I'm just stressed out, that's all. Christopher couldn't sleep last night so I guess I'm just hype about that. He look just like you, you know."
Ayla watches her ex-boyfriend's eyes for a sign that what she'd said had taken effect. The mere mention of their son always calms Brandon down, no matter what he was on.
"Watch yourself," Brandon says after a moment, gruffly, gradually loosening the young woman from his iron grip. "Now gimme a kiss."
Silently, she obeys as he runs his grimmy hands over her blouse, in her hair, over her body.
"I need a couple dollars, girl," he commands, his trembling hands coming to rest over her buttocks.
Ayla nods.
Gingerly, she unplucks herself from his embrace, and takes the bag that dangles over his shoulders. Reaching in, she produces a crisp 5 dollar bill.
"Bitch," he warns, his eyes darkening for a brief moment.
Sighing, she hands him another 10.
Suddenly, a low rumble can be heard down the deep tunnels, and the lights of an approaching train appear. She barrels forward at a great speed, majestic in the filthy subterranean platform; several hundred tons of elegant efficiency, a glorious electronic modern miracle.
She does not ponder ramifications and complications. She does not wonder about justification and rationalization. She does not feel anticipation or stimulation. She just moves.
With an almost effortless strength, she pushes out outward, snarling the shell of a man against the tracks, buried deep in the belly of Harlem.
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