L.A. Blues Read online

  I felt guilty because I never rescued my younger brother and sister out of the foster care system, and I felt guilty because I was the one who caused our family to be split up. My father was dead and my mother was locked up because of what I did. I’d lost touch with my oldest brother after joining the police force. What was I to do?

  I decided that I would get a job, but for the first time I glanced in a mirror. I looked God awful. My bobbed hair was standing all over my head, my eyes looked like how I imagined scarlet fever would make your eyes look, and I was so dehydrated I felt like a hot box had set up residency in my chest. I didn’t know what to do with myself. I decided then I needed help.

  I picked up a phone book and called Alcoholics Anonymous, but I ended up taking another drink and forgetting about that plan. These words remained engraved in my head.

  On 12-31-06, at approximately 04:00 hours after your partner’s death in the line of duty, you were found to have 0.10 alcohol content in your system, which rendered you incapable of backing up your partner.

  6

  I woke up in a cold sweat, twisting and turning from my recurring nightmare. This dream came every so often and it reminded me of the Temptations’ song because I kept having the same one about “the day my daddy died.”

  In the nightmare, after my father got shot, he sat up, bullet hole in his chest, and said to me, “Wake up, Zipporah. I can’t save you now. You have to save yourself.”

  I fought to pull myself out of the jaws of this dream. As I slowly drifted back into consciousness, I felt an erection poking in my back. Its owner, my “friend,” Officer Gerald Tyler, known as Flag by everyone in the department, was spooning me.

  “Come on, baby, give me some more.”

  I blinked to clear my eyes. Everything appeared watery. I saw my candles burning throughout the room and flickering on the wall since my lights were currently still cut off. As my room came into focus, I noticed everything seemed turned upside down. Did I do this while I was under the influence? But my mind was on what Flag had said.

  I turned and glared at this fool. No he didn’t say ‘some more?’ Did I have sex with him?

  I never fooled myself into thinking I loved Flag, but he was, and still is, bar none, the best lover I ever had. At the same time, I never deluded myself about him though. He was a male whore, using his badge to get all the women he could, which is why he couldn’t stay married. To my knowledge, he’d been divorced three times. But Flag—also known as ‘the Flagpole’ in the bedroom—knew he could give out some thug-lovin’.

  I understood Flag grew up in Compton. As a narcotics undercover cop, I often wondered which side of the law he was on, he dressed so street. Sagging pants. The whole bit. I also kept promising myself I would stop messing with him before he caused me to have a complete hysterectomy, but his loving was like crack. You had to ease off it—you couldn’t just go cold turkey, and hit it and quit it.

  Anyhow, I vaguely remembered Flag coming over last night, but I’d gotten so wasted I couldn’t remember us having sex. He was actually an ex-boyfriend later relegated to a booty-call, so I don’t know what he was doing in my bed. I turned around, looked down and saw his naked penis bobbing up towards my hips.

  “Where’s your condom? Did you use one last night?”

  I groaned inside. I was going to have to stop all this drinking. Flag was just too promiscuous to not use a condom with. It would be like playing a game of Russian roulette with my life. No way was he running up in me raw. Or did he?

  “Yeah, I had a bag on old boy, here.” He glanced down at his manhood, poking out his chest. He was proud of his length and his girth. He was truly hung, but unfortunately, his penis was attached to an idiot—a good looking one at that. Although he was black, people thought that Flag was Chicano or Dominican or something because of his wavy black hair and apricot complexion.

  “Show it to me.” I was adamant, even if I was still semi-drunk.

  He reached in the small waste paper basket I kept by my bed and pulled up a used condom filled with sperm.

  “Good.” I looked around my ransacked room. The drawers were turned over and clothes were strewn all over the floor. Did I do this while I was drunk? I wondered again. I really did need to quit all this drinking. Perhaps I would go to rehab. Then it hit me. What if Flag did this? What was he looking for?

  “Hey, what the hell happened to my room?” I asked. “Did you do this?”

  Flag gave me a blank look. “I dunno. It was like this when I got here. What the hell you been doing around here?”

  I shrugged, then reached beneath my bed and pulled out a short dog. I sucked in a deep swig and I let out a satisfied “Ahhhh!”

  “You need to lay off that shit, Z,” Flag said, reaching for my half-pint bottle.

  Only a person who was in my shoes could understand how I felt. When I used to see the drunks on the corner and in the park, I used to think they were weak. That’s how they got there. But now I understood how they got there. Life kicked them in the ass and brought them to their knees. Now people looked at me with disgust, but unless you were hurting, like I was hurting, you couldn’t judge a person. I was not weak. I just couldn’t take any more.

  I slapped his hand away. “Leave my shit alone.”

  Flag’s tone turned serious. “I know you and Okamoto were close, but you’ve got to pull yourself together.”

  “Yeah, we were close.”

  “Did he ever tell you anything about what he was going to Internal Affairs for?”

  “No. Why you want to know?” I turned and looked at him suspiciously.

  “Oh, I was just wondering.” Flag waved his hand in dismissal.

  I gulped down another deep swallow and let out an exaggerated belch. “Oops, excuse me.” I covered my lips. The truth was, I was in a space where I didn’t give a flip for or about social proprieties.

  “Com’on, Z, put that bottle down.”

  “Go screw yourself, Flag.”

  “No, I wanna screw you.” He placed his finger on the side of his nose as if he was pondering something. “Girl, you know your bullet hole scar is sexy.” Flag began tracing my scar from my surgery and the hole where the bullet came out through my upper back shoulder.

  “You’re so ghetto.” I chuckled softly and felt myself weakening, but I forced myself to slip on my night shirt which was crumpled at the foot of the bed. I was determined not to give in.

  Obviously, the word about my termination had traveled around the station and the other divisions like gossip on the underground railroad. Being a police officer had its own little subculture, so why not? I even received a few phone messages on my answering machine. “Z, I heard about that shit that went down. Are you going to fight back? Pull the race card on they ass.”

  “Yeah,” I’d say out loud to my answering machine. “I’ma fight this shit.” The truth was I’d think about appealing the decision, but then I’d go get drunk instead. I was too guilt-ridden over Okamoto’s murder to fight for my old job. I just couldn’t face working as a police officer again.

  Anyhow, since my divorce, Flag and I had been on-again, off-again lovers now for the past three years. Good sex was really hard to find these days was the excuse I gave myself—so many men in their thirties were already using Viagra, but I really was trying to wean myself off this man.

  “I’ve got to get out of here,” I announced, dangling my legs over the bed.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “I’ve got to go pick up my mother today.”

  “Oh, so she’s getting out?”

  “Yeah. They transferred her down to County, so I just need to help her get to a halfway house.”

  For years my mother had been incarcerated in Central California Women’s Facility. Last week, her parole officer had contacted Shirley, who, in turn, called me. When I said I wasn’t going to pick Venita up, Shirley got on me. “She is your mother,” she said pointedly. “The Bible says to honor your mother and father so that it will
go well with you. It’s always better to do the right thing.”

  “I don’t owe her anything,” I said through gritted teeth. I fumed over the idea for a few days, but in one of my rare moments of hung-over sobriety, I decided I’d go pick Venita up on today’s date. I wanted to confront the woman who was the cause of all my present day problems. I guess that was why I started drinking yesterday before Flag showed up.

  “I thought you didn’t even keep up with her,” Flag said, interrupting my reverie.

  “What kind of hold does your mother have on you?”

  “Hey, that’s my moms you’re talking about.” I switched gears on him. “How did you get in here?” I asked, still trying to remember letting him in. I knew I was drunk, but how did I let this fool in?

  He reached his hand out to me. “‘You’re kidding, aren’t you?”

  I decided to pretend I remembered letting him in. “Hey, I’m just playing.”

  Flag reached his hand out to mine. “Come with me and be my love. Who is that, baby?” As part of the package, Flag also quoted love poetry, which felt like an oxymoron for his thugged-out appearance, but it was also part of his quirky appeal. He made me think of Jada Pinkett and Allen Payne in the movie Jason’s Lyric.

  “John Donne. But that’s not what I asked you.” I stuck to the point.

  “I thought you said we could get back together last night.”

  “No, I didn’t.” Now I knew I had to stop this drinking.

  “Com’on. Let’s just do it one more time for old time’s sake. We did it last night.”

  “I don’t think so. When I’m through I’m through. You cooked your own goose.” I was trying to remember the wrong he’d done when we were dating, but I’d forgotten. I knew it was some other woman—too many to even bother fighting over. He wasn’t the most discreet player.

  “Okay. Your loss.” He climbed out of the bed, circling his member in his hand, trying to entice me.

  The truth was I hadn’t forgotten how good the sex was. It was just the empty feeling I couldn’t stand afterwards. Anyhow, he said we did it when I was drunk last night. I didn’t even remember it.

  Before I could throw Flag out, I heard this loud rapping at my door and it made me jack knife out the bed. I stumbled onto the slate marble floor, still half high, kicking clothes out of my path, and staggered out the room. I passed through my open floor plan that boasted a loft on the second floor, then bounded down the stairs, holding the pinewood stair rail, head splitting in half from my hang over. I flung open the door, shouting, “Who is it?”

  And there stood Romero. “What are you doing here?” I asked, my hand on my hip.

  “I thought you might could use a friend.”

  “Oh, so who sent you?”

  “Nobody. I came as a friend.”

  “Friend? I don’t know you. Stay away from me. I don’t need a good Samaritan now. I’m a grown woman.” As far as I was concerned, he was throwing salt in my game. He didn’t have any business coming by unannounced. Maybe I was about to take care of business. He didn’t know that.

  I slammed the door in his face, but I felt funny, seeing Romero’s hurt expression.

  I peeked through the stained glass window in my oak door and watched him stride up the sidewalk along the man-made canal. I loved the canal. I loved my clapboard two-story house, and I loved the ocean view from my window. I often walked down to Venice Beach from my condo.

  It was after Romero disappeared that I noticed a card he shoved under the door. It read the House of the Future Rehab. I don’t need no rehab, I thought. What was he talking about? I stuck it in my jacket pocket, which was hanging on a coat tree in my foyer. Suddenly, I noticed my console cabinet doors in my living room were open and papers were scattered all over the floor. Damn. Why did I trash my house like this? I scratched my head. What was I looking for? I couldn’t even remember. Lord, I really needed to quit all this drinking. After today, I was going to quit.

  I went and picked the papers up off the floor. As I stood up, I caught a glimpse of myself in the gilded wall mirror. I looked a hot mess. My hair stood on end like a Senegalese jungle, and in a moment of clarity, I saw myself through Romero’s eyes. I did look like a drunk.

  I climbed the stairs back to the bedroom, in time to see Flag hanging up his cell phone.

  “Who was that at the door?” Flag asked, regarding who was at the front door.

  I didn’t answer. “Who was that on the phone?”

  “That was Anderson, my partner.” A stricken look, almost one of apprehension, flitted across his face.

  “What did he want?”

  “He just wanted to know if we were going to the Laker’s game this weekend.”

  I knew he had a white partner named Julius Anderson and they had been partners for a long time, but I didn’t believe that was Anderson on the other line. Even so, I ignored Flag’s lie and, out of a sense of perverseness, or maybe a sense of rebellion against Romero trying to run my life, I decided to let Flag finish what he started. I wanted to forget the mess I made of my house. I wanted to escape the fact I couldn’t even remember trashing my own place.

  “Let’s take a shower,” I cooed, pulling him toward my large marbled bathroom with the ten by twelve granite shower. In addition to the foreplay, I knew a good shower would sober me up.

  “Let’s play police and prostitute,” Flag whispered in my ear as he soaped my back side. “Hook me and book me, baby.”

  “It’s on,” I murmured.

  And freaky as Flag was, liking S&M, loving me to use handcuffs on him since I played the officer, and he the male prostitute, I complied. When we stumbled out the shower into the bedroom, I pulled out my police belt. He liked me to flog his buttocks with my belt, and at least, this time I was not as drunk anymore—I was only hung over—so, when we finally got busy, I reached a good climax, which should tide me over for a while, I hoped. I promised myself that I was through with Flag. But I saw him again and again after that. He was like drinking alcohol for me—an irresistible drug.

  A couple of hours later, I whipped off the Hollywood Freeway into northern downtown. I hadn’t seen my mother since I was nine, so I would never have recognized her when she came through the County Jail’s gates at Bauchet Street at North Vignes Street.

  Over the years, Shirley had been communicating with my mother, and she was the liaison person who received all the original letters to me. I guess I still had Shirley on my contact information as next-of-kin, and the parole board had her contact me earlier last year, then again last week.

  “Zipporah,” a strange voice called out to me. “It’s your mother.”

  I looked up to see a slattern looking strange woman. Venita? Was that my mother Venita? In my memory, she’d never aged. She was still in her early twenties, which was the last age I saw her.

  I couldn’t believe how haggard she looked now. She had come out of prison looking like somebody’s death warmed over. The big breasts and big behind that she’d been famous for in the projects was gone. She was all angles. She was wearing her once beautiful long hair cut close to her scalp.

  Just say Venita had not aged well. At fifty, her hair was gray, and she had no teeth. I couldn’t believe it. She used to be a showstopper of a woman. My God, what happened to her?

  “Zipporah?” she said, staring at me. I guess she still remembered me and, from pictures provided by Shirley, knew how I looked twenty-three years later.

  She hugged me, and I just stood with my arms hanging to my side. Does this woman know how much destruction she has wrought in my life and those of my siblings? Why did she have to be a Crip? Why couldn’t she have been a normal mother, whatever that was?

  “Hi.” I flashed her a fake smile.

  “Are you all right? Shirley told me what happened to you.”

  “I’m fine.” My voice sounded cold even to myself.

  “So good to see you. Did you get my letters?”

  “No. I didn’t get them.” I think ab
out all the letters I refused to open or had burnt that Shirley had given me. I blamed her for my father’s death. If she hadn’t been who she was, he would have never gotten killed, as far as I was concerned. I don’t even see how my father got involved with her anyhow. He was a UPS driver, and a law abiding citizen. She was too wild for his lifestyle, but he made sure he picked me up every weekend up until the day he died.

  We were silent on the drive as I took the Santa Monica Freeway West to Crenshaw Ramp exit. I drove her over to a courtyard of a four-family flat on Crenshaw. This was one of the many sober living and half-way houses peppered all around L.A.

  “Do you know where David is?” Venita asked when we pulled up in front of the address she’d given me to drop her off.

  I almost snapped, “Who?” and then I remembered Mayhem’s birth name was David. Ironically, my mother named us all out of the Bible. David, Zipporah, Daniel, and Righteousness. I never remembered her taking us to church, but apparently, she knew her Bible.

  I sucked my teeth in disgust. “Still banging with his old self. Selling drugs. In and out of prison. I’m not sure if he’s in or out now.”

  “You have his number?”

  “No. Why?”

  “He is your brother. Why not? You used to idolize him when you were a little girl. You used to follow him around all day and say, ‘Who, Dave, Mama?”

  I hated to cut Venita’s stroll down memory lane short, but she made me want to puke. “Do you know where Righteousness and Diggity are?”

  She gasped, as if I hit her in her Adam’s apple. “No.” Her voice sounded humble and penitent.

  “They were both adopted, as far as I know,” I went on. “Anyhow, I was never able to get them like I thought I would when I got grown.” I turned and hardened my face, angry at her for my failing. I was silent as we pulled off into the traffic.

  Venita finally broke the silence. “Why are you so angry at me?”