Introduction
Every Road Has to End Somewhere
I woke up to a beautiful day. I was in Gary, Indiana, staying with my brother Todd. A few weeks back, he had saved me from myself and California. I left my family twelve years before as a drop-dead beauty and came back a messed-up crackhead. But they still loved me; I was still their sister. Todd was always trying to rescue and help me. He had just bought me a new outfit. Really nice jeans with the zipper that circled my hips and a white fitted top. White gym shoes. He got my hair done. My brother wanted me to look good; he didn’t want my daughter Prune seeing me look any kind of way. I hadn’t seen her yet, but I knew she was twenty-something years old, accomplished, and somebody I wanted to look up to. My brother had told me I could sleep as long as I wanted; I could stay with him as long as I needed. I took him up on it. The crack cocaine had me worn out. For a couple of weeks, all I was good for was sleeping and eating a little bit. But that day, April Fool’s Day, was the first time I woke up and wanted to stay woke. I wanted to wake up and appreciate my brother’s basement.
When my brother bought the house, it was a mess. He had moved away from Chicago when he had been robbed. They had carjacked him. So he decided to move to Gary. He found a one-story house and worked all day and at night and on the weekends until he had his house just the way he wanted. He’d made a laundry room and a very nice bathroom; in the basement, he’d made two rooms. Green leather sofa, big-screen TV in one, and in the other, a pullout couch, but a really nice one. Wood paneling all around. Big rug. I was sleeping on the nice pullout couch. My brother Todd was so good to me. Gave me the whole basement. Get your thoughts together, he told me. “You really looking wretched, girl.”
When I woke up that morning, I noticed the spring weather right outside. Sunshine coming in through the basement windows. I could smell the brand-new leaves growing on the bushes in my brother’s backyard. And I was hungry.
I went upstairs to the kitchen. Todd had made me breakfast. A bowl of grits and eggs were set on the table. So was a nice pile of money. I stole glances at the cash and scooped the warm buttered grits into my mouth. I dug in.
“Brenda!” my brother called out from the other room.
“Yeah?”
“Don’t take all my money, now!”
I yelled back, “I’m not!” But I took a little. Not enough to hurt him, you know. I counted it. Four hundred dollars. I peeled off a hundred and twenty and stuck it in my titty. That was just enough to do what I needed to do. See, with all that sleep and good food in me, I could finally hear it: the crack cocaine calling. I finished up breakfast and took off toward Broadway. I can’t remember if I told my brother I would be back.
* * *
I knew I couldn’t get drugs from the crack dealers down the block. I didn’t want them telling my brother, “Your sister was out here buying crack cocaine from us.” Plus, he had already asked them very nicely to move their business down the street. He was trying to have a nice house. Todd ran his mechanic shop out of his garage, and he had a lot of women and older guys as his clients. Folks wouldn’t come out to him if they had to push through dealers and crackheads just to get their brakes fixed.
I had a plan, though. I was gone go to Chicago, get my high on, and then come back like I ain’t done a thing. That was the plan. As soon as I made it to Madison Street, I didn’t care how amazing the day was. I just wanted to get high. It was a shame how I spent that day hustling to try to get high. A day that was so beautiful. The flowers were smelling good. I was looking good. Todd was taking care of me. I had on new clothes and my hair was done, but I couldn’t wait to get back to that greasy, nasty-ass city and get high. I think about it now, I think that day was supposed to happen cause I needed to get to the end of that life. It was a hell of a day. I hopped on the South Shore Line train and headed to Chicago.
* * *
When I got to the city, I found out there was a drought. Wasn’t no drugs on the street. It happens every now and then. Sometimes drug dealers get a big shipment, and the police snatch it up. There wasn’t nothing nowhere. I promise you. I hooked up with my homeboy Petey. He was one of those dudes who wore work clothes even when he wasn’t working. Work boots, jumpsuit. The whole thing. He worked in construction, doing a little work in the neighborhood for ten dollars. Together, we searched everywhere. People who did have some drugs was holding on to it or selling it for outrageous prices. Folks were getting pissed off. It was a whole bunch of mess.
Me and Petey stopped on Pulaski Street. That was the spot where I used to go to get high, but they didn’t have anything. We walked to a couple more spots on the West Side, but didn’t nobody have nothing. And I was ready to shake loose from Petey. The more we looked for drugs together, the more complicated it got. Petey started having ideas about my money. He started pulling at me, saying, “Let’s go get something to drink.”
“Nah, man.”
“Let’s go spend some of this money.”
No way, I told him. He was trying to block my action. Plus, every time I turn my head, here go Petey rubbing on my ass. So I separated. I didn’t give away my honeypot. I been a ho too long for that kind of nonsense.
* * *
I went up on Madison to the ho stroll, near Kilbourn, because I knew you can always get drugs up there. JR’s Hotel—it was a two-hour hotel that the girls could use with no questions asked—was nearby. See, even if you couldn’t find it no place else, you could bet your damn dollar they was gone have crack up there. And I wanted my fix right now. I could feel it in my stomach. I went up to Madison, and I went to this furniture store that this old guy owned. Back when I used to roam K-Town, he used to let me come in there and use the bathroom, you know, do my thing. And he had this young girl he was keeping. She was a friend of mine, Diane. Young girl, seventeen years old. Chocolate and pretty all over. And he must have been sixty-eight, sixty-nine years old. Old, bald-head church guy with this young girl. He controlled her terribly. He could control her because she had a habit. I went and asked her if she knew where to go and get some, and she did. Diane asked if she could go in half with me, so she went in to him to get some money, and I could hear them going back and forth, “I don’t want you doing that stuff. Wait till later.” But I guess he had some weak ways, too, because he gave her money and she went out and got some.
That ten-dollar rock was so small. Just pebble size. And I’m thinking, This is bullshit, friend. But once I had taken that hit of cocaine and I couldn’t see that beautiful day anymore, all I could see was making sure more of that monster got inside of me. I couldn’t see nothing else. Just that one hit took all that away from me. I changed just like that. I was shaking all over. I could feel my skin crawling. When I got to that point, the first thing I’d want to do is get a drink. And my drink of choice is cheap wine. I left the furniture shop and Diane. I saw some wine heads on the corner, and I saw one of my wine-head friends. I told him, “Give me some of that.”
“You better get me another one,” he told me.
“Alright, I’m gonna get you another one. Calm down.” But I would have told him anything, cause I was strung. The crack had me strung, and you’ll say anything to keep that feeling going. That’s why so many girls will do anything under the influence—cause they strung. I’ll do anything you want me to do, as long as I get some more. I’ll suck your junk; I’ll suck her snatch. Listen. I done seen some girls do some pretty awful things. You take chances and do things you wouldn’t have done if you hadn’t had been high.
It took a couple of swigs of wine to bring me down. I didn’t have a straight head, but I knew one thing: I needed to go get me some money. I needed to get some money, so I can go get me some smoke. It was so simple in my mind. I went out to some of the guys selling on the stroll. And they were like, “Wait a minute and I’ll get it for you,” but a couple of them were honest and just told the truth: “Look, girl, we ain’t got it.” Nobody knew where the smoke was, everybody was speculating. I’m walking up and down Madison. I’m standing in front of the Tavern, where in the past me and the other ladies sat in cars in the parking lot and got high. That’s also where working-class guys and truck drivers hung out to get access to whatever they wanted: poontang, drugs, gambling.
I remember standing there and seeing him. He stood out because he was a white guy in a crisp business shirt. Very clean-cut. Maybe he was thirty-five, forty years old. Good-looking. Brown hair. Black suit. Medium build. Not the type of trick that normally comes down there. He was driving a black Mercedes. And when I saw him, I thought, Okay, that’s my trick right there. I looked around and thought I didn’t have no competition. There was one girl working the stroll who looked better than I did, looked fresher than I did. But in my mind, I claimed him. I claimed him to be my trick.
I stood on the corner, and he motioned to me, and we made eye contact. He drove around the corner, and I walked to the middle of the block, cause sometimes guys didn’t want to stop on the corner. Don’t this sound like it’s all happening in the middle of the night? But no, this was all happening in the middle of the day. They didn’t have any respect for our community; they picked up our Black women in the middle of the day. They used us like toilets and then hopped on the interstate and went back to their half-million-dollar homes and kissed the kids and took the wife flowers. And when they get caught with us, the police don’t dare take them to jail, they take us to jail. Cause we’re the problem. Black women are the issue. Not this white guy from Skokie or Wilmette, or the western suburbs and Naperville. He lives forty minutes away from us, but he’s over here getting Black pussy.
So, what happened was, he started playing a game with me. He pulled down the block and pulled over by the street, but as soon as I got up close to him, he drove off. This went on four, five times. He was getting off masturbating and watching me. Getting off watching me run toward his car. When we get to the fifth, sixth time, I’m pissed off. I’m thinking, alright, you playing with me. Now I could have walked off and been like, you just playing, but I didn’t because I had a vendetta by then. I’m cronked and I’m thinking, I’m getting in this car and I’m taking his money. I would like to tell you that that day I was a victim, but point of fact, I had turned into a predator. I wanted to get him. I wanted to show him you can’t play these games with me. How wrong I was.
So when he came around again, I had already seen his play and how he did his move. In other words, I knew he was going to come over and pull down the block and when I got close to the car, we’d have a couple words and then he’d speed off. See what I’m saying? So this seventh time, after the six times he done played me like a fool like this, I’m thinking I know what to do. When I got to the car this time, I snatched open the door real fast and jumped in. And I looked at him and said, “Hi.”
“No, no, no, no, no,” he said, talking real fast. Punk ass.
“Drive.” I’m really forcing him because he had kept playing with me, and I thought he owed me something for messing with me and my community, on my time, on my turf, and I was going through a mental thing cause I’m sprung and I don’t have no drugs. Here I am messed up, and you gone pay for it. So I said, “Turn right here, pull over.” He looked at me real nervous, and I looked him dead in his eyes, because I’m turned his way, and I said, “What you want to do?” He gave me forty bucks. I took the forty bucks, and I put the money in my pants and when I turned back around, he hit me.
I could see stars. I’ve been hit a lot. But he was hitting me with everything he had, and I knew if I kept letting him hit me, he was gonna knock my ass out. He knocked me over my ears and the top of head. He hit me in both eyes. I raised my hands in front of my face, and my back is to the passenger door, and now I’m kicking him so he can stop hitting me. And I got the door open with my hand, but I was still trying to protect my face and he’s still hammering me. It feels like this is happening simultaneously: as the door opens, he started up the car.
I started falling backwards, and the car was moving. I was caught off-balance. I done jumped out of cars before. I done jumped out of cars on the expressways without a scratch. But I had been able to do that without getting dragged. This time I wasn’t. My clothes caught on the car and he dragged me. It seemed like he was tearing me from my meat. I could feel it. Especially on my face and on my side. I had pants on, so all of my leg didn’t get messed up, but the concrete ripped my pants. After I got up, my face was filthy from the ground, and there was gravel and little pieces of glass in my face.
The first face I looked at was a little girl’s; she had all these colored beads in her braids and she was wearing this lime-green short set. She was on her bike. Looking at me, she shook her head, then took off and came right back with some toilet paper. When I was in the hospital, I thought about that little girl, about what I made her see. I worried I had taken the light from this little girl. Made her see too much, too soon. We all did. We were out here like animals. Niggers. Walking the street in our panties. Sucking some white man’s penis in the broad daylight. Every time I think about that little girl, I pray to God to help me make it right with the universe.
It’s amazing how blind you become to the children who are out there on the street; kids you prostituting in front of, that you’re buying drugs in front of, that you are dressed inappropriately in front of. It’s amazing how desensitized you become to these little angels and how it will affect them. Because the drugs put blinders on you. And the drugs tell you, your vision has only one thing to look at: see how you can get high.
I looked that little girl in her face and said, “Did you see what happened?”
She said, “Yeah, I saw everything.”
I said, “Am I messed up?”
“Yeah.”
She rolled away on her bike, and I started walking toward where she was headed. I could feel people looking at me from their porches. Whispering. Nobody came to help me, but I could feel their conversation. I still had the bloody money on me. I had it in my hand. I went and passed where three drug dealers were on the street, and one of them—a most disrespectful son of a bitch—said, “Tell that ho keep on walking and get on off the tip, she gone make it hot. She bleeding; she gone make it hot over here.” I kept walking.
I got down back to where it first all happened, and a car pulled up next to me and I looked in there and I recognized the guy. Randy Johnson. He was with two of his homeboys. And he said, “Breezy, what happened to you?”
I started crying, and I told him, “This trick dragged me and did all this to me!”
And Randy, in the car, said, “Get in, girl. Let’s find this punk.” So now I’m in a car with three guys who have pistols and we looking for a trick to kill. Thank God somebody in the car had a bright idea, cause I didn’t. The driver said, “Man, that dude’s gone; let’s take this girl to the hospital.”
And Randy said, “You want to go to the hospital, Breezy?” And I said, yeah, I do, cause I was hurting. I didn’t know how messed up I was, I really didn’t. I had no idea the damage he had done; I just felt bad. I felt like my body and face were burnt. I went to the county hospital. As I got out the car, Randy said, “Call when you get out and you can stay at the safe house.” Crazy as it sounds, that made me kind of happy. Staying at the safe house had a lot of perks. You sat around, helped out, and got as high as you wanted to. So when he said that, I said, “I’ll call you when I’m done.” That was my goal. That was the plan.
Fortunately, that wasn’t God’s plan. He had a whole other schedule for me. I had no idea that that was going to be the last day that I turned another trick, sucked another penis, saw Madison Street under those conditions. You couldn’t have told me that this was going to be the end for me, cause I had always had success in prostitution. I mean, I was the baddest ho out there. I was. In my own mind. I always wore the latest outfits; my body was tight. On my best night I could pull in fifteen hundred dollars, and if I robbed somebody, I could come back home with five thousand dollars. Is that what made me a bad ho? Is that what made me the coldest? Or made me an excellent prostitute? I don’t know, but for whatever reason I thought I was. My pimps brought me up that way. To get me out there and get more money, they brainwashed me to feel I was the coldest bitch out there, with the best thieving hands. I knew how to catch a trick and take everything and bring it back to them. So yeah, I was one of the baddest, stupidest hos out there because this lifestyle was made for me and to change meant I had to give up my title. Why would I come this far without being the best? And trust me, I was always going to be in the game. You wouldn’t believe the shade and slick-ass things I could say about being a prostitute, about being able to get that kind of money from tricks. If it ever came to the point that I couldn’t turn a trick, if I ever got too old, I always thought I could sell other people’s poontang. I’ll retire, I thought, and I’ll sell me some hos. Cause I’m a cold bitch, right? That’s what they used to say about me. You a cold bitch. How can you hear anything but a compliment? You one of the baddest bitches I know. Bitch was always in the equation, and I ate that up. That was the medal on my chest. “You don’t know me? I’m one of the baddest bitches out here.” That’s the bullshit I had told myself to stay out there. I’m the coldest; I’m the baddest; I’m the best bitch out there. I was the bomb.
But when I hit that hospital that day, I went in there as a victim. Nobody wanted to help me. And I needed help. The people dealing with me didn’t think I was a bad bitch; they called me a crackhead whore. I heard the police tell the nurse, “She’s a prostitute, and she probably did something to some poor guy and got what she deserved.” The hospital curtain was pulled, but I heard every word. And she was giggling with him cause she and the police, they’re friends. This smug-faced white nurse just giggling her ass off. And I knew the cop, too. Old fat dusty bald dumbass. I had run into him before. Stupid-ass beard. Fat ass. He had busted me before. I always wondered if that laughing nurse knew that the minute her back was turned, he probably talked shit about her, too. He was talking about you, too. I laid there in pain and in panic, and I wanted to stop my face from burning and my side from burning. I needed help so bad. I didn’t know what to do, and I couldn’t really talk, cause my face hurt when I moved it. I couldn’t really see out of my eye cause my eyelid was torn. I was in so much pain. My breathing was crazy cause I have asthma. Everything was just messed up. I became afraid. Am I going to die? Are they going to let me die?
When they came back, that nurse went and pushed me out into the hallway, as if I didn’t exist. Like I was invisible. I looked at her. “I see you,” I told her.
She saw the tears roll out my eyes and she half-assed looked at me. Then she said, “Somebody’ll see you soon.” She walked away. I remember turning my head, and I whispered, “God, these people don’t care about me. Could You please help me?”
Copyright © 2021 by Breezie LLC
