Culture Clash (14 page)

“It’s confused, that’s what it is,” I say, carefully eyeing Shawntrese’s scalp while looking around my mom’s apartment at all of the cleaning I have left to do. “Maybe if you’d stop treating it like a stepchild and love it like your own, it’ll know how to act.” This is the most unpredictable head of hair I’ve ever encountered. It’s dry as sandpaper one day and as greasy as bacon the next.

“Aren’t you supposed to bring positive energy to my hair?” Shawntrese says, mocking my motto. I don’t care what she says; this girl knows her head needs some serious love. My cell vibrates on the table and with my hands slick from braiding I can’t pick it up.

“Shawntrese, open that for me, please,” I say. Shawntrese props the open phone between my right shoulder and ear without looking up from
Chappelle’s Show
reruns on the television. I usually don’t answer unidentified calls, but it might be money. So far word of mouth has been my best promoter.

“What up, Jayd?” Sandy says. What the hell is she doing calling me, and on a Saturday night? Wherever she’s calling from is loud in the background. I hope she’s not in jail again. And how did she get my number?

“What’s up?” I ask, adjusting Shawntrese’s head to form the perfect braid. I’m glad she doesn’t remember me burning out a patch of her delicate hair when I had my sleepwalking issues a couple of weeks ago because Mama, my mom and I made sure it never happened, just like all of Misty’s mess. She also doesn’t remember how vexed she was, but I do. And I never want to see that side of my neighbor and loyal customer again.

“I need you to come get Rahima and take her home for me. Rah will meet you there in a little while,” she says, like I’m the nanny. What the hell?

“Did you call the right number?” I ask, finishing up the last row in Shawntrese’s head. I wipe my hands on her towel, hand her the mirror from the dining room table and generously spray my lavender and eucalyptus braid sheen over my immaculate creation. Shawntrese runs her hand over her tightly woven scalp and smiles, obviously pleased with the finished product.

“Yes, I called the right number, Jayd. Stop playing and come get this little girl. I’ve got to be on stage in a half hour and Carla is already working. Like I said, Rah will meet you at the house.”

“Sandy, have you lost your mind? I’m not the sitter and I’m working myself,” I say, taking Shawntrese’s twenty-dollar bill and tucking it into my bra for safekeeping. Mama says if I put my money there first I’ll always have more money to come. It may sound like a silly superstition to some, but it’s working for me.

“Jayd, this is serious. Rahima can’t be at the club for much longer, and I’ve got to get this paper. Besides, I thought you wanted to play the mama anyway. Here’s your chance,” she says sourly. Did Sandy say her two-year-old daughter is at the club?

“You’ve got the baby at a strip joint, Sandy?” I yell into the phone. Shawntrese looks at me in shock, soaking up all the details to dish to the neighbors later. This trick Sandy has completely lost her mind. And I thought I was irresponsible when I left Rahima sleeping upstairs while I sleepwalked down the stairs. But that’s nothing compared to purposely taking the baby to a place where people get shot and stabbed on the regular.

“Duh, Jayd. That’s why I’m calling you. Rah had to go to Compton and drop Kamal off at their grandparents’ house before handling some business on that side of town. I called him already and he ain’t answering the phone. So can you come get her or not?”

“What’d she say?” Shawntrese asks, noticing the frown on my face. How do I explain that my friend’s baby is at a strip joint where her grandmother and mother work and that I feel obligated to go get this child? This is some ghetto bull, for real.

“Jayd, are you there?” I don’t know how to respond. How could she take Rahima to a place like that, and then ask her baby-daddy’s ex-girlfriend to come and get her baby? “Look, I’ve got to change Rahima’s diaper. Text me when you get here and I’ll have one of the other girls let you back here. Bye,” Sandy says, hanging up before I have a chance to reply. She knows how much I love that little girl and uses it to her advantage every time. I just met Rahima a few months ago, but—much like Mickey’s unborn child—my sense of responsibility for her is strong.

“Shawntrese, you will not believe where I have to go,” I say, heading to the bathroom to wash my hands. I’m working hard trying to repair the years of perm damage in Shawntrese’s hair and it seems to be paying off. But her scalp is still hella oily and always leaves my hands extra shiny. I would normally take a shower after my last client leaves, but that’ll have to wait until I get back tonight.

“I heard,” she says. I walk back into the living room and dust myself off. I’ve got hair all over me. “You want me to come with you?” Shawntrese asks, taking the towel from around her shoulders and standing up. She stretches her thin arms like a cat, and I catch a glimpse of the new tattoo on her belly. I hope she and Leroy work out now that she has his name written on her body for the world to see. Sandy did that with Rah and we see where they’ve ended up. My hands still feel greasy. Damn this girl’s oily scalp. I need to wash my hands one more time before I leave.

“Would you, please?” I say from the bathroom. “I have no business going up in that club by myself,” I say, drying my hands. I walk back into the living room and check the rest of the apartment before retrieving my purse from the coatrack. I take my keys out, ready to roll.

“Sure I will. My boo is a regular at The Pimp Palace. They know me up there,” Shawntrese says as I slip on my sandals and grab my jacket off the coatrack. It’s a warm night, but I’ll take my jacket just in case.

“How did you know that’s where Sandy works?” I ask, opening the multiple locks on my mom’s front door. Shawntrese walks out ahead of me and down the stairs while I relock the door.

“Because she’s one of Leroy’s favorite new dancers. Rah’s mama, Carla, is on his list, too.” I look at Shawntrese and don’t know what to say. I’m embarrassed that she knows Rah’s baby-mama and Carla from the club, but more embarrassed that she didn’t tell me—even though I can understand why. It’s not a typical topic of conversation you have with your girl.

“I see,” I say, leading the way down the long driveway toward the parking lot. Never would I have imagined that I’d be driving my mom’s car to a strip club, but here goes nothing. Wait until she finds out about this one. I’m surprised my mom hasn’t checked in yet. She and her man, Karl, must be too busy for her to get caught up in my never-ending tragedy with Rah.

When we arrive at The Pimp Palace, there are cars wrapped around the corner trying to get into the lot. The sign above the entrance says
TWENTY-DOLLAR PARKING
. I’ll be damned if I spend my hard-earned money like that. Noticing my scoping eyes, Shawntrese points to an empty spot across the street. We look at each other and shrug our shoulders at the risky spot. This is not the best neighborhood to be in, especially not two young women alone at night. If I have anything to say about it, this will be a quick trip.

“I feel you wanting to save money, but it’s not the best idea to park outside of the lot,” Shawntrese says as I carefully maneuver the compact vehicle into the tight space. Parallel parking with a clutch is tricky, but I think I’m finally getting the hang of it. I feel her, too, but this shit isn’t worth twenty of my dollars.

“The radio’s already gone and there’s nothing else to steal,” I say, turning the engine off, unlocking the doors and exiting the little ride. Shawntrese gets out and walks around to where I’m standing near the curb.

“What about the car?” she asks, looking both ways before crossing the busy intersection. Jaywalking is a serious violation in Los Angeles, and a dangerous one at that. Most drivers don’t seem to have any sympathy for people who choose to walk outside of the designated pedestrian area, including us.

“I doubt anyone will steal the whip,” I say, running across the intersection and joining her on the other side.

The Pimp Palace takes up the majority of the corner. Other small stores nearby are closed for the evening. The ballers are out tonight and apparently ready to spend money. The parking lot is full, with many more cars waiting in line to get in. The sign on the door also reads
TWENTY DOLLARS PER PERSON
. By the time you get up in the spot you’ve already spent forty dollars. I wonder how much the clients spend on the girls?

“Try not to look too pretty, Jayd. They might think you’re here to work,” Shawntrese says, touching her braids. “I’m already too flyy to do anything about it.” She is so crazy. I reach inside my purse and send Sandy a one-word text letting her know I’m here. I’m going to kill Rah when I see him for letting this heffa back in our lives.

Shawntrese leads the way to the front door and informs the hostess seated at the table that we’re here to see Sandy. The girl looks us over and then asks us to open our purses for a weapons check.

“Do you have any knives, guns, pepper spray?” the hostess asks, meddling through my junky Lucky Brand bag. I’m slightly embarrassed at the state of disarray the purse is in. There’s a big-ass dude posted behind the hostess, watching her feel us up. I guess he checks the dudes out and watches the girls.

“No, I don’t. Do I need some?” I ask. Shawntrese laughs as the hostess checks her next. I know she thinks I’m being a smart-ass, but I’m serious. I don’t know what to take when frequenting a spot like this. Once we’re all clear, the male guard lets us through the black velvet curtain separating the waiting area from the inside of the club.

Girls. Everywhere I look there are barely dressed girls who look about my age, dancing or walking around. There are other women who look slightly older, but none over thirty. I wonder how old Rah’s mom—Carla—pretends to be?

“Sandy’s downstairs in the locker room,” the same hostess says, pointing at the door to our left. “You’ll have to pay if you want to see the show.”

“We’re good,” Shawntrese says, pulling my arm toward the door. I’m glad she’s here because I think I’m in a state of shock. How can Sandy and Carla work like this? And how can the supposed gatekeepers just let my sixteen-year-old self walk up in here, no ID or anything? I hope it’s only because Sandy said something, and not their normal mode of operation.

“Jayd, are you okay?” Shawntrese asks, holding on to my arm and guiding me down the stairs. What little fresh air we had in the waiting area has been replaced by a thick funk. I look at the girls passing us by in the stairwell and notice that some of them look younger than I do. I wonder how many of them are mamas already.

“Are you girls here for the job?” another male security guard says to us as we approach the locker room at the bottom of the stairs. The stench down here is worse than the smell in the school locker room after gym class.

“Say what?” I automatically reply. “Do I look like a stripper?” I ask, completely offended. I’m wearing my hip-hugger sweats, a T-shirt and the yellow bebe sandals Jeremy bought me months ago. Shawntrese is dressed in a Nike sweat suit. Neither of us looks ready for an audition.

“No,” Shawntrese says, taking over the conversation before I go completely off. “We’re here to see Sandy.” I look around and notice the dancers watching us like the fresh meat that we are. I am totally out of my element and they know it.

“Oh, y’all must be here to pick up that baby,” the guard says, suddenly less interested in us, and I’m glad for it. “She’s back there.” He gestures behind us toward the locker room and returns to reading his newspaper. Behind his post is an exit sign and the only other way out of the building from what I can see. The locker room takes up the rest of the stuffy space.

“Sandy,” I say, entering the locker room while trying to ignore the loud women all around us prepping for the stage. This is nothing like opening night of any play I’ve ever performed in.

“Hi, Jayd,” Rahima says, smiling up at me as I pick her up from the chair she’s seated in. She smells fresh, like baby powder and Desitin. I told Rah to stop putting that diaper rash cream on her and start potty training the girl. But I can’t give her mother the same advice, no matter how right I may be. I’m not the mama and I’m reminded of it every time Sandy’s around.

“Hey, baby girl. You ready to go home?” I ask, picking up her diaper bag with my free hand while Shawntrese claims her car seat, ready to go. I don’t know how Mickey’s going to manage all the stuff babies come with, with her long nails—I almost broke one just now, and my nails are nowhere near as long as the claws my girl sports.

“She already ate dinner,” Sandy says off the rip. No hello, no thank-you—nothing. This trick’s got her nerve and then some. Shawntrese looks at me and then at Sandy, rolling her eyes hard. I would’ve told Sandy off by now, but I’m trying to stay cool for Rahima’s sake.

“You’re welcome,” I say with much attitude. I hope she doesn’t mistake my kindness for weakness, because I will check her ass in a minute if it has to go down like that.

“Oh, please, Jayd. You ain’t doing this for me or my daughter. You’re doing this for Rah,” she says, sucking her teeth and wiping her brow with her arm. The way she’s sweating she must’ve just come off-stage. There’s cash sticking out of every possible place it can on a woman. Rather than stand here arguing with this broad, I follow Shawntrese out, but not before I claim some reimbursement for my time. I reach for a twenty-dollar bill hanging out of the garter around Sandy’s left arm and snatch it from its holding place.

“This is for parking,” I say, turning around to head back out of the stuffy room and up the stairs before she can protest. Rah’s going to hear about this when I see him tonight. This is not how I get down at all, and he knows it.

I send Rah a text telling him to meet me back at his house and he dutifully replies. I’m sure he’s retrieved all his messages by now. If picking children up from strip clubs at night is the way he’s living nowadays, I’m definitely out of the equation. Last night’s dream about racing for him was yet another warning about what will happen if I keep dealing with Rah and his broads. And I’ve got too much work to do to deal with this shit on the regular.