I heard a key in the door and the sound of the lock turning. For the I first few days it had really bothered me. Until then, I had never I heard the sound of someone else unlocking the door while I was in the apartment. I just sat there, petrified, waiting for the door to open. It was such a relief when Spoon’s big, black face appeared. He saw my frightened expression and looked puzzled.
“I’m not a monster,” he told me seriously.
I realized just how much I loved him when he came out with things like that.
That day, he came in with a thick envelope full of papers. I was curious about what they were. The room was littered with sheet music—jazz music; I was having a hard time deciding what song I should sing at the club that night. I wondered why jazz singers always had to have that kind of low, husky voice Maria had. My problem was that my voice was soft and high-pitched. But after Spoon told me mine was the best for making love, it was enough for me that I only sounded good in bed.
I quit my efforts to become a “jazz vocalist,” and resigned myself to being just another singer.
“What’s in the envelope?”
“It’s the capital I need to make money.”
“Can I see?”
But when I tried to look, Spoon just pushed me out into the kitchen and began making telephone calls. I gave up and started breaking ice to make myself a bourbon and soda.
“Oh! Shit! Gimme some goddam motherfuckin’ soda, bitch!”
He turned to me as he slammed down the receiver. His four-letter j words sounded so musical—to me perfect English was as boring as an impotent man drinking flat beer. And it made me feel so close to him when he called me “bitch.” You see, Spoon was a bitch’s man. Now that his calls were done, Spoon turned his attention to something new.
“Why don’t we have ourselves a little party before you go to work?”
I stood watching in a vacant haze as Spoon carefully measured out identical lines of white powder on the cover of Ebony magazine and cut them with his navy ID card. I just assumed the drugs were a habit from his childhood in New York City.
“Man, my dick is nothing but trouble. He goes looking for pussy everywhere… in discos… in bars…”
Now he was in a good mood. Snorting coke put Spoon on an instant high, and he began babbling to a beat, his words a cross between a song and a wordy monologue. He told me it was real New York rap and that he’d been the number-one rapper where he came from. Then he told me a sad, sad story, but the rhythm he rapped it to was a happy, lively beat.
I stood there stupefied, watching Spoon pace around the room, and I downed my bourbon and soda in one gulp. Then I picked up the magazine and, bringing it close to my nose, I inhaled the coke in one big snort—my first time. An instant later I burst into a fit of coughing and sneezing and I couldn’t breathe. I stayed crouched down on the floor, huddled and gasping for breath.
“Are you okay, baby? You’re supposed to hold one side of your nose with your finger and do it more slowly. It’s always tough the first time.”
He was right. Everything’s difficult the first time.
When I eventually stopped coughing, I looked up at him. He was looking down at me, smiling with a worried look on his face. I could see the wealth of his experience shining in his eyes, and it made me feel like a little girl again.
“I’m gonna be your teacher,” he said.
He sounded so responsible and dependable. It was just crazy.
Sometimes I told Spoon he should write a book. It would be some weird how-to book about taking drugs. Or maybe about hanging out on the streets and walking like a gangster. Or maybe a teach-yourself guide to picking up innocent girls and using your body to make them crazy about you.
The next thing I knew, Spoon had got a can of spray paint from somewhere and was trying to spray something on the bathroom wall.
“Stop! We’ll get thrown out of here!”
“Okay, okay.”
Before I could stop him he had turned his attention from the wall to Osbourne, my cat. I saw his finger on the nozzle, and in a flash I scooped Osbourne up in my arms to save him.
At first I didn’t realize what had happened, but Spoon was holding his stomach, rocking with laughter. I looked in the mirror on the desk, and discovered that I had sacrificed myself for my cat. My hair was crimson, dyed the color of a red pepper, and it stood out from my head, stiff and spiky. Even the boy in Renard’s Carrot Top would have felt sorry for me Spoon was rolling on the floor now, still laughing.
“My baby’s a carrot—a carrot!”
Then I imagined myself singing in the club later that night with my red lion’s mane. Oh, shit! In my mind I could see all the drunken customers jeering at me, and the piano player trying to stifle his laughter.
And then there was the manager—what if he fired me as soon as I walked into the club? If I lost my job, how would I be able to look after Spoon? Maybe I’d even be forced to let someone else use my pussy.
Spoon calmed down and looked up at me. But as soon as our eyes met he burst out laughing and began rolling around on the floor again. Shit!
He was laughing at me. And this was all his fault! In a fury I gulped down a second bourbon and screamed, “Fuck y-o-o-o-u!!”
I wasn’t in the habit of swearing like that. Spoon suddenly stopped laughing and stood up.
“Baby, you’re turnin’ into my kinda woman.”
“Go to hell, you motherfucker!”
“That’s right, Kim. That’s the way ”
Spoon inched closer and closer. I was rooted to the spot. It was like he was an animal and I was his prey. I fumbled in the sink behind me, and my hand found the sponge. I threw it at him, and it hit him in the face and fell to the floor. Osbourne scrambled around, desperately trying to get out of the way, and ran under the bed.
Without even glancing at the sponge on the floor, Spoon grabbed both my arms and pinned them to my sides. I didn’t say a word. I pretended to struggle so it would turn him on, but he just pressed his lips hard to mine. I stopped resisting and fell into his arms.
Spoon lay me down on the floor and began to undress me. I pretended that I was sulking, but I wanted him to know I was only pretending, so I curled my arm around his neck, and drawing him close, bit his earlobe. His eyes flashed, telling me he knew the game I was playing. He really was becoming my teacher.
“My darling little hot chili sauce… ”
After we had made love on the kitchen floor, his “hot chili sauce,” who was feeling quite a bit spicier, decided to call into work to say she couldn’t make it to the club to sing that night because her father had died. The manager was very sympathetic and told me to take a few days off. The truth was I never knew my daddy—he left before I was born—so I didn’t feel guilty at all. And what better way to spend the time than partying with Spoon? That night my stage performance took place in my room; it was a nasty little performance with a lot of alcohol, a little bit of cocaine, and just the right number of joints. And my audience was Spoon and Osbourne.
We partied long and loud, and in the end we both drank too much and threw up. By the time we had finally begun to cool down, it was already morning.
I was awakened by the sound of Osbourne meowing for his breakfast. I opened the refrigerator and took out a can of cat food for him I and a big carton of milk for myself. I fed the cat and then gulped the milk straight from the carton. My throat was unbearably dry and my body still felt like it was floating.