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Excerpts from his Black Street Novella, How Ruby Got There, found in his collection Stories From The Dance Of Life Vol. 3. Copyright 1977. This book in its entirety may be found on Lulu.com, Amazon.com. & in Kindle Electronic Books.
How Ruby Got There People always talking about the whore problem. Or tricks talking about how they doing to do this & that and blop de blip with a ‘ho. But never think about the fact that a ‘ho is a woman too. A person who has feelings, chances, aspirations, dreams. --The only difference between her & a square woman is that she sharing her body with many others. Trading each orifice in order to get money, just as a worker gives up the muscles of their arms or the braincells in their skull on a job. Both work up a sweat. I do not encourage prostitution. I support my sisters not to become whores, but I love you whoever you are, despite this obstacle. ‘Hoin’ is an economic sickness of a nation as well as a decayed moral value of the tricks, johns, vice cops, pimps, madams, misdemeanor court judges-- and hos! The two are hand in hand Ugly Twins, wearing the same tired dress.--- Siamese twins. In fact they are Quadruplets. Siamese Quadruplets. Do not try to separate them. They cannot be pulled apart. Each is interdependent upon the other.-- But only one catches the blame! It cannot be said that ‘Aw, Ruby she wuz just no good from the day she dropped out the wound; she grew up and become a ‘ho.” Or shrug her off as having a basic corrupt nature because it just isn’t true anymore for her then for any of us. Her honger both for material goods, for physical contact and out of emotional dependency; and her lack of access to a well-paying legitimate job was strong motives in putting her out in the street corner. Although she is partially to blame for her own downfall. The decaying moral value actually was AmeriKKKa which does not feed it’s poorest children, while continuing to tantalize them with images of THE GOOD LIFE on TV; and, Ruby, poor Ruby, swallowed the lie of material goods like a gullible fish, hook, line, and sinker. Tonight she was out there amid the red & green party lights. San Francisco’s whore stroll beneath blinking bar ads. At 15 she had sold herself into prostitution to get a more delicious food to eat then simple grits with no butter, and some nice clothes--store bought fancy-- and not used shit from the free box inside the charity church, or somebody else’s tired rags from the Second Hand Thrift. And to get out from under her Bossy Momma and Berating Father. It was either this or get pregnant and get on welfare. Ruby had thus chose to be self supporting.-- A ‘Sporten’ Lady.’ It was either of these choices--or, to remain at home enduring her parents, while diligently studying her schoolbooks, apply herself to a job, and slowly climb up rungs of the legitimate social order-- like Betty, a girl of similar status did. The idea of attempting to enter the labor market as a legal worker did not cross her mind. She had no job skills anyway and could barely read. There are low economic jobs for such people-- but Ruby had a lazy streak as well, sadly, which you will see. Tonight Ruby stood in a cluster of girls. Beside her, Valerie, a young white woman of 17 surveyed the streets with a cold stare. Purple eyeshadow under her eye lids. Squad cars of the police lurked in the shadows. On Turk street was no crime, but mostly cars speeding & ‘hos. Ruby chomped gum. Wore a 3/4 length leather coat and a purse slung over her shoulder. CHOMP CHOMP CHOMP. She spoke
to another hooker, a black girl her own age; “Shit, ain’t nothin’ out tonight-- ‘n tomorrow’s a holiday.” “‘Dey all out of town for the weekend.” The other hooker replied.
Mentally Ruby reached into the bottom of her purse--no money was there to find. Her feet were sore from standing, but she was patient. This was the opportunity of her lifetime. At least Jones--her pimp-- had so promised. Red traffic lights blinked on & flooded them in a pool of pink. “They ought to put up a detour sign on Geary Boulevard and steer the suckers down here.” The white girl said, using her imagination. It was the smartest thing she’d said allnight. Disgusted, Ruby jerked her head towards a theater marquee indicating it’s yellow bulb advertisement for a pornographic movie HOT WHORE! Which depicted on screen a prostitute nymphomaniac who gave pussy away free. Ruby grumbled; “They always showin’ a ‘ho’s ass free fuckin’ as if we didn’t have nothin’ betta’ to do.” What followed was the most intelligent statement she’d made all week: “We ought to git us a ‘ho union.” Too bad these girls never followed thru with that flash of an idea. “I think I been hoo-dooed.” Lamented another black sister. ‘nare a dime and Ah been standen’ on Turk street fo fo’ hours.” “I ain’t made
When Ruby sauntered in at dawn this following morning, there was Jones sitting back on the bed looking at her from under his wide brimmed suede hat; a snarl on his face. He’d let himself into the tiny motel room with his key, tho he didn’t live there. The room was 10 by 20 feet. A bathroom adjoining. Radiator sizzed against the wall. The double bed had housed only one occupant for the last 8 months-- Ruby. This was her hideaway. Sir Marshall Jones glowered at her, a lean brown man in a pink satin suit and boots with 5 inch thick soles. “YO’ DID A GOOD JOB OF DRANKIN’ WHISKEY DOWN ON THE STROLL BITCH!” “Ohhh Marshall, dem girls lies! Dem girls lies ‘bout me! lollagagin’ I been worken’ steady all nite!” “HOW MUCH DID YO’ BRANG ME!” “$120.” “$120! Huh.” I wasn’t off
Sir Marshall growled, rising up quickly off the bed, with the uncoiling jerk of a taunt spring. One lean brown hand extended, snatched the moist roll of greenbacks Ruby was producing from under her ebony armpit--where she’d kept it hid for the journey home. ‘So, he know everythang’ Ah done las’ night!-Damn! Right down to that cap of Coke!’ Like all pimps Marshall had his drug-paid spies checking up on his women since he couldn’t be there in person. As he counted the greenbacks the black girl stood by the closet kicking her
shoes off. She was so tired. Her gaze rested in her man’s crotch, that bulge in the pink fabric--his dick-- quite apparent. Marshall was hung like a horse. How she longed to rest her head there in it’s soft, meaty nest, while he massaged her scalp, her feet, then his big hands drifting to her big ebony titties feeling them and squeezing, as he casually unbuttoned her blouse, where they were stuffed into her brassiere and slowly bent to put his full lips upon her nipples and suck, feeling the tickle of his mustache, and drift into a Cocaine high--surely he’d give her some from that drug dealing he did on the side-- treating her ears to the sounds of hit songs on her music box, while feeling his big dick harden in his crotch, ready to use her pussy, to please himself, in due time. But her man had no time to lay his pretty self down on the satin sheets. was finer then they were! And had important stuff to do! He
Sir Marshall was appeased as he thumbed thru the roll. Carefully separating out the Twenties, ten’s, five’s, placing them in descending order, putting them right side up all faced the same direction then stuffing them into his already overstuffed optimistically oversized wallet. He did a good job of brainwashing her. “Yo’ so stupid! STUPID! If it wasn’t fo’ me you’d be NOTHIN’! If it wasn’t fo’ me and my people checking up on yo’ you been done drank it up and snorted up the few fonky dollars you got!” He glared evily. He began to cue her in. “YO’ SHOULD HAVE BROUGHT ME $220 ‘STEAD OF JUS’ A BILL TWENTY! YO’ BE HAPPY TO TURN ONE FONKY TRICK FO’ TWENTY, LET THE HARD JONESEN’ JOHN TALK YOU DOWN FROM FIFTY WHICH YO’ SHOULD BE GETTEN’, DEN’ GO BLASÉ UP THAT TWENTY DOWN TO $2 FONKY DOLLAS AND SIT ON YO’ FAT ASS ALLNIGHT IN DOWN TO PEEWEES! YO’ SHOULD BE HAPPY I’S YO’ MAN! I’S MAKEN’ YO’ WORK BITCH! WORK FO’ BOTH OF US!-- YO’ LAZY TIRED BITCH, YO’ JEST’ LIK’ YO’ MAMMY! HAPPY WIF’ WELFARE CHUMP CHANGE! WANT TURN A $20 DATE ‘DEN LAY UP BLASÉIN’ OFF IN THE COFFEE SHOP DE WHOLE REST OF DE NIGHT!”
When Ruby left her first man, she crossed over the bridge and went to work in Oakland, for another pimp. At that time, the early 1970’s, all the dregs-- the hypes, the dawgs, the uglies worked lower San Pablo Avenue. The Stars worked MacArthur Blvd. And the best Hollywood Stars worked MacArthur and Broadway. Her near-sighted pimp made the first mistake. He put Ruby out down on the gutter, when she had Star Quality.--The brains and style to make it with the Stars. She figured it was ‘cause she was dark in color and had nappy hair under her wig. But in reality it was because she was underage. And he knew she was wild enough to cause too much of a commotion up on the nicer blocks. The young lady was discontent. She went a smoke and coffee. Jittering music rocked to shack. A lower-class dive owned by poor folks pennies & nickels pushed across the counter by in the S.O.C.I.A.L. C.L.U.B. for the rafters of the rickety rackety eking out their livelihood from brown & black fingers for sodas,
coffee, nick-nacks of food and ‘setch. The music had a nervous rhythm. Ruby’s stomach jumped to the beat. ‘I need me a blow.’ Thought she. Plain cigarettes wouldn’t do the job.-- Craved high powered drugs to patch together the threads of her self-esteem. Stood staring down at the littered street. Wind whipped around her. The brick building behind her had no voice. The bar trade had spilled out of tavern doors, raced past over the black asphalt road, left in red taillights and was gone. Just standin’ on her two feet. A stray dog nosed up to keep the woman company, a friend. But a car whizzed by and honked, and scared the mongrel which ran away with it’s tail between its legs.
It was hot with body heat inside the shack, street hangers-on both women and men. Hos, retired hos, hypes, thieves, boosters, a few in-secret fags, out & out bulldaggers & gangstas, the usual lot all crammed inside bullshitten’ when they should be outside prowling the avenues up to their no-good work. Ruby was an industrious and energetic young woman. Forfeiting the cozy warmth & good times, she toughened up-- like the pioneer women of old-- straightened her backbone, turned on those high heeled Emerald pumps and walked straight back out that door into the night! Determined to work! Cash money she was sure to find!
The next morning when the bedraggled peacock fell thru the front entrance, exhausted, a size 16 shoe helped her on thru the doorway by giving her a swift kick to her round satin covered butt. The shoe was connected to a green trouser leg, and that to a green jacket; a scowling face mustached, fleshy, and brown was framed by it’s collar. “WHAT BLACK BITCH WAS GIVING THE POLICE JITTERBUG LESSONS OUT ON THE STROLL LAST NIGHT?” W H A M !!! Arms
“Soft Shoe.” Ruby moaned. Her limbs collapsed in a pile on the rug. & legs spasm, a moment in pain, disconnected from her brain. Now she was in even more trouble.
The next pimp Ruby met didn’t even share a car, but come walking up the street--- albeit with a mean strut and a pimp cane. This was after a brief respite from the fast track in which Ruby went home to stay with her mother who drove her crazy. She wanted to save that hard earned pile of green dollars. But about one and a half months of rest, soon saw her itching for the fast life, and hungry for the excitement of earning big bucks for big fucks.
‘Ah seen a white boy come amblin’ down the stroll, but oncet’ he got up close Ah could tell it was a nigga. I couldn’t have told, but fo’ that little nap to his hair and them two-toned shoes. Now he could have been a Jew with the hair-- or one of dem honkies gone to curlin’ they hair like a nigga with permanents and hair rollers and setch; but them shoes was the dead give-away.This niggah had too much style for a honkey. ‘Dey was brown ‘n tan & white two-toned wing-tipped shoes wit’ gold laces. Dem shoes sang ‘n danced-- with out sayin’ a word. Dem shoes stood out.’
Now this nigger was a clever Creole. Like Mexicans claim they can’t go get a job ‘cause they can’t speak English, and honkies tend to come down with psychosomatic diseases when they want to lay up and kick back and be lazy, and many black folks protest they can’t work because the white man won’t hire them-or, ‘cause they got ‘sugar’ or high blood pressure-- this nigger claimed he, one: couldn’t work for the White Man because at first they mistook him to be white, but then when they realized they had a Colored man in their employment, he was quickly REMOVED. From the front desk, to the rear loading dock. From head of the department, to the mail room. From visible, to invisible. Plus, two: the white nigger couldn’t work the street because of his health problems. He had LOW blood pressure & because of the mental strain, couldn’t even hustle pooltables or peddle narcotics. Couldn’t even run a gambling game. Low blood pressure! --Anything to be different, while being the same thing; refused to work and just as greedy as anybody. His total ambition was to rest, dress & impress. & stay high all day long. “The honky system has worried me to death. Whitey has pushed me into a corner, sugar, I’m a doomed dude... My back is against the wall.” Reginald claimed. He was a worried man. At first Ruby thought they looked good together.-- Dark meat & light. It gave her a thrill when he mounted her in bed, after nightfall under the cool sheets. Reggie was FINE! The fine, and other way been used young man was 25. A lot of women wanted to get his babies he was so in fact he had sired 3-- after being approached by the women-- not the around-- subsequently he had nothing to do with his children, having only as a baby making sperm factory.
Reginald was to the world of men’s wear, as Pablo Picasso is to the world of Art, and no lie. This Knee-Grow would DRESS. Even if he had no woman to support him, he’d find a way! He’d miserly save each penny, spend nothing, eat at free food kitchens, meanwhile go window-shopping all day from one thrift store to another, even walking clear cross town to save busfare! --Often one can find very expensive articles of clothing from fine shops there, dirt cheep, and if you haunt these second hand places eventually you’ll find some quality goods, and among these few, a precious article, exactly your size. That’s what Reggie did, and any extra moneys he came by he visited the Cleaners putting wrinkled stuff in, claiming sharp pressed suits out.
Women took care of Reginald, just where his own momma had left off. He was so fine he didn’t have to mack. All he had to do was walk into a room and stay long enough for the shy girls to get up their nerve to approach him. He was like a housecat taken in out the alley. Women took him home with them and set him up on pillows at his ease, so they could enjoy him, and take him around town and show him off! He said: “I can go down to the gutter baby, but not loose my glitter. I got class. Once you got it, you never loose it. It just gets rusty sometimes. It’s like learning how to ride a bike, you never forget how. You never loose class.-- Even when you fall. You can be in the gutter folks look at you and see that class shining thru. Niggas are dying to get what I got. I’m bourgeoisie and don’t forget it! Class never turns. A nigga pretending to have class will turn on you like naps on a rainy day. But this what I got is built into me by birth. I’m not a greedy nigga. I wish niggas WOULD get them some class! I ain’t tryen’ to keep it no secret fo’ myself-- I give ‘em lessons! The mo’ class niggas is got, the better! Ruby, girl, we will elevate our situation.” And the young man extended a pale white hand offering her a stick of marijuana, which gratefully, she took. Now this white nigger was from a good home. His mamma & poppa both had labored in the U$A job market and given him and his sisters & brothers the best; but somehow somewhere along the line he had fallen to the gutter & there depended on women to care for him. “I kain’t deal with no white man, they runnin’ this nigga loco. I kain’t punch no time clock baby, I’m too good for that! Look at me! LOOK AT ME! LOOK AT ALL THIS FINENESS!!! Now yo’ know I’m too good to be no fool in whities school! Kain’t be no monkey fo’ de honkey!” Reginald sat, chin in the air, head held high, his full lips moist, plied to softness by lip balm, his white cheeks and slender nostrils carved like an Alabaster statue, his wavy hair set perfectly in rollers--- hers. It was early, he would comb his hair do out that afternoon. He had such good hair! Wavy! Not nappy. She worshipped this rare gem she had discovered! Ruby fell upon her knees as he spread his wiry legs, licked his hairy lemon thighs with flicks of her pink tongue tip, gently pulled out his nature thru the slit in his silk shorts and gave him a blow job to full erection. Then , triumphant, strutted, nude, and ever the lady, on dainty highheel gold pumps to the bed-- lay her full ebony body down on the satin sheets, spread her legs, opening her full pungent pussy to his use. He screwed her royally-- far better then a truly white man would-- for he had black African blood! He talked much shit. Too much! Ruby soon discovered her pretty man was slightly crazy, which was the reason he had descended to ruin instead of prospering like his brothers and sisters. She brang him much money for awhiles. She didn’t want to loose her crazy white nigger for nothing! She though in the future she might get a baby by him, but wasn’t ready to settle down & exit from the fast track quite yet.
Young Ruby had accumulated ho’ cases, citations, misdemeanors. Done petty time. Served 30 and 60 day sentences. But finally she was put away in jail for perjury. Spent 2 years behind bars. When Ruby got out she stayed clean and away from the streets, living with
her sister Pookie, and a younger sister off and on for another year, but, no skills, no money, a jail record; got sick of being broke and eventually found her way back down to the sin strip to ply the only trade she knew. “Ain’t none of these girls out here the same girls! Ah knows!-- But you Valerie!” Ain’t nobody out here
The two old pros --25 and 27-- which is old, for the street, ambled down the stroll together. The white woman showed the toll of time on her face-- skin pockmarked from a bad diet. Her teeth rotted out. She wasn’t turning $60 and $100 tricks no more. But now her price was $15. $10 in a pinch. The breeze carried their conversation which still had not lost the fire of life that pounded strong in their hearts. They pointed at the new generation of girls out workin’ along the curb, yelling; “YOO HOO HONEY!” In sassy voices. “She look kind of young, don’t she?” “A purity child.” “Runaway I bet.” “Dem girls up at Frosty Freeze is just childrun, Ah swear. drop ‘em out here and leave ‘em.” “Don’t nobody care ‘bout ‘em noways.” Ruby still looked sharp. Maturing into a healthy woman-- on the surface that is. For her drug abuse, akahol, and long nights; under stress with little sleep had not yet begun to show thru, with those ravages they were making, silently. Killing within her internal organs. Shortly after her release, Ruby got more bad news. That light complexioned, petty pimp, Reggie had died in gunfire too; at the hands of much more vicious player.--Human unpredictability. The pretty nigger Ruby had left, tired of his drain on their finances & his No-Plan For The Future. Reggie’s sole goal had been to rest, dress & IM-press. A man you would have thought didn’t hustle enough to be a threat to anybody, but for one deadly aspect; he crossed paths with an insanely jealous player who’s woman developed a passion for the fabulous handsome dude.--And had the nerve to go get herself a baby by him! “OH MA’ GOD! OH MA’ G O D!!!” They mommas must
Under indigo lights Ruby sat in a nightclub: and cried and cried over her list of lost lovers. Dark hands covered her face, bawling, tears streaming. Alternately blowing her nose into bar napkins, or the sleeve of her coat--- while tossing back another Brandy. 3 emptied Brandy snifters already sat before her. “DEY JUS’ KEEP ON DYIN’! EVERY MAN AH DONE HAD IS GONE! DEY ALL TAKEN AWAY FROM ME! ALL OF DEM’! AH DON’T HAVE A MAN! AH KAIN’T KEEP GOIN’ ON THIS-A-WAYS! OH MY GAWD! OH MY GAWD! WHUT’S HAPPENIN’ T0 US!” Ruby was getting older. The hurt didn’t remain centerstage on her mind-- but broke down slowly over
the days, transforming itself into a gray mass--like oil-- which sat in deep dank pool at the base of her soul.--Added to the load of shit, garbage, aches & pains she carried already. Just like her momma had. Hurt wasn’t truly gone. And upon special occasions when the woman felt especially bad, this hurt would reassemble phantasmagoiraly, by each molecule, like a science fiction occurrence until there it was---fully restored-- & so she could remember each hurt clearly, and ruminate over what she had lost. The black hooker was soon to meet her final love. -- While she could still believe in love.
There was a bulldagger named LaMar who frequented a quasi-gay bar in downtown San Francisco. She was 32 years of age, black, short-- 5’1” tall, slender, and not the earnest kind of gay woman, nor the loving type, nor protective of her ladies by being hard working-- but was calculating. Some of the ‘hoods biggest players are bitches. They may be buldaggers one minute, bitches the next. Drop their babies, then go back to being bulldaggers. Run guns, deal drugs, drive getaway cars, boost, steal, hoist, fence, lie, strongarm, and everythang else. There’s another kind of bulldagger don’t like to be in The Life--the gay life.-- Are scornful of it. But prefer to hang around the edges of the Fast Life, amidst it’s player of the con game. And that was the pint-size LaMar’s lifestyle.-- Maybe it was because s/he was not truly a lesbian, but part-man hissef’. This stud was a hope-to-die gay female. Nobody was going to stop him from his sexual preference. Not threat of murder, or rape-- the latter of which had been done to him-her. No veiled innuendoes of society hissing into his ears with their false voices: ‘don’t you think you’ve lost your self-respect as a woman?’ Not even the bigot, godless Anita Bryant with her do-right fucked up version of The Bible. Knock this lezban down, whip her, call her a BITCH and forcibly put a skirt, high heels & hose on her-- the next day LaMar would be right back on the street in trousers again, sporten’ a tie and men’s shoes; doing his thang; standen’ on the corner staren’ at the ladies from hard cold eyes... So subsequently she was Out There. Being a stud. LaMar would rather be dead then not be able to be, think, and fuck like she wanted.
We might want, in our sympathy, to end her story in a fit: Ruby picks up a shotgun! Blasts the No Good muthafucka’s away gangland style! -- Commits Bloody Murder! And then the sorry bitch, will NEVAH be free. Spends the remainder of her life captive behind bars in an ill-fitting orange prison uniform. But Ruby used her head. Yes. She used her brains one time:
It was about a quarter of a century thru her life of crime-- just around the time she went to work in the Massage Parlor as a last resort.
In a low down hotel, cheapest that she could find. 10 by 12 feet; containing a closet with a few of her snazzy outfits hung up, (She had just a few working clothes at this address, and a lot more in her storage locker for safe keeping, and a few boxes of stuff at her sisters who had mercy on her out of respect for their childhood’s where she’d come over some Sundays for a decent meal.) Two grimy windows-- which faced the street, of course. A rusty sink whose porcelain was chipped, over which hung some pantyhose and underthings, drip drying. No toilet; it, and the shower, were down the hall. One per floor. & she had to piss. Ruby put her weary legs over the side of the saggy mattress and slips her feet into a pair of pink mules with a pink fluff puff on each, throws on a pink housecoat--trailing strings at the hem. The hotel had mildew odor. And from hotplates cooking food on many floors. Body odors and the perennial stench of liquor & cigarette smoke. Where 5 and 6 person families in one room, or single individuals; Senior Citizens, veterans, winos, hypes, and crazies, all struggle to hang onto to the barest rung of staying-alive. She made her way down the ragged carpet hall, past dusty walls which were peeling and needed paint, to the toilet near the end of the corridor. As she passed by a door midway down she heard a noisy commotion. Typical. Some couple fussin’ n’ fighting no doubt, crammed into a too small a space with no money and no exit. The toilet was in a tiny cubical, cruddy. An ancient contraption that roared when it’s handle was pushed. Ruby brought her own paper roll..... Inside the closed space she sighed. She could still hear that fuss! man, and a screaming woman.-- Even over the sound of the flushing water. A loud
Later, when she returned, lay down again, after about ten minutes had passed, the noise had grown into a fierce commotion and was much louder--as if it was out in the hall! The woman screaming for her life! And a ferocious male voice bellowing! Fearful, yet wanting to find out where what was going on, tierdly, Ruby got back up. Silently went to the door. Wisely, she didn’t tip her hand, but opened the door just an eye’s width on it’s flimsy metal chain and peeked into the long carpeted hall. And there he stood; her out! ‘My GOD! IT AIN”T!’ Sir Marshall Jones, The pretty tan nigger who’d turnt
Lean & mean as ever, graying hair, his brown face cut deeply with lines of worry, ill-living; his powerful iron-hard biceps bulging in a satin shirt as he administered a pimp whupping--barehanded. Whipping and whipping one of his new young girls right out in the hallway-where she’d managed to escape-- oblivious of the other tenants, he was so furious. Something about his money..... And this girl..... Underneath the fine clothes he’d bought her to work for him which were now torn and in disarray; despite cosmetics running over her face, the girl looked a lot younger then what the tricks saw--if they cared to see.-- Beneath all the showy finery and allure, the fact apparent, that she was a kid. Really young... Young like Ruby had been.... Maybe 15, or worse. The older woman stared in disgust mixed with disbelief. lowdown dirty bastaid!’ ‘JONES! Thet
Thru the slit in the door of her room a mature Ruby; coarse face, hard, & which bore the signs of abuse. Gazes, not 15 feet away, at the face of a young girl, unlined, smooth. In seconds she evaluates the situation. Ruby knew she was old enough to be the girls mother--even grandmother. The child-woman had a purity.-- And it was obvious she was tremendously unhappy.-- She was crawling now! Over the worn out scrap of a hallway carpet-- trying to get away from him! Marshall Jones rained fisticuffs down at her head, and kicked her some more for good measure-- then dragged her back inside the room. The door slammed and they were gone from view. But inside the screams of pain and terror continued! Without a sound, Ruby silently pulled her door closed. And stood there, pressed against it, breathless. Suddenly her eyes began to flash! A strange wild look which showed the whites of her eyeballs, came over her! Eyes all big rolling in her head like a Voodoo Priestess! In disbelief she stood there a moment. Fear filled. And then...
And what did Ruby do? -- She did the worst thing a con could do! A thing that a snatches the laugh right out of a Players mouth. This street-hated, most dawgish, most unheard of, audacious deed! Ruby crept silently back into the hall on stocking feet, carrying her pumps in her hand, and; wanting to avoid passing by their hotel room door at any costs, stealthy tiptoed back to the rear, to the fire escape stairs, and descended one floor then came back inside, put her shoes on and ran down the front steps, into the old hotel lobby breathless, and determined! Sweat beaded on her broad black nose, breath came in harsh rasps. Went outside onto the deserted boulevard. Made it down 5 blocks to a pay telephone booth which sat adjacent to a hamburger establishment. There, trying to appear nonchalant, she dropped a dime. Ruby snitched. She called down The Man. And in the Marshall Jones case it was as good as killing him. The police arrived in under 3 minutes, and found the girl, along with a flabbergasted Jones, in that cheap crib he’d gotten for her. Saw purple bruises over her body. A blackened eye and bloodied face. And she was 14. They took the girl into Protective Services. The professionals there, took their support of minor kids serious, got her out of harms way, plus gave her legal protection not to be returned to the terrifically abusive home from which she’d fled. --And from this safe vantage position she turned States Evidence against her pimp. Sir Marshall Jones went to jail for 13 years. He lost his house, his apartment building, his cars; and his fleet of whores bucked and ran carrying all their furs, satins, silks and jewelry’s; and he would never see his kids again. That’s what the bold sistah’ did.
It has the allusion of having everything. Technology. Silver highways winding; modernistic buildings that reach to the sky.-- All of it is a blessing to make our lives easier, but it is not the final answer. Streets at the foot of the skyscrapers are flooded with dropouts from the AmeriKKKan dream. Hippies like the Hobos of yesterday. Black clad, and pierced Punks of today. Beside freeways rushing along are the left-behind in ramshackle edifices. The growing poverty class. *** At the foot of the city stood a young girl. ‘I bes doing it.’ Thinks she.
Determined to live high on whities hog instead of eating the grunts & pigtails. The pork chops. The fillet de pig. Seagulls swoop in the air. Jazz plays over silver highways and gray government buildings. Saxophone blows chords. Love is the food of heaven & we will eat it all day long... But for now we content ourselves with drops of love-- far and few between.... Women walking in the streets in dark coats & shawls. in shrouds. Mourning. Wailing to be saved! Eyes listless. Hands in empty pockets, hongry for cash. Society had so reduced us, begging for money, that it had become the sole light of our obsession. Finding a single coin made our eyes gleam! Police hiding around the corner. 1,2, 3 squad cars, then the fleet! They peruse, that is their job. And seldom save the souls of the lost and damned. The grim world marches on. Why are people the way they are? Women were everywhere
This is the intellectual property of the author, Red Jordan Arobateau