Things took off quickly. I had what everybody needed at better prices than they could get it themselves. Everybody was happy. I organized all the fashions from the magazines into a catalog, put numbers on the items and the whole shit. I let the people in the house order their clothes from me. I let Simone boost them and sell them to me for a small price. I resold them to the girls at less than half of what the store would charge. Lashay was my unsuspecting runner, which put money in her pocket. She got to meet Simone, pick the stuff up for me, deliver it to me, and drop off whatever I wanted. I had cut-rate cartons of cigarettes for Noni, wholesale candy for Lashay, clothes, hairdos, fingernails, pedicures, and fashion tips for whoever needed it. I had beer and joints at the right time on the down down low. Depending on what was going on with Simone, I had things as big as cellular phones and CD players available. At the end of twenty-one days, I had two thousand five hundred dollars in my pocket and I had never left my room.
Kathy Johnson, my social worker, recommended I finish school. I disagreed and told her to make arrangements for me to drop out. To keep things cool, I agreed to take my GED exam so I could get that bullshit equivalency. I even agreed to look for a job, which I wasn’t really gonna do. The other girls in the house put me up on the scam. All I had to do was fill out a form weekly saying I looked for a job and where I looked for the job. I could get real company names and addresses from the want ads, complete the form, turn it in, and qualify as having looked for work. Work that as far as I was concerned I would never find because I already had a more profitable hustle going. Ms. Johnson threatened to sign me up for all kinds of technical and business schools like I would want to be some kind of refrigerator repairman or some crazy shit like that.
The psychiatrist recommended me to attend weekly psychiatric sessions, labeled me some kind of sociopath or something like that because I told her all those kooky stories that she was “educated” enough or should I say dumb enough to believe. She recommended that once I got my privileges, I should go visit my little sisters and that the whole family go to counseling. I had a better plan. I believe you see people when you have something to say and something to offer and I was still working on it. What was the sense in seeing my sisters when I couldn’t do shit for them. They’d start talking about they wanna come with me. What would I do then, move them from one shelter to another shelter for teenage girls! People always seemed to have stupid suggestions.
On my first free day, I hooked up with Simone. We had talked regularly on the phone, but only about business because time was limited. There was only one phone on my floor and everyone wanted to use it. No sense in hogging the phone and pissing off my customers. Simone seemed real happy to actually see me. We met at a pizza spot. She updated me on Brooklyn, said Natalie and Will were still together. Natalie hated me and had told all my personal business to everyone. My moms had sunk to an all-time low, had been seen wearing a full-body catsuit, you know the tight two-dollar legging with the bodysuit attached with no panties underneath. Her head was still bald, face still twisted, and body still on crack. Of course Simone didn’t word it that way, but let’s cut through the bullshit. I’m smart. Word on the street was Santiaga ain’t never getting out. Aunt B was screwing for money. My whole family had individual hustles going on and in general shit was tight. On the side Simone added that she had fixed up the room in her apartment for the baby. She had a new crib, blankets, toys, the works. Everything was pink. I told her it was dumb ’cause what if the baby was a boy? She had a sonogram, she said, and was sure it was a girl, so everything was in perfect order. She said she was seven months pregnant now, and getting tired all the time. She wanted me to know that she had put some money aside for the baby and she would need to slow down for the eighth and ninth month. Now I was no dummy so I caught the signal. My plans had to kick in as soon as possible. If she was gonna slow down that would affect the chain of cash flow we had going. Let’s face it. She was a booster. I wasn’t. She had the know-how and the connect. I didn’t. To tell the truth I wasn’t even interested in being a booster as long as I could make what Simone was already deep into work for me.
“Simone, I want to make an investment.”
“What kind of investment?”
“Crack.”
“That ain’t my area Winter, you know that. You know I have a weed connect but it’s out in Brooklyn back around the way.”
“No, fuck that. I need a closer connect up here. Weed is cool, but crack is better money. Once them baseheads get going they completely loyal customers. I need to at least triple my money so I can make moves.”
“I got a guy I can talk to, a cousin uptown. He’s real tight with his shit though, he might not even have a conversation with me. He be acting like he don’t be doing what he doing when everybody know what he be doing. Winter, I don’t know about getting into that shit. When you get caught you do time, hard time.” She hesitated, lowered her eyes, “Look what happened to your father.”
Right, I thought, that’s who I should be talking to, my father. And no matter what Simone said, my father got at least twenty years of good high living out of the business. Nobody could argue with that. That’s power. To be able to set up your own empire in your neighborhood, or even somebody else’s neighborhood for that matter. To buy cars, Jeeps, trucks. To sport the flyest shit made by top designers everyday. To be able to buy property, mansions, and still have apartments on the side. To be able to shit on people before they get a chance to shit on you. That’s power. Who could argue with that? A regular nigga worked all week for change to get to work plus a beer to forget about how hard he worked. My pops was a major player for a long time. With the bene fit of his knowledge I could make the world kiss my ass, but better than he did ’cause he could now teach me about the mistakes. Let’s compare it, ten years of good living and twenty years of high living versus sixty years of scraping to get by. Enough said.
I told Simone, “Listen, work on that connect for me. Try’n set me up a meeting. Here’s a list of what I need for the house. Let’s meet here Friday night at nine. I’ll pick it up.”
“What about Lashay?” Simone asked.
“Who?” I responded, my mind drifting to Santiaga. “Oh, I don’t need her anymore. I can get my evening passes now. I can be out till 11 P.M.”
“So what’s she gonna do?”
“Whatever she was doing before I got there.” I gave Simone a hug and broke out.
On the bus ride to the jail I organized a clever way to key Santiaga into what I was saying without exposing my hand to guards or phone surveillance. As Santiaga had taught me, hold your cards close to your chest. Also, I wouldn’t bring up the Dulce issue because that might cause him or even me to get mad and then I might end up leaving the jail without the information I needed. I would say yes, I saw Porsche, Mercedes, and Lexy. How were they doing? Fine. Getting big growing up, and going to school. What could I say about Mama? Well, it was unusual but I didn’t have an answer up until the time I arrived at Riker’s, went through checks and searches and the whole process. I still had no answer. Up until the time for me to sign in the book I sat nervously biting my lip about Momma, a woman who, despite everything, I know Daddy loved so much.
The guard said have a seat. I preferred to stand. Somehow I thought I could think better standing up so I went to the corner of the room and paced back and forth, back and forth.
When the guard returned he said, “Sorry Ms. Santiaga, Ricky Santiaga does not want to see anyone today.”
“What? Did you tell him it was me? Did you tell him it was his daughter, Winter Santiaga?”
“Yes, I did. I gave him the same name you gave me.”
“What do you mean he doesn’t want to see me? What did he say? How did he say it?”
“He didn’t say anything. I told him you were here. He shook his head no. He doesn’t have to come out. A prisoner has the right to refuse a visit.”
Tears welled up and splashed out my eyes. The guard said, “Listen,
if you write your name and address on a piece of paper I can give it to him. Maybe he’ll write.” As I jotted down my name, address, and phone number, I put on the bottom of the ripped piece of paper, Daddy please call me right away. I need you badly. Winter.
At the House of Success everyone asked me what’s wrong. I looked at their faces and thought to myself, You’re not in my damn family. Don’t try to act like you are. I shut them out and didn’t respond. I went to my bed, took off my shoes, and balled up under the cover in my clothes and slept. I slept through the rest of the afternoon, evening, and the night. I slept through the next morning, the next afternoon, and next evening again. Girls came and went. Can I buy a stogie? Do you have any more perm cream? What time can I get my hair done? Where did you put the catalog? My response was nothing.
On the third bedridden morning Ms. Johnson the social worker came. “If there’s a problem, Winter, we can talk about it. We can work it out.” I just stared at her face, then rolled over and balled up again.
By noontime the psychiatrist came and insisted that I needed a session. “Pent-up aggression wouldn’t solve anything,” she said. I had better eat some food or at least drink some water. I said nothing. By one o’clock security came, poked me with a nightstick and said I had to get dressed and go to the psychiatric office immediately. The rock-face lady-man with the big arms made it clear that if I didn’t move my ass she would move me. I got up and went through the motions of preparing to go.
Rashida was seated on her bed. She watched me with tears in her eyes. As the guard waited outside the door, Rashida came to me and said, “Alright Winter, you don’t have to say anything. I can understand it. But whatever happened to you, I been there before. It’s a real bad place to be but I been there. It almost make you wonder if being dead isn’t better. But let me just say this. Once I took a bottle of pills ’cause I wanted to die. I figured I die, no more pain right? Wrong,” she said, answering herself. “I ended up on the operating table with the doctors pumping my stomach. A lot of pain. When I got better, there was still pain. So I tried it again. I slashed my wrist with a knife. I figured, surefire way to die, right? And when I die no more pain, right? Wrong. When I woke up I was in a hospital room with tubes everywhere and stitches in my wrist. When the anesthesia wore off there was pain for weeks later. I still had a cast, painkillers, and pain. Soon as the pills wore off there was more pain. Even when I got better, there was pain. Pain’s a part of life. That’s my point, pain is part of life. When it’s your time to go, you go. If it’s not your time, you don’t go. Until then make the best of it. If you find God, the good in yourself, you can take most of the pain away and then the few times you get pain you can just surrender to Allah and the pain will go away.”
I couldn’t connect to what she was saying. The security yelled in and said, “C’mon Santiaga, the doctor is waiting.” I got up.
Rashida said, “Listen, tonight I’m going to see Sister Souljah speak. She’s a real beautiful sister who has helped me to understand myself a little more and get it together. If you want to come I’ll take you, my treat.”
“Your treat! It cost money!? What the hell you giving her money for?” My face was vexed and Rashida was intimidated by my sudden change and instant anger. “I could see if you were gonna see a show,” I went on. “Then at least you get what you pay for. You going to listen to somebody talk shit. Souljah gets paid. You get nothing, stupid ass!”
Rashida looked shocked at the dramatic change in my personality. “I guess I am a stupid ass for tryna help you!” Rashida exclaimed.
As she left the room, probably just to get away from me, I shouted, “Do me a favor.”
“Oh, now you need a favor.”
“Ask Sister Souljah if she knows somebody named Midnight.”
My session with the psychiatrist revived me. Not because of anything she did, because of what I did and said. The story I told her just made me laugh inside and that helped to take away some of the depression I felt. I told her I had a best friend named Natalie and ever since childhood we had been connected. We were so connected that when she cried, I cried, when she was sick, I was sick. When she was happy, I was happy. Even when we were separated I could still feel Natalie’s emotions and she could feel mine. Natalie had made one of her other friends angry by telling some of her personal business, so the girl beat Natalie unconscious. The reason I was stuck in bed for three days was because I was unconscious like Natalie. After the story, she asked me a thousand questions, all of which I answered. I can’t repeat my answers because I made them up as I went along and forgot them just the same.
That day I decided I would think of everyone in my family as dead. This made everything easy. It would be me against the world. Simone would be important to me because she was my business connect. I had learned that there was no point in getting personal. It was just a waste of time. As Santiaga would say—I mean, everybody knows—time is money and money is time.
Simone was on point as usual. She delivered my things, I gave her the loot.
“What’s wrong with you, Winter?” she asked, as though I was different than normal.
“Nothing. Just going over the numbers in my head. What’s up with that connect?”
“It’s not gonna happen. Forget it, Winter. He don’t want to get mixed up with no trouble. He got vexed just for me mentioning his business. I told him I could trust you, that you were in for self but he said that was hard to believe.”
“Damn!” I said, frustrated.
“Any other options?” she asked.
“I got a couple of ideas in my head. Let me work on ’em. Alright Simone. So what else is up?”
“I’m debating on whether to go to the show tomorrow night or not.”
I laughed at her. “Yah belly kind of out there,” I said, looking at her belly.
“No, crazy, that’s not it. I figure if I’m gonna go to a show I ought to be able to stay awake. This sleeping shit is getting out of control.”
“Who’s performing?”
“Wu-Tang.”
“Let’s do it,” I said.
“What you gonna wear?” she asked.
“Hey, Saks Fifth Avenue got this dusty pink suede dress with a matching jacket, banging. Pick it up for me. I already got the shoes. I was tryna wait for you to get them, but there was only one pair left in my size and I didn’t want anybody else to buy them. If you can cop the dress and the jacket, I’ll give you $350 for it. That’s a little more than half of the price.”
“You got it, Winter. Let’s meet at your spot about nine. How we rolling?” Simone asked.
“Limo, like usual,” I said with a half-smile. “Alright big-timer,” she agreed.
When I got back to the house, I apologized to everyone for buggin’ out for the past few days. I told them my mother was hospitalized and very sick. It got me depressed because the doctors said she might not pull through. I saw her today and thank God she was gonna be alright. They all accepted my apology. I gave them discounts on shit they needed for the weekend. After the discount we were all cool again. None of these girls would hold a grudge because they’d had their good days and their bad days, too.
One by one, girls were leaving on weekend passes. I hung around because Friday night was a money night for me. If I had a good take, I would have a total of twenty-eight hundred dollars saved.
Rashida came in and threw shade on me. For business purposes, I immediately apologized to her. The truth of the matter is Rashida was one of maybe two girls in the House of Success who never bought anything from me. She didn’t borrow money, didn’t ask for shit. How-ever, in business, I know that if a bad feeling spreads about the sales-woman or the product, it can infect others. So I was being scientific about it. Rashida accepted my apology, but not in a way that made me believe things were cool between us. She was cautious. But I’d rally her back to a good position, find out something she liked and provide it to her.
On Saturday morning I went out to the stores. The
re was really no need for me to shop anymore ’cause Simone could get what I wanted. But nothing could replace the whole idea of the store along with the thrill of being there. I kept my finger on the fashion nerve by always being in and out of the top stores. This made Simone’s job easy because I could tell her what I wanted, which store to lift it from, down to the exact section and sometimes the exact rack. I liked to keep up with cosmetics, although I didn’t need anything besides a little lipstick. My skin was smooth, my eyelashes were already dark and long. Some of the girls I sold shit to had uneven skin, some had blotches, and some straight up had scars, razor cuts they wanted to hide. My being up on the skin remedies, new cosmetic colors, styles, and exclusive shit they could never have known existed, meant they would have to keep coming back to me. I had packaged my advice, products, and styles like a secret potion that they could only purchase from me.
While I was out, I saw a cute pink suede hat that I wanted. It would go so perfect with the dress, jacket, and shoes. I was gonna get Simone to pick it up for me, although I was tempted to buy it myself just in case. Sometimes Simone was slow to answer her beeps. You couldn’t blame her because she was usually in the middle of picking something up.
Later I wandered into a pawnshop just to price what I could get for my diamond tennis bracelet, necklace, and earrings in an emergency situation. I found out the shop owners were not only thieves but perverts who made it clear that they weren’t above fucking me in the back room of the shop. Four hundred dollars was what they offered for a bracelet that cost my father a few thousand. The only good thing was if I got desperate and needed the money I could pick up the four hundred dollars and buy the jewels back later.