A Deeper Love Inside: The Porsche Santiaga Story by Sister Souljah
“I’ll go up and wave when I reach so you’ll know I’m good,” I told him, trying to hurry off.
“Okay but when will we meet up again?” he asked, handing me the shopping bag he had been holding for me.
“Next Friday at our market, same time. Is that alright?” I asked.
“Cool,” was all he said. He stood watching me enter Mr. Sharp’s building.
Waving from the hallway window way upstairs, I wasn’t sure if he could see me. But I saw him standing glued to the sidewalk facing the Brooklyn night sky.
I waited till he began walking away, then took the stairs down, went out the back door of the building and down the alley and into the ground. Friday night, 8:18 p.m. I was alone again.
By midnight I was back on the streets. I was out of my new clothes, dressed down and searching for Momma.
Chapter 34
Not impressed by monsters, ghouls, or ghosts, I was trying to choose a Halloween costume. It was October 31, morning time. I had already worked Big Johnnie’s, and was feeding the meters, walking and wondering. I was excited too, about meeting up with Riot later on, October 31 at 6:00 p.m. as we promised one another. I had already taken myself through all of the emotions I would feel if she didn’t show.
“Captured or dead,” Riot had said would be the only reasons she wouldn’t be there to meet me.
I told myself I needed the costume because Riot and I are two fugitives showing up in one same spot.
“Things change quick. Don’t be surprised,” Elisha had said.
Even though he wasn’t talking about my situation, I knew that true words spoken truthfully could fit almost anywhere.
“Let me pick you something pretty,” Siri said. “Just because it’s Halloween, doesn’t mean you have to look stupid and crazy,” she added.
“I know, but I don’t want to look too pretty. That boy I made the baloney sandwich for been trying to get with me lately,” I told Siri.
“You made the sandwich for your job, not for him. We don’t like him. So we’ll wear a mask, and we’ll slip out the back alley like alley cats!” she joked. “That’s it, we’ll be cats! You’ll wear a mask like Cat Woman. It gets dark by 5:00 p.m., so we’ll just walk light and sneak past him,” Siri suggested.
In long painted black fingernails, my real fingernails, black tights, a black Danskin, a black ballerina skirt, a black Cat Woman mask, wearing black lipstick, black eye liner, and black mascara, I slid into my black high top Prada kicks, the ones I chose and Mr. Sharp paid for. I selected my black Lady North Face, cause I liked the way it was cut to hug and outline my shoulders and waist.
“Wear the tail!” Siri said, cheerleading. I had debated about the cat tail that Siri got from the Halloween specialty store. Then I decided that a girl’s butt already gets too much attention. I rocked one thick black braid from the center of my head going back. My hair had grown so much, even with Siri catching all of my hair in the French braid, the braid still fell past my shoulders and into the crease in the top of my back. That would be the only tail I was wearing. I was blacked out like a luxurious black Porsche. I felt powerful in the disguise, unlike one of the “hunted people,” that I normally felt like without the disguise. With the disguise, oddly, I felt like Porsche, not Ivory.
I rode the train with all types. When I reached the crowded corner of Thirty-fourth and Seventh in Manhattan, I purposely kept walking. I decided I would remain one block over and watch for Riot’s arrival, just in case. When I saw her arrive, I would prance across. But what outfit would she be wearing? Would she be a boy or a girl? Probably a boy, I thought to myself.
At six sharp, I saw a green-eyed teen soldier in camouflage pants and an army jacket. Timberlands on his feet, he was rocking a green bandanna. Wearing a green duffle on his back, that looked like it weighed more than him, he was pacing around moving in between people who were moving, but wasn’t crossing over when he had the green light in his favor. So I crossed, crushed in the crowd. I walked up and stood besides him. When he moved, I followed. I felt good that he didn’t recognize me. I said one word, “Revolution.”
He turned swiftly, and then tried to slow his reaction to my recognizing and reciting his true name. Maybe he was supposed to recognize me first. “Too late,” I thought to myself. He didn’t have a mask on or war paint or anything like that. His eyes were greener than Riot’s. They were big and clear and obvious in the lit-up streets of Madison Square Garden.
“Pretty fucking little girl . . .” He said his intro under his breath. “That’s what my sister said about you.”
“Where is she?” I asked.
“Follow me,” he said.
“I’ll walk behind you. Go ahead,” I told him. I stayed a few paces behind.
“Hope everything is okay,” Siri said.
Riot’s fourteen-year-old naked feminine body was facedown on a metal table. I could see that she had recently made some new black friends, from her pretty perfect blonde cornrows beginning at her neckline and flowing upwards into her braided bun. In an unmarked store that was behind a store that was marked Denim Den, there was hardly enough space for three in the narrow room. Other than one opened window, the walls were plastered with animations, not simple ones like Mickey Mouse or Bugs Bunny. They were drawings etched with rage and revenge by an artist who loved aliens more than people. The air smelled like cleaning detergent and was filled with the sound of buzzing. A tall, slim, white girl with lady hips, wearing a belt with silver spikes and a hairstyle that matched her belt, was crouched over Riot’s naked body. I checked her black spiked riding boots, trying to calculate if this was just her holiday costume or her everyday way to chill.
“Ivory, I wanted you to see me,” Riot said, speaking over the music that was filling the tiny room and without looking up or changing her position even slightly. Even the spiked girl didn’t turn.
Riot reached over and lowered the volume on the CD player. They were listening to a cut named “Me and My Girlfriend,” off the Makaveli joint by Tupac Shakur.
“How did you know it’s me?” I asked her.
“Cause Revo, me, and you always do what we promise. And those dancer legs . . .,” she said.
“So what’s up with me and you for today like we promised?” I asked, feeling red.
“It’s six o’clock. I wanted you to see me like this,” she said strangely. “Step around and check out my tattoo.”
I eased around to the other side of the table. I didn’t remove my mask. I didn’t need the artist profiling me.
“You see it right,” Riot asked.
“Uh,” was all I answered, agreeing that I see it.
“So when you see me, you’ll always know if it’s me by what you see now,” she said, confusing me.
I knew better than to talk too much. I said “okay,” and left it at that.
“You can bounce with Revo. He got something for you, and we can all three meet back here around ten, when I’m dry,” she said. I leaned over and picked up the cloth that I guessed should have been covering Riot’s ass. I shook it out once and laid it over her cheeks. The artist shot me a first look with her deep blue eyes. I didn’t throw her no heat. I hadn’t touched her and caused her to make a mistake, or placed the cloth over her design. She had painted a beautiful Diamond Needle across and down my girl’s back. The design of the wings was already amazing, colored, and detailed like stained glass in a window. Now she was easing right above Riot’s crack, finishing what I guessed was the long black stinger, or maybe it was the tail. The fact that the design was on skin made it beautiful to me because the body already had its own design and curve. The body was a more-better canvas than some flat piece of paper, cloth, or wall. A kid could tag up a wall with graffiti. But graffiti on a body would be something to make jaws drop.
When I am dancing, I am also doing body art, I thought to myself. In addition to hugging and riding beats and rhythms, and expressing and releasing all kinds of deep, dangerous, dark, sorrowful, or joyful fee
Riot would be happy to know that I definitely wouldn’t forget her skin art, even if I never saw it again.
“Is that for me?” I asked Revo, who was standing outside the Denim Den door. He nodded. “Let me take it then, thanks,” I told him.
“You can’t carry it. That’s why I got it. Tell me where you want it. And there’s one more bag just as big as this one,” he said calmly. I stood thinking.
“Where’s the other bag?” I asked him.
“Follow me,” he said.
At the Port Authority bus terminal on Forty-second and Eighth Avenue, Revo said, “Stand right here.” He dropped the heavy duffle off his back and left it on top of my Pradas. “Lift your right foot,” he said. I did. He took the strap of the duffle and laid it below my raised foot. “Now set it down,” he said. I did. “Don’t lift it again. Don’t move. Don’t talk to nobody. I’ll be right back,” he said. He’s the same as Riot, I thought to myself.
Less than three minutes later, he returned with an identical duffle on his back. “Lift your foot,” he said. I did. He grabbed the straps, carried both duffles a few steps, then hailed the cab from the taxi line in front of us.
“Tell him the address,” he said to me. We were seated in the cab.
“My address?” I stalled.
“Wherever you want your luggage,” he said.
“I can take it to my job, but not to my house,” I told him. Then I told the driver the address for Big Johnnie’s.
On the expensive ride in from Manhattan to Brooklyn, thoughts raced around my mind. I didn’t want Revo to know where I lived. Would he believe this was not my house like I said? Would he remember my address? Would he tell Riot? He should believe it, since it’s a corner store. I’d get out on the side street avoiding the store front door and even the back door that led beneath the floor. Then I wondered why I didn’t want Riot to know my address. I obviously trusted her more than anyone else. So what was wrong?
The answer came slowly. I was uncomfortable with anyone who was uncomfortable with Momma. I didn’t want anyone to see her and misunderstand or judge her. I didn’t want anyone to just show up to the underground and maybe Momma would be there looking or feeling too vulnerable. Even though I didn’t love the space beneath the store floor, I wanted it to be the one private place where Momma would come, because I made it special and, most importantly, because I was there waiting for her.
“How young are you?” Revo asked, breaking what had been a silent ride except for the driver’s radio, which was stuck on the sports channel where there was no music.
“Too young,” was my two-word response.
Revo handed the taxi driver the fare.
“Wait, don’t pay yet,” I told him. He looked at me confused.
“Take him to Madison Square Garden,” I told the driver.
“Push the duffle bag out,” I told Revo as I dragged one of them out on my own.
“I’ll stay with you until your luggage is safe,” he said, leaning over while pushing the duffle.
“It’s safe. I’m here. I’ll meet you back at ten. That’s what your sister said,” I told him, slamming the door. Of course he could’ve jumped out if he wanted to. But I knew I had said the magic words, “That’s what your sister said.” Even though he was the male, everybody who knew Riot knew she was the boss in every situation, even when you’re in it with her fifty-fifty!
Cartons of cigarettes couldn’t be too heavy, I thought to myself.
The sound of meowing took me out of my thoughts. “Shorty, you want some help?” The Baloney Boy rolled up to the side of Big Johnnie’s store soon as the cab pulled off.
“No, I’m good,” I told him.
“Big Johnnie said you were young. But you look ready to me,” Baloney Boy said.
“Maybe I should just call Big Johnnie now,” I threatened.
“What for? I’m just talking. I’m saying. I’mma wait for you. You let me know when you’re ready, a’ight.” He turned and walked away.
I dragged the heaviest bag on the cement, and kicked the light one like a soccer ball. Once I unlocked the steel doors, I just pushed the duffles down. I started to just lock up and head back to the train station. I thought to myself, What if Momma comes tonight?
Down below, I stood looking for a hiding place for the cigarettes. But there was no secure hiding place down here. Where could I store the smokes? I asked myself.
Opening the heavy duffle, I saw what I should’ve known already. Riot had already thought of everything. There was a heavy, thick linked chain and an extra heavy lock inside. I was glad she made it easy for me to lock the cigarettes away. I was insulted that she assumed that Momma was still smoking crack and untrustworthy. I was extra insulted that she thought Momma would steal from me, and the business I was doing to get the money I needed to save Momma.
When I returned to meet Riot, she was there but Revolution was not. She’s great at using people, I thought to myself. She’s controlling even what a person sees and doesn’t see, and how long you get to see it for. She never allowed the pieces that she put together to get attached to one another. Yet, she liked for all of the pieces to be attached to her.
From living with Riot on lockdown, on the reservation, and on the road, I knew exactly what I wasn’t seeing: the driver who drove her and her brother down here; the rented, borrowed, or stolen vehicle they rode in; the person whose identity she was using now; the hustle she had moving upstate. I also knew I had no idea exactly which day she had actually arrived down here to the city, on time for our meeting or even days beforehand. I knew I didn’t know where in the city she was staying, or what exact day she would be leaving to head back upstate. And who knows what happened to Honey? I didn’t know any answers, and I didn’t see nothing that she didn’t want me to see. I understood. Matter of fact, I might even respect it. Because of her secrets, I didn’t have to feel guilty about mine. Still, we are partners and friends.
• • •
“What’s your costume?” I asked Riot. Now she was dressed and standing on her own two feet, wearing summer sandals in the autumn coat wearing chill, in a long, funny colored, unfashionable printed fabric dress.
Because of her nice, slim, feminine figure, even though the dress was ugly, it fit her nicely.
“You’re not supposed to ask me. If you ask me, it means my costume is no good,” she said. I noticed her long earrings because she never wore jewelry when she and I were together. But I could see it was costume jewelry, which is only okay because it’s Halloween. For me, I’d wear only genuine jewels—real gold and diamonds or nothing at all.
“Okay then, I won’t ask,” I said.
“I chose the most unpopular costume. Something no one wants to be for some reason. Hopefully you’ll guess before we separate,” she said.
“Aren’t you cold?” I asked her. Her cornrows were beautiful but her face was reddish, I guessed from the cold air and her thin costume.
“No, I’m good. My costume is from a hot place,” she said. “I am hungry. I was laid out on that table for half the day. Let’s walk.”
We began walking. “I heard about this parade down in the Village. I want to check it out. We can hop the train and eat down there,” she said. I smiled. She was so relaxed and familiar in the area. It was like she was the city girl, not me.
“So you’re a cat for Halloween. You’re way better than cat woman.” She laughed. “You’re a dancing black cat.” She pointed to my black ballerina tutu skirt. We both laughed. “And where’s your tail?” she asked.
“I didn’t want the boys chasing my tail,” I said. “So I got rid of it.”
“It’s okay if they see and look and keep going, minding they business,” I said. “But if they start sniffing or chasing my tail, that’s something else!” We were heading down into the subway.
“How’s Momma?” she asked, suddenly switching topics and feelings.
“Fine,” I lied and she knew it.
“How’s the people and the place where you are living?” she asked me.
“Good,” I said one word.
“You been eating good?” she asked.
“So good, thanks to NanaAnna. How is she?” I asked, flipping positions.
“Perfect, you know more than anyone NanaAnna knows how to take care of herself. But I don’t stay over there anymore. I’m not at NanaAnna’s place,” she said surprisingly.
The noisy train came screeching in as we stood on the crowded platform. Just then, I wasn’t sure if her words were true. Maybe Riot was feeling the same as me, and just felt better with no one knowing for sure exactly where she was living and sleeping.
“Why? Did you and NanaAnna have an argument about something?” I asked.
“No way, you know that I worship her,” Riot said and that sounded 100 percent true. “I just knew I was getting into some things that I didn’t want to affect NanaAnna. So I bounced. Besides, I have identity. It’s cool living as a nineteen-year-old with a driver’s license, Social Security number, and everything that comes with that. Complete strangers call me Ms., and they serve me like I’m an adult. I can work anywhere, represent myself, and when I talk, people listen without me having to threaten ’em.” We laughed. “I got a passport. I can travel now, in and out of any airport going anywhere in the world,” Riot said. I could tell she felt good about it.
“How’s Honey?” I asked.
“Same,” she answered with one word.
“About the business . . .” we both said at the same time. Then we smiled.
“I got the smokes, thanks,” I said sincerely.