A Street Girl Named Desire: A Novel Read online

  Praise for HARLEM GIRL LOST

  Black Issues Book Review “Urban Lit” Book of the Year 2006

  “It's hard not to root for [this] feisty heroine, who never once plays the victim. Gripping.”

  —Kirkus Reviews (starred review)

  “[Harlem Girl Lost] has echoes of another successful lost-girl saga, White Oleander.… It's heartening that even in Blue's world of double-crossing, misogyny, drugs and bru tality, an against-all-odds fairy tale can come true.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Blue's story is another great addition to the urban-drama genre.”

  —Booklist

  “The most shocking and controversial book of the decade—Treasure E. Blue's life is as equally compelling as his novels. Not since the immortal Donald Goines has a writer been able to capture the raw essence of urban life.”

  —Black Star News

  “A true urban novel filled with vivid images of the street.”

  —Black Issues Book Review

  Also by Treasure E. Blue

  HARLEM GIRL LOST

  This book is dedicated to my father, Robert Smalls Sr., who stood by me thick and thin through my search to find self. There were times when nearly everyone gave up on me and left me to the wolves, but you stood by your son knowing that one day he'd be able to stand on his own. Though we never really had a traditional father/son rela tionship in our past because of my vast inhibitions and tur bulent lifestyle, you came to my rescue many times and were forced to learn the role of a father, subsequently forcing me to learn how to be a son. I love you, Dad.

  Pain and suffering are prerequisites for joy and happiness

  STEVEN B. SMALLS

  This is the story of a girl who should have died the minute she was born, who was famous hours after she was born, who had to die and be born again countless times before she finally learned how to live. To most, she would simply be a story on the news that they could recall in casual conversation. She was that baby who had been born on that night in that way, to that mother who had let it happen. The sad part about it is, nobody ever really cared about this girl once she faded from the evening news and the morning papers. Nobody knew what happened to her after the media closed the chapter on her sensational story, after she ceased being the talk of all those people who just dismissed her as another sad sound bite on the evening news. She was just something to talk about to most people in her world. To others, she was just someone else to use up because they were trying to survive in the jungle they had all been placed in. And to some, she was someone to care about and save, a reason to love that became a reason to live. This is the story of what she came to be to herself.

  CHAPTER ONE

  February 1984. Underneath the elevated train tracks on 125th Street, outside the Metro-North station, a petite girl wearing a flimsy spandex skirt stood impatiently on the sidewalk, as scores of cars whisked by Tourists did not come to this part of Harlem. This area, the east side of Harlem, was a haven for crack- and heroin-addicted whores, and transvestites looking to turn a few tricks. This night was cold, so bitterly cold that there wasn't a whore in sight. But there would always be an exception. One who would defy Mother Nature. One who would take the stringent cold and make the intolerable seem tolerable. One who would risk everything just for an opportunity to earn some loot to hit that glass dick. One who finally lost control because circumstances in her life had been beyond her control. One who descended into a depth of pain that now seemed impossible for her to dig her way out of.

  Crack cocaine, the deadliest and most addictive drug known to man. A drug so powerful that under its spell, it caused some women to sell their own children or made a man get on his knees to suck another man's penis. A drug so insidious, it told your brain that you had to have it no matter the cost. Not even a wretchedly cold winter night could stop those on the prowl for the substance that provided them a temporary amnesia, a momentary euphoria, a desperate escape from the reality of their lives. This part of town was a jungle. Sad, hopeless and lonely people were the only hunters. Crack cocaine was their prey.

  A few drug dealers also withstood the harsh elements. They did not have to hunt for their victims because their victims hunted for them. They lurked in harrowed darkness, rocking back and forth in their Timbos, waiting patiently in the cut to capitalize on someone's desperation.

  On the stroll, seventeen-year-old Nika had a virtual monopoly on the competition. Not only did she carry the burden of the freezing cold, but also a fetus in its third trimester. Though she carried small, having sprouted the type of belly that made the old folks predict a girl, her pregnancy was still visible, discouraging several potential tricks. She hadn't turned a single trick in nearly two hours. Angry, cold and beasting for crack, tears falling heavily from her eyes at the thought of surviving another minute, another second without a blast. To make matters worse, a downpour of snow decreased the possibility of her getting her hands on what she wanted. Fighting back the tears, she eyed the dealers across the street and convinced herself she could pull off the impossible—get some vials on credit. Walking toward them, her mind raced as she pondered what new lie she could tell them. Gaining confidence with each stride, she put on her game face and began smiling gleefully.

  One dealer seemed to read her mind. He stopped her dead in her tracks. “Don't even try it, bitch!”

  His words cut through her like a machete. Her jaw twitched in anger, for these were the same bastards she had grown up with. The same bastards who had gotten her hooked on crack in the first place. The same bastards she had made rich with all the business she brought them. But there are no loyalties in a jungle. There is only the will to survive, at any and all costs. Everyone necessarily hardened so as not to become a victim. Heartlessness was the rule and not the exception. None of them wanted to serve her. They were used to throwing off the addicts who could not pay. Business was business. They left their hearts at home whenever they stepped out onto the streets.

  From the dealers before her, Nika couldn't even be fronted a dime piece of crack. She cursed them silently and walked away.

  As she trudged uptown in the six-inch accumulated snow, it was then that she began to feel the bloodcurdling chill invade her soul. It was also then that she felt a sharp burning in her stomach that forced her to keel over in gut-wrenching pain. Once the pain subsided, just as suddenly as it came, she staggered for about a block until she happened upon a potential trick walking in her direction. She quickly gained her composure and wiped the frozen tears from her puffy face. As quickly as hope arrived, it was just as quick to disappear. She rolled her eyes in disgust, recognizing the elderly gentleman standing before her.

  “God can take away your troubles right this moment, Nika, if you are willing,” he said in a soft voice while extending his hand.

  The small, fragile man with soft reassuring eyes was Elijah Clark, founder and director of Visions, a neighborhood drug treatment center. A former addict himself, he spent many years sick and suffering on the mean streets of Harlem. After getting arrested, and nearly losing his mind, he kicked the habit in prison after he found God there.

  “What did God ever do for me, Mr. Clark, huh?” Nika shouted. “Nothing! That's what. He never did shit for me. You hear me?”

  Nika sucked her teeth and walked around him, not wanting to hear any of his preaching. But she wanted to make sure he heard hers. She looked back at him, screaming in a voice that made even a man who had seen it all recoil.

  “He never did one fuckin thing for me since I was fuckin born!”

  Elijah watched in silence as she screamed incoherently while walking off into the frozen darkness.

  D
efeated, Nika relented and walked toward her rented room on Lenox and 131st, when a tan Maxima crept up slowly behind her. The driver honked his horn and came to a stop. Her eyes glanced toward the vehicle as newfound hope overwhelmed her. She ran at almost breakneck speed, hopping in the passenger seat. Under normal circumstances she would have inspected the occupant a little closer to see if he was a potential threat, such as a vice cop, deranged freak or stickup kid. But this wasn't a normal night, so all bets were off, she thought as she stared wide-eyed at the man in front of her.

  Smiling, she asked nervously, “Hey, honey, you looking for a date? 'Cause I … you know… ain't doing nothing, and I can take care of you.”

  The driver, a huge man who seemed stuffed into the moderately sized car, was surprised by her carefree spirit. He returned the smile, revealing crooked, buttery coated, yellowish teeth, as he leered lustfully at her petite, youthful body.

  “Well, goddamn, girl,” he said with excited pleasure in a thick, Southern drawl. “Now, that's exactly the type of whore I'm lookin for.”

  She smiled as she loosened her thin coat.

  He examined her closer, frowning, “I be damned, girl, but you look like you have a child in ya.”

  “You ain't got to worry 'bout that, Daddy, because I can suck a mean dick, baby … I'll have you cumin in no time.”

  She quickly reached for his zipper. “You don't have to worry about me being pregnant, I promise you you gonna cum.”

  He shook his head, “Shit, baby, you ain't gots to worry, I loves to try me some of that pregnant pussy. From what I hear, that's the sweetest kind of pussy any ol way.” Backing into an empty parking space, he smiled at her wickedly, smacking lips that were so purple they could have been stained by blueberries. “We can handle business right in the backseat.”

  The quicker the better, she thought, as she followed him to the rear. He immediately pulled down his trousers, and she followed suit, slipping out of her panties. As she awkwardly positioned herself for his entry, she caught a glimpse of his package. Her eyes widened as she stared in total disbelief at the size and girth of his penis—it was the size of a quarter horse's. Were she not in the throes of addiction, this would have been the moment where instinct would have kicked in and told her to protect herself. She needed the money for a hit so bad, but was she willing to risk injury to not only herself, but her baby, as well?

  “Listen, baby, I don't think it's a good idea to put that thing up in me right now. How 'bout I suck you off and—”

  “Fuck that head shit. I told you I wanted some pussy, so either that or you can get the fuck out.” He quickly let her know he wasn't playing. He opened the rear door, exposing her to the frigid cold.

  Once again thinking of the first blast, she nodded her head and eased back in her seat. Slowly, she closed her eyes, lifted her skirt and spread her thin legs. She winced immediately when she felt the head of his penis enter her. She bit down on her lip as he pressed forcefully, raw-dogging it, trying to put every inch of himself in her. As he plunged faster and faster, deeper and deeper, she begged him to slow down, but he could not hear her plea; he was in his own world, grunting, groaning, speaking in tongues, eyes rolling into the back of his head. He was unrelenting in his vicious assault of her vaginal canal. She could feel his dick banging against her cervix, making her uterus shift with each burning thrust.

  “No … no more,” she begged loudly, as she felt the ripping of her insides.

  “Oh, shit … you maafuckin tight pussy bitch … oh, shit … right fuckin there … ahhhh … right there, bitch!” Gobs of spit dribbled freely from his bloated lips. She was powerless over the brute who forced her legs to spread wider and wider. Just as she thought she would pass out, the beast made an almost girlish squeal. He pounded her one last time and pulled out his dick, exploding sperm all over Nika's stomach and pussy hairs. Blood ran down her thighs. Breathing heavily, he jerked the remaining cum from his dick.

  “Damn, sugar, that pussy was mad tight … Shit, if you want, we can …” He caught himself midsentence when he suddenly noticed his car seats were becoming saturated with thick bloody mucus.

  “Bitch, you got fuckin blood all over my mama's seats! Get the fuck out… get out!”

  “Okay,” Nika responded meekly. “Just let me find my panties.”

  “Fuck your fuckin panties, get out my ride now!” he shouted. Looking in his flaming eyes, she knew better than to not comply with his order.

  “All right,” she agreed. “But give me my money first.”

  “Bitch, you should be paying me for fuckin up my car with your fuckin blood.” He reached over and quickly opened the door for her to exit.

  The thought of going home crackless enraged her. She looked him square in the eyes and demanded, “Motherfucker, I ain't going no place until you pay me my money.”

  He wrapped his huge hand around her small throat, trying to shove her out of the car. Her jones made her stronger than the man who had just overtaken her with his sex. “I ain't going anywhere until you give me my money!”

  Seeing that she wasn't budging, he lifted one of his powerful legs and began kicking her without mercy. His foot thundered against her face and her hard stomach, but the pain made her more determined. It wasn't until he lifted his other leg, using both feet in seamless coordination, that he sent her body flying out the car like a rag doll. Lying in the snow, holding her stomach, she sobbed loudly. Blood and tears ran freely down her face. He watched her in silence as he exited out of the car on his side. Walking to the other side, he peeled off a twenty and let it drop on the ground near Nika.

  Nika hurriedly approached the two dealers. Her spandex skirt had blood smeared on the front. Standing before them, she extended the bill out to them, clutching her belly as if she had to go to the bathroom.

  “Give me two,” she commanded, wiping snot from her nose. They all turned away. The shred of dignity they had left made them not want to contribute even further to the obvious insanity Nika had sunken into. They looked beyond her as if she weren't even there.

  “Give me two,” she repeated.

  Finally, one dealer spoke. “Yo, Nika, why don't you call it a night, yo?”

  Nika stared at him with confusion. “Yo, I ain't got no time for this shit, Chocolate, I been through too fuckin much tonight, give me two!”

  “Not for nothing, yo, but you killing yourself out here, ma, and your fuckin baby.”

  Clutching her stomach tighter, she grew angry. “You can kill that worried shit. Now, give me two.”

  He shook his head, “Naw, fuck that. I ain't selling you no more. Bounce yo.”

  Nika pleaded, “What the fuck do you care. I ain't begging for credit. Give me two.”

  She wanted to leave but she knew no other dealers would be out. She fell to her knees and clutched his leg tightly and begged, “Don't do this to me. I … I just need these last two and I'm going in for the night.”

  The youngest dealer, about thirteen, interrupted, “Fuck that! I only got two left anyway, and it's cold as a bitch out here.”

  Chocolate shrugged. “Yo, you do you, nigga, I ain't selling her shit.”

  The youngun snatched the bill from Nika and shoved two vials in her hand.

  Thirsting badly for the hit, she decided to enter the lobby of the closest abandoned tenement. She knew of one just around the corner. Another crackhead was already inside, scraping his stem when she entered. He asked her if she could spare a little piece of crack, but she ignored him and kept it moving toward the stairwell. It was dark and quiet on the second-floor landing. As she rummaged through her pocketbook, searching for her stem and lighter, a piercing sharp pain in her abdomen knocked her off her feet. She fell to her knees, into the puddle of water supplied by the stream of liquid leaking from between her legs. She gathered her composure and slammed both dime pieces at once.

  Her eyes widened wickedly as she took a deep, deep pull from the pipe. The fire from the pipe illuminated the hallway with an
amberish orange hue. The crackling from the pipe sizzled loudly as she exhaled. The drug raced through her body in an instant,causing her brain to register an orgasm-like elation throughout her body. All of her worries were suspended. A lightness filled her head. She had no thoughts, no memories. She was within a present and without a past at the same time.

  As Nika stepped slowly down the stairs and out of the building, the warm, gooey liquid streamed more fluidly from under her skirt. Steam emitted from the liquid as it hit the freezing air. Oblivious to Mother Nature's wicked cold, she floated down the wary, dark street. She heard music, though she was not sure where it came from.

  Oh, happy day … when Jesus washed… when … Jesus washed… he took my sins away …

  Still in a blissful haze, she neared Lenox Avenue. A couple ambling past stopped dead in their tracks, staring wide-eyed with their mouths agape. It was a ghastly sight to see: a young woman dragging a newborn through the freezing snow by its umbilical cord.

  Nika collapsed and lay in the snow, staring at the flakes that seemed to be racing to the ground. The snow surrounding her lonely body turned a rosy shade of pink. The color spread rapidly. Nika never felt pain when she was high. Nor fear. Nor loneliness. Her eyes descended slowly as the song continued, its volume fading away along with Nika's mind.

  Oh, happy day … Oh, happy day…

  Miss Hattie Mae Evans rarely moved beyond eyeshot of her kitchen window on the ground floor of the project building where she lived on Lenox Avenue. As a result, she was usually the first to know everything that happened in her neighborhood. On this night, just as she was closing the Bible she always read before bed, out of the corner of her eyes she saw a girl fall back into the snow, carefree, as if she expected to be caught by a lover's arms. Hattie Mae waited a few moments before she forced her sixty-five-year-old bones up out of her chair and headed for the hall closet. She laboriously put each foot into heavy black boots. On her way out the door, she grabbed the quilt off of the couch.