SERIAL : 24
GANG LEADER FOR A DAY
“Look!” Ms. Bailey snapped at me. She strode over and held the bag up to my face. I saw a few condoms, some lipsticks, pictures of her daughters, and a few bags of either heroin or cocaine.
“Have to have that fix, don’t you, baby?” Ms. Bailey asked Clarisse, sneering. We all stood there for what felt like an hour but was probably only a few seconds. Catrina tried to interrupt, but Ms. Bailey waved her off.
“Go ahead, Sudhir, take her home,” Ms. Bailey said. She bent over to stare down at Clarisse. “If I see your babies coming over and telling me that they ain’t eaten no food in three days, I’m taking them away. You hear?”
Ms. Bailey turned and left. Catrina, with a disinterested look, handed me some paper towels. I bent down to wipe the vomit and tears from Clarisse’s face. She didn’t resist this time when I helped her up.
I walked Clarisse upstairs to her apartment and led her to the couch. The apartment was dark, and I figured it would be best to let her sleep. In a back room, her two daughters were sitting on a queen-size bed. They looked to be about two and four years old and were watching the TV intently. I closed the door to their room and put a glass of water on the table next to Clarisse. The scene was a study in contrasts. The apartment was neat and cozy, with wall hangings and framed pictures throughout, some of Jesus Christ and some of family members. It smelled as if it had just been cleaned. And then there was Clarisse on the couch, breathing heavily, eyelids drooping, a total mess.
When I had first met her, on the gallery outside J.T.’s apartment, Clarisse had set herself apart from other prostitutes- the “hypes and rock stars”- who sold sex for drugs. Plainly, she had lied to me about not using drugs; I guess she’d wanted to make a decent impression. At this moment I wasn’t too concerned about her lies. She needed help, after all. But it was pretty clear that I had to be careful about blindly accepting what people told me.
I sat on a recliner next to the couch. “I’m afraid to leave you here alone,” I said. In the dim light, I couldn’t really make out her facial expression. But she was breathing heavily, as if she’d just gone through battle. “Let me call an ambulance.”
“I’m okay. I just need it to wear off.”
“What about the kids? Have they eaten?”
“Ms. Bailey wouldn’t give us nothing,” she whimpered, a stage past crying. “Why she treat me like that? Why she treat me like that?”
I felt a sudden urge to make sure her kids were fed. I went into the bedroom, asked them to grab their jackets, and walked them over to a local sandwich shop. I bought them cheeseburgers, chips, and soda, and on the way home we stopped at a small grocery store. I had only fifteen dollars with me, but I told the owner, a middle Eastern man, that the family hadn’t eaten in a while. He shook his head – as if he’d heard this story a million times – and instructed me to get what I needed and just take it with me. When I told Clarisse’s girls that we were going to fill up a shopping cart, they looked like I’d just given them free passes to Disney World. While they grabbed candy, I tried to sneak in a few cans of spaghetti – alas, one of the most nutritious items on the shelves – and some milk, cereal, and frozen dinners. When we got back, Clarisse was asleep, I put the food away, broke out a few Ring Dings for the kids, and put them in front of the TV again. They fixed on the cartoon images as if they’d never been gone. Since Clarisse was still sleeping, I felt.
Two days later I returned to the building. Walking through the crowded lobby, nodding at the people I knew, I felt someone grab my arm and pull me into a corner. It was Ms. Bailey.
“You’re sweet, you’re young. You’re good – looking, and these women will take advantage of you,” she said. “Be careful when you help them.”
“Her kids hadn’t eaten,” I said. “What could I do?”
“Her kids ate my place that morning!” Ms. Bailey said. She tightened her grip on my arm and moved in even closer. “I make sure they eat. No children go hungry in my building. No, sir.” She tightened her grip even further, and it hurt. “These women need to do the right thing if they have a baby. You remember that if you have a child someday.”
“I will.”
“Mm-hmm, we’ll see about that. For now, be careful when you help the women. They’ll take advantage of you, and you won’t know what hit you. And I can’t be there to protect you.” I wasn’t sure exactly what Ms. Bailey meant.
I nodded anyway, mostly so Ms. Bailey would loosen her grip. When she finally let go, I walked up to J.T.’s apartment to wait for him. It was the second time I’d been warned that I couldn’t be “protected.” First J.T. and now Ms. Bailey. I decided not to tell anyone, including J.T., about the conversation I’d just had with Ms. Bailey. In fact, the conversation had put me so out of sorts that by the time I got upstairs, I told Ms. Mae I had some schoolwork to do and had to get going. She fixed me a plate of food for the bus ride home.
A few weeks later, Ms. Bailey invited me to the building’s monthly meeting. It was open to all tenants and posed one of the few opportunities for people to publicly voice their problems.
A few weeks later, Ms. Bailey invited me to the building’s monthly meeting. It was open to all tenants and posed one of the few opportunities for people to publicly voice their problems.
There were about 150 tenant families in Ms. Bailey’s building. That included perhaps six hundred people living there legally and another four hundred living off the books. These were either boarders who paid rent to leaseholders or husbands and boyfriends who kept their names off the leases so the women qualified for welfare. There were likely another few hundred squatters or people living temporarily with friends, but they were unlikely to attend a tenant meeting.
Ms. Bailey didn’t seem all that enthusiastic about these meetings, but she let me know that she well understood their symbolic value. “They need to see that something is going on,” she said, “even if nothing is going on.”
The meeting was held in Ms. Bailey office on a Saturday afternoon in December. Although it wasn’t very cold outside, the radiator was at full blast and the windows were closed. Ms. Bailey entered the steaming room and calmly walked past the few dozen people assembled on folding chairs, parking herself up front. She always sat down in the same awkward way. Because she was so heavyset, and because she had arthritis in her legs, she usually had to grab someone or something to help ease herself into a chair.
I was surprised at the small turnout. The attendees were mostly women and mostly in their mid-fifties. There were, however, a few younger women with children and a few men as well.
Ms. Bailey deliberately arranged a shelf of papers in front o her. She motioned for a young woman to open up the window, but it wouldn’t budge.
“Okay, this meeting is in session,” Ms. Bailey said.
A well-dressed man toward the back of the room immediately jumped up, “I thought you said you’d talk with those boys!” he said. “They’re still hanging out there, making all that damn noise. I can’t get no sleep.”
I was assumed he was talking about the parties the Black Kings threw inside and outside the building.
“Did you make a note of that, Millie?” Ms. Bailey asked an old woman to her left. She was the official LAC recording secretary. Millie nodded while scribbling away.
“Okay,” Ms. Bailey said, “go on, young man.”
“Go on? I’ve been going on. I’m tired of going on. Each time I come here. I go on. I’m tired of it. Can you do something?”
“You got that, Millie?” Ms. Bailey asked, looking over the rims of her glasses.
“Mm-hmm,” Mille answered. “He’s tired of it, he’s been going on, and he wants you to do something.”
“You can probably leave out the tired part,” Ms. Bailey said in a serious tone.
“Yes, okay,” Mille said, scratching away in her notes.
“Will there be anything else, young man?” Ms. Bailey asked. He didn’t say anything. “Okay, then , I’m figuring you don’t want to talk about the fact that you’re living here illegally. Is that right? Now, who’s next? Nobody? Okay, then, we have some serious business to discuss. Before I take questions, let me tell you that Pride will be here on Tuesday registering all of you to vote. Please make sure to show up. It’s very important we have a good turnout for them.”
Pride was the organization I’d come across earlier, made up of ex-gang members and devoted to gang truces and voter registration. Ms. Bailey had already told me that she worked closely with them.
“What are we voting for?” asked a young woman in the front row.
“We’re not actually voting, Sweetheart. You need to register first. If you’re already registered, you don’t need to come. But I want every apartment in this building registered.”
“Ain’t you even a little bit concerned that we’re just helping. J.T. and the rest of them?” an older woman asked. “I mean, they’re the only ones who seem to be getting something out of this.”
“You want these boys to turn themselves around?” Ms. Bailey answered “then you got to take them seriously when they try to do right. It’s better than them shooting each other.”
“The voting hasn’t done a damn thing for us!” someone cried out. “So why are you so accepting of what they’re doing?” A chorus of “oohs” followed the question.
to be continued
“Look!” Ms. Bailey snapped at me. She strode over and held the bag up to my face. I saw a few condoms, some lipsticks, pictures of her daughters, and a few bags of either heroin or cocaine.
“Have to have that fix, don’t you, baby?” Ms. Bailey asked Clarisse, sneering. We all stood there for what felt like an hour but was probably only a few seconds. Catrina tried to interrupt, but Ms. Bailey waved her off.
“Go ahead, Sudhir, take her home,” Ms. Bailey said. She bent over to stare down at Clarisse. “If I see your babies coming over and telling me that they ain’t eaten no food in three days, I’m taking them away. You hear?”
Ms. Bailey turned and left. Catrina, with a disinterested look, handed me some paper towels. I bent down to wipe the vomit and tears from Clarisse’s face. She didn’t resist this time when I helped her up.
I walked Clarisse upstairs to her apartment and led her to the couch. The apartment was dark, and I figured it would be best to let her sleep. In a back room, her two daughters were sitting on a queen-size bed. They looked to be about two and four years old and were watching the TV intently. I closed the door to their room and put a glass of water on the table next to Clarisse. The scene was a study in contrasts. The apartment was neat and cozy, with wall hangings and framed pictures throughout, some of Jesus Christ and some of family members. It smelled as if it had just been cleaned. And then there was Clarisse on the couch, breathing heavily, eyelids drooping, a total mess.
When I had first met her, on the gallery outside J.T.’s apartment, Clarisse had set herself apart from other prostitutes- the “hypes and rock stars”- who sold sex for drugs. Plainly, she had lied to me about not using drugs; I guess she’d wanted to make a decent impression. At this moment I wasn’t too concerned about her lies. She needed help, after all. But it was pretty clear that I had to be careful about blindly accepting what people told me.
I sat on a recliner next to the couch. “I’m afraid to leave you here alone,” I said. In the dim light, I couldn’t really make out her facial expression. But she was breathing heavily, as if she’d just gone through battle. “Let me call an ambulance.”
“I’m okay. I just need it to wear off.”
“What about the kids? Have they eaten?”
“Ms. Bailey wouldn’t give us nothing,” she whimpered, a stage past crying. “Why she treat me like that? Why she treat me like that?”
I felt a sudden urge to make sure her kids were fed. I went into the bedroom, asked them to grab their jackets, and walked them over to a local sandwich shop. I bought them cheeseburgers, chips, and soda, and on the way home we stopped at a small grocery store. I had only fifteen dollars with me, but I told the owner, a middle Eastern man, that the family hadn’t eaten in a while. He shook his head – as if he’d heard this story a million times – and instructed me to get what I needed and just take it with me. When I told Clarisse’s girls that we were going to fill up a shopping cart, they looked like I’d just given them free passes to Disney World. While they grabbed candy, I tried to sneak in a few cans of spaghetti – alas, one of the most nutritious items on the shelves – and some milk, cereal, and frozen dinners. When we got back, Clarisse was asleep, I put the food away, broke out a few Ring Dings for the kids, and put them in front of the TV again. They fixed on the cartoon images as if they’d never been gone. Since Clarisse was still sleeping, I felt.
Two days later I returned to the building. Walking through the crowded lobby, nodding at the people I knew, I felt someone grab my arm and pull me into a corner. It was Ms. Bailey.
“You’re sweet, you’re young. You’re good – looking, and these women will take advantage of you,” she said. “Be careful when you help them.”
“Her kids hadn’t eaten,” I said. “What could I do?”
“Her kids ate my place that morning!” Ms. Bailey said. She tightened her grip on my arm and moved in even closer. “I make sure they eat. No children go hungry in my building. No, sir.” She tightened her grip even further, and it hurt. “These women need to do the right thing if they have a baby. You remember that if you have a child someday.”
“I will.”
“Mm-hmm, we’ll see about that. For now, be careful when you help the women. They’ll take advantage of you, and you won’t know what hit you. And I can’t be there to protect you.” I wasn’t sure exactly what Ms. Bailey meant.
I nodded anyway, mostly so Ms. Bailey would loosen her grip. When she finally let go, I walked up to J.T.’s apartment to wait for him. It was the second time I’d been warned that I couldn’t be “protected.” First J.T. and now Ms. Bailey. I decided not to tell anyone, including J.T., about the conversation I’d just had with Ms. Bailey. In fact, the conversation had put me so out of sorts that by the time I got upstairs, I told Ms. Mae I had some schoolwork to do and had to get going. She fixed me a plate of food for the bus ride home.
A few weeks later, Ms. Bailey invited me to the building’s monthly meeting. It was open to all tenants and posed one of the few opportunities for people to publicly voice their problems.
A few weeks later, Ms. Bailey invited me to the building’s monthly meeting. It was open to all tenants and posed one of the few opportunities for people to publicly voice their problems.
There were about 150 tenant families in Ms. Bailey’s building. That included perhaps six hundred people living there legally and another four hundred living off the books. These were either boarders who paid rent to leaseholders or husbands and boyfriends who kept their names off the leases so the women qualified for welfare. There were likely another few hundred squatters or people living temporarily with friends, but they were unlikely to attend a tenant meeting.
Ms. Bailey didn’t seem all that enthusiastic about these meetings, but she let me know that she well understood their symbolic value. “They need to see that something is going on,” she said, “even if nothing is going on.”
The meeting was held in Ms. Bailey office on a Saturday afternoon in December. Although it wasn’t very cold outside, the radiator was at full blast and the windows were closed. Ms. Bailey entered the steaming room and calmly walked past the few dozen people assembled on folding chairs, parking herself up front. She always sat down in the same awkward way. Because she was so heavyset, and because she had arthritis in her legs, she usually had to grab someone or something to help ease herself into a chair.
I was surprised at the small turnout. The attendees were mostly women and mostly in their mid-fifties. There were, however, a few younger women with children and a few men as well.
Ms. Bailey deliberately arranged a shelf of papers in front o her. She motioned for a young woman to open up the window, but it wouldn’t budge.
“Okay, this meeting is in session,” Ms. Bailey said.
A well-dressed man toward the back of the room immediately jumped up, “I thought you said you’d talk with those boys!” he said. “They’re still hanging out there, making all that damn noise. I can’t get no sleep.”
I was assumed he was talking about the parties the Black Kings threw inside and outside the building.
“Did you make a note of that, Millie?” Ms. Bailey asked an old woman to her left. She was the official LAC recording secretary. Millie nodded while scribbling away.
“Okay,” Ms. Bailey said, “go on, young man.”
“Go on? I’ve been going on. I’m tired of going on. Each time I come here. I go on. I’m tired of it. Can you do something?”
“You got that, Millie?” Ms. Bailey asked, looking over the rims of her glasses.
“Mm-hmm,” Mille answered. “He’s tired of it, he’s been going on, and he wants you to do something.”
“You can probably leave out the tired part,” Ms. Bailey said in a serious tone.
“Yes, okay,” Mille said, scratching away in her notes.
“Will there be anything else, young man?” Ms. Bailey asked. He didn’t say anything. “Okay, then , I’m figuring you don’t want to talk about the fact that you’re living here illegally. Is that right? Now, who’s next? Nobody? Okay, then, we have some serious business to discuss. Before I take questions, let me tell you that Pride will be here on Tuesday registering all of you to vote. Please make sure to show up. It’s very important we have a good turnout for them.”
Pride was the organization I’d come across earlier, made up of ex-gang members and devoted to gang truces and voter registration. Ms. Bailey had already told me that she worked closely with them.
“What are we voting for?” asked a young woman in the front row.
“We’re not actually voting, Sweetheart. You need to register first. If you’re already registered, you don’t need to come. But I want every apartment in this building registered.”
“Ain’t you even a little bit concerned that we’re just helping. J.T. and the rest of them?” an older woman asked. “I mean, they’re the only ones who seem to be getting something out of this.”
“You want these boys to turn themselves around?” Ms. Bailey answered “then you got to take them seriously when they try to do right. It’s better than them shooting each other.”
“The voting hasn’t done a damn thing for us!” someone cried out. “So why are you so accepting of what they’re doing?” A chorus of “oohs” followed the question.
to be continued
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