Being Black: The Hard and The Cool

The ladies entered with military precision, each finding it difficult to maintain eye contact with the expectant group. Embarrassment blanketed their faces like acne and after stopping rank in file next to Mr. Frazier, they turned to face the group. First impressions can be deceiving but they are important and Kadir started making mental notes for his to do list. The tallest of the three women had legs that went on for miles, the type of legs that would have made her a great hurdler and the black thigh high skirt only exaggerated them more. Dirty blonde hair teased the middle of her back and her bangs hung down into her face causing her to constantly paw at them. She was thin, but not anorexic-like, and her fake breast seemed a bit disproportionate for her size two waist. She had a natural type of beauty that was being camouflaged by too much make-up. Her tan, a bit uneven, gave the impression that she was a natural bather. She looked in Kadir's direction only once, but it was enough to reveal to him that she had had a troubled life. She recited her story and every word was believable. Her truth started several months ago after working a double at DreamGirls Gentleman's Club just off of Delaware Avenue and only steps from the waterfront. She said that she had been having a slow night until these two men entered who were talking up a big promotion at work. She tried to find out what line of business they were in, but she could remember them changing their stories three or four times. They reeked of alcohol even before the waitress served them their first drinks, a shot of Patron with no chaser, and they were a little more aggressive than she would have liked. “Come on Baby… Sit on big daddy's knee” they would say before grabbing her around the waist and pulling her towards them. “I got a big surprise waiting for you” they would continue, laughing and high-fiving each other over the same stupid jokes. The bouncers spoke to the men on two occasions, once because of their language and the other because of the touching, but she assured the security that she was cool. They were starting to tip well and she needed the money. By nights end, she had taken them both for over a thousand dollars and this was without going to the Champagne Room. She admitted to allowing them to touch her in ways that were forbidden by the club, a finger here or there, maybe a quick lick of her breast, but this was normal of all the girls when they were on this type of roll she confessed. The club closed around 2:00am and she gathered her things, counted her money and was out the door within forty minutes. The girls never walked to their cars by themselves, so she waited for one of the security guys to escort her. She only had a twenty-minute ride to her apartment on Callowhill, but her trip was cut short when the flashing lights started, signaling her to pull over. She pushed on her hazards and pulled her Toyota Camry into the emergency lane. She recalled being confused because the officers were high beaming her, making it difficult to get a good look at the officer quickly approaching her driver's side door. “Get out of the car ma'am,” the officer demanded, speech slurred and mumbled. “Did I do something wrong officer?” she responded, trying to make sense of what was happening, finding it strange that he didn't want her license, registration or anything. “Just get out of the damn car and place your hands on the hood” he barked, grabbing the door handle and yanking it open. In her peripheral, she got a glance of a second officer approaching, he seeming barely able to keep his balance. The hat he wore partially concealed his face, the large brim tilted in a manner that shaded his eyes. But as he staggered forward, momentarily losing his balance, she saw the blood shot eyes of the man that she had spent the last three hours seducing. Now, instead of a look of ecstasy on his face, he wore a mask of insanity. “What are you doing?” she said panicking. “Shut up bitch,” he said slapping her across the face and splitting the permanent retainer that afforded her the perfect smile. She was cuffed and wrestled over to the squad car, her cries unheard by the one or two cars that passed by and her resistance ineffective. The second officer joined her in the back seat, his octopus hands seeming to grow out of every orifice of his body, more hands than she could occupy with her two capable legs, more strength than she could match. He grabbed and slapped at her for what seemed an eternity of moments; each blink of her eye taking a still shot of memories she would sooner forget. By the time the car stopped, she barely had enough energy or will to resist the inevitable. She was pulled from the vehicle, still cuffed and her clothing was sheared off with the blade of a Swiss army knife. She wanted to scream louder, she needed to, but the weapon, now to her throat, had divorced her from sound. A mixture of vomit, blood, urine and tears became her bed, but provided her with little comfort on the icy mound of dirt and trash. “Whore, slut, tramp, take it all, you love it, cunt,” were the words they used. They seem to mix together, forming a dictionary of discontent. Her name was Kelly Oliver, AKA “Star” and she had been raped and assaulted. As surreal as it was to Kadir and the others, this was her reality as she remembered it; as she lived it. The attention in the room was undivided as the other two ladies gave their respective accounts of what happened. Theirs were similar tales of gruesome brutality and the abuse of trust and power. The women had become victims, but they had survived to tell their stories. Kelly, Regina and Stacy stood before the group with raccoon eyes from the wet mascara and they asked for help.