I didn’t grow up in a house that said nigger. I knew people who did, of course. I grew up in Levittown where you can’t buy a house unless you promise never to sell to a non-white family. Seriously. Even so, in my a house we didn’t say things like kike, or spic or nigger.
“Jus’ give the niggers their drinks, take their money and walk. Ya spendin’ way too much time talkin’ to ‘em. I didn’t hire ya to talk to niggers.” Ralphie’s jowls vibrate as he yells at me, again.
The bosses were worried about their own pockets. Pimps don’t drop for the champagne hustle, they’ll sit on the same fancy drink for a whole shift. They don’t put money in the cash registers if they can help it. But I work for tips. The pimps were waving a lot of green at me, most days I go home with six times my shift pay in tips—that’s more in one day than I’d had in a week working a straight job. I wasn’t about to bite the hands that fed me, no matter what color.
“Well, Ralph, who you want I should talk to? I got no other customers. Switch me up. Put me on nights.”
“Then I got niggers at night. You know I ain’t putting you on nights. My ass is awready on a line causa you.” The Mardi Gras had a lot to lose. Days the risk wasn’t too bad, but there was like two, three, four times as much money at night. Putting a seventeen year old on a night shift was asking for trouble from the Vice Squad, from Public Morals, from the State Liquor Authority . I could lose their liquor license for them. No license, no money. I’d heard the speech every time I asked. Probably for the best.My family lie had me working the lunch shift at some restaurant. No one’d believe I was good enough to be offered a dinner crowd.
“Ralph, no one’s gonna tip me just for opening a bottle of beer and walking away. Who’my gonna talk to, huh? You?”
“I don’t pay you to talk to niggers.” He runs a thick hand through his hair, greying, slicked back and greasy, then across his mustache, also going grey. And now it’s greasy too.
“Well, who’re you paying to talk to ‘em, cause really, I’m perfect for it. C’mon Ralph. You barely fucking pay me at all. Fifteen bucks? C’mon. I get almost a hundred from them. I’m here to make money. Like everyone else. Do the math, Ralph. Do the fuck-ing math, seriously, what would you do?”
Ralphie stands, adjusting his pants and belt around his paunch, he stares down at me.
“Ya got a real smart mouth, kid. That don’t make ya real smart though. Ya like spendin’ so much time with these jungle bunny muthafuckas, spend ev’ry goddamn day ‘n night wit ‘em then. Getcha crap. Get outta here. Take ya nigger pimp witchoo.”
“So, no night shift?” I rush out the door, mouth still running. He’s this close to pulling his belt off and walloping me, I can see it in his eyes. I don’t know when to shut up,but I know when to duck.
JJ was a pimp, but he treated me with respect, unlike Ralph. He never cursed. He showed me how to survive in Times Square, how not to get eaten alive. I’d heard ugly stories, girls who were so far in they couldn’t find a way out. That wasn’t gonna happen to me.
“What’s happenin’ Little J?” he whispered. The music pounded me, louder than usual. JJ’s voice was like a hot knife through butter. He was the heat. He was the butter too.
Anger danced in my head, shattered my thoughts, sent them flying and crashing into the walls as I gathered my stuff from behind the bar. I bumped into Ralphie as he was closing out my register.
“I’m fired,” tossing my head at Ralphie, “for talkin’ to NNNIIIGGGERS,” loud enough for everyone to hear over the throbbing disco beat.
“Get da fuck outta here.” Ralphie shoved me roughly down the bar.
“Hey,” I turned, “my shift pay, Ralphie?” holding my hand out, smiling sweetly.
“You don’t work a full shift, you don’t get paid, that’s my math.” He smiled back at me and puffed his chest out.
“Fuck you Ralphie, I don’t need your stinkin fifteen dollars.”
We walked out of the darkness into the glaring afternoon sun on Broadway, both wearing our work clothes. JJ, quiet in his three piece bankers grey pin stripe suit and me, with smart mouth & my big ass bobbing along, in a leotard shiny and red as a fire truck, legs bare, a pair of heels and a very bad attitude. Times Square roared around us.
It was a long day. I was too tired to roar back.
dirtygirl wonders: Do you know when to shut up? Post your thoughts below. C’mon, talk dirty to me.
| << 1976 : spit or swallow | 1976 : train wreck >> |
Posted July 23, 2009 at 8:00 am, filed under the diary and tagged 1976, dirty money, JJ Huntsberry, Levittown, pimps, Robbies Mardi Gras. Bookmark this post. Follow any comments @ RSS feed for this post.
