I saw her leaning against the shabby wooden fence out back. She had dark frizzy hair that went past her shoulders, and bright red lips. I was taken by the shape and lines of her tanned arms and legs, and by those big brown eyes. She wore a flower-patterned sundress that was on the verge of being obscene, and sandals that exposed the turquoise polish on her toenails. She held a pack of Newports in one hand and a lit cigarette in the other. I knew she could see me taking her in, and that suited me just fine.
“Hello there!” I yelled through the open window. She looked to see if the coast was clear enough for her to speak. That should have been my first red flag.
“Hello yourself,” she said. No smile. No charm.
“Can you see me?” I asked.
“Uh, yeah?”
“I just moved in.”
“You mean you just got out,” she said in a nasty tone.
“Excuse me?”
“That piece-of-shit studio you’re in is for ex-cons, who usually become ex-ex-cons pretty damn quick, so more than likely, and hopefully, you won’t be around too long.” With this she flicked her cigarette stub on the ground and stomped it out, both gestures done rather violently. She was spunky. I liked her.
“Sorry to disappoint you, but I’m planning on sticking around for a while. You might want to reconsider. I can almost guarantee you’ll gain dividends.”
“Yeah? Well, you should be real careful about who you talk to around here. And by the looks of you, I can guarantee you’re going to end up like every other loser that’s lived in that studio.”
“You don’t have a clue about me.”
“You can’t fuck with tried-and-true. The odds are against you.”
“Poetic. You’re deep. You’re wrong about me, but you’re deep. My name’s Red, what’s yours?”
“Is that why you did time? ’Cause you got red?”
“It’s a long story. I’ll tell you if you give me your name.”
She let out a heavy sigh, put her pack of cigarettes in her front pocket, and walked to the staircase door leading to the apartments above. Just as she opened it, she looked over at me and said painfully, “My name is Teena, two e’s. When you see me around with my man, don’t act like you know me because you don’t. It’ll be best for everyone involved.”
“Got it. I don’t know you and you swear you know me, Miss Teena.”
“If I were you, I’d move. ASAP.”
I showered, shaved, and headed for work. Teena was out in front of the building, still in that merciless little dress. She was talking to a female who couldn’t have been older than seventeen and already looked like her best days were behind her. “Hello again, Miss Teena. Twice in one day. There is a god,” I said. After a few steps, I turned to look back and noticed she was smiling.
“Damn! He’s pretty fine,” said her friend.
“He’s all right,” Teena scoffed.
The way she said it that made me feel warm and fuzzy all over. I thought I had a chance.
2.
I barely slept and spent the following afternoon hoping to catch Teena out back. I was mad at myself for how many times I peeked out my kitchen window and for feeling disappointed every fucking time. Later that evening I saw her. She was being strapped to an ambulance gurney, blood trickling down her face. She had a bloody rag on her head, and was screaming at the top of her lungs,
“You motherfucker!! You’re gonna fucking get yours, you’ll see!! Hit a woman?! You’re not a fucking man!”
The four police officers on the scene stood around, looking aggravated.
“Just tell us who did this to you so we can do our job,” said one of the officers towering over her as she was being placed in the back of the ambulance.
“Fuck you too, pig! You ain’t shit! Fuck all y’all!” she yelled.
She was hauled off.
I immediately figured she was protecting her man. I felt a knot in my stomach realizing what she was willing to go through to shield someone who beat on her. I felt my face flush and I wanted to find out who this fucking guy was so I could put a dent in his skull.
I scanned the crowd. I tried picturing the kind of man who had what it took to conquer and keep Teena, the kind of guy who would hit a broad.
“Any of you upstanding citizens want to tell us something?” asked one of the officers. Nothing. “Yeah, I didn’t think so. Have a nice night, everyone.” The boys in blue got in their vehicles and drove away.
“What happened?” I asked.
“Yo! Mind your fucking business, jailbird!”
Everyone dispersed like roaches when the lights came on. I glanced up quickly and couldn’t make out a face. The voice came out of the dark. I put my hands in my jacket pockets and headed for work.
“Yeah, that’s right. Step the fuck off and mind your business. You’ll live longer,” came the voice again.
Now Teena’s man knew what I looked like and this gave him an advantage over me. This pissed me off and I wasn’t scared. That was the problem.
Seeing Teena with her head busted only morphed my dislike for this joker and stoked the flames of my yearning for her.
I shook it off and went to work half hoping I’d never see Teena again, and half hating myself for it.
3.
Imagine my surprise the next afternoon when I spotted Teena smoking a cigarette, barefooted, leaning against a beat-up Toyota Camry resting on four cement blocks directly in front of my kitchen window.
She wore a wifebeater tank top without a bra, denim shorts more risqué than the dress from the day before, dark shades, and an a’s baseball cap. I decided to tempt fate and take out the garbage.
I hadn’t really been there long enough to accumulate any significant amount of trash, so I filled up a Grocery Outlet plastic bag with shit I could gather from around the pad: a few empty bottles of St. Pauli Girl, some charcoal sketches I’d been fucking with when I was locked up that were doomed from the start, and the ripped-out pages of a Spanish-English dictionary some other inmate gave me as a getting-out present. I topped it off with bunched-up paper towels and toilet paper. I left my door slightly open thinking it wouldn’t take long.
As soon as Teena saw me step through the back door of the building, she eyed me, blew smoke from her mouth the same way one might blow a kiss into the wind, and put her cigarette out. For a split-second I thought she’d bolt, but she lit another Newport and stayed put.
“Looks like a heavy load you got there, Red,” she said placidly while I threw the bag into the dumpster.
“Well, hello there, Miss Teena. You remembered my name.”
“It’s an easy name to remember.”
“I’m happy you’re here. I didn’t think I’d see you so soon.”
I expected some witty banter or even a fuck you, but instead we stood there in awkward silence, me by the dumpster in my sweatpants and UC Berkeley T-shirt, and her a million miles away looking small and vulnerable and beautiful.
“Are you okay?” I asked heartfelt, my voice almost quivering.
She tossed her cigarette and used her hands to push herself off the car and walked toward me. My heart raced. I started sweating. She grabbed my right hand and led me back into the building and straight into my studio. Once inside, she let go of my hand and started to undress.
“You sure you want to do this?” I asked.
“I could ask you the same thing, but I don’t really feel like talking, or thinking. Do you have a condom?”
I nodded yes. She removed my shirt and without untying the strings pulled down my sweats, bringing my boxers down as well. Kneeling before me, gently, she took me inside. Her mouth a continent of tenderness, her lips awakening the stars in me. I felt like I would come and pass out at the same time. Then she stopped abruptly. “Don’t,” she said.