Forty-second Street. I want to get a new tape deck.” He raised the smoke-tinted window.
I had gone to Forty-second Street when I was in New York in June with Kitsaun. The shops with electronics piled high inwindows, signs with “slashed prices” dangling, and dark-haired men hanging in doorways had intimidated me. Sly knocked on the glass. “Stop here.”
He pulled me along from shop to shop, where he haggled with salespeople. I felt like a rag doll behind him, the limo cruising slowly along the curb beside us. In front of me, a tall, shapely black woman switched her hips from side to side as she walked in a skintight miniskirt, her hair curled in lustrous ringlets. Her arm was extended, holding a leash. “What a cute dog,” I said, looking at the bundle of white fur she followed.
“Every working lady in New York has a dog,” Sly said, his voice gruff. It took me a minute to realize what kind of work he meant. He pulled me closer to his side and tipped his head toward the woman. She smiled at him.
At the next store, Sly made his purchase. We were driven to the Hilton, Sly clutching his new tape deck and grinning. KC was waiting for us in the lobby. He stuttered, “I-I wish you had c-come on with the band. I-I was worried.”
“Thanks, Dad.” Sly patted him on the back, took the room key and my hand, and led me toward the elevator.
“Y-You have a press c-conference tomorrow, Sly,” KC called after us. Sly raised his hand in the air as a response and pushed the button for the elevator. He turned to me and put his face nose-to-nose with mine. When the elevator doors opened, he almost carried me inside, not noticing other people or moving to let them on. At our floor, he put his arm around my shoulders, glanced at the key, and steered me down the hall.
Now that we were alone, my confidence waned. I wanted to leave my “good girl” lifestyle to be with Sly physically, but Iwas also scared. He opened the door to our room, waved his arm through the threshold, and bowed as I entered. I tried to drift easily into the room like a woman, but I felt awkward, like the inexperienced girl I was. The suite was large, grand. An overstuffed couch covered in bright yellow flowers sat between dark mahogany armchairs. Our suitcases were leaned against the wall. I scanned the room: A door led to a bathroom; the bed sat in front of a window; curtains were open; and New York City skyscrapers towered outside.
Sly set his tape deck on the coffee table and pulled up his pant leg.
Oh no
, I thought.
Not the weed already.
I had been so preoccupied with thoughts about making love with Sly that I had forgotten about how he liked to get high. He reached into his sock and extracted a square piece of foil. Carefully unwrapping it, he took out two flat orange pills that looked like children's aspirin.
“Honey,” he said, walking me to the couch, “you look like a scared rabbit.” He held my hand open and put one of the pills on my palm. “This will relax you. I've taken it before. It's ‘orange sunshine’—very mild.”
“You mean acid?” I asked, my back stiffening.
What have I gotten myself into?
Sly's eyes were slits as he watched my reaction.
“Come on,” he coaxed. “We'll take it together. It'll be fun. I won't let anything happen to you.” I wanted to do what he asked, but I had heard nightmarish stories of people having bad trips on LSD, even dying.
Sly threw one pill in his mouth, swallowing it without water; then he ran to the bathroom and returned with a glass ofwater for me. I didn't have time to weigh the pros and cons of ingesting a drug I had never considered taking before this moment.
Will he really take care of me?
I believed he cared for me and wouldn't give me anything that would hurt me. I had resisted all offers of drugs, which began in high school.
I guess I can loosen up now.
Sly lifted my palm to my mouth. I set the pill on my tongue and swallowed the orange sunshine with a gulp of water,
I had gone to Forty-second Street when I was in New York in June with Kitsaun. The shops with electronics piled high inwindows, signs with “slashed prices” dangling, and dark-haired men hanging in doorways had intimidated me. Sly knocked on the glass. “Stop here.”
He pulled me along from shop to shop, where he haggled with salespeople. I felt like a rag doll behind him, the limo cruising slowly along the curb beside us. In front of me, a tall, shapely black woman switched her hips from side to side as she walked in a skintight miniskirt, her hair curled in lustrous ringlets. Her arm was extended, holding a leash. “What a cute dog,” I said, looking at the bundle of white fur she followed.
“Every working lady in New York has a dog,” Sly said, his voice gruff. It took me a minute to realize what kind of work he meant. He pulled me closer to his side and tipped his head toward the woman. She smiled at him.
At the next store, Sly made his purchase. We were driven to the Hilton, Sly clutching his new tape deck and grinning. KC was waiting for us in the lobby. He stuttered, “I-I wish you had c-come on with the band. I-I was worried.”
“Thanks, Dad.” Sly patted him on the back, took the room key and my hand, and led me toward the elevator.
“Y-You have a press c-conference tomorrow, Sly,” KC called after us. Sly raised his hand in the air as a response and pushed the button for the elevator. He turned to me and put his face nose-to-nose with mine. When the elevator doors opened, he almost carried me inside, not noticing other people or moving to let them on. At our floor, he put his arm around my shoulders, glanced at the key, and steered me down the hall.
Now that we were alone, my confidence waned. I wanted to leave my “good girl” lifestyle to be with Sly physically, but Iwas also scared. He opened the door to our room, waved his arm through the threshold, and bowed as I entered. I tried to drift easily into the room like a woman, but I felt awkward, like the inexperienced girl I was. The suite was large, grand. An overstuffed couch covered in bright yellow flowers sat between dark mahogany armchairs. Our suitcases were leaned against the wall. I scanned the room: A door led to a bathroom; the bed sat in front of a window; curtains were open; and New York City skyscrapers towered outside.
Sly set his tape deck on the coffee table and pulled up his pant leg.
Oh no
, I thought.
Not the weed already.
I had been so preoccupied with thoughts about making love with Sly that I had forgotten about how he liked to get high. He reached into his sock and extracted a square piece of foil. Carefully unwrapping it, he took out two flat orange pills that looked like children's aspirin.
“Honey,” he said, walking me to the couch, “you look like a scared rabbit.” He held my hand open and put one of the pills on my palm. “This will relax you. I've taken it before. It's ‘orange sunshine’—very mild.”
“You mean acid?” I asked, my back stiffening.
What have I gotten myself into?
Sly's eyes were slits as he watched my reaction.
“Come on,” he coaxed. “We'll take it together. It'll be fun. I won't let anything happen to you.” I wanted to do what he asked, but I had heard nightmarish stories of people having bad trips on LSD, even dying.
Sly threw one pill in his mouth, swallowing it without water; then he ran to the bathroom and returned with a glass ofwater for me. I didn't have time to weigh the pros and cons of ingesting a drug I had never considered taking before this moment.
Will he really take care of me?
I believed he cared for me and wouldn't give me anything that would hurt me. I had resisted all offers of drugs, which began in high school.
I guess I can loosen up now.
Sly lifted my palm to my mouth. I set the pill on my tongue and swallowed the orange sunshine with a gulp of water,
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