Any doubt I'd had as to whether Daddy was serious about his "no-boys-in-the-room" rule was now gone. We would definitely have to get another plan.

Kelly and I were sitting at the park, smoking weed and drinking Long Island Iced Teas, trying to decide on what to do.

"Let's move," I said.

"Move?" she asked. "How we gon' move? We can't afford to move!"

"Well, you get your welfare check and I still got money from my trust fund. On top of that, I can hustle. Together, we should be able to find something we can afford! Besides, think of the fun we'll have in our own place. I've been there before, and trust me, ain't nothing like the freedom of having your own place. Nothing like it!"

She had to think about it only for a moment before she agreed to my plan. We would immediately start looking for a place.

We went home to tell Daddy and Lori that we were moving out. They were lying in their bedroom watching TV. We knocked on the door, and after hearing Lori say, "Come in," we walked in and announced that we were giving them two weeks' notice. For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then Daddy got a weird grin on his face. He looked at us, still giving a sarcastic smile, and said, "Well, since neither one of you pay rent, there is no need to give notice."

Even we had to chuckle at that one. Daddy continued.

"Now, I would never put you out. But since y'all wanna be grown, this is probably best. Get your own place, then you can live as you wish. But remember, y'all are leavin' on your own-we ain't puttin' you out."

We now had Daddy and Lori's blessing. Somehow that made our decision to leave feel right.

- At first, we had a hard time finding an apartment. No one wanted to rent to two teenagers-one who listed "welfare" and the other "hustlin' " for income. We knew that any landlord willing to rent to us would have to be someone who wasn't too picky about his or her tenants. I found that landlord back at my old Complex. Actually, I found him in back of the Complex-in the two rows of raggedy, dilapidated two-bedroom cottages that stood behind the Complex. Kelly and I rented one of the cottages. We could move in the following week.

"What we gon' do for furniture?" Kelly asked. We were back at Daddy and Lori's, sitting in my room smoking a joint, drinking Brass Monkey, and celebrating our new apartment.

I hadn't thought of that. Shit, the apartment I had when I'd gotten emancipated came furnished. After that, I moved into the Complex with Daddy, who already had furniture. From there, we'd brought our furniture to our current house in Skyline. So, I'd never had to worry about furniture.

"That's a good question," I replied. I thought about it for a moment, but drew a blank. "Something will come up," I said, and took a swig of Monkey. The next day, while tooting lines, it did.

I approached Daddy about loaning us money to buy furniture. Kelly stood behind me. She said she wanted to stand back there so that if Daddy swung on us, I'd get hit first and she'd have time to run.

"Girl, you know y'all ain't got no damn money," he replied. "Tell you what, you can take anything you want and need from this house to help you set up your apartment."

I stood there dazed. "Anything?" I asked, not sure I'd heard him correctly.

"Anything."

"Even the TV?"

"Anything, Punkin. You girls can have anything."

Now that she was sure Daddy wouldn't do any swinging, Kelly stepped out from behind me.

"Even the stereo?" she timidly asked, also thinking she'd heard wrong.

"What the hell is wrong with y'all's ears?" Daddy snapped, obviously irritated. "Don't you know what 'anything' means? It means anything! Anything you want! Take it! Take it!"

We were shocked and touched. Neither of us could say anything for a moment. Finally, I spoke.

"We didn't think you'd do that."

Daddy stared at us for a moment before speaking. "I'm still Daddy, and that will never change. Just because you two disappointed me doesn't mean I don't love you."

We ran into his arms, crying and grateful that someone did love our worthless asses.

Then we did as he said-we took everything. Pictures off the walls, pots and pans, trash cans, trash bags, the broom and vacuum cleaner, all of the living-room furniture, both of our bedroom sets, the TV, the stereo, telephones, telephone cords, cleaning supplies, lamps, tables, ashtrays, food. Everything and anything that wasn't nailed down or attached to the house was taken. Daddy just sat there and watched us empty his house. Periodically he'd chuckle, but he never said a word. Lori, who always agreed to whatever Daddy wanted, also kept silent.

29.

WE LOVED HAVING our own place, though it was much harder than we'd imagined. Kelly paid her share of the rent from her welfare check. I paid mine the best way I could. I'd periodically turn tricks with my male and female partiers, sell dope, or, as a last resort, go into my trust fund, which was dwindling quickly.

We had planned to leave Jason with Daddy and Lori and visit him on the weekends. But Daddy was still pissed at Kelly's lying about going to school and tricking them into watching Jason, so we were forced to take him with us. Neither of us knew much about parenting or priorities; our main concern was booze, drugs, gas (for my gas-guzzling car), clothes (we had to look good), and men. As a result, we didn't have much money left for food. Kelly did receive food stamps from welfare. Luckily, those were one of our constant sources of income. We would sell a hundred dollars' worth of food stamps for seventy dollars cash. This arrangement offered a two-way bargain: as sellers, we got the cash (which we used for drugs, booze, etc.), and the buyer got thirty dollars' worth of food for free. Since someone was always looking to buy food stamps, we rarely used them to buy food. Luckily, grocery stores always had specials on Top Ramen, a type of noodle soup. You could get ten packages for a dollar. We'd buy fifty packages. Then, we'd buy a big box of generic cereal and a huge box of powdered milk (you mixed it with water and voila!-milk. Yes, it was nasty, chalky milk, but milk just the same). We figured that as long as Jason was being fed and not being beaten or raped, he was all right. So we actually considered ourselves to be good parents.

We never allowed our nasty living conditions to diminish our positive parental self-image. Kelly, like me, hated to clean-though I was never able to figure out why-it wasn't like Lori had ever made her do it. Anyway, because we both hated to clean, our house stayed filthy. Piles of dirty clothes lay everywhere. Bowls with dried-on ramen noodles left in them or bowls of dried-up cereal with paste residue from the powdered milk still clinging to them were piled high in the sink.

Neither did we allow the fact that we lived with rats thwart our first-rate self-image. Actually, we often found the rat episodes comical. For instance, one day, Jason was running barefoot across the living-room floor. Kelly and I and our party friends didn't notice the very frightened rat scurrying by. In fact, no one saw the rat till Jason stepped on it. We were sitting around drinking Heineken, tootin' lines, and smoking blunts when we heard the squeals-Jason's and the rat's. The room grew suddenly quiet as we wondered what the hell had just happened.

"Mommy! Auntie Cup! Look!" Jason screamed, his bony finger pointing at the broken slump of fur that lay squirming. We all stood up and gathered around the rat, who still hadn't surrendered to death. We just stood there for a few moments, no one saying a thing. Finally, I broke the silence with a whisper.

"What should we do?" I didn't know why I was whispering.

"Poor thing, we have to have a funeral," Victor said softly to no one in particular. Victor had been one of our faithful partiers. He'd been a regular at the toga parties, and he'd loyally followed us when we moved out on our own. Now, he looked so sad, like he was about to cry. A huge black man, Victor stood about six three and weighed about 270 pounds. So to see him near tears and speaking softly about a funeral for a dead rat was just too funny.

I looked at Victor and began to laugh. My laughter must have been contagious, because Victor started laughing too. Soon, Kelly and the others joined in. Even Jason joined in, though he really had no idea what was so funny. I don't know if it was the beer we'd drunk, the coke we'd tooted, or the weed we'd smoked, but once we started laughing, we couldn't stop. Even after the rat died and began to ooze yellowish fluid from his eyes and mouth, we cracked up. In fact, for about twenty-five minutes, we lay out on the floor in a circle around the dead rat, laughing our asses off. By the time I was able to get myself together, my eyes were watering so much I could barely see, and my side was killing me.

We never thought twice about the diseases rats carry or about the fact that Jason could have been bitten by it. Actually, whenever someone wanted to get us laughing, they'd bring up the time Jason stepped on a rat.

- Being in our own house allowed our partying to escalate. Since most of the other tenants were illegal aliens from Mexico, we never really had to worry about anybody calling the police on us. We immediately changed the venue of the toga parties from the beach to our living room. It was during this time that my heroin use skyrocketed.

I was driving to the store to get more beer, when I happened to notice this guy walking down the street. Normally, I wouldn't have paid him any mind. What caught my attention were the three creases ironed into the back of his shirt-the sign for Eight-Tray Gangsta. But as far as I knew, I was the only Gangsta in San Diego. My heart began to race as anxiety and uncertainty kicked in.

What if it really was one of the homies? Would they remember me? Would I remember them? Would they be after me? I asked myself.

Why would they? I answered myself. You ain't snitched. I hadn't. I'd kept my vow of silence.

I slowed down so I could get a better look at the man. As I crept by, he looked up, smiled as he threw up three fingers and hollered, "What's up, cuzzz?"

It was Bootsey! One of the OGs from the set. We'd done a few crimes and smoked a few live ones together. He was family. I pulled over, almost hitting him, jumped out of the car, and ran to hug him. I jumped into his arms with such force, we both almost fell over as he struggled to catch his balance. "Damn, cuzzz," he slurred, obviously loaded, "you sheem really happy ta shee a nigga!"

I was. At the realization that who I'd found really was one of the homies, all of the fear and anxiety I'd felt just moments before were immediately forgotten. Just that fast, the intense feelings of camaraderie, solidarity, and friendship returned. I felt like I had found a long-lost relative.

"Com' on, cuzzz," I said. (I hadn't used "cuzzz" since leaving the set, and I didn't realize how fast, and automatic, the lingo returned.) "Ride with me to the store to cop some brew."

On our way to the store he caught me up on what had been happening on the set. He told me which of the homies had gotten killed or jailed since my departure. He said the game had changed-that the little homies comin' up didn't have respect for the game like we'd had. He said the younger homies weren't true to "the blue" or the set. Their main attention was now focused on "the green" (money) and "territory" (drug turf). It seemed more and more of the homies were getting into slangin'. He said it wasn't just the Gangstas either. Every set was turning on the game.

"Remember when niggas used to scrap?" He angrily asked me.

I did remember. I'd been in several scraps myself. I began to fondly reflect back on the night I'd been jumped into the set.

"Well, no more," he stated irritably, bringing me back to the present. "Now niggas just shootin'!" I marveled at his extreme anger about the apparent changes the gang environment was going through. I figured this would be a good time to change the subject.

"What about you, cuzzz?" I asked. "What the hell you doin' in Diego?"

He said he'd had to leave L.A. in a hurry. It seemed he was wanted for questioning for a hoo-ride on some N-Hoods.

Wasn't he just complainin' about niggas shootin'?

I wondered who he'd gotten and if he'd taken anyone out. But I decided not to ask. The less I knew, the better. I already had enough to keep quiet about. He said that since he had family in Diego, he thought it would be a good time to "take a little vacation." He was staying with an aunt, who lived about a mile from me. I didn't care why he was there; I was just so glad to see him.

I took him home with me, and of course, we started goin' together. I really enjoyed having him around. For the first time since leaving the set, I was able to reminisce about the good ol' days. Bootsey loved snorting heroin. I did too. So we got along fabulously. Since we spent so much time together, we began snorting more and more.

Bootsey hipped me to stealing cars. I'd be the lookout while he'd hop in a car, break off the ignition, and hot-wire it. Sometimes, I'd do the stealing, but I was too slow with the hot-wiring and most times too loaded to remember which wires to twist together to start the ignition. So I preferred stealing those cars in which the owners were stupid enough to leave the keys. Bootsey used to tease me and say I wasn't really a car thief if I had the keys. I didn't care. I was always looking for an easier way to do things.

Once we took the cars, he and his "friends" stripped them and sold the parts. Sometimes, we'd just take the car to Mexico and sell the whole damn thing. We'd take the money and buy heroin. That's all Bootsey snorted. And since I always followed my man, it soon became all I snorted. Bootsey and I loved, stole, and snorted our way around Diego. But the relationship was short-lived. A couple of months later, Bootsey got busted for a GTA. I was supposed to go with him to steal it, but I'd gotten a little delayed: I'd just snorted a big fat line of heroin and my nose was stinging, my eyes were watering, and my ears were ringing.

"Wait a minute!" I'd yelled after him. "I'll be ready to go in a minute!"

But his impatience wouldn't allow him to wait for me. He was arrested a few hours later.

When he was arrested, he gave a fake name, but they ran his prints and discovered his true identity-as well as an arrest warrant for attempted murder. He was immediately returned to L.A. I never saw or heard from Bootsey again.

I was sorry to see him go, but I drowned my sorrows in heroin, which thanks to him had become my new favorite. I convinced myself that as long as I didn't slam, I wasn't a dope fiend. I failed to realize that, even though I was only snorting it, I was using much more of it and more frequently than did my friends who did slam it. In fact, they started telling me I might have a drug problem.

My friends had also begun to nag me about my drinking. I had to kindly remind them that I was the one with a college certificate. But to shut them up, I decided to change my drinking habits-I'd only drink beer during the week. I convinced myself that by only drinking hard liquor on the weekends, I could not have a drinking problem. The beer I decided to do the most drinking of was Heineken because Victor said that Heineken was the "good" beer-the regular favorite of "high-class" folks. Soon, Heineken became the only beer I'd drink. In fact, I'd set a new goal in life. I convinced Kelly, Victor, and our party friends to help me get into the Guinness Book of World Records for having the most (empty) Heineken bottles. At first they laughed and dismissed the idea as stupid. But after each one had drunk five beers and smoked a couple of joints, they changed their response to "willing to listen." After they'd each had another eight beers and several more joints, they thought it was an excellent idea. Before each of them passed out drunk that night, they were seriously committed to helping me set a record.

We started saving the bottle of every Heineken we drank. We stacked and stored the empty bottles in the six-pack containers. We decided to "build" the collection along the longest wall in the kitchen. Within four months, there was nothing in the kitchen but empty six-packs of Heineken that stood as high as the refrigerator. As word of the incredible Heineken collection quickly spread throughout the hood, people began asking to see it. Me, being the hustler I was, started charging admission-seventy cents for adults, and fifty cents for kids-to see what was soon being called the "greatest Heineken collection in the world." The money I made from admission fees wasn't much, but hey, every little bit counted.

Soon though, the Heineken bottles began to bore me. And the constant trail of people was also causing tension between Kelly and me. Even though the collection was my idea, she somehow thought it was her collection too, and wanted half of the admission money.

But it wasn't just the bottles that caused friction between me and Kelly-we also fought over money. Because of our partying, either of us rarely had our respective shares of the rent.

And though it had never been a problem before, dope also became a regular topic for argument. She began accusing me of constantly hogging the straw, joint, bottle, or whatever substance we were consuming. Her nagging pissed me off 'cause hell, I wasn't hogging-she was a lightweight.

Daddy and Lori decided to move to Chula Vista, the city in the southern tip of the San Diego area, where I had lived when I'd gotten emancipated. Kelly decided it would be a good decision to go with them, so she moved out. Her departure was quick and uneventful. She came into the house, announced that she was moving back in with Daddy and Lori, hurriedly shoved her and Jason's clothes in a trash bag, and left. I could care less whether she left or not. What I did care about was the bitch stuck me with the unpaid rent and the landlord was constantly sweating me about when he was going to get it. I had to do something-and fast.

I decided to deal with my problems like I always did: ignore them. The night Kelly left, I went down to the Oasis nightclub to have a couple of drinks. The place was packed. Good. I could really get my party on when the place was full. As I walked in, the bouncer, Big Red, scowled at me. He knew me well because he'd had to save my ass a couple of times from some nigga I'd pissed off. As I walked by him, he angrily warned: "Behave yo'self gurl. I ain't in the mood for no shit tonight."

"Fuck you," I retorted. "I paid my money like everybody else." If he had understood me, he probably wouldn't have even let me in. But I'd already had several drinks so what he heard was, "Fwuck sue. I paved ma sunny slike sheveryone selse." He irritably waved me by.

I went to the bar and ordered a drink-Long Island Iced Tea with no coke and no ice (all booze, baby). I got my drink and stood next to the dance floor so I could check out the crowd-and let them check me out. I knew I looked good in my black miniskirt, gold sequin tube top and matching shiny gold leg warmers (before you go thinking I'm crazy, remember that leg warmers were in in the early eighties).

As I stood against the wall, scanning the room to see who piqued my interest, I saw a tall light-skinned black man standing along the wall directly across from me. He seemed bored as he watched the people on the dance floor. He looked as though he didn't want to be bothered. He looked like a challenge-I loved a challenge.

I sauntered up to him, aware that he was checking me out as I approached. As I got closer, I realized he was more handsome than I'd originally thought. He had a square face, and large sexy lips. When he smiled, his bright white teeth lit up the room. He stood about six feet tall and was very thin. I especially liked the hair on his face: he wore a thin mustache that curved down around his mouth and met a small nicely groomed beard under his chin.

I didn't have to think about what to say to him. I used the same line I used with every man.

"Don't I know you from somewhere?" I knew damn well I didn't know him.

Surprisingly, despite my slurring, he understood me. "I don't know. Do you?" he quietly replied. A smart-ass. I liked that!

"Probably not, but I'd like to," I said in the sexiest voice I could muster while giving him a sly grin. He blushed, obviously flattered by my directness.

We stood there for a moment, not saying anything. Finally, I spoke up.

"You wanna dance?" I asked.

"Sure," he replied.

As we walked to the dance floor I could tell he was checking out my ass. Though I was thin, I made sure to put an extra little switch in my walk.

His name was Tommy. We danced, drank, and talked until the club closed. The first thing I noticed about him was how "proper" he spoke. He almost sounded as though he were white. I liked hearing him talk, though. So even after the club closed, we sat in my car in the club's parking lot talking. Actually, he did most of the talking; I just listened to the cool way he sounded. All of a sudden, in midsentence, he told me he didn't want to go home.

No problem!

Tommy didn't have a car of his own, so I brought him home with me in mine. I wasn't embarrassed by the fact I lived in a two-room shack. I wasn't embarrassed by the fact that the house was absolutely filthy and smelled like old trash, dirty clothes, and grimy dishes. I didn't care about any of that, since I figured he'd only be there one night-so it wasn't like I had to impress him or anything. Little did I know, he'd be a one-night stand that would last over five years.

30.

THE NEXT DAY, it took me a moment to come to. I lay still in the bed as I tried to make myself aware of my surroundings. When I opened my eyes, the light coming in through the tattered, dirty white curtains stung like hell. I shut my eyes and kept them closed. I lay there for a moment to make sure I didn't have to throw up. Once I was sure my stomach wasn't pissed at me, I did what I usually did first thing in the morning: reach under my bed for my weed tray. As I felt around for the tray, I never opened my eyes. I didn't need to see. I could roll a joint with my eyes closed-it was second nature. Feeling my way around the weed tray, I rolled the joint, lit it, took a long hit, and left it hanging out of my mouth as I stumbled out of bed.

I was still physically out of it as I staggered to the fridge to grab a brew. My head was killing me, and my body felt like I'd been in a vicious fight-and lost. I was fussing to myself about my hangovers, which were getting worse and worse.

You gotta stop drinking vodka.

I closed the fridge and leaned up against the door, taking time to gather the strength to make the trek back to my room. I was sure it was vodka that was causing the headaches. I closed my eyes and held the cold beer against my pounding forehead. The coolness seemed to offer momentary relief. With my eyes still closed, I began feeling my way back into the living room; I was trying to decide what booze I should replace vodka with. Because of the throbbing in my forehead and pains racing through the rest of my body, I was walking very slowly, with my head down; joint in one hand, beer in the other. It wasn't until I jammed my foot into the wall that I realized it would probably be a good idea to open my eyes.

Tommy was sitting in the living room, wearing nothing but his underwear, watching my rinky-dink little black-and-white TV. Even though I now had my eyes open, I was so out of it mentally that I didn't see him until I was halfway into the living room. His presence startled me.

"You still here?" I asked irritatedly.

My one-night stands usually slipped out during the night or early in the morning. I didn't care, so long as they were gone by the time I came to. I felt like shit enough without having the object of my exploits hanging around as a remnant.

"Well, I thought I'd wait for you to wake up so we could go and grab some breakfast."

Breakfast? Who was this idiot? No one ever offered me breakfast! Maybe hush money to ensure my silence in case I ever ran into them with their wives. And, on occasion, a couple of bucks left on the night stand in a desperate attempt to erase their own feelings of dirtiness and shame. But breakfast?

My gaping mouth and bulging eyes must have showed my surprise.