Who the fuck is this dude? I asked myself. No one ever came into the word-processing room during the third shift. And I'd never seen anyone give the girls such a strong and sudden desire to work.

The man introduced himself as Mr. Collum. He pulled me aside to the same small station I had sat at during my interview with Andrea, almost six months before. Speaking quietly so that only he and I could hear, he said he was the vice president of some department. I didn't catch which department because I was too busy staring at his suit. It was very, very, very nice. As I stared at it, I wondered if it was one of those Italian suits I'd heard about. Sometimes, as we sat around getting high, the other partiers and I would play the "when I get myself together . . ." game. That's when we'd daydream and swear to what we were going to be/do/say/get tomorrow-when we stopped spending all our money on dope. I specifically remembered one of them, Spook, declare on several occasions: "When I get rich, I'm gon' buy me an Italian suit in every color."

Though he was always talking about getting one, I'd never actually seen one. But as I sat there staring at the fine fabric, exquisite design, and precise stitching, I was sure that that's what Mr. Collum was wearing.

Mr. Collum droned on and on. When I made myself come back to the present conversation, he was saying something about "cleaning up" and a "reduction in force." I chose to ignore his chattering and return my focus to the gorgeous suit.

I wondered what he'd do if I reached over and touched it. I tried to imagine what the beautiful fabric felt like-if it felt as good as it looked. I was almost drawn to it; like I was craving up-close and personal contact with it.

Girl, you trippin'! I scolded myself. I had done a couple of lines before walking into work. I figured that's why I had a sudden fascination with Collum's suit.

My mind quickly cleared up and raced back to the immediate conversation when Mr. Collum informed me that I was fired. He said it so calmly and nonchalantly, I thought I'd heard him wrong.

"What?" I asked in complete and total surprise.

"You're fired," he repeated just as calmly as he'd said it the first time. "I've been going over your file. You miss a lot of work. You're late almost daily and your work is beneath substandard."

How the fuck did he know when I was late? I asked myself.

I wasn't angry about the fact that he'd made the statement about my regular tardiness. I mean, hell, it was true. What pissed me off is that he knew-the girls were supposed to be covering for me. But that wasn't the only question that was rushing through my mind.

What the fuck is "substandard" and how did I get beneath it? My eyes quickly darted back and forth as my mind continued to race nervously with unanswered questions.

Still using the same calm voice, he explained that Andrea had been fired. However, before leaving, she'd snitched on the rest of us-about everything. As a result, he said that everyone on the third shift was being let go. He reached inside his coat jacket, pulled out an envelope, and handed it to me. As I looked at it confusedly, he explained the envelope contained a check: they were giving me two weeks' severance pay, as well as unused vacation and sick leave. He said that the company had decided to give me the benefit of the doubt and pay me for all of the vacation and sick leave I had supposedly accumulated according to the books-even though they had gone back through each girl's records with Andrea and figured out how much sick leave or vacation we'd really have had it not been for our illegal arrangements. Mr. Collum said that if they had used Andrea's reconfigurations, I would have no sick leave or vacation, and in fact would owe them money.

It briefly occurred to me that, as the only black, I was the only one being let go immediately. And it momentarily crossed my mind to ask why; and to ask about the other girls-like if and when were they leaving and how much severance pay they would get. But my mind didn't allow me to focus on those issues; it was more concerned about the check in my hand. My mind was more focused on wondering just how much money the check was for and how much coke, heroin, dust, bo, and booze I would get. I felt like, since my regular payday was still a week away, it was extra money! I'd failed to realize it was the only money I'd be getting for a while.

The more I thought about getting high, the faster I wanted out of that place. I jumped up as Mr. Collum was saying something about being willing to give me a good reference.

"Oh, okay, thanks!" I responded as I grabbed my jacket and bolted for the door. As I reached it I turned and looked around the word-processing department for the last time. The girls and Mr. Collum were looking at me in complete surprise. Andrea's station was still empty and for the first time I noticed two other stations were empty.

Oh well, not my problem!

"See ya!" I yelled as I slipped out the door.

I never saw anyone from that title company again.

That night as I got loaded, the partiers began to tease me about getting fired.

"I knew yo' ass couldn't hold no damn job!" one of them exclaimed as the others laughed.

"And to get fired-that's embarrassing!" someone else said, putting great emphasis on the last word.

"Gurl, that's like dey tellin' you to 'get the fuck out'!" another chimed in.

"Yeah," still another said. "You'd've done better not working at all cuz at least then, you wouldn't of been thrown out!" They all laughed.

As I tooted another line and took a swig of Thunderbird, I swore to myself that that would be the last time I'd ever get fired. I told myself that from then on, before getting fired, I'd quit.

"What you gon' do now?" someone else asked, interrupting my thoughts.

"I'm gon' get another job!" I replied indignantly.

"Girl, ain't nobody gon' hire you. You've been FIRED!" Everyone cracked up again.

"Oh, they'll hire me, all right," I snapped. "Someone's gon' hire me!"

"Well, I like her balls," one of them said.

"Yeah, bitch just won't quit," another responded.

And I wouldn't. Having a job was very important to me. As long as I had a job, I figured it didn't matter how much I drank, used, or partied. I loved the special status I got among drunks and druggies simply from the fact that I managed to get something few of them ever had or could even get.

I had to get another job.

Tommy warned that although the title company said they'd give me a good reference, I needed to hurry up and find another job before they changed their mind and told prospective employers the truth. I figured since Tommy had had numerous jobs, he would know. So, taking his advice, I didn't waste any time. I donned my miniskirts, halter tops, five-inch stilettos, and hit the pavement.

34.

I FOUND ANOTHER job a couple of weeks later. It was in the word-processing department of another title company. Although the supervisor, Debra, was a little taken aback by my attire, she was impressed by the fact that I'd previously worked at a title company. She commented that she'd lost three processors suddenly and unexpectedly, and urgently needed someone who was experienced in typing title documents. However, when I asked to be put on the third shift, she told me they had only one shift-the day shift-and that if I wanted the job, that would be the one I'd be working.

Desperately needing word processors, she hired me. Desperately needing a job, I took it.

Unlike my first job, I hated this one. I wasn't a morning person and was still partying throughout the night-every night. As a result, it was very difficult for me to get to work on time. To help me get up, I'd do speed first thing in the morning. Problem was, it took a while to kick in. I was supposed to work 9:00 to 5:00, but was never there before 9:30. Debra tried to work with me. She changed my hours to 9:30 to 5:30. That didn't help; now I was never there before 10:00. So, then she switched me to 10:00 to 5:30, with my agreeing to give up an hour's pay each day. It didn't help, though. No matter what I did, I was always at least a half hour late. But shortly after arriving at work, the dope kicked in and I'd be just fine.

There was another reason I didn't like the job. There wasn't the camaraderie among the word processors like I'd experienced before. Here everybody kind of minded their own business. While we laughed and discussed general topics during work, no one ever really got personal. But I knew a tweaker when I saw one. So although no one ever mentioned tweaking or getting high, I knew we all weren't speeding around that office because of coffee. But as long as they didn't fuck with me about my using, I didn't fuck with them about theirs.

Unlike the first title company, this one paid really close attention to my attendance. At my ninety-day review, I was warned that if my tardiness didn't improve, I'd be fired. I was already doing the best I could so I knew that getting fired was inevitable. Remembering my promise to myself to always quit before being fired, I started looking for another job.

True to my promise, I was never again let go, at least not officially. I always quit first, which meant I quit a lot. The story was always the same. I lied on my resume about performance and length of time at my previous job. The employer was desperate to hire and I was desperate to work. I only seemed to get offers from the desperate employers. I didn't care-so long as I got the offer.

In between jobs, I lived off the petty crimes I committed. (My trust fund had long since disappeared. I had spent the money so fast, I had no clue where it went.) Somehow, my persistence in maintaining a job, any job, was threatening my relationship with Tommy. The more jobs I got and the more money I brought in, the more insecure he got. He would constantly accuse me of screwing around, or he would say crazy things like I would leave him when the "right" job came along. I tried to convince him that I loved him and didn't want anyone else. Still, the more I tried to assure Tommy of my love and dedication, the more insecure he got. And the more insecure he got, the more violent he got, though at first it was just pushing and shoving.

One day, we were cruising down the street in my car. Tommy was driving, and I was in the passenger seat looking out the window. I'd quit yet again and was trying to figure out if I should change careers-maybe try for a legal-secretary position again. Though I still didn't have any legal experience, I had managed to gather some work experience. I was sure that if I could find a lawyer desperate enough, I could get my foot in the door.

As we rode along, I continued looking out the window and contemplating my next move. Tommy slowed for a stoplight where there happened to be a guy standing in the direction I was looking. Suddenly, Tommy screamed: "You want that nigga?"

I didn't know how to respond. Startled by his outburst, I confusedly looked around as I shrieked, "What the fuck are you talking about?"

"I see you flirting wit' that nigga." When he was pissed, his proper speech went out the window just as mine did. "You want that nigga, huh? You want him?"

I had no idea what he was talking about. My eyes got big and my body tensed as I noticed the rage on his face. Before I could respond again, he pushed my head against the window. Hard.

"Nigga, is you crazy?" I yelled.

One thing that remained from my bangin' days was that hitting back and pushing back were natural reflexes. It wasn't even something I had to think about; if you hit me, you were gon' get hit back.

I reached over with both arms and shoved him back as hard as I could.

In response, he slapped me. Hard.

It was on. I started swinging, kicking, cussing, and screaming. He didn't hit me again-not that time. Instead, he tried to grab my arms to keep me from hitting him.

"Wait! Wait!" he yelled as he continued to struggle to dodge my blows. "I didn't mean to hit you. Wait!"

I wasn't listening. I was in fight mode, so I kept swinging. Finally, he was able to wrap his arms around mine and bind them down. The light turned green and the cars behind us began honking. The honking startled Tommy who immediately let me go. That was the break I needed.

"Fuck you!" I screamed to him as I clambered out of the car, clothes dishelved, hair a complete mess.

"And fuck YOU!" I yelled to the driver in the car behind us. Not satisfied with that little cussing, I added, "BITCH," as I tossed up my middle finger. The driver, a middle-aged white woman, obviously was not used to seeing an irate, red-eyed, wild-haired black woman cuss her out and flip her the bird. She looked at me in complete and utter shock-and fear.

"This mothafucka slapped me!" I yelled to no one in particular as I stormed off in complete rage. "THAT mothafucka slapped me!" I yelled even louder, this time to a small Mexican lady who was walking toward me. Startled by my outburst, she let out a little yelp, but said nothing. Instead, she quickly lowered her head, and sped up her pace, apparently hoping that the crazy black chick would just keep on passing by.

A second later, Tommy came running up alongside me.

"Baby, listen," he pleaded. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hit you. It's just that you make me so crazy! I'm sorry. It's just that I'm so afraid of losing you! I swear, I swear it'll never happen again!"

If he's here, where the fuck is my car? I asked myself when I realized he was half-walking, half-jogging alongside me. Fuck the car! I yelled to myself. That bastard hit you!

"Fuck you!" I yelled at him, as I continued stomping to nowhere in particular.

"Baby, PLEASE!" he pleaded. "Will you just stop for a minute? At least long enough to hear me out?" He was now beginning to pant from the effort of trying to keep up with me.

Ignoring him, I picked up my pace-stomping even faster and harder.

"Damn girl, you sho can move when you want to!" he half-gasped, half-panted as he struggled on.

Realizing he was quickly losing energy, he grabbed my arm and turned me toward him, forcing me to stop.

"Baby, I'm sorry. I SWEAR I am!"

He dropped to his knees and tears began to fall.

I couldn't believe it! He was crying! He was actually crying! I'd never seen Tommy cry before. Actually, I'd hardly seen any man cry, except a few times when one of the homies had gotten shot or stabbed. (There's no such thing as machoism when you think you're dying.) And Daddy-the day Momma died and the day his kids were taken away. But I had never seen a man cry over a woman-especially ME!

But he was crying. The tears were falling like giant raindrops. Through sobs, he assured me again of how sorry he was and how it would never happen again. I took one look at him and instantly calmed down. I was so touched. I mean, a man wouldn't cry if he didn't mean it, right?

I don't know if it was the ignorance of youth, the blindness of love, or the mistaken belief that insecurity is love, but I believed him. I believed him when he said that he was sorry and that he'd never hit me again. So I took him back.

And true to his word, he didn't hit me again-for almost a year.

35.

NANCY LOVED TO hit the pipe. And because we lived with her, we hit the pipe every time she did-which was almost every day. My past was littered with other drugs-pills, weed, sherm, coke, heroin, to name a few-but since moving in with Nancy, all I wanted to do was hit the pipe, which was extremely expensive. Realizing my freebasing was getting out of hand, I suggested to Tommy that Nancy was our problem, and if we moved away from her, our basing would trim down. Tommy thought about it and agreed that my theory made sense, so we decided to move out on our own.

Lying on rental applications about our job and rental history, we were finally able to rent a two-bedroom apartment in North Park, a small area in San Diego. At first, our plan seemed to work. We slowed down on the pipe quite a bit, though we still smoked weed, drank, and tooted (however, Tommy tooted only coke and crystal; he refused to toot heroin with me, saying it was addictive. I didn't care-more for me!). On top of that, I regularly popped pills, dropped acid, and smoked dust.

Shortly after moving into our own apartment, I once again realized I was on the verge of getting fired and would be forced to find yet another job. I couldn't figure out for the life of me why I kept going through jobs so fast.

"You need to get married," Tommy suddenly announced.

He dropped this bomb while we were sitting around having an especially great party. The night before, we'd scored really well on a job-we'd robbed a house that had really great stuff. I did crime only at night; somehow it just seemed like the responsible thing to do, so it wouldn't interfere with my day job. Anyway, I would agree to rob only houses we knew were empty-the knowledge of which we'd discover from doing our homework: having one of the homies without a day job scope the place out long enough to know the "leave and return" pattern of whoever lived there.

Well, one of the homies had done his homework on the house we'd hit the night before. The owners had tried to fool potential burglars by leaving a couple of lights on, but after three days of the light never going off, it didn't take a genius to figure out the lights were never going off. (Timers never fooled us either-especially if they were set to go off and on every day at the exact same time.) Convinced the house was empty, we hit it. It was an unusually good payoff: stereos, records, plants. We took anything we could carry quickly and quietly. And when robbing a house, anything and everything was game as long as it could be sold or traded to the dope man or the pawnshop. We took the money we got for the loot and copped coke to smoke, heroin to toot, pills to pop, and booze to drink. I was in heaven.

I was just getting ready to put the torch to the pipe when his statement made me freeze. I hardly ever stopped in midhit, midsnort, mid-anything; but that comment made me pause for a moment.

Seeing the surprised look on my face, he repeated his statement. "Yup, you need to get married."

This nigga is straight trippin'.

"Married? What you mean 'married'?" I was astonished. He'd never spoken of marriage before. Hell, he'd never even said the word before.

"You heard me. That is your problem, you know. Marriage will make you stable, which will make you more attractive to employers because they like stability. It will make you seem more okay with yourself and the world. And it will make me more secure. I won't be afraid of losing you because you'll be mine."

He paused for a moment as he snorted a line. "Yup, that's your problem," he continued as he closed his eyes and held back his head to enjoy the rush. "You need to get married. We should get married."

I thought about his suggestion. Maybe he was right. I had tried just about everything else, but nothing seemed to make me feel okay-there was always an if: if I was prettier, if my skin was lighter, if my hair was longer, if my mom was alive, if my teeth were straight, if I was more popular, if I made more money . . . if I had any of those things, I'd be okay.

Maybe marriage is the thing I've been looking for.

My thoughts then turned from the benefits it would provide me to the benefits it would provide Tommy. He was pretty insecure, though I tossed it up to love. I figured he must have really been in love with me to always be so desperately afraid of losing me. And I found it endearing that he accused me of sleeping with every man I looked at.

Most of our friends didn't think his behavior was so cute-especially when he started fights with guys he swore were checking me out. We'd be in a club dancing and drinking, when all of a sudden he would say, "That nigga over there's staring at you. He must want you."

Knowing what was to come, I'd try to calm him down and say, "Com'on baby, that dude ain't thinking about me. Let's just have fun."

He would calm down-for a while. But, like I told you before, alcohol talks to you. And I KNOW his booze was telling him something like: You know that nigga wants your girl. Look, she's checking him out too. If you don't check that nigga, he'll be leaving wit' yo' woman!

Listening to the gibberish of his alcohol-influenced mind, Tommy would plunge toward the dude, who'd be caught off guard, since he had no idea of the insanity that had been going in Tommy's mind, and a fight would ensue. Club security would come and break it up, and we'd all get put out, only for Tommy to do it again at another club another night.

My friends didn't mind Tommy's insecurity; they just hated getting put out of the clubs. When his behavior started to affect their partying, they finally spoke up.

"Girl, you gotta do something 'bout that nigga," one of them would say as we were escorted out of the club. "I hadn't even finished my fucking drink!"

As we'd climb into the car to look for another place to party, I would simply reply, "Aw, but he loves me!"