A Street Girl Named Desire: A Novel (25 page)

“Desire, is this true?” Larry asked.

Desire was too stunned to speak. The dozen or so white men in the room shuffled the papers in front of them. She recognized some of them—various sales, marketing and PR representatives Larry had introduced her to as the team who would be orchestrating her solo career. She knew that the faces she did not recognize were mostly lawyers, who were probably present to explain to her how her contract had to change. Desire did not know how to answer Larry's question. She could only look at him and shake her head. She put her hand over her mouth to keep from crying, but she couldn't stop the tears.

“Please help me, Larry,” she begged, as she fell into his arms, and he had to keep her from tumbling to the floor.

Whip had been right about one thing: there was no loyalty or friends in the music business. Sony was under no obligation to forward Desire any more of her promised advance, because they had officially dropped her from their artists roster. She was given legal documents that explained how she was now a great risk to the company, and that she could be sued for breach of contract for not divulging information about her HIV status, since it was directly related to the image they were investing in. Desire did not have the energy or time to explain that she herself had just learned of the diagnosis. She had to figure out how she was going to support her lifestyle and pay her bills now that she was not going to be receiving money from Sony. She still had the music from the solo album she had created—the album Sony had contracted to promote, to solidify her star status—but no record company would invest in her now that she had the stigma of
HIV. She had not been smart enough to pay cash for things, and with her mind so scrambled with all that was happening to her, she began to spend money like water without even thinking. Her bank accounts quickly dwindled to almost nothing, and she maxed out her credit cards buying liquor, eating at restaurants all the time, and shopping to take her mind off her pain. The nearly six thousand dollars' rent was due on her Village apartment, and Desire discovered she didn't have it.

The ramifications of the public news hit Desire immediately. Now, whenever she was recognized, she could hear the snickers and sense the apprehension in others. Instead of admirers, she now had hecklers who called her shit like “a rotten pussied bitch” as she passed. She had gone from a beautiful, glamorous, famous star to an infamous HIV victim in a matter of weeks. Desire did not think she could get any lower. The worst part was she had no one to take her anger out on, and she was still worried that there could be a hit out on her life. Her instincts told her that this was a more devilish way for Whip to get back at her, though; if he had her killed, he wouldn't be able to witness how much he was making her suffer over the long term. Desire had no way to reach him as she found her face plastered throughout the tabloids. The papers always referred to the informant as “a source.” Desire knew in her gut that Whip was behind all of this. He never liked anyone having the upper hand on him, and he always found a way to bring his “enemy” down when things didn't go his way. And if he was behind all of this, he had certainly found a way to bring Desire down. The funny thing was, she was so down that she could not even think about plotting revenge.

One day, she bundled herself up in a dark hat, scarf and glasses
so she could ride the D train uptown. No one recognized her as she sat alone in the last car. She slipped quietly into Bethel A.M.E. Church just as a deacon was straightening the church after the day's prayer service. He recognized Desire as she unbundled herself and sat alone in the first pew. Of course, the whole church was talking about the news that was blasted from the radios and in the newspapers. Radio talk shows and BET news programs had even run call-in discussions on HIV, unfortunately using Desire's situation as the launching pad for their talks. There was no way most people who had known her wouldn't have found out the news by now. The deacon decided not to bother her.

As Desire sat alone, her whole life flashed before her eyes. Every sin, every iniquity, every injustice and every evil that she'd imposed upon others seemed to have been returned to her with a vengeance. She had learned in the worst way that the best way to determine who your real friends are is to wait until trouble comes. When the smoke clears, most will have disappeared, and those who remain by your side are the true friends. In Desire's case, not a single person came to her side and offered their support, a kind word or a simple hug. Not one. Even Carvelas had not sought her out. She felt even more that everything she had ever thought about being alone was true. She knew she could not afford the medical insurance Sony had originally given her, so she needed to reserve any money she made from selling her material things, for the medicine and care she would need to stay alive. Desire knew that she had no one to call for a place to stay, and there was no way she would be able to afford her apartment without Sony's money. Luckily, her name was still on a lease in the projects. She'd had a grandmother who thought ahead, and always
paid her rent on time, often even a couple of months in advance. As such, the management respected Hattie Mae so much that they were taking their time to find a new tenant to inhabit the apartment she had lived in for years. Desire was relieved when she called and found out the place was still empty. She moved back into Hattie Mae's apartment in Harlem the next week.

Desire turned into a recluse, opting to stay a prisoner in the confines of the apartment. She had nobody, and she wished that Hattie Mae were there to hug her tightly and tell her everything was going to be all right. She watched television only to see if they were reporting anything on her, and was happy to see nothing was being said. The world had moved on to other celebrities' problems in order to feed people's insatiable appetite for controversy. Desire would only go out at night, right before the stores closed, to pick up food and liquor.

Fear became a constant, as morbid thoughts of death began to consume her mind. She had not spoken to anyone at the clinic since a nurse had called her the day after she got the diagnosis, begging her to come in. Desire did not feel sick, so she did not see a reason to go to the hospital and face the truth. She figured with HIV the best thing she could do was stay away from people who would make her sick. And staying away from people was exactly what she wanted to do. She drank more and more alcohol to get her through the day, to dull her thoughts. She bought dirt weed from the small-time pushers who hovered around her building then bragged to their friends that they were selling nicks and dimes to
the
Desire. When the weed and liquor stopped working,
she would cry until her eyes were bloodshot. Soon, with each depressing day, she began to hear voices telling her to put herself out of her misery Finally, there came a night when she decided to do just that.

In one hand, Desire nursed a fifth of vodka. She sat on the couch, listening to one of her grandmother's favorite gospel albums. All cried out, Desire staggered uneasily toward the bathroom. She looked at herself in the mirror with disgust. She opened the medicine cabinet and randomly selected a bottle of pills. She didn't know if they had been for Hattie Mae's high blood pressure, diabetes or some other problem. She didn't care. She opened the cap, turned on the faucet and downed the entire bottle. Putting her mouth to the faucet, she guzzled some water. She slowly wiped her mouth, and kept her head down for a moment before looking in the mirror once again. She saw her grandmother standing behind her. In a panic, Desire tore the shower curtain down to cover her as she scooted as far back into the tub as she possibly could.

“Don't be afraid, baby,” Hattie Mae said, smiling softly down upon her.

Desire blinked rapidly, trying to adjust her eyes.

“Grandma … is that really you?”

Hattie Mae nodded. “Yes, baby, it's really me.”

Desire smiled for the first time since she'd found out about her disease. She tried to stand up, but her legs had no strength.

“Save your energy. You know this ain't the way I raised ya, Desire.”

Desire began to cry. “I know, Grandma, but I can't take it anymore. I don't think I can go on like this any longer. I'm so alone.”

Hattie Mae's presence grew stronger. “Find something to live for.”

“Grandma, I'm sorry,” Desire cried. “I'm sorry for everything … the lies, the scheming, leaving you, not being here when you died. I'm sorry for all of it…”

“Now, baby,” Hattie said, and Desire could feel her grandmother's hug, “don't you worry about all that now. You 'polo-gizin' for stuff I done already forgave. All that in the past. You just worry 'bout how you gonna make yourself better. You got a lot of living to do. You ain't no old woman, like I was, yet.”

Desire closed her eyes wearily and when she opened them again, she was sitting on the couch. She looked around for her grandmother, but Hattie Mae wasn't there. All Desire heard was the CD player playing her grandmother's song: “
Pray until you get an answer from God… you got to pray until you get an answer… pray until you get an answer …
”

Desire tossed the bottle of vodka to the floor. She went into the bathroom and wiped a cold rag on her face and neck.

I
t was a warm, beautiful summer evening when Desire strolled into an upscale bar in her old stomping ground of Greenwich Village. She was on the prowl, dressed in a conservative Donna Karan blue suit with a matching pair of blue Manolos. She looked every bit of the part of a working woman. A long blond wig hung over her expensive Prada glasses, which gave her a seductively glamorous appearance. No sooner had she ordered a drink than a potential victim slid up behind her, offering to pay for it. It didn't take long for the suited-up white man to proposition Desire for a rendezvous at one of the many 21st Street hotels that charged by the hour.

Desire figured there was a better way to use all the clothes, shoes and bags she had collected from her years in the spotlight than selling them for cash. The liquor and weed had taken a toll on her looks: her eyes had yellowed and she had bags around them; there were dry patches all over her body, her lips had become darker and her face was often bloated. She'd gained weight from all the alcohol, despite the fact that she was HIV positive, and she had cut her hair short so people wouldn't recognize her. Desire soon found that she could walk around in public. Not to mention, most of the images people had seen of her had been airbrushed anyway. Desire began hitting the streets at night, disguising herself each and every time. She didn't discriminate, as she picked up black men, whites, Latinos, Arabs, and Asians. She even allowed herself to be picked up by other women.

She loved rich immigrants the most; they were the least likely to know she had once been a big star. And they were the most likely to have cocaine to add to the party. The money that rolled in helped Desire pay her meager rent, buy food and other necessities and support her alcohol and drug habits. She never thought about saving. In dark bars and corners, and even darker hotel rooms, no one ever suspected that they were sleeping with a woman who had been among the most famous in the country.