A Street Girl Named Desire: A Novel (26 page)

As she retreated deeper and deeper into her private misery and self-pity, Desire became more and more brazen about taking as many people as she could with her. Rather than causing her to change her life, she had misinterpreted her hallucination of Hattie
Mae as a sign to fight evil with evil. Desire began convincing her lovers to have unprotected sex, then she started leaving messages on the bathroom mirror written in red lipstick:

Word quickly spread that there was a woman sleeping with people with the intention of infecting them with HIV. However, that did not deter the steady stream of johns Desire found to support her scheme. She even began calling late-night radio stations to warn them that she had the AIDS virus and had already slept with over a hundred men and women in the metropolitan area, and that she planned on infecting hundreds or thousands of others before she died.

So many people were calling the radio stations, trying to get through, it was nearly impossible for the authorities to trace her calls.

“And what exactly is your reason for doing this, Miss … Miss … ?” the evening DJ of Hot 97 asked when Desire called in.

“Whisper Daniels,” Desire said into the phone, just hoping that Whip was listening and would recognize her voice. She had just heard a remix of “Harlem Girl Lost,” and gone into a rage that made her want to call the station. Not one person had returned her calls demanding to speak to Whip, to find out where her desperately needed royalty checks were. She walked past
posters of her former self, past cars blasting her music from their stereos. There was no way she'd be allowed into the many VIP music parties that took place throughout New York City Security would hold her at the door, and tell her that her name was “not on the list.” She had been a star! She deserved to be paid like one. Whip and CBR had used her up and thrown her away, not thinking of her anymore. And unfortunately, they had the bogus contracts that allowed them to do it.

She wanted him to know that by hurting her, he had caused the potential hurt of many people. She had given up on finding and killing him. She had gone mad, taking her rage out on others.

“How are you convincing people to have unprotected sex with you?”

The show's producers had to bleep out most of Desire's response.

“When you can suck and fuck like I can, it's easy to get people to do whateva the fuck you want. This pussy is golden. Always has been, always will be. The first motherfucka I ever fucked wanted this pussy so bad, he fuckin raped me to get it.”

“It sounds like you've had a lot of pain in your life,” the DJ said. “Have you ever considered getting help or going to therapy, rather than causing pain for others?”

“I don't need no motherfuckin therapy!” Desire threw the vodka bottle she had just emptied, with one gulp, onto the floor. “The motherfuckas who out there cheating on they wives and girlfriends gonna need therapy. If they wasn't out fuckin somebody over in the first place, they wouldn't have to worry about me—now, would they?”

“So do you see yourself as acting out some sort of punishment on people?”

“Hell yeah,” Desire said. “ 'Cause motherfuckas ain't never gave a fuck about punishing me!”

She hung up the phone and began to roll another blunt.

Desire eventually found that this stronger weed was better than alcohol at soothing her pain. At first, it worked magnificently, making her instantly forget her troubles. But as her money ran low, she found herself on the prowl for crack cocaine. In a matter of just three short months after Desire first hit the pipe, her mission to conquer and destroy mankind took a backseat to destroying herself. In the beginning, since Lyfe's crew had the best product in the neighbohood, she would send another hype to cop for her. Even though she got robbed half the time when the addict ran off with her money, or chipped pieces off the top, she took the risk just to keep Lyfe from knowing she had a habit.

Ultimately, saving face was no longer an option. She became so strung out and thirsty that nothing else but getting a blast mattered. The first time she had to stand in the long line of addicts who were Lyfe's customers, Desire wore a black hoodie and a cheap pair of dark sunglasses. She stood with her head down, waiting to be served.

“Aiight, y'all motherfuckas make a straight line and have your money out,” screamed Lyfe, as his man served the crackheads. “No singles, no change, and no fuckin shorts.”

The crackheads responded by checking their pockets to make sure they could meet Lyfe's requirements. He looked down at
them with disgust, from his perch on the staircase. If they said something slick to violate the rules, they risked not being served. A crackhead's tolerance for being humiliated was without parallel. If someone beat a crackhead down and put them in the hospital, the very next day the drug addict would be back on the same line, missing front teeth and all, smiling and thanking the abuser for allowing them to purchase crack from him.

As Desire moved closer to the front of the line, she prayed that Lyfe wouldn't recognize her. But Lyfe was so suspicious of being hunted by the NYPD that he always made sure an unfamiliar face was identified.

“Yo, who the fuck are you?” Lyfe barked as Desire extended a twenty and asked for two. “Yo, you ever served this bitch before?”

His man nodded. “Yeah, I served the bitch before.”

Still not satisfied, Lyfe asked, “Yo, why you wearing them dark motherfuckin shades at night, you police or something? Take them shits off.”

Desire raised her head slowly and took off her glasses. His eyes lit up like a Christmas tree. He had waited years, ever since the day she had punked him on a Harlem curb, for the opportunity to make good on the promise that Desire would one day need him.

“Oh, shit, if it ain't the world-famous singer Desire Evans. Yo, give that bitch back her money … as a matter fact, give her three more on me. Yo, bitch, next time I want you to sing into my microphone, aiight?”

Lyfe knew exactly what he was doing. Courtesy of him, Desire became an all-out crackhead. There was no shame in her game.
She no longer used disguises. All that mattered was the hit, and she had been reduced to using various means to get it: selling her body for ten dollars, running off with other people's money after they sent her to cop a hit or straight up pickpocketing tricks for their wallets. Her favorite spot to trick was underneath the Metro-North train station on 125th Street. She had gotten so deep into her habit that she'd even forgotten to pay rent. She was unfazed the day she woke up and found an eviction notice under her door. The management had decided they could do no more to help Hattie Mae Evans's granddaughter. Hattie Mae's paid-up rent had run out, and Desire was putting no more money toward the apartment. They needed to get a paying tenant, not to mention providing a needy family some housing. Desire had less than thirty days to find somewhere else to go. She knew how long eviction proceedings took in the city. She chose not to even try to look for a new place to stay, deciding that the city marshals were actually going to have to come and put her out if they wanted the apartment back.

Lyfe still had the best drugs on the West Side, and Desire was forced to deal with him, even though his humiliating antics had begun to bother her. One time, he wanted her to sing for him and his boys, promising that if she did he'd give her anything that she wanted for free.

One night, Desire was broke and fiending badly for a hit. She couldn't find any vics or tricks to earn some cash. At that moment, she was the spitting image of the woman her mother, Nika, had been over twenty years before. She walked the streets for hours and ended up standing right in front of Lyfe's crack spot. Her mind told her to walk away, but her body's cravings told her
otherwise. She stayed in front of the crack spot, knocking on the door.

One of his workers peered through the peephole and opened the door. He placed his arm over the door and gave her a cunning smile.

“Yo, El, it's ya girl … the singer,” the man yelled over his shoulder. Lyfe told him to let her in. Desire took a deep breath before she entered, and then walked to the back room. She noticed fifteen or so crackheads already busy smoking themselves into oblivion. In the back, Lyfe sat at the table, smoking a blunt, with both his rottweilers beside him. Desire knew he was lit up because his eyes hung droopy and red. He smiled smugly at Desire and extended his arm, holding out his half-smoked blunt.

“You smoke?” he asked, as he choked loudly. Desire shook her head. Weed had lost its lure for her.

“You sure?” Lyfe said while holding the smoke. “This that purple, B.” Desire declined again. She stood with her arms folded, looking around impatiently.

Finally, Lyfe spoke again. “So how many you buying tonight?”

Desire eyed the ground like a child. “I came to sing for you,” she whispered.

Lyfe sat up and put his hand to his ear. “What? I didn't hear you, you got to speak up.”

Desire cleared her throat and started singing the group's first hit song, “Harlem Girl Lost.”

“Louder, bitch!” Lyfe screamed as he jumped up and did the two-step. The crackheads in the room paid her no attention and continued getting lifted.

Lyfe clapped his hands and began to mock her by doing the
Wop and the Cabbage Patch. “Owww, it's ya birthday … it's ya birthday!” He was ecstatic that he had brought Desire to this point.

Desire finished singing for him and stood with her head hanging down. She wanted nothing else but to get out of there and take a blast. She extended her hand out for her drugs.

“Now you got to entertain my dogs,” said Lyfe, and his smile disappeared. “I tell you what … jerk off my dogs and I'll give you ten of those thang thangs.”

Desire stared at him for a moment. When she thought about the ten dimes, she felt her stomach flip with excitement. Then she looked at the huge, bullish dogs who sat loyally at their master's feet. Their tongues were wagging as they ran their eyes all around the room, guarding Lyfe against anyone who got out of line. Desire was so delusional in her painful cravings, the dogs appeared smaller and more innocent than they actually were.

“All I got to do is jerk them off?” she asked, strongly considering it just so she would have a day or two's supply of crack.

“That's all,” Lyfe said as he grabbed his dogs by their collars. He moved both dogs into the middle of the floor. Desire bent down on her knees next to the dogs and slowly reached for their penises. Lyfe had reduced several others—men and women—to this madness before. The dogs were used to it, and became excited that they were about to be pleasured. Desire squinted and twisted her mouth in disgust once the dogs' red, moist penises came out. Several men gathered around to watch. They laughed when the aroused dogs began to try to mount Desire from behind so they could hump her. The dogs were worked into a frenzy
that needed to be satisfied, and pretty soon they were barking with frustration, and Desire began to cry out in fear.

Lyfe couldn't take it anymore and waved his hands, “Aiight, ai-ight, that's enough.” Lyfe's boys grabbed the dogs' collars and led them away from Desire. The dogs protested by refusing to budge, but a few hard jerks on their collars finally subdued them.

“Hold up, Desire,” Lyfe said. “One more thing.”

Desire looked at him as he began to unzip his pants. She stayed down on her knees, waiting to give him some head so she could infect his ass. But he told her to lie on her back and open her mouth. Dread filled her eyes as she watched Lyfe's boys surround her. They waved long, thick pieces of two-by-fours in their hands. When Lyfe walked up with his dick in his hand, she closed her eyes. She closed her eyes tighter when she felt the warm urine hit her face.

“Open your mouth, bitch!” yelled Lyfe.

As he finished, she nearly choked, coughing up spit-up and urine. Lyfe stared down at her. He nodded to his partner, who handed him the crack.