Brooklyn Brothel

Chapter 1

The 1988 Buick
with a cream-colored rag top bounced from side to side rhythmically, while Bo jabbed at my body like a fuckin’ punchin’ bag. The car sat idlin’ at the Pittsburgh Port Authority, four feet away from the Greyhound bus that I shoulda been on by now. Bo had already punched me in my gut three times, and now had me gripped tightly by the shoulders, shoutin’ in the process.

“You betta learn ta listen woman!” he ranted, just before slappin’ me again with an open hand.

The side of my face stung, just above my permanent mole, but I still told myself not to fight back. Bo was a good dude. He had just fallen into a bad financial situation, and couldn’t handle the pressure. He’d always carried a temper since the day I met’em, but lately he really had me terrified of ’em. I guess the
no money syndrome
had changed him drastically. I sniffled a bit and pressed my back into the tan, sheepskin seat covers.

“I’m just scared,” I cried hesitantly, “I neva been to New York before. And I sure as hell ain’t neva sold my body!”

I glanced at myself in the side mirror. My mascara had smeared from all the cryin’, and my blonde wig looked like it had actually gone through a panic attack. I patted my long tresses into place, and used my hand to wipe the remainin’ tears from my cocoa colored skin. Bo always bragged to his boys about how smooth my skin seemed, and how it reminded him of a cup of hot chocolate with a dab of two percent
milk. I shook my head at the fact that he had just slapped my smooth skin into a deep reddish complexion.

“Look’a’here, Chantel. I scrounged up my last fiftyyyy-eight dollarsssss to pay for dis bus fare. Now if that bus pulls off wit’out ya, it’s gon’ be hell ta pay.”

He jerked my way with his fist balled up, pretendin’ to land the punch. I tugged my head to the right, hopin’ he wasn’t gonna hit me for real. I stopped to gaze into my man’s set of piercin’ eyes before speakin’. They always looked like they had powers to kill. “I’m tryin’ to get up the nerve, Bo,” I yelled. “Just give me a minute. I’m doin’ this for you…and you actin’ all crazy.”

“Oh, don’t try ta pull that bullshit ova on a playa.”

I hated the way Bo always paused between each word when he wanted to make a point; and the fact that he dragged out the endin’ of his words with a hissin’ sound, almost like he was singin’ a song. It irritated the hell outta me. But I think
he
thought
it made him sound cool. “Pull, what, Bo?” I responded.

“You doin’ this for yoself too, biaaaatch. We both need dis money to get back on our feet. You know… keep our place, so we can get your lil’ cry-baby-ass son back.”

I shot him the evil eye. I loved Bo, but talkin’ ’bout my son Carlton, wouldn’t be tolerated. If anything would get me on that bus, the thought of gettin’ my son back had my feet movin’ beneath me, searchin’ for my Payless slip-ons.

“Alright, I’m goin’,” I said to Bo in a miserable tone.

His eyes darted ova to the passenger seat. He tried to remain cool, but couldn’t. “That’s my girl,” he responded with enthusiasm. Bo threw his arms around me allowin’ me to smell the wretched stench of his stank-ass Old Spice cologne.

“You gon’ be straight gurrrrrrl. Think about it, you just came off a five year bid. You’s a strong black woman,” he applauded.
“Remember, dis only fa one week. While ya gone, I’ma find us some reliable hoes to work fa us. Now get on dat bus and make us some damn money.”

He grabbed me by the chin and moved in close to nibble at my lips. I didn’t resist ’cause although Bo resembled Antonio Fargas’ pimp character, Flyguy, from the movie,
I’m Gonna Get You Sucka
, I had a thing for him. He was the only man who truly eva loved me. He took me from my depressed state and helped me adjust from my prison release seven months ago, to the mean streets. I kissed him back, smearin’ my cheap red lipstick all ova the sides of his mouth. He gave me a puppy dog face in return.

“You know your man strugglin’, right?”

“I know,” I sniffled, gettin’ all emotional.

“Right now our survival depends on youuuu,” he lectured. “You wanna bring yo son to live with us, right?”

I nodded.

“Then, let’s go.”

Bo grabbed his hat from the back seat, raised himself to open his door, and strutted quickly around to open mine. I hated that our lil’ quality time was ova. At twenty-three, I was still somewhat a teenager at heart. I still needed guidance and certainly tender love and care; somethin’ I neva got from my mother. If I had eva met my father, maybe I coulda gotten it from him. For now, Bo was my Daddy, and I was doin’ whateva he told me to do.

Bo popped the trunk and grabbed my rollin’ black suitcase. I followed him like a lost puppy toward the bus driver standin’ directly outside the bus. As usual, Bo pranced, and people gawked at him checkin’ out his out-dated, dark purple suit. Even though his clothes were custom made, I often wondered if he knew it was 2008, ’cause he dressed like someone from the 70’s. His suede, wide-rimmed hat was titled to the side, accompanied by the
feather I hated most.

I didn’t understand why he wore it so much. Maybe to help him live up to the name Bo Rich, the newest pimp to the ugly streets of Pittsburgh. For me, I preferred his legendary ponytail, which stayed slicked down to his head, and brushed into a cropped, short ponytail. Although Bo had only been a pimp for six months, he walked like he had been in the game for six years. But Me and Bo had a secret. He wasn’t too good at the pimp business, ’cause if he was on his game, the only two girls he had under him wouldn’t have run off with his doe. His bad pimp techniques all fell on me, ’cause now I was on my way to New York to make money for my pimp, my lover, my everything.

“You getting on?” the driver asked me, shiftin’ his gaze from me to Bo.

I swung my blue duffle bag from my right side to my left. “Yeah, I’m goin’.” I handed him the ticket slowly.

He extended his hand informin’ me with gestures it was time to go. Immediately, he grabbed my suitcase, pushed it under the buses’ luggage compartment, and closed the hatch. I stepped onto the first step when Bo stopped me.

“Wait! One mo’ thing.”

He pulled me by the arm and moved our bodies off to the side. He made sure his back was positioned toward the driver.

“Don’t faget when ya get to the Port Authority in NY, wait outside by the McDonalds on 42
^nd
Street,” he told me. “And be smart, damn it. There’ll be pimps and hoes walkin’ ‘round like roaches. They gon’ try ta trap ya, but stay quiet and wait for Mike.”