Street Soldiers Read online

  “What the hell is wrong with you, Mickey?” I exclaim, ready to take the rolled up paper out of my purse and smack some sense into my girl. “Have you completely lost your mind, Mickey? If Nigel finds out about this he will never forgive you.”

  No matter how much she may claim to like this new fool she’s seeing, Nellie can’t hide her joy about Mickey and Nigel’s final demise. The other clients around us listen without intruding, used to witnessing drama in the shop.

  “Who gives a shit about how Nigel feels? He didn’t care about my feelings when he walked out on me and my daughter.” Mickey blows on her freshly painted acrylics completely unconcerned with the foulness of her actions.

  “After G sent you those cryptic ‘Whore of Babylon’ letters the last time he was locked up I thought you understood how unstable dude really is,” I say, recalling the fear in Mickey’s eyes when she first showed me the red ink-stained pages. I’ve never seen her so scared of anything, and now she’s back in bed with the enemy.

  “Girl, he was just mad ’cause me and Nigel were raising Nickey like he and I always planned to do with our kids. And now that Nigel’s dropped the ball, I have to do what’s right by my family, Jayd.”

  “Have you talked to Nigel about this? And what about the fact that you’re living in his best friends house?”

  Nellie looks at me as if to say “Shut the hell up before they end up back together!” but I won’t be silenced. My main concern is Nickey Shantae, and Mickey playing house with the notorious felon that killed Nickey’s biological father is not in the baby’s best interests, damn her hood family dreams.

  “You see, that’s exactly why I didn’t tell your ass a damned thing. I knew you were going to drill me like 5.0.” Mickey sucks her teeth but I’m the one who’s disgusted.

  “Hell yeah you knew I would, Mickey,” I say, heated. “This is a hot mess and you know it.”

  “But it’s my hot mess, Jayd. And I’ll deal with it the way I see fit.”

  Mickey’s right. I’m tired of playing everybody’s mama. I glance at the wall clock and feel Mama calling me from the other side of Compton. If I leave now I can still make it before three.

  “I’ve got to get to work,” I say, exasperated with this new information. It was better when I thought Mickey was simply avoiding G. This girl’s given me a headache with her ill logic. “See y’all at school tomorrow.”

  “Thanks for the ride, Jayd,” Nellie says, passing me a crisp twenty-dollar bill from her purse. “You should really consider letting CoCo hook you up one day. I think you’d look cute with a fresh cut and some gold streaks in the front.”

  “Yeah, you’d look like Meghan Good with her short cut,” Mickey says, pointing to a picture of the actress in Nellie’s magazine. “Sexy for sure.”

  They’re so silly even when we’re at odds. My girls mean well but can be a bit much. Mama would kill the barber and me if I ever let anyone other than her, Netta or my mom touch my hair let alone cut it.

  “Bye, y’all.”

  “Holla,” Nellie says. She tends to get a little darker once she crosses Central Avenue—Nellie knows her place. She can pretend to be white all she wants in the South Bay, but it ain’t too many white folks who can hook a weave up like CoCo can.

  The strip mall houses about ten other businesses including a liquor store, beauty supply and clothing boutique. The parking lot is bustling with consumers ready to spend their money. On the way to my car I swear I can hear Pam walking behind me, her sandals just as loud as they were in my dream. I turn around but it’s just a stray dog dragging its leash on the ground—too weird. I need to tell Mama about my recent visions as soon as I get to the shop. The last thing I need is another meltdown, and with my head as hot as it is it may only be a matter of time before I go off.

  *

  Netta’s shop is the complete opposite of CoCo’s and so are her clients. Netta mostly services the church crowd, teachers, postal workers and housewives. CoCo’s clients are younger, hipper and their employment is never truly disclosed.

  “Alafia, Little Jayd,” Netta says, buzzing me in. “How is our queen in training doing this afternoon?”

  Mama’s sitting under one of three blow driers in the front of the shop relaxing while Netta preps the curling and flat irons. The scents of sandalwood and vanilla usher me over the threshold, instantly calming my nerves. The new fragrance for our autumn product line of hair care was my idea. And judging from the peaceful energy in the space, I’d say it was a good blend. Hopefully there’s enough of the new hair care batch for me to sample on myself.

  “Hi, Mama,” I say, bending down to kiss my grandmother who’s eyeing me like I’m late, which technically I’m not. “I’m glad to see you two are taking a break from the campaign trail for a moment.”

  “Yes, my dear, but only for a moment. We have much more to do to get that boy out of jail, no matter how foolish he is.”

  “He’s not the only one,” I say, recalling Mickey’s relationship revelation. I walk over to Netta’s main station, kiss her on the cheek and admire her new cellophane.

  Netta’s new line of natural hair glass—as she calls it—has been a huge hit. I’ve been thinking about trying it out myself. Nellie may be right about me needing to switch it up a bit, all though I’d never admit that to her. I don’t mean a complete transformation like Misty’s made, but a little more spunk in my stylo wouldn’t be such a bad thing.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Netta asks. “And why to you smell like perm solution and burnt plastic?”

  “It means that Mickey has decided to be the ride-or-die chick G wants by his side right now, forget about her and Nigel and their happy hood family. And I smell like this because I dropped Nellie off at CoCo’s shop.”

  Mama acknowledges the strange stench already soaked into my clothes and skin. I replace my Pink hoody with my white work apron and reclose the cabinet door. My personal space needs to be cleaned out and probably all of the others do, too. After I wash up I’ll get to work on it and the clients’ personal beauty boxes. It’s been a while since I checked their supply levels.

  *

  The yellow curtain separating the front of the shop from the back where the office/shrine room and private bathroom are located is open, allowing a breeze to flow freely through the warm space. I bow to greet the shrine, taking the Florida water from the bamboo mat at its feet and head to the bathroom. Sometimes a quick head cleansing is all I need to get my mojo going.

  “That girl’s gonna learn her lesson the hard way if she keeps playing with fire,” Netta says, smacking hard on her Big Red gum. The lavender face soap feels good on my skin washing all of the oil from my day away. This t-zone thing is annoying. Even Mama’s daily tea tree and aloe soap can’t stop the shine permanently.

  “And that boy is pure Shango,” Mama says as I reenter the main room ready to work.

  She did a spiritual reading on G last night and learned that his head belongs to Shango, the orisha of fire, passion and male virility: a bad combination in a gangster with no guidance. After spending yesterday afternoon with G, Mama’s convinced she can save his soul. I hate to doubt my grandmother’s skills, but some souls should just be left alone.

  “Is he now? That’s interesting,” Netta says, walking over to her sole client for the day ready to press and curl Mama’s shoulder-length locks. She turns off the hair drier and leads Mama to sit down at her station.

  “Yes it is, which explains why Esmeralda might be interested in getting to him before we do,” Mama says as she leans back in the malleable chair and allows Netta to work her magic. “I know she’s got her hands in his arrest.”

  “No doubt about it. And you know she’s going to come running to his rescue as soon as she can, indebting him to her for life.” Netta moves the hot irons through Mama’s head quickly, not needing to fully straighten her already soft tresses. Mama hates it when her hair falls flat from too much heat.

  “Or longer.” Mama says, m
eeting Netta’s eyes in the mirror. I’m used to the two of them talking over my head.

  “How can G be in debt to Esmeralda, and why would she help him get out of jail in the first place?” I ask, not making the connection. I open my locker and begin to organize my stuff—my locker at school needs the same type of attention.

  “Because, little Jayd,” Netta begins. “Esmeralda’s gathering an entire army of sinister soldiers to be at her beck and call. These little fools running around here selling drugs and whatnot are her top targets.”

  “But Netta, why would Esmeralda need them to do her dirty work when she’s got her top dog around?” I ask, now removing the boxes from the clients’ shelves.

  There are at least one hundred personalized boxes and they each need some serious TLC. Between my initiation, Mrs. Esop filing a law suit against me through Mama and Pam’s murder we’re slightly behind in our shop duties.

  “Because she can, and because Rousseau needs help to do his dirty work. If you’re making vampires and zombies, why not start with the natural ones we’ve already got in the hood?” Mama’s right. She’s always said black folks don’t need to get caught up in the fictional vampires when we’ve got real ones like poverty and addiction to contend with on a daily basis.

  “That reminds me,” I say, easing into my dream confession. “I had a dream about Pam yesterday.”

  “That happens a lot when spirits are attempting to crossover,” Netta says, admiring her skills as Mama primps her fresh do in the mirror.

  “What was the dream about?” Mama asks.

  “Well, I was here alone and Pam was in the back knocking on the screen door. Rousseau was after her and she said to give you the message that only you can help her. Oh, and her eyes were pitch black and she couldn’t come inside for some reason. Too weird.”

  Before I can replace the first dozen boxes in one of the five floor length cabinets dedicated to the clients, Mama and Netta are right behind me.

  “Why didn’t you tell me about this sooner?” Mama asks, taking the boxes from my hands and setting them down on the table closest to us.

  “Did you look her directly in the eye?” Netta asks, feeling my forehead with the back of her hand. What the hell?

  “No, I don’t think so,” I say. “It was still dark outside.”

  They force me to take a seat at Netta’s station and check me out from head to toe. I doubt I’ll ever get used to this type of occasional reaction from my spiritual guardians. After several minutes of me repeating the details of the dream, Mama and Netta ease up, satisfied that I’m okay for the time being.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about it yesterday. There was just so much going on and I figured since I didn’t come back blind or anything like that it was just a dream.” Usually when the dream is extremely important I get hurt in some sort of way. I’ve awakened with more bruises and cuts than I care to remember.

  “The fact that she was pregnant in your dream disturbs me more than Esmeralda making her a spiritual zombie.”

  There’s that word again. With Misty turning into whatever animal she’s mimicking and Emilio right there with here, I’m over Esmeralda’s growing supernatural circus.

  Mama signals for me to rise from her seat and I obey, happy to get back to work.

  “It was just a part of the dream,” I explain. “To me the worst part was her dark eyes and grey skin. It was freaky.” A chill comes over me at the sheer thought of the nightmare.

  “Jayd, you don’t have simple dreams,” Mama says, her green eyes glowing. “You never know what they truly mean if you don’t ask and consult the spirit book. I don’t care how early or late it is, write it down in your journal immediately and do your research.”

  “That’s what your journal’s there for,” Netta says, reminding me of the instructions that came with my personal spirit book when they first presented it to me. That’s why I keep it in the car—my life always has some drama popping off.

  “Esmeralda’s waged war in the streets as well as in the spirit houses across Los Angeles County. I hear she’s even called in some of the Houngans and Mambos, or head priest and priestesses, in Haiti on Rousseau’s side,” Netta says, matter-of-factly.

  I know Mama and Netta have hit the pavement to gather all the information they can on Hector’s botanica and spiritual family in Lynwood. His storefront happens to be down the street from my father’s house. Maybe I’ll take a trip to see him soon and do a little investigating of my own.

  When Mama turned down Hector’s offer to become the head of his house after his wife fell ill, he simply went next door and Esmeralda gladly accepted. Things haven’t been the same since. Before Hector came along we had Esmeralda right where we wanted her: humbled. With this new surge of loyal followers, Esmeralda’s growing in both strength and popularity: a bad combination.

  “And it’s apparent that Esmeralda’s still trying to take over your dreams, Jayd,” Mama says. “No matter what, don’t give your mind over to fear and get your sleep. You’ve got to keep your mind strong and as drama-free as possible to beat that wench at her own game.”

  If it were that simple I would have eliminated Esmeralda and all other forms of drama from my life a long time ago.

  “I would love to get more sleep,” I say, returning the last row of boxes to their respective shelves. I’ll get started on the laundry next. Hopefully after I finish washing I can get back to my mom’s apartment and braid at least one head. I saw a couple of styles in my magazine that I want to try on Shawntrese.

  “You’ve got to find a way to get it in,” Netta says, running her fingers through Mama’s hair, pleased with her work as always. “The wrong thoughts can be toxic to your health. If you keep your dreams to yourself it’s tantamount to poisoning your mind.”

  “Yeah, but my reality can also keep me from sleeping at night. Besides, there are times I’d rather not dream, if you know what I mean.”

  Netta and Mama both look at me and sigh. I know my elders feel me, but they have little sympathy for my sometimes-impatient attitude toward my gift of sight.

  “Jayd, don’t think of your dreams as simply visions and premonitions, which they also are, of course. They’re interactions with your subconscious mind; a type of communion with the alternate reality, if you will.”

  Netta spins Mama’s chair around to face the mirror. Mama eyes her beautiful reflection. I catch her green glow in the mirror as she locks onto my eyes and communicates with me like only she can.

  “Oh Jayd, there’s so much more to reality than what you see when you’re supposedly awake,” Mama says, easing the tension in my mind. “Lucky for us our ancestors are the only mastermind team we need.”

  “Mastermind team?” I ask, unable to fold the towel in my hands as Mama continues her mental prodding.

  Netta rolls her eye at my naïveté and continues to primp Mama’s hair.

  “Yes, child. Your mastermind is a group of wise spirits whom you can call on when you need help, improvement, or just plain old support,” my grandmother says, easing her way out of my mind. “You can interact with them however you wish. They are, after all, present only in your mind and will help you in any way you ask.”

  It sounds more like imaginary friends than a wise team to me, but I wouldn’t dare say that out loud.

  “That Napoleon Hill was an interesting white man, yes he was,” Netta says, clamping Mama’s hair between the iron curlers before repeating the same motion, but this time curling the ends of her hair in the hot tool before moving on to the next section. “That book he wrote back in the thirties, Think and Grow Rich was the truth, you hear me? Girl, it was the truth!”

  Mama pulls her head away from her best friend and glares at her in sheer annoyance. Mama doesn’t like it when Netta—her sole hairdresser—gets too excited while doing her hair and I don’t blame her. Even the most skilled stylist can slip up. If you ask me, Netta’s enthusiasm is one of her most endearing qualities. Her spunky attitude and love o
f life is what makes her so loveable.

  “Netta, black people knew the power of thinking our way out of situations way before he wrote it down,” Mama says, relaxing back into her chair as Netta reclaims Mama’s soft tresses. “We’ve always called on our ancestors for help, and they’ve always answered.”

  “Yes, but Lynn Mae you must admit that Hill wrote it all down in such a palatable way. Even people who aren’t looking for the information will read it in his books and get it. I love it!”

  “I don’t have to admit a damned thing, Netta,” Mama says, tilting her head to the right so Netta can work on the other side.

  Netta sucks her teeth at her best friend’s comment. They go back and forth like this all of the time. Their type of sisterhood is what I wish I could have with my girls, but it seems like the bond might skip my generation. My mom and her best friends—who I call my aunties—have been tight since diapers, as they like to say. I wish I had one friend I knew happily for that long.

  “So you mean to tell me that if I call on Josephine Baker she’ll come to me in my dreams and chat?” I’ve always wanted to ask the infamous black performer how she danced around topless in a banana skirt for white men and women to gawk at with a smile on her face. After I learned about her in drama class last year I found a photo of her and placed it on my shrine. If there was ever an Oshune woman, she’s it.

  “Yes, but even more than that,” Mama says. “You can summon her ashe and her advice.”

  “Seriously,” Netta agrees. “And the person doesn’t have to be an ancestor. It can be anyone.”

  Mama nods in agreement, almost as hyped about the topic as Netta is.

  “The benefit of having the gift of sight like we do is that if they’re also blessed with certain talents we can borrow those talents, too,” Mama says.

  If they’re right about this—and I don’t doubt that they are—I’ve been sleeping on this tool, and so have a lot of people I know. It’s one thing to have the power of sight like we Williams’ women do, but if anyone can summon a mastermind crew, why don’t they?

  “Powerful. Simply magnificent,” Netta says, this time in a quiet yet equally hyped tone. “I’ve always envied Madame C.J. Walker’s ability to turn pressing hair into a million dollar business when many black people were still enslaved. That woman is on my mastermind list all day, every day.”