Third Girl from the Left (12 page)

The door swung open to reveal a startlingly handsome young man with hooded eyes and an even, smooth, café au lait face. He was still except for the anxious, constant wiggling, twisting, of the fingers of his left hand. His eyes bore the fixed, buzzed stare of the coked-up. He looked a little familiar to Angela. “Who the fuck are you?” he said in a high, squeaky voice. Suddenly Angela realized who it was. She sucked her breath in, startled. Huey Newton. She'd heard he came to a lot of these parties, but she hadn't expected to see him here. “My name's Angela.” She stood up, wiping quickly at her eyes. “Angela Edwards. What are you doing here?”

He laughed, a high, rapid laugh. “I love a good party. These pigs throw the best ones, sister.” He paused, looked rapidly around the room, yanked at his pant legs a quick moment, fast enough for Angela to see that he had a gun in his sock. “Were you in the movie, sister?”

“I was.” She blushed. “Did you see it?”

“I did.” He laughed again. “It was something else. Revolutionary.”

“Really?”

“Oh yeah. We still got to seize the means of production, but yeah, the message was right on. Taking back our streets. Sticking it to the pigs. That's what it's all about.” He looked at her breasts, wiped quickly at his nose. “You here alone, sister?” Angela sighed. She didn't feel like playing the game right now. “No. I'm here with my . . . my boyfriend. I was just going to look for him in fact.”

“All right then, my sister.” He reached down and with a rapid, nervous gesture, touched the gun, then looked up. “You have a beautiful day. Keep the faith.”

“I will,” said Angela. She went to walk past him—he had never moved out of the doorway—and as quick as a cat, he caught his arm around her neck and kissed her, wetly, on the lips, using a lot of tongue. Angela wrested her head away. He grinned. His pupils were nearly as big as his irises. She wiped at her mouth with the back of her hand. “That was the same old shit, my brother,” she said. He just kept grinning. She shook her head and pushed past him out the door. He made no move to stop her.

Jesus Christ, will they all act the same come the goddamn revolution? Sometimes she wished she had a gun herself—she could think of a few niggers needed shooting. White ones too. All the slimy, grinding tongues that had been in her mouth that she allowed there for . . . because she didn't know how to say no? To get a part? For fun? Even Rafe wasn't what he used to be. Like all the men were. They all stopped being fun eventually. She still laughed with Sheila, though. She sighed deeply.

Suddenly, unbidden, her father's face appeared in front of her, looking the way he did, with his eyes turned hard, whenever he saw white people in Greenwood. When Angela was about five, she asked him why. “They no better than mad dogs, baby girl,” he said, his eyes narrowed and still blackened with something remembered. “You don't never walk near a mad dog iffen you can help it.” He paused. “And if you do, you keep your gun ready. But don't let 'em see it. They'll kill you if they see it.” He took Angela's hand, touched her head once, briefly, with his calloused hand. She had thought she might cry then. Just the way she thought she might cry again now. But instead, she made her way to the bar. It was past time for a drink. “Let me have a Long Island iced tea,” she said, lowering her voice to a sexy purr out of habit. “Coming right up, miss.” The bartender smiled at her. She smiled back, no happiness in her heart. Sheila came up behind her. “Hey, baby girl.” Angela spun around. Sheila was standing so close behind her that she couldn't move. “You never call me that in public.” Sheila smiled, her eyes soft and stoned. “I know. But I'm sorry, baby girl. He was looking really good today and he seemed interested and you know . . .” She trailed off.

“What do I know?” Angela said, her voice full of ice.

“You know who's gonna be home with you at the end of this.”

The ice started melting despite Angela's furious resolve. She reached around and picked up her drink. Swallowed, feeling it all the way down her insides. Sheila gazed at her steadily. No one was looking. Angela took Sheila's hand, just for a second, and rested it on her stomach. “OK. OK. But not in front of me, all right?”

“Oh, baby girl, not again. There's plenty of other brothers that'll do me more good—and some that ain't brothers.” She nodded slightly toward a little hubbub at the door. Bert Schneider, who ran BBS, the company that had produced
Easy Rider
, had just come in with a small phalanx of followers, mostly white. Schneider was busy giving Huey his best soul brother handshake, his face flushed with effort and booze. The music was even louder—“I'll Take You There” now. She could see Rafe trying to get close to Schneider, felt Sheila's steady gaze upon her. Whatever would happen would happen. She finished her drink and said, “Let's go.” And they both sashayed toward the knot of power in the room's center.

 

Bert Schneider was tall and handsome in a glossy, overworked way. His face had the leathery texture and orangey glow of a man who owned a tinfoil tanning tray and wasn't afraid to use it. He wore pink-tinted aviator glasses, and his hair was feathered and swept carefully away from his face. He reminded Angela of a weasel. The look he gave Sheila was that of a man who hasn't eaten in a week and just sat down at a feast. Angela felt a stab of defeat under her ribs, but she turned quickly to the man Schneider was with, her smile large. She could see Rafe looking at her, but she didn't look back. He knew how it was any damn way. They'd talked about this. So she just went on. She'd be with him later.

Schneider's friend was better-looking than he was, with a gentle, feline face and soft, dark hair. He smoked rapidly and his pupils were wildly dilated. He introduced himself with a pronounced Brooklyn accent that didn't go with his face. “Todd Jameson here. I work with Bert, making pictures. And who might you be?” From behind her, Angela could sense Sheila's gradual encroachment on Schneider, the slow easing into his space. It was getting late, the lights going down, the music shifting to a slower groove, Bill Withers and Marvin Gaye. Angela suddenly felt very tired. She had an image of simply resting for a while in Rafe's arms or in Sheila's. But she owed it to that girl on the screen, herself larger than life. She owed it to that girl to get another part. “I might be free for a little while, Todd. If you get me another drink,” she said silkily. “My name's Angela Edwards. I'm an actress.”

I
N
1973,
CHEAPLY MADE ACTION FILMS STARRING
black actors, which had commonly come to be known as blaxploitation movies, earned millions of dollars. So much so that it was widely said around town that blaxploitation was keeping certain studios afloat. Only a tiny percentage of this money ended up in the pockets of black people in the industry; almost all of the producers and directors were white. That year, Angela Edwards earned $7,000, and that was mostly through Bunny work. Sheila earned $10,000, but she kept on fucking Bert Schneider, hoping it would lead to a part. It didn't, but she explained her continued relationship with Schneider this way: “You know, Ange,” Sheila said one night as she eased her shoulders under Angela's gentle hands. The breeze coming through the window smelled of car exhaust. “I actually kind of like the guy. He scores great coke and he makes me laugh.” She paused. “And he loves going down on me. But he doesn't do it as well as you do.” They both smiled. Angela gave Sheila's shoulders a little squeeze.

Angela was getting tired. At first, she'd thought that small parts would lead to bigger ones, more fucking would lead to less fucking, or at least the room to be more discriminating. With Rafe it was good. With Sheila it was better. With everyone else it was something to do, a way to score coke or relax or try to get a part.

But she looked the tiniest bit used up. It wasn't even that much fun anymore. Her eyes felt like smooth black rocks. She had thought acting would be a way to get inside the glow she always used to feel at the Dreamland. She thought that this work would let her make something real, be seen for someone real. But now she'd been doing it and doing it and it turned out that there was only one thing they wanted to see. And so she was hard-pressed to keep her clothes on in a scene, let alone speak.

Since the high of
Coffy
, that glorious fight scene, that glorious party, that glorious day, her life had fallen into an unvarying rhythm. She kept working at the club, so most of her days were free. She auditioned four days a week (got her hair and nails done on Fridays). She read
Variety
and
The Hollywood Reporter
religiously. Nights before work, she went to Rafe's on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday (unless he was shooting late), and spent Tuesday and Wednesday with Sheila. The weekend nights were for producers, the days spent with Sheila. Sometimes she came to Rafe or Sheila after a producer and he or she, depending, would hold her while she cried, or get high with her. Sheila was going through the same thing. She'd been a little bit luckier, but not a lot. They were both on the pill. They had to be careful to get different color cases so they didn't start taking each other's. Sheila's case was purple, Angela's pink. One day, in the bathroom, after carefully applying her false eyelashes and lipstick, she picked up her pink case, her mind completely blank, as it so often was these days, and opened it. There were her pills for the last two days. Sitting in the case. How the fuck did that happen? Her throat constricted. What happened if you missed two days? She hadn't missed two days fucking. She'd been with Rafe last night and the Friday before that—no producer this week. Christ. She took today's pill, her heart pounding. The two untaken rested in the case, looking at her like stony white eyes. She drank more water. It burned her throat. She looked at herself in the mirror. Beautiful. She was always beautiful. Why was she so scared?

Sheila knocked on the door. “Come on, Angie, get a move on.”

“Coming.” She ran a hand over her flat stomach. “Coming.”

Sheila didn't notice anything. They were going to a premiere and she was giddy and high with the moment, plus a little speed. She talked nonstop. Angela didn't say anything, only looked out the car window, seeing those two pills nestled accusingly in their slots. “Do you have a joint, Sheil?”

“Sure. Look in my bag.”

Angela looked around, found a small half-smoked one, pushed in the cigarette lighter. Waited.

“You OK, Angie Bangie?”

“Yeah. I'm fine. Just a little tired, though.” She inhaled deeply, tried to let the joint do its restful work. But her stomach stayed knotted. She could feel small dark claws tearing at the inside of her head. But she tried to ignore them, smiled and took Sheila's hand.

Of course, she was pregnant. Remarkably, it had never happened before. But she knew it, even though she tried to act like she didn't. She missed her period, her breasts started hurting all the time, she felt like crying half the time. One night she got in the car and drove the streets, looking for an open fried-chicken joint. She had to have some chicken that minute or die trying to get it. A couple of days later, she started throwing up.

She kept going to work. She could still fit into the costume, still do the required Bunny dip when serving drinks, was still able to stand all night, only resting on the edges of things. She still glowed, beautiful, some nights, but not every night. Not the way she used to. Sometimes, after her shift, she lay in bed, her breath shallow, her hand resting on her stomach, wondering what would happen to her when she could no longer lean, do the Bunny dip, hide her belly or the motherhood to follow. What would she do when she was no longer herself alone?

It would have been easy to have it taken care of. It was 1975. It was legal now. One or two phone calls or a shy admission to Sheila, who freely admitted having had two abortions and being more than ready to have another should she ever need to. Days went by. She didn't say anything. She felt sick all the time, though she didn't tell anyone. The girls were always talking in the locker room about who was best to take care of it. Somebody was always pregnant or getting over having been pregnant. Angela didn't have to tell them about herself.

“Well, you know, Doc Finkelstein over on Wilshire? He'll fix you up just like that. Uses that, what's it called?

“Vacuum?”

“No, girl, that little spoon. Damn, what is it? It's some letters.”

“D and C?”

“Yeah, that's it. You don't bleed at all hardly. You can be back at work in two days.”

“Mmm. I remember when that stuff used to damn near kill you.” This from Becky, one of the oldest Bunnies. “My friend Sarah got so messed up she won't ever be able to have children.” The room went silent. “But now it's all different,” Becky said after a while. “You can just walk into a clinic and take care of it now.” Becky had worked for Playboy so long it was hard to imagine her taking any interest in the world outside these flocked velvet walls. She'd given up trying to make it as an actress. She just worked her shift, did her thing, and went home. She violated the no-fraternizing rule as much as she could get away with, but none of her regular dates had become sufficiently infatuated with her to get her out of the business yet. She was thirty-two years old. Angela had to sit down as the conversation ended. No one said anything to her. Sheila gave her a sharp, appraising look but then finished squeezing into her shoes without comment.

That night, on the way home, Sheila said, “So when were you gonna tell me? When you went into labor?”

“What?”

“Angie, I know you're pregnant. Think I ain't seen you running to the bathroom all hours?” She made a face. “Or heard you throwing up?” Sheila looked quickly away from the road at Angela. “You can hear that shit, you know.”