Like a Woman Read online

  like a woman

  like a woman

  debra busman

  5220 Dexter Ann Arbor Rd.

  Ann Arbor, MI 48103

  www.dzancbooks.org

  The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  LIKE A WOMAN. Copyright © 2014, text by Debra Busman. All rights reserved, except for brief quotations in critical articles or reviews. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without prior written permission from the publisher: Dzanc Books, 5220 Dexter Ann Arbor Rd., Ann Arbor, MI 48103.

  Cover art by Oscar Hernandez

  Designed by Steven Seighman

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Busman, Debra, 1953

  Like a Woman: a novel / by Debra Busman.

  pages cm

  1. Teenage girls—Fiction. 2. Self-realization—Fiction. 3. Los Angeles (Calif.)—Fiction. 4. Bildungsromans. I. Title.

  PS3602.U8446L55 2014

  813’.6—dc23

  2014013392

  ISBN: 978-1-938103-24-7

  First U.S. Edition: March 2015

  Printed in the United States of America

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Contents

  Part One: A Fire that Had to Burn

  The Book of Bad Men

  as a child i believed

  Like the Wind

  death was just a fence away

  The Story of David

  when i was a little girl

  The First Thing You Need to Know

  sometimes on Sundays

  Lemon Zest

  a quick snapping of the trap

  A Fire that Had to Burn

  Part Two: Steal Away

  Telling Stories

  Jackson

  we are the tiny chewed nails

  Too Damn Easy

  the mother sucks the baby’s marrow

  like a woman

  The White Girl

  Rotten

  nothin’ but trouble

  the mouth screams on

  Dear Mama

  Tricks

  Cross Pen

  the wound closed

  Blue Sky

  Jo-Jo’s Story

  Smoke

  Just Another Way to Bleed

  fear is the hole

  Tracks

  Part Three: The Work

  The Daughter’s Job

  Pigs and Donuts

  Train Ride

  Lassie

  Screwing the Rich

  we are the women

  Universal Studios

  the particulars of her emergence

  Let the Girl Talk

  Getting Soft

  Part Four: Surfacing

  Birthing

  The Shepherd and the Saint

  Snakeskin

  of species, class & gender

  Connections

  Perfect

  Gettin’ Schooled

  Part Five: Secondary Drowning

  Acknowledgments

  PART ONE

  A Fire that Had to Burn

  The Book of Bad Men

  The first job Taylor ever had was pulling down her pants and peeing in front of the old man who lived in the wash behind the Hollywood Freeway. It was easy money. Steady work. Flexible hours. He never touched her, never frightened her. Just gave her dimes for every puddle she made. She was seven.

  At first she used the money to buy sodas and ice cream. Then she figured out that having just a little money made it so much easier to steal. She could walk into a store like she belonged, strut up to the counter with her two extra-large cans of Alpo dog food, and hand over the money, all in dimes. Twenty-nine cents. Three puddles’ worth, with a penny back. The checkout lady would say, “Oh, how sweet. Do you have a doggy, little girl?” and she would answer, “Yes ma’am,” and smile at the cool, scratchy feel of the Gaines Burger packets stuffed up under her shirt, pressed tight against her flat chest, back and belly.

  Taylor fed all the stray dogs and cats in the neighborhood. That was her other job, but of course that one didn’t pay. Hollering for the Shepherd/Collie mix with the hurt foot was how she had first met the man in the wash. She’d called the dog Shane until she found out he was a girl dog and then she called her Shane anyway. The old guy said he’d seen the dog earlier that morning and helped Taylor look for her. They got to talking about dogs and pretty soon the guy was telling Taylor about every dog he’d ever had since he was a little boy—Blue Tick hounds, Chocolate Labs, a little Terrier named Snitch, and even a purebred Dalmatian fire engine dog.

  When Taylor said she had to go back home, the old man said, “Why? It’s still early,” and she said, “Because I gotta pee,” and he said, “That ain’t no reason to leave, honey. You can just squat right here in the sand. That’s how Shane would do it, isn’t it, honey?” And she thought about it and he was right, that was how Shane would do it, and why should she waste time running back home.

  Taylor pulled down her jeans and underpants, squatted and peed, careful to not let the hot liquid touch her legs or shoes. She watched the sand turn dark as the puddle spread. It felt good, very liberating, like she’d discovered something the other kids didn’t know—that you didn’t have to go inside and use a bathroom if you needed to pee, not even if you were a girl. Then the old guy gave her a dime and said, “Now this will be our little secret, won’t it,” and she nodded, zipping up her pants. Taylor understood about secrets.

  The trouble started one day when Taylor was running out of the house, bladder full, to look for Shane and the old man. “Where you going and where’d you get that book?” her mama yelled after her, stopping the girl in her tracks. Taylor looked down at the Encyclopedia of Dogs she had stolen from the five and dime.

  “Never steal, unless it’s from the government,” her mom always said with a laugh but with eyes that meant business.

  “It’s my dog book,” Taylor said, turning around slowly. “I got it from a friend.”

  “What friend?” her mom laughed. “You don’t have any friends that can read.”

  Truth was, Taylor didn’t have any friends at all yet in the new neighborhood, but now she was backed into a corner. “Do so.” She clutched the book to her chest. “I got a friend who lives over by the freeway.”

  Taylor never figured out quite how her world unraveled so fast. First her mom got all red and angry, interrogating her about the man in the wash—who was he and how did she know him and what did he do to her and did he touch her, did he touch her, did he touch her? “No, Mama. He don’t never touch me. We just talk about dogs. He’s my friend.” And did he ever touch her and did he ever make her touch him and did he ever touch her down there? “Mama, I told you, he don’t never touch me and I ain’t never touched him. He’s my friend and he gives me dimes when I pee and we talk about dogs and he helps me feed Shane…” And then it was over.

  The next thing she knew there were police everywhere. Three of them were right inside her house, two plainclothes from a squad car and one motorcycle cop standing by the door, arms crossed, sunglasses and helmet still on. Taylor started to tremble. She knew her mom was terrified of cops, hated ‘em worse than head lice and Satan, but there she was talking to them like there was something in the world even worse than cops and Taylor hadn’t yet known that such a thing existed.

  “Here, honey,” the older cop said. “We’d just like you to take a look in this book and tell us if you see the man who hurt you. These are all pictures of bad men. Tell us if you see anyone who looks like the man who hurt you.”

  Taylor stared at the huge brown book lying open on the table in front of her. Rows and rows of black-and-white mugshots blur
red before her eyes. She counted the men, six across, seven rows down, the plastic-covered pages yellowed, peeling, and worn.

  “But he didn’t hurt me,” she said, her voice thin and soft.

  “Now tell us just exactly what he did to you,” the cop continued. “Did he touch you? Did he make you touch him? Did he put his fingers where they didn’t belong? Did he touch your privates? Did he touch, you know, your pee hole?”

  Taylor felt like she was going to throw up. She had never been so close to a cop before. She looked down at the table where he was still touching the book. His hand was huge, the knuckles covered with dark hair, furry, just like her uncle’s hand. Her uncle touched her down there. His hands had touched her pee hole. His thick fingers had pressed against her lips. It was a secret.

  Taylor wondered if her uncle’s picture was in the brown book. She looked up at the motorcycle cop standing by the door. She wondered what he was smiling at. She thought he looked like a shiny black insect. She wanted to run for the door but she knew he would grab her if she tried. Then the older cop put his hand on her shoulder and she screamed. The hot piss ran down her legs, steaming into her socks.

  as a child i believed

  as a child i believed we came from wolves, somehow lost, separated inside the city’s mass. the children, that is. i had no idea where adults came from, but i thought that children were all adopted, picked out like puppies from the pound. some got good homes with lots of food and room to play. some could only cower at the boot, snarl, or run away to try again. my home was not particularly good, except that it was filled with other strays, the pain came mostly in the night, and there was enough to eat.

  in that schoolyard moment when the other kids informed me that we didn’t come from wolves, several strands were broken from the fraying thread that held me to that place and time. i was actually quite shocked by their versions of how we came to be in families. i never spoke of it again, but secretly, i still dreamed about the wolves. i’ d hear the special howl the wolves used to bring their children home, and i’ d run to join them. we’ d all tumble together with lots of suckling, wrestling and chewing on ears. licked and growling, nuzzled about, tufts of fur in happy mouths, coming up for air.

  Like the Wind

  Taylor’s favorite job was stealing from Sears, working for her best friend Mario’s uncle Enrique. Enrique had hated Sears ever since he’d gotten fired for pointing out to management that the tan blond workers seemed to be having way too much fun while the brown workers got all the shit jobs and early pink slips. So Sears was the usual target of choice, although Pep Boys and Montgomery Wards were also fair game. Taylor stole bicycles, clothes, electronics, tools, watches—anything she could grab and ride or run away with.

  She and Mario had figured out pretty quick that, as a nine year-old white girl, Taylor wasn’t followed around by security cops like her Mexican friends. So the kids would all separate before entering a store, Mario, Jesus, and Ricky going in one door and Taylor in the other, her hair combed, her pink blouse clean and pressed. Once inside, Jesus and Mario would start a fight, or Ricky would “get lost” and cry for his mama, or they would “accidentally” knock down the five-foot-high pyramid of Valvoline 10-40 motor oil cans. Once personnel went running to investigate the commotion, Taylor stuffed something in her jacket or, when she was lucky, hopped on a ten-speed or Sting Ray bike and just rode right out the door. “Like the wind,” Enrique would say. “That girl rides like the motherfuckin’ wind.”

  All she had to do was ride down the street until she saw Enrique’s white van. If all was clear, he’d open the back doors and throw Taylor and the bike inside. If someone was after her, Enrique left the van doors shut, looked away, and she’d know to keep on riding, ditch the bike and start hopping fences. They never once got caught, although Taylor hopped a lot of fences.

  Once inside the van, she and Enrique circled around to the other side of the shopping center to pick up Mario, Jesus, and Ricky down by whatever gas station they’d checked out beforehand, usually a Chevron or a Union 76, because Ricky liked the little orange balls they gave away. The boys would all pile in and brag about what they’d done to attract security and everyone would laugh. Taylor would tell them how she got away, and then Enrique would say, “Damn, you guys done good,” and tousle their hair. Then he’d light up a reefer for him and Mario to smoke and sometimes Taylor took a hit, too.

  Taylor had that job until she turned thirteen and Enrique got drafted. Four years and she never called in sick, never missed a day of work. Enrique was an excellent boss. He taught Taylor tricks that would serve her throughout her life. Like never act like you’re stealing when you’re stealing. Act like you already own it, like it already belongs to you and somehow got misplaced on the shelf by mistake. “Ride that motherfuckin’ bike like it’s yours, girl,” he used to tell Taylor. “Not like you’re stealing it from no goddamn pussy Sears store.”

  Sometimes, Taylor got to see Enrique in action himself. Once, when his grandmother needed a new refrigerator, he brought home a brand-new Westinghouse double-door chrome handle with deluxe icemaker. First, he stole a pair of overalls from Sears that looked just like the ones the guys wore down at the Montgomery Wards warehouse. Then he sewed on a nametag—”Frankie,” he laughed. “Es un buen nombre, no?” Taylor watched Enrique check out the appliance section of the Van Nuys Wards a couple of times and then damn if he didn’t just walk right into the store and come out the back a few minutes later wheeling a huge, shiny refrigerator on a bright red dolly. Stole the dolly, too.

  Every time Enrique would tell the story of how he stole his grandmother’s refrigerator he’d just laugh and say, “Ah sí, mi abuelita. We never did find out how el refrigerador de mi abuelita wound up at Montgomery Wards. Qué misterio!” He’d smile, his eyes crinkling up. “Pues,” he’d continue. “Once I knew the refrigerator was in the wrong place, I had to liberate it, no? Bring it back to my grandmother where it belonged. It’s only right, you know. Es la verdad.”

  Enrique was shot two months after being shipped out to Nam. Killed by friendly fire while he was out taking a piss, two days after his battalion finally got their ammo and were heading for the front lines. He never stopped talking to Taylor, though. Every time she stole a bike, she’d hear his voice whispering in her ear. “Ride that bike like the motherfuckin’ wind. Ride it like it’s yours.” When she’d walk into a bookstore, Taylor could hear Enrique’s voice get real low and fierce. “Yes, chica,” she’d hear him say, “these books belong to you. Liberate one or two for me while you’re at it. And, remember to share them with los niños, okay? Someone’s got to redistribute the wealth, eh mija?”

  Even as Taylor got older, Enrique was still right there with helpful advice. “Look like you belong,” he told her when she started stealing from the fancy department stores downtown, “especially if you don’t.” When her clothes got too shabby, he warned her, “Niña, te acuerdas, only the rich can afford to dress poor.” In fact, it was Enrique’s idea to start selling raggedy jeans to the hippies out in Griffith Park. Taylor and Mario collected worn out Levi’s and work shirts from all the neighbors, pulling them from the hands of the mothers who first wanted to sew up the tears in their son’s, brother’s, husband’s clothes.

  “No, Mama,” Mario would say. “That’s the whole point. You don’t gotta sew this shit anymore. Taylor’s gonna sell ’em to los hippies. They pay more money if the pants are torn. I know que está muy loco, Mama, pero es la verdad. Give them to me. You’ll see.”

  Every Saturday, Taylor and Mario took the bus down to Griffith Park and sold the raggedy clothes to the hippies at their love-ins and anti-war rallies. Taylor was dealing pot to them anyway, so it was pretty easy to set up shop. In fact, it was a great cover and explained any money Taylor might have on her if the cops rousted them. Mario stood out too much in the crowd, so he stayed clean, laid low, and watched, ready to cover Taylor’s back if necessary. Every weekend, they brought home more money, and e
very Monday the women in the neighborhood went out to Sears to buy new jeans for their kids, new work shirts for their husbands.

  One day, as they watched the kids head off to school in their brand-new clothes, Mario leaned up against Taylor. “Hey, only the rich can afford to dress poor, right?” he whispered.

  Taylor looked at him, surprised. “Where’d you hear that?”

  Mario laughed. “Hey man, you don’t think you’re the only one he talks to, do you? That motherfucker’s been yappin’ inside my head ever since he got shot. That cholo talks more now than when he was alive.”

  Taylor shook her head. “No kiddin’?” she asked. “He ever sing that stupid-ass Dylan song to you?”

  “Oh man,” Mario whined. “Only all the fucking time. Every time I even think about shaking somebody down or putting some of the hippie money in my own pocket, I gotta hear that guy singing, to leeve out side the law, chu mus be ho-nest…”

  Taylor laughed. She’d heard that refrain on more than one occasion herself. “Come on,” she said, pushing Mario gently. “Let’s go check out what those motherfuckers got on sale today down at Sears. Hey, somebody’s got to redistribute the wealth. Right?”

  death was just a fence away

  it was in the place they had not paved that i spent most of my time. down in the hot, sandy wash, beyond the city park, filled with rocks and bottles, old abandoned shells of cars and men, where kids and lizards scurried, and the rest moved kind of slow. where i brought crumpled bits of lettuce to feed my neighbor’s tortoise hidden in the brush. (it ran away! i said, with eyes as big as lies. the truth was i couldn’t stand to see it poked, and when i read that turtles hate to have you even touch their shell, my body shivered with familiarity and i did what a child must do.)

  once, as i fed the tortoise’s old man mouth and watched its blinky eyes, i felt something else watching me, and turned up to face an exploding sun surrounding the huge gila monster i would come to know as friend. the new creature slowly backed into its ledge, and it took me months of sweaty practice to cease my rude and human stare that frightened all things wild. lying belly down in the hot, gravelly sand, in time i learned to soften focus, and soon my presence caused little more than a raised reptilian eyelid, and i could lie down nose to nose with the ancient gritty ones and ask them anything i wanted in a time both safe and slow.