Dear Readers, the nineteen-year-old continues to experience a year of separation. Separation from home and family, teen pregnancy, separation from her infant. She loses a sense of direction through displacement, entrapment, rape, and soul murder. Because of the LSD ‘medicine’, she becomes separated from her day to day consciousness, for better or worse.

The Farm shows her a different way of being. The manager gives her the first gift, a paperback copy of The Way of Life according to Lao Tzu a translation of the Tao te Ching, by Witter Bynner. These poems and the wisdom they contain open the door and let some light in.

Forced to leave Alice and Larry’s farm, she is separated from the place where ‘All is well’, the place where she feels seen and senses a true home.

Her story resumes in the doctor’s office. Seeking help, he offers her the second gift.

‘Yield and you need not break:’
Bent you can straighten,
Emptied you can hold,
Torn you can mend …

From Verse 22
Tao te Ching

I have no memory of the bus ride, no memory of where I go once L’s parents arrive at the station to take her home. L waves goodbye through the back window of the car as I stand alone. It has been two weeks since the coin toss on the attic steps. I wear everything I own including the sandals that the manager made for me. He gave me a present as we left the car at the station, a small tie-dyed cloth bag for my book, and inside my farm toothbrush, and a few gift dollars. Over the past few days, my body talks to me using a confusing language of sweats, chills, swelling, discharge, burning pain.

On my second visit to Dr. Perchan’s office, I tell him what has happened since he informed me that I was pregnant eleven months ago. He makes notes as I pull the soft green cotton gown over my legs. I lie back and place my feet into the metal stirrups for the exam. The heat of his lamp feels soothing, the probing and the calipers hurt. 

He tells me that this is particularly bad. My body had no chance to heal following the birth. I am infected with gonorrhea. He tells me, “It is escalating. By the time this clears up you will be lined with scar tissue. You need a round or two of antibiotics. We’ll give you something for depression.”

He lifts the clipboard and ballpoint pen from the edge of the table. He prepares to write his diagnosis into my file. A prescription slip, filled out, is on the stainless-steel cart within arm’s reach. I sit up straight, my bare legs dangle over the side of the padded exam table. I declare, “NO! Do not write that! DO NOT write down that I am depressed! Do not label me depressed! Don’t you dare!” I feel the heat of shame rise into my face. Defiantly I say, “I have had a hard time. I am not depressed. I need time. Anyone who went through what I have would need time. Do NOT write that! Do not label me. I am NOT depressed!”

We look at one another in the eye. I hold his gaze. I do not care about the tears of frustration streaking my face. He hands me a tissue and the prescription slip saying, “This is for the infection, an antibiotic, take it all. You may need a second round. We will set up an appointment for two weeks from now. Get dressed and wait here. I’ll be back.” He leaves me alone in the examination room for a few minutes then comes through the door carrying a small book. He hands the paperback to me saying, “I don’t want you to carry the weight of the world on your shoulders.” He taps the cover and says, “Read this book.” The title is odd, I am not sure how to say the name. It seems like a foreign language just as the Tao te Ching seems exotic and yet more and more inviting. He smiles and pats my hand gently giving me a squeeze he says, “Read it. Just be sure to read it.”

The next thing I can verify is that I am in a car with the ‘Medicine Man’ who, less than three weeks ago told me, “Take this, it will help you.” He drives past the big blue house where I first met him. I wonder if anyone has painted the kitchen ceiling. I wonder where my friends have gone. He takes us down a nearby dead-end side street crowded with parked cars and cramped yards that contain one and often two small houses. We go to the end where there is a high brick wall, he turns the car around pulls into a short driveway apron and parks at the curb. He comes around to the passenger side smiles through the window and opens my door. We walk past the front entrance down the long side of the house to a steep back stairway leading to a second-floor apartment. The back of the property backs up against a steep embankment that is covered in small trees and shrubs, east and west railroad tracks run along the ridge.

How many days ago did he bring me here? There are roommates: D and K.

D looks old. Like maybe thirty. He works for the ‘Medicine Man’. D is balding, pudgy, a sloppy dresser he shouts everything. He wears silk patterned shirts mostly unbuttoned with two heavy gold chains with coral medallions tangling into his thick chest hair.  His gestures are abrupt, he acts nervous, moving, pacing, sweating, grabbing at his girlfriend, and laughing as she passes. K is mousy, her long hair limp she makes it sway by turning her head side to side. She is flirty in her movements, flitting in and out of their bedroom and back and forth to the bathroom. She giggles a lot. She sits on his lap at every opportunity and seems overly excited by his attentions. Our small bedrooms share a common wall. They make a lot of noise in their intimacies. ‘Medicine Man’ brought me here. A place for me to stay.

The books from the manager and the doctor sit on the floor beside the twin mattress in the small narrow bedroom. I read as much as I can. I want to learn to ‘not carry the weight of the world on my shoulders.’

Your Key to a Better Life

The most important psychologic discovery of this century is the discovery of the “self-Image.” Whether we realize it or not, each of us carries about with us a mental blueprint or picture of ourselves.
It may be vague and ill-defined to our conscious gaze.
It may not be consciously recognizable at all. But it is there, complete down to the last detail. This self-image is our own conception of the “sort of person I am.” it has been built up from our own beliefs about ourselves. But most of these beliefs about ourselves have unconsciously been formed from our past experiences, our successes and failures, our humiliations, our triumphs, and the way other people have reacted to us, especially in early childhood. From all these, we mentally construct a “self” (or a picture of a self). Once an idea or belief about ourselves goes into this picture it becomes “true,” as far as we are concerned. We do not question its validity but proceed to act upon it just as if it were true.

I rest day after day. My body is on fire, oozing a thick discharge as it fights off the infection. In the tiny bedroom, there is a tall window that faces out to the curb, the bottom half is held open with a long thin piece of wood, no screen. I look forward to when the Jaguar pulls up. The ‘Medicine Man’ buys me time for healing. He buys me expensive gifts, a mossy green cashmere sweater, a tooled leather bag, a pair of leather platform shoes. He hands me folded bills. I refuse. He clasps them with a gold money clip and leaves them on the dresser, “In case you need anything.” He comes by every few days to check his business, takes me out for lunch to one of the many Italian restaurants that line the cobblestone streets. I am not well. My system rebels. I want quiet. I need to rest.

Friday evening, he suggests that I wear my new sweater, the temp will be dropping before we return. I tell him I would rather stay here. He smiles and says, “Come with me. I like your company. Getting out will do you good.” He ushers me through the kitchen door to the long covered back porch, a train heading west is sounding its whistle blast as it crosses the overpass above the main road up at the corner. I stop to watch. The vibration moves through me, a familiar, calming childhood sound. The container cars rumble shaking the steep steps as we move down. I hold the guardrail; he places his hand against my back at the waist. As we reach the concrete sidewalk a happy bouncing puppy recently adopted by the guy downstairs greets us. A burly beauty, three-month-old Norwegian Elkhound, named Bull. I kneel to cuddle the ball of joy gnawing on my fingers as the ‘Medicine Man’ and the neighbor briefly talk business. Out at the curb, he opens the car door for me and walks around to the driver’s side, placing his leather briefcase behind the front seat. As we drive, he explains that Tuesday and Friday are the important days in his business week. He describes that he is going to a series of; ‘shooting galleries’ in ‘tough neighborhoods.’ He says, “You will be fine. You will wait in the car. You will only go in with me at the last stop. I think you’ll be good for business.” He squeezes my hand and smiles. He also lets me know that whenever I am ready, he has gotten me a job, saying, “LL has a boutique shop just up the hill from the apartment. I told her about you. Whenever you feel ready the job is yours. You will like her. She is a smart businesswoman. She will treat you right.”

He drives a few minutes to another busy inner-city neighborhood; I see a mix of empty storefronts, small houses, and vacant lots strewn with trash. Lots of action taking place out on the narrow street. Crowds, all black men, smoking, drinking, milling about laughing, talking loudly, they step aside and part like a wave as we drive through. Miles Davis improvises from a car radio. High fashion girls wear short shorts, halter tops, fishnet stockings, boots, big gold earrings, and big hair. They are lounging on the stairs leading up to small front porches, some sit in aluminum beach chairs. The yards are fenced with chain-link, most with gates closed, holding dogs that bark angry excitement. There is the sweet smell of a cookout. He parks in front of one of the stores, instructing as he lifts the briefcase out of the back, “Keep the doors locked, keep your eyes down.  Read your book. No need for concern. I will be inside for a short time. You will be fine.”

He walks to the nearest storefront stepping past the broken metal security gate pushed off to one side. I watch him. He is well dressed; his soft leather loafers’ step over the piles of debris passing the plywood covered windows. He looks out of place here. He pays no attention to the newspaper covering the face of a man passed out among empty bottles and cigarette butts. The door opens as though he is expected; he disappears. I pay no attention to the two men leaning out of the window directly above the car, over the doorway. They laugh, blowing smoke rings that float past the windshield. Catcalling. Wolf whistling.

I read.

Chapter Nine

The Failure Mechanism:
How to Make It Work For You Instead of Against You

I am about a third of the way through the book given to me by the doctor. The ideas and concepts presented have an otherworldly effect, like listening to Alice. I want to read every chance I get.

I can tell that the doctor was right, there is something in this book for me. Something within these pages’ lifts a bit of the heaviness off my shoulders. Like the book, the manager gave me, though not as poetic as the Tao te Ching, there is a new way for me to think about things.

I barely notice that a small group of men gathers close as the Medicine Man returns. They are attracted to the sleek style of the luxury sports car and they move even closer as he opens the door. They want a look inside. He slides the case behind the seat, pops the hood so the group can ogle the engine while smoking, drinking, rearranging hair with fingers and picks.

The Jaguar moves smoothly from one ghetto location to the next. The car turns heads, attracts attention, and creates a scene while I wait inside as each delivery is made. It’s dark and the neighborhood streets have come even more alive with music changing every few yards, large groups hanging out in the short driveways, spilling off the porches. Medicine Man maneuvers the car into a tight spot, grabs his case, comes around to open the door for me. He takes my hand and supports me as I step across massive tree roots that have pushed the slate sidewalks up at odd angles.

We approach the house that appears to be the quietest and most enclosed on this busy side street. Opening the aluminum screen, he taps, taps, taps on the solid front door. Inside the sound of vicious barking erupts. My body tightens, my stomach turns. Medicine Man takes my hand and squeezes… a signal he uses to let me know that it will be alright. A small square peephole crack opens, a single eye check to see who we are before the locks dislodge and the two dogs are given a sharp command. The German Shepard’s settle in a corner of the small front room. Medicine Man greets the guy who has let us in with a big grin and quick handshake. I am given a broad smile, a warm welcome, and invited to sit there, on the gold brocade sofa that takes up most of the space. The greeter says, “Do not look at the dogs. Do not touch them.”

Six beautifully dressed men, silk pants, long tunics, dashiki in rich prints of warm russet and ochre, stand around the table. Chairs slid in; the table takes up the entire space. I wonder if it may be holding Sunday dinner later this weekend. Tonight, it is used for display. I do not stare. I can easily see dozens of handguns and other weapons; leather-wrapped clubs, short chains, silencers, telescopic sites as well as brass knuckles. There are long cardboard boxes stacked along one wall. Leaning upright beside each carton is a rifle. I wonder if it shows a sample of what is in the carton. Medicine Man walks through the room patting a shoulder here and giving a quick lean in and back greeting there. The mood is everyone is fine. Glasses clink and smoke rises.

The atmosphere shifts dramatically when from the kitchen a tall, handsome man enters the room and erupts in laughter. He is clearly in charge. I notice immediately his clothes are even more elaborate. He appears to be king-like. He wears silks and many rings. His close-cropped hair and neatly trimmed beard are streaked with gray. He is impeccable. The dogs raise their eyebrows but remain still. The Medicine Man laughs as they embrace. Their words are muffled for a few minutes while they talk seriously. I sit alone on the long sofa without a clear idea of where to look when Medicine Man steps in front of me to introduce me to the formidable, Man in Charge.

I am welcomed warmly, complimented on my beauty, invited to ‘make myself feel at home.’ “Can I get you anything?” I ask for water and one of the men at the table brings me a tall glass. Man in Charge makes a show of sitting down next to me. He is openly seductive and sits so close that his body weight creates a roll in the cushions, my body sinks into him. He wraps his massive arm around my shoulders, his hot breath whispers into my right ear, “Your man is my brother. That makes you my family. If you need anything, anything, you are going to let me know, isn’t that right, Pretty Lady?” I nod once against his massive chest.

On the drive here Medicine Man tells me, “Man in Charge is a smooth talker. Think Marvin Gaye. He is a real lady’s man. He will be glad to see you. You will be an asset simply being in the room. I’m glad that you came along.”

As the briefcase is set up on the long low coffee table we all hear the commotion coming toward the front door. The case is quickly closed and put out of sight. The dogs erupt! They take their position in front of the door. My eyes cannot believe what I see. They snap and turn in tight circles. They snap and growl at the worn carpeting, heads down, vicious alert. The same guy that let us in rushes to the peephole, opens, looks out, looks back at Man in Charge, nods an okay, and sends the dogs away. The two German Shepards return to their corner and assume the Sphinx position. The locks are disengaged, the door opens.

A man enters dressed in snakeskin boots, black leather pants, a long camel-colored coat with black fur trim, a wide-brimmed hat that covers his afro cocked to one side of his head, as though it might slide off if he doesn’t balance it soon. He drags on a joint and beckons out to the porch for others to follow. He steps into the room so a line of young white girls can pass through and head upstairs. No one pays them any mind. I watch. They are exotic. Dressed for success, short skirts, tight shorts, lacey tops, high heels. Hair sprayed and pinned up, dramatic make-up, one by one they make their way up the stairs, grabbing hold of the wooden banister to steady themselves they disappear into the enclosed stairway. No interaction. The snake boot man slaps the last girl on her bottom, turns so I can see his gold front tooth when he sneers at me.

The briefcase is open on the table. Man in Charge checks his order. There are negotiations. A large amount of cash changes hands. The delivery for next Friday is discussed as the briefcase is packed and locked. As we stand up to leave Man in Charge smothers me in a gargantuan bear hug laughing a whispered message into my ear as he holds me to his chest. “You come on back now, Pretty Lady. You come back soon.”

It is far too late. I am beyond tired. My body is hurting. I need to rest. I half-listen when, on the drive back to the apartment, Medicine Man tells me that Man in Charge is the district head for the Black Nationalist Party. He is in charge of powerful operations including running interstate drugs, firearms, and prostitution. Medicine Man says, “He is a good man. You just don’t want to get on his wrong side.”