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Overview
For Vanessa, a low-income housing complex in the middle of the desert in El Mirage, Arizona, represents all that is wrong with her life. Her neighbors get it on all night long, she sees an abusive husband kill his wife, and then himself, and her own ex-husband keeps showing up and getting into her pants.
The one bright spot in Vanessa's life is her daughter, Kennedy, and Kennedy's love for the piano. She is practicing to audition for an esteemed music academy that Vanessa can in no way afford---especially after losing her housekeeping job. But Vanessa isn't one to give up, and she'll do anything to help her daughter succeed, even if it means selling her body and soul.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781429904353 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | St. Martin's Publishing Group |
| Publication date: | 04/01/2007 |
| Sold by: | Macmillan |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 224 |
| File size: | 237 KB |
About the Author
Darnella Ford, the author of Crave and Rising, is a spoken-word artist. She performs regularly in the Los Angeles area, where she lives with her daughter. She is currently at work on her next novel.
Darnella Ford, the author of Crave, Rising and Choke, is a spoken-word artist. She performs regularly in the Los Angeles area, where she lives with her daughter. She is currently at work on her next novel.
Read an Excerpt
Choke
By Darnella Ford
St. Martin's Press
Copyright © 2006 Darnella FordAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4299-0435-3
CHAPTER 1
My name is Vanessa.
I bypassed the good life in exchange for a modest lifestyle. Read between the lines: Bankrupt with bad credit. I also fell madly in love with David Claville, a beautiful man with a birth defect. He was born with the inability to remain in the upright position. He was always falling for a woman, and this would have been perfectly fine with me if he didn't wear an obligatory little name tag that read: HUSBAND.
So now you understand my position under the sun.
I am thirty-four-years old and my beautiful copper-toned skin is my claim to fame. Truth is, I used to be beautiful when I was young. No, I used to be beautiful when I was free, which only leads me to believe that someday I shall be beautiful again. I recently separated from David, my now name-tagless spouse.
I live in a gloriously neglected complex smack-dab in the middle of the desert.
El Mirage, Arizona. Eleven square miles of nothing, thirty minutes east of Phoenix. A tangible dust bowl, flat as a pancake with a lot of cacti and airborne dirt.
El Mirage is a public housing mecca, which is how most of us found our way down this narrow stretch of dusty highway.
In the summertime, every single day is a 115-degree reminder that you are an inhabitant of one of the hottest places on earth.
It's nearing the end of spring, on the cusp of what promises to be the hottest summer ever.
I have one kid. When she slid out of the birth canal, credits rolled off her little baby butt: THE END. Sew the hole shut. Ain't nothing else coming out.
My kid's name is Kennedy.
She was typical in most ways, awkward and struggling to bloom, stretching to find her own voice — but in one way she was different. She was an old soul, reborn into a young body. At twelve, she was extraordinary.
Influenced by the likes of Count Basie, Keith Jarrett, Fats Waller, Dink Johnson, and Sonny Clark, she heard the calling of the keys while still in the womb.
She was "blood of my blood" and "flesh of my flesh." I had begun playing at the age of seven, when one of my mother's drug-addicted friends sold us an electronic keyboard for ten dollars. Self-taught by junior high school, it was a natural calling for me. My fingers were fused with magic, and I could play classic compositions like an angel. Everybody told me so. It was no small wonder that Kennedy "pulled" from the gift, and now it belonged to her.
She started playing piano by ear at the age of four.
By six, her father and I enrolled her in classes, foregoing the rent at times to pay for instruction.
By eight, her teacher said she was "fluent on the keys."
By nine, she was said to be "gifted."
By ten, "accomplished."
At eleven, "highly endowed."
At twelve, she was "a genius."
Kennedy breathed piano chords for a living, practicing upward of six hours a day, with her biggest dream being to attend the Milligan School, a prestigious performing arts high school located one hour due east in Shadow Mountain, Arizona. Her dream was wide enough to fit two people inside, her and me. At least that's what I was hoping.
As for me, I followed the odor of La Fondita's Mexican Restaurant home each night, which led me back to the Block Luxury Apartments.
It's a funny thing about my luxury apartment. From the leaking roof to the cracked floors there was nothing luxurious about it. As a matter of fact, Kennedy and I are still consulting with the roaches to come up with the legal definition of "luxury." But I'm not complaining. I'm grateful as hell to have a roof over my head. If it weren't for the chipped paint on the dining room walls, an irrevocable pee stain on the shag carpet in the bedroom, and a toilet that only flushes every other day, I would swear I was floating through life in a Beverly Hills penthouse. But like I said before, I'm not complaining. Just appreciating the things that keep me humble.
Believe it or not, there were a lot of apartments in El Mirage, but the Block was the most famous. The waiting list was longer than my left leg. Maybe it was the indoor plumbing and endless Section 8 opportunities.
On the day I came to sign my rental agreement at the complex, the old, cockeyed, goat of an apartment manager assured me, "This is the finest place in town." Caught off guard by the giant gaps in his rotting teeth, I looked away.
"You don't believe me?" he asked, cutting me with sharp eyes.
"Sure," I said halfheartedly.
"We got a swimming pool," he said enthusiastically. Translation: A rubber above-ground hazard that collapses on both sides.
"A golf course out back." Translation: An open field of dead grass and gopher holes.
"Pets allowed," he said. Translation: An apartment full of roaches that will NOT be exterminated.
"We even allow large pets." Translation: Rats big enough to go in half on the rent.
"Finest place in town," he repeated, putting the keys into my palm.
The Block was my new home.
It wasn't safe or pretty, but it did have one saving grace. It was the last stop between being in here or being out there.
I don't think anybody in the Block had a lot, but everybody seemed to have just enough push to keep the show from stopping. Most of the Block's residents were single mothers, and we were all superstars of our own desperate productions. But every decent production needs a costar.
CHAPTER 2Every night I woke up to the sound of my neighbors' lovemaking, which seemed to go on forever.
Good Lord, it's too hot for all that screwing.
The bedroom would shake, walls vibrated, and the dresser started doing the conga. Kennedy and I slept in the same bed because we were temporarily living in a one bedroom, but just until a two bedroom opened up. ETA on a two bedroom in the Block was about three years.
"Put it in again, Big Papa!" she screamed. "Put it in again!"
"Oh God," I whispered under my breath.
What time was Big Papa putting it in tonight?
A glance at the clock revealed 10:10 P.M.
Oh, Big Papa was early tonight.
He usually didn't put it in till after midnight. I slid beneath the covers to save myself from an inevitable discussion of the birds and the bees with Kennedy. We probably should have talked about it by now, but every time I tried to discuss the sensitive topic, my tongue twisted, folded up into the back of my throat, and slid down backward. Okay. I may not have lost my tongue but I certainly felt as though my mouth were filled with concrete when it came to discussing the whole sex thing with the kid.
"Should we be talking about this?" Kennedy asked.
When I deemed it appropriate that I should stop hiding, I peeked through the covers and saw Kennedy staring at the wall where the sounds were coming from. She looked like she was trying to figure it all out — not that she didn't already know.
"Yeah," I mumbled under my breath.
"Okay," she said, sitting up in the bed. "Go for it, Mom."
She sat up and waited, waited for me to deliver some earth-shattering speech on sexuality.
"Well ..." I started, then stopped and fumbled.
"Umm ..."
"Er, um ..."
"Uh ..."
"Yeah ... well ..."
"You know."
As I butchered the birds and the bees, the background noise set the tone with moans in A minor, a bed shaking in the chord of C, and a butt spanking in A flat.
I was looking at Kennedy. Kennedy was looking at me.
"Yeah," Kennedy said, lying back down. "I know."
"Good," I said, patting her on the back. "If you got any questions just let me know."
Okay. Deep breath.
I slithered from the bed and slipped into a housecoat and slippers, suiting up like a Trojan warrior — no pun intended.
I had only lived here for about a week, and this was definitely not the most opportune time for a meet and greet with the neighbors. However, it was as good a time as any, especially considering my twelve-year-old was soaking up their primate noise like the sound editor on a porn flick. I looked over at Kennedy, who looked at me and smirked.
"Better get some sleep. We got an early day tomorrow," I commanded, feeling the need to say something parental even if I couldn't say something smart. The moment felt too bizarre to breed intelligence, so I stepped outside my apartment into the hot air and followed the sounds of moaning, which were right next door.
I live next door to a freak.
I knocked on the door several times, tapping my foot impatiently, waiting for the squeaking bed to silence and the loud talk to hush to a whisper.
Slowly, the splintered brown door opened, but just enough to reveal one piercing green eye. In the background, a heavy male voice called, "Who's that, babe?"
"Neighbor," she answered him, with that one eye fixated on me.
"Excuse me," I said stiffly, "but you're making too much noise ... If you could just keep it down. You know?"
Her green eye widened, and there was nothing but silence.
"I have a kid," I said, nodding my head. "And she's twelve."
"Then she's probably fucking too," she said with a straight face, then burst into laughter.
I stared at her.
"I'm just fooling," she quickly added. "I'm fooling with you," she said again, opening the door wide, giving me the first real look at her. She was a white girl with a figure shaped like a box. Her breasts were hefty, but I bet money her backside was flat and wide. She had emerald-colored eyes and bleached blond hair in cornrows. She was okay looking for a white girl. As I examined her further, it appeared that Caucasia and the inner city had collided. She was drinking a Colt 45 and there was a glide in this girl's stride that didn't quite fit her own culture.
"So you're the new neighbor?" she asked, head cocked back, eyes cast toward the ground.
"Yeah ... we're Christians," I said slowly, hoping she would get the picture.
"Cool," she replied with uncertainty.
"It's just too loud," I said, pointing to our adjoining bedroom windows. She nodded, then smiled.
"Sorry," she said. "I'll tell Gerry to keep it down next time."
Then without so much as a good-bye, she quickly shut the door.
What a weirdo, I thought. As I turned to go back inside my apartment, she ripped the door open and blurted out, "Hey!"
I halted.
"What's your name?" she asked.
"Vanessa," I replied.
She stared at me with a blank expression.
"Vanessa," I repeated. C'mon girl. This isn't an advanced round of Jeopardy! "Just Vanessa."
"Vanessa," she mimicked.
"What's yours?" I asked.
"Anese," she said proudly.
Nice to meet your slow ass, I felt like saying. Instead I said, "Good night, Anese."
CHAPTER 3The next night it happened again.
Exhausted, I woke up to the sounds of fucking. It was loud, hard, intense, and raw. Explosive and dynamic, they put it out there. The crude smell of sex filled my nasal cavity like a trip to the fish market. Your sex scent isn't something you want to push on the neighbors, but some people have no shame.
I dragged myself out of bed. Did I accidentally move into a roach-infested, reduced-rent Playboy mansion without knowing it?
Once again I reached for my housecoat, slippers, and attitude. I barked the same order to Kennedy to go to sleep, and she offered the same reply, a smirk.
I stormed out my front door and walked straight to the freak's apartment. And just as I prepared to knock on her door again, I realized the moans weren't coming from my neighbor on the right, they were coming from my neighbor on the left.
Okay.
"I live between two freaks," I said aloud.
I hesitated a moment before knocking, thinking of a plan of attack. What could I say and how could I say it? Who would answer the door and what would they say? I knocked, the door crept open, and one brown eye appeared. Talk about déjà vu.
"Yes?" a soft voice said.
I shifted uncomfortably on her doorstep, irate that this had been my destiny the past two nights.
"I ... um ..." I started, then abruptly stopped, then started again, "I can't sleep with the noise." She opened the door and stepped farther into the hallway. She was wearing a flimsy, lime-green summer dress, something she probably just threw on to answer the door.
I had seen her once before.
Dare I say she was beautiful? A gorgeous Latina, standing little more than five feet tall, with large, beautiful breasts on her little, tiny frame. She had a flat stomach and soft, pretty legs that looked freshly shaved. I didn't even know people this pretty could be poor. She looked like a movie star, atypical of anything I'd seen around these parts.
She smiled, then looked away and whispered, "Sorry."
The Latina had a late-night lover and the only reason I'm mentioning it, other than the fact that I like to gossip, was because he was a white man. I had seen him before, lurking around here after hours. He must have been gifted because he had this Latina begging for an encore.
"What is it with this building?" I asked. "Does anyone around here ever sleep?"
"Life is for the living," she said gently. "You'll sleep when you're dead." The Latina smiled and extended her hand. "The name's Yolie."
"Vanessa," I said, offering a smile, accepting her hand. The heat from our hands sparked a sensation that felt like electricity. And in that moment I knew that she and I, no matter how awkward our initial meeting, were destined to be friends.
There was a lot of femininity about Yolie. She didn't have that haggard look like the rest of us did. No, she was fresh, and even if you didn't classify her as "drop-dead gorgeous" (for which she already had my vote), she was still the finest thing in town. And that's the God's honest truth. She was the kind of pretty everybody stared at. I was drawn to her beauty and to her heat. I wasn't gay, but I found myself attracted to her, in the way that most people are attracted to pretty things.
She was studying me as well. I shifted uncomfortably again, wondering what she saw. "Sleeping Beauty," she said to me softly. "Can I call you that?"
"Call me anything you want," I said casually as I turned away to return to my apartment. "Just don't call me after hours or I get a little cranky."
She winked, I waved, and that was the end of it. Strange as it may seem, both freaky neighbors were about to costar in my own production. Ironically, the three of us were brought together by the things people did in the dark. And before it was all said and done, those would be the very things that would one day tear us apart.
CHAPTER 4I didn't need a key to open the security gate because the lock had busted ages ago and nobody had ever bothered to fix it. Living life ten steps ahead of pace always left me close to frantic around the six o'clock hour to get home and check on Kennedy. She was a latchkey kid and each day she would rush home to our apartment to practice her music, polish her dreams. I didn't like the fact that she came home each afternoon to an empty apartment. Actually, I hated it, but the little money coming in left me with few options going out.
I stopped at the mailboxes in the center of the courtyard like I did every day. I was waiting on the Publishers Clearinghouse sweepstakes to deliver me from this evil, but instead I was greeted by an armful of new bills and past-due notices. Oh yeah, and a letter from my name-tagless spouse, notifying me that he was about to begin divorce proceedings.
I wanted to surrender to disappointment, but a man was screaming at his wife on the other side of the mailboxes.
I eased myself toward the edge of the rusted silver boxes. I was careful not to be seen, my right eye focused on the bickering couple while I kept the rest of myself hidden.
A large white man with a giant gut was pushing up on a small-framed white woman with salt-and-pepper hair. The man looked to be in his fifties, but I doubt he was much past forty-three. Perhaps booze and a bad attitude had prematurely drawn lines on his face. And the woman, she looked to be in her fifties too, but she may have actually been as young as thirty-eight, thirty-nine. Her dark hair was streaked with gray. Her face was lined around the eyes with crow's feet, but the lines looked brand new. She also had laugh lines, but I doubt she got them from laughing. Her skin was like leather, as if she had been exposed to too much sun, or maybe it was rain. Whatever the situation, it appeared that a lifetime of stress had pulled her closer to old age than she truly belonged.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Choke by Darnella Ford. Copyright © 2006 Darnella Ford. Excerpted by permission of St. Martin's Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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Reading Group Guide
El Mirage — for Vanessa,the low income housing complex in the middle of the Arizona desert represents everything that's wrong with her life. Her neighbors get it on all night, she sees an abusive husband kill his wife and himself in the courtyard, and her own deadbeat ex-husband keeps showing up and getting into her pants.
The one bright spot is her daughter Kennedy's piano practice as she prepares to try out for an esteemed music academy. But Vanessa can't afford to send her, especially after losing her housekeeping job when cranky old Miss Gregory bites the dust. Vanessa isn't one to give up, though. And she'll do anything to help Kennedy pursue a better life, even if it means sacrificing her own chances...