The Last Black Unicorn(31)

Tiffany: “I will always be cool with you. Just don’t ever disrespect me. If you ever disrespect me, it’s going to be a motherfucking problem.”

That night was fine. I was drinking 211 beer. Now, I don’t know if you ever heard of this beer, but it’s 99 cents. This is the shit that bums buy to get all fucked up on the cheap. It makes you fucking crazy. Of course, Titus the Po’ Pimp has this at his party.

I drank some and fell asleep on the couch. When I woke up, it was late. Titus and Bertha were on the floor, right next to the couch I was sleeping on. Fucking. Like, right next to me. I jumped up:

Tiffany: “BITCH, WHAT I TELL YOU ABOUT DISRESPECTING ME?”

I just started stomping on her. I was straight ghetto-stomping her out. She curled into a ball and started crying.

Tiffany: “GET YOUR MOTHERFUCKING ASS UP, BITCH! I’M FIXIN’ TO BEAT YO ASS SOME MO!”

Bertha: “Stop! I’m not going to fight you, Tiffany. I’m not going to fight you. I’m going to call the police!”

Tiffany: “CALL THE MOTHERFUCKING POLICE! I’ll just get your ass deported up out this bitch. You fixing to get deported right back to Jamaica, bitch! I know you here illegally, I’m the one fucking pimping you!! What’s up now??”

Titus tried to stop me from stomping on her. I did what any black woman who was being disrespected would do: I straight punched him in the mouth.

Tiffany: “DON’T YOU TOUCH ME, NIGGA! I WILL KILL YOU!”

Titus: “Why you tripping???”

I just started going berserk. I was drunk as hell on 211, screaming at the top of my lungs, Bertha was crying, Titus was screaming, I was throwing furniture—it was for-real black woman craziness.

Then his homeboy picked me up from behind and carried me out the house to my car.

Needless to say, I stopped talking to Bertha after that. I had no more words for her. That’s how I stopped pimping her.

Maybe two months later, Titus showed up to my house with a ring, asking would I marry him. He had put rose petals all over my car in the shape of a heart and a bunch more all over my yard.

Tiffany: “Are you fucking serious right now?”

Titus: “Tiffany, you the smartest woman I know. Please, will you marry me?”

Oh, yeah—the ring still had the price tag on it, from Kmart. It was $38.

A $38 ring. That’s what he thought I was worth.

Tiffany: “Get the fuck out of here with this cheap-ass ring. Fuck you, don’t ever talk to me again.”

I was so pissed. I cussed him out. I was angry all night.

The next day, I was so disturbed emotionally, I started crying. I cried all day, all night. I could not stop crying at work.

Then I started to bleed. At first I thought it was just my period, but it wouldn’t stop. It was heavy. I was feeling weak.

This went on for weeks. I was bleeding so much, I eventually went through every maxi-pad in all of LAX. I seriously think I used every one of them huge free maxis in all the women’s bathrooms in the whole damn airport.

Eventually, it just ran down my leg. It was just like I had peed on myself, but it was blood pouring out of me.

My manager at the airlines was the same nice, nerdy white guy I talked about before.

Manager: “Tiffany, that’s blood. You’re bleeding. You’re standing in a puddle of blood. You have to go. We’re calling 911. Are you pregnant or something?”

Tiffany: “No, I’m not pregnant or anything. I can’t stop bleeding. I don’t know why I’m bleeding.”

It was so embarrassing. All I could think about was that I didn’t have insurance, and I couldn’t pay for an ambulance.

Tiffany: “I don’t want to pay for an ambulance. Just call my grandma.”

My grandma came and took me to the hospital. They couldn’t figure out what was wrong. There was nothing in my tests. They kept me in the hospital overnight. Nothing showed up that was actually wrong. No fibroids. Nothing. They couldn’t figure it out.

They gave me some medication, like some birth control stuff that’s supposed to make it stop. My stomach also felt like it was on fire, like it was burning up. They said I didn’t have ulcers or nothing like that, but they gave me something for it.

I got so skinny. I was down to 110 pounds.

I felt like I was dying. I was crying all the time, bleeding all the time. My stomach was hurting all the time. I was so fucking sick.

They eventually gave me some antidepressants. They recommended that I see a psychiatrist, so I did.

The therapist was nice. She talked to me all about my life and everything, and I was constantly crying in there. But it was weird, because everything I said, she would laugh. She’d be giggling and stuff.

Tiffany: “Why you laughing? This shit’s not funny! My life fucking sucks!”

She’d stop and compose herself. But pretty soon, she’d be laughing again.

Therapist: “Tiffany, what do you love to do? What makes you happy?”

Tiffany: “I like teeth. Maybe I should just be a dentist, because I really love teeth. I really like the way teeth look, but I don’t want to hurt anybody, so maybe I could just be the dental assistant.”

She laughed at that, too.

Therapist: “Have you ever thought about comedy?”

Tiffany: “It’s funny you say that. I like seeing people smile, hearing laughter. That makes me happy. You know, I used to do comedy, in high school.”