The 401

I used to go to this bar on the corner, the 401. Hsan, the Korean woman who owned it was a tough, little bitty thing who’d been in business in the Loin longer than most. The 401 was a dive, a dark perfect place balanced on the knife edge of violence that surrounded every aspect of life in that neighborhood. Knowing how and when to kick people out was a matter of life and death for bar owners like Hsan. People on the street killed each other all the time, usually over money, sometimes over nothing. Crackheads, hookers, pimps, dealers, the johns from the Hilton two blocks away, the cops and the paddy wagons, the roundups, the fights, knives, guns, broken bottles, a lot of crazy angry people all over the place. The whole atmosphere of that neighborhood was one of violence, a study of urban criminology, and Hsan was nothing if not a criminologist. I wasn’t sure what kind of illegal shit she was into herself but I knew she ran some kind of gambling. Not cards or dice, but more like numbers. The only people that seemed to play were old Asian women like Hsan and I think it entertained her more than it brought in money. She might’ve been the biggest madam in the Loin for all I knew. I just know she was at that bar morning, noon, and night, and from what I could tell, she was running her bar solely to inebriate a hard-core group of locals, many of whom she called friend. As much as she loved us, however, love didn’t keep that place open, the money flowing off the street did. There was always the tired pimp getting all his friends drunk on Hennesey while the girls come in to pay up or the young dealers drinking bottles of Corona while taking paper off the b-girls or the guys in the suits nobody came to see sitting in the corner nursing neat Scotches and making calls. It was all out in the open in the 401, just like it was in that whole neighborhood the entire time I lived there. I came in every day, just sat at the bar and put bread in the jar and said, “Hsan, what am I doing here?” Hsan loved me. I went in one night, nothing in my belly but the bagels I ate at work, and she gives me this huge portion of piping hot spaghetti with meatballs. “This my dinner. I give to you. You too skinny.” Just like that. No room to argue. I asked for wine. “Wine? I got special bottle for you.” She goes down to the basement and comes back with a really old bottle of Gallo. Perfect. She was so happy. I didn’t have any money to speak of, my tab was growing and way past due, but she didn’t care. She liked me. I was never, ever a problem for her. I didn’t shoot or sell drugs, I didn’t cause problems, I wasn’t a criminal. She couldn’t figure out for the life of her why the fuck I was even there. “I’m a writer.” “Why here? Go someplace nice. Go New York.” “I’m from Texas.” “Go Texas. It’s better you there.” Not mean about it, she didn’t necessarily want to get rid of me, but she understood immediately what it took me half a year to learn. I wasn’t cut out for the Loin. I didn’t belong there. I was too sensitive. Too scared. Too fucked up all the time. It was a bad combination of undesirable traits and she knew well enough to know I was in trouble from the jump. Hence, spaghetti. She couldn’t do much else for me. I might die out there but it wasn’t going to be from hunger. Not on her watch. I ate the spaghetti. Every last delicious bite. It was Prego and overcooked noodles but, to me, it was gourmet shit, best I ever had. She comped my whole bill that night. I drank the entire gallon of Gallo. She never said a word and never asked for a dime.

I don’t really remember leaving. I do remember being at the Shawmutt Hotel with my friend Jack Root, saying the most incredibly vile things to him. Telling him God knows what. I cry. He threatens to punch me, hugs me, kicks me out. I pound on his door for a minute, think better and split. I hit the street, bawling like a baby. I pass this fat, black hooker talking to her pimp. “Hey, baby… Baby, you all right? What’s wrong, sugar?” She’s nice. She looks at me. “Oh, sweetie, I know just what would make you feel better. You got any money, boy?” “Yeah. I got a lot of money. I’ve never been with a black woman before.” “Oh, honey, you ain’t lived. Let’s go. Stop crying now. Gonna make me cry, you look so bad.” “I live right here.” “Okay. Give me one second.” She talks to the gigantic black guy. I hear her say, “This won’t take long.” Thinking, ‘Are you fucking kidding me? This could take FOREVER.’ She grabs my hand and we walk to the front door of my hotel. There’s no one behind the desk. We run for the stairs and up to my room on the 4th floor. “Where’s your money?” I pull a wad of cash from the drawer. “How much you got there?” “How much am I paying you?” “125” I peel off some bills and give them to her. “You gonna feel so much better when you come, sugar. You got anything to drink?” I pour two glasses of Southern Comfort. I unbuckle my pants and pull them off. I go for her breasts. “Easy now.” I back off a little. She doesn’t use a condom as she goes down on me. I play with her tits, amazed by them, the blackness, the stretch marks, the sheer size of them. She’s a big girl all the way around. She looks up at me. “You wanna fuck me? Let’s fuck.” “Okay.” “Give me some more money.” I hand her a wad of cash. “More.” I give her more. She pulls her pants off. Hands me a rubber. I put it on. She bends over and I find my way inside her. I play with her giant black tits and fuck her giant black ass until I can’t stand up. I roll off of her. She pulls off the rubber and starts jerking me. “Let me play with those titties. Let me see those titties.” I lick and caress her tits, each one bigger than my head. I can’t believe it. She jerks me off for a while then stops. “Where’s your bathroom?” I point to the door. “And then make a left.” “I’ll be right back.” She leaves.

I wake up the next day in a panic, two hours late for my job at the bagel shop. I look on my dresser and find my wallet. Empty. I’d cashed my check the day before for over 400 dollars and she’d taken every penny. All the money I had in the world.

When I get back to the hood that night, that same hooker asks me if I want another go-round. “Maybe this time you come, right?” “Payday only comes every two weeks, baby." I hear her laughing as I walk away.