By Pete Moss
(Click here for Part XVI )
I'm expecting a tantrum.
But Dijay turns and walks, actually trots; she's in a hurry. I stay behind and introduce myself to Winston Brown. Winston Brown doesn't want to stick around.
I follow Dijay into the compound.
She's already at work.
She's sorting stuff into piles.
I watch for a minute. "You need help?" I say.
"I need lunch. Go get something from Mariposa."
I grab a bike and ride over to the Mariposa, get a bunch of grub and ride back.
It's amazing how much Dijay has accomplished in the short time I'm gone.
There's two piles. One much larger.
"There's two piles," explains Dijay. "What I'm gonna keep and what I'm gonna sell."
I'm surprised when she points to the much smaller pile as the keepers.
"Wait, wait, wait. You lived here 7 years....had all kinds of adventures...I mean you're just giving it up without a fight?"
"Well duh, I'm pregnant. Me and my baby can't be living on a dirt lot under the freeway."
"So where you gonna go?"
"Us. Me and the baby, and you, if you wanna come too."
She seems awfully certain she has a place lined up, although I can't think what place. I stand there looking pensive.
Without breaking stride in her sorting Dijay gives me the news: "We're moving in with your dad."
"Hollister McElroy Sr."
"That private dick said your dad has a a nice house in the Sunset."
"Stop calling him my dad."
"Whatever. Look, we got a huge inventory to liquidate here. We can hash out the details of you and your dad later. You think you can get on over to the library and post up for sale signs on Craigslist and like that?"
"Yeah, I can do that," I say. It's a great excuse to get away from Hurricane Dijay and figure out what I need to do.
I'm at the library maybe an hour.
By the time I get back people are already showing up, cash in hand.
The next 48 hours are a blurry whirlwind.
Finally Dijay and I'LL are sitting on a couple of broke down chairs.
The Streetgirls compound has been gutted.
It's like a city the morning after the super bowl victory party.
Wreckage and vacancy.
Dijay is counting money.
Far as I can tell we took in at least ten grand.
Dijay looks pleased.
"Can I ask you a question?" I say.
"Of course, Darling."
That 'darling' throws me for a second. Dijay's normal terms of endearment are more along the lines of 'dumb ass'.
"How can you just ditch this whole Streetgirls thing. I mean, well, the Streetgirls are like a feminist hipster icon all over the Bay Area?"
"Fuck the goddam feminist hipsters. Don't know their motherfuckin ass from a whole in the ground."
She has a point.
"But how can you be so sure that guy will let us live at his house?"
"You mean your dad?"
"Maybe cause I'm carrying his grandkid?
(Click here for Part XX)