Perhaps if Mama had kept that burglary cross a secret from me, in some tiny way I might have been stronger to fight off that pimping disease. I was your first and only child. I loved him Mama, I needed him. I wish you could have seen beyond his ugly black face and loved him a little and stayed with him. Mama, I love you. I am not a lawyer as you always wanted me to be, but Mama, you have two beautiful grandchildren and another on the way, and a fine daughter-in-law who looks a lot like you when you were young.
I have squared up, I work every day. How about it Mama, Iceberg Slim a square? Maybe my crying is really laughing. About ninety days after Steve smashed my kitten Mama cast off her spell, and one gray April dawn while Steve lay in a drunken, open-mouthed stupor, Mama and I packed what we could carry and moved into a hotel room. It was complete with hot plate and down-the-hall toilet. Steve had stomped on three and a half years of our lives.
I would soon be fourteen. On August fourth, my birthday, our old friend Steve, with diabolical timing, made that event unforgettable. Since that chilly dawn in April he had searched the slum streets for his escaped dupes, thirsty for revenge. Well, she came home all right on the seventh of August, from a hospital, with her broken jaw wired, and her body covered with bruises.
Steve had stalked her and attacked her with his fists and feet and then escaped through the grimy catacombs of the Ghetto. All that night and all the next day I crouched in the dark shadows beneath his stairwell gripping a gleaming ice pick. He never came back. He had moved. Twenty years later, while idly looking from the window of a plush hotel suite I would see something familiar in the white-haired stooped figure of a garbage collector on the street three stories down.
I blacked out, when reason returned I was down there on the street in the bright morning sunlight, clutching a pistol, wearing only a pair of red silk pajamas. As the garbage truck turned the corner a block away out of range, a small crowd of passersby stood bug-eyed watching the strange scene as Rachel, my main whore, tugged at my arm, pleaded with me to get off the street.
Perhaps that beating Mama took was good, as painful as it was. Her eyes would be bright, riveted on the ceiling, she would be in a trance, remembering, still hot for him. As worthless as that bastard was otherwise, he sure must have been a son-of-a-bitch in the bed. After all he had done to us, she still had a terrible itch for the bastard. That beating was good for her, it cured the itch. Mama had learned a bitter lesson the hard way. The country girl had rolled in the hay with the city slicker and now I saw all of her sorrow and guilt in her eyes.
She had destroyed a good man back there, a native son. Henry died a year after we left him. Until the grave claimed her, Henry would rise from his own to haunt her in the lonely gloom. Mama was desperate to save at least fragments of her image, to hold fast the love and respect I had for her in Rockford. I had seen too much, had suffered too much. The jungle had started to embalm me with bitterness and hardness. I was losing, page by page, the fine rules of thought and deed that I had learned in church, from Henry to the Boy Scout Troop in Rockford.
I was sopping up the poison of the street like a sponge. Dangerously, I was frantic to sock it into every young girl weak enough to go for it. I had become impatient with the unusual thickness of her maidenhead. I am writing this last chapter for the publisher.
By all the odds, I should have ended a broken, diseased shell, or died in a lonely prison cell. I can see their peaceful, happy faces. This square world is a strange place for me. For the last five years I have tried hard, so hard, to solve its riddles, to fit in.
Catherine, my beautiful wife, is wonderful and courageous. I remember soon after my marriage how optimistic I was as I set out to apply for the sales jobs listed in the want ads. I knew that I was a stellar salesman.
The principles of selling are the same in both worlds. The white interviewers were impressed by my bearing and apparent facility with words. They sensed my knowledge of human nature. In disgust and anger, I would return home and sulk.
Bitterly I would try to convince myself to go back into the rackets. Catherine always said the right things and gave me her love and understanding. There was another indispensable source of help and courage during these hard times. She had been a friend to my mother. She functioned as a kind of psychotherapist. She explained and pointed out to me the mental phases I was passing through. She gave me insight to fight the battle.
To her I shall always be grateful. The story of my life indicates that my close friends were few. Shortly before I started this book I met a man I respected. I thought he was a true friend. I have had many interesting and even humorous experiences in this new life. They will have to wait for now. I see my little family is awake. How about it, an Iceberg with a warm heart? About The Author. Photograph used by permission of Diane Beck. Iceberg Slim. Product Details.
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See full terms and conditions and this month's choices. More books from this author: Iceberg Slim. You may also like: Thriller and Mystery Staff Picks. July 22, History. An edition of Pimp This edition was published in by Holloway House Pub.
Written in English — pages. Subjects Pimps , African Americans , Biography. Pimp: [the story of my life] , Holloway House Pub. Libraries near you: WorldCat. People Robert Beck Places Illinois , Chicago. Edition Notes Subtitle from cover.
Classifications Dewey Decimal Class E25 P56 The Physical Object Pagination p. Community Reviews 0 Feedback? Pimp : the story of my life Item Preview. EMBED for wordpress. Want more? Advanced embedding details, examples, and help! Donor alibris Edition [Reissue ed. Reviewer: ExtraKnowledgeCoKno - favorite favorite favorite favorite favorite - February 7, Subject: This isn't the only copy on this website!
There's another copy of this same book that has a shorter waitlist. Go to that one instead. Saved you the estimated 2. Reviewer: ziprun - favorite favorite favorite favorite - November 16, Subject: Audio Book.
Can't wait Reviewer: Pbelles - favorite favorite favorite favorite - October 3, Subject: For those waiting to borrow the book: Just to let people know, there were hundreds of people ahead of me.
I was on the waiting list. It was many years ago. Today is my last day to borrow it.
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