THE PROFESSOR

Joey is still distraught about the Esperanza situation and is confused about what to do next, so he decides to head up to Three Guys -the place where he bought his first cool clothes and consult The Professor.

So that Thursday, I decide to hop the #59 bus to Elizabeth, making sure I steer clear of Tijeras de Oro, and Esperanza. I walk sullenly into the store, worrying that they might not even remember me. Immediate relief follows, although I’m not sure exactly why. All I do know is that my internal mayhem melts away. Into the aroma of the bitter orange-myrrh incense floating through me. And the soothing sounds of the mellow jazz, playing in the background. I breathe deeply, allowing it to soak into my pores, and enjoy gazing at the old posters. And photos of the great Jazz and African musicians on the walls...it reminds me of those moments of ecstasy I felt listening to Etta James, while I painted the mural. I recognize Bakir (the younger of the two), rapping with a couple of customers in the back, as he displays some “rags” for them. I’m in no hurry, I just stand around, digging the ambience. After a while the customers duck into the fitting rooms with the clothes, and Bakir approaches me.
“Remember me?”
I smile hopefully, and his face lights up, as he shakes my hand vigorously.
“My man! The artist, right? What’s happenin’, baby?”
We start conversing, and I let loose about all the shit I’ve been up to since my last visit. Na-Na, the break-in we pulled at the school. The resulting mural, our trip to The Savoy Lounge…
“Say what? The Savoy? No you ditn’t! No you ditn’t. You telling me - you was actually over at The Savoy?”
“Yeah, I swear to-”
“Daaamn, brother! Ain’t nobody ‘round this way be goin’ over to The Savoy Lounge! Not even them hard-headed cats…you got to be buggin’!”
His voice (pitch) gets higher with each sentence, and we both start breaking up.
“Yeah, man, and there was this cat over there got stabbed in the neck with a pencil, and Na-Na painted it and…”
“Maaan! You trippin!”
The customers reappear from the fitting rooms.
“Hold up, man,” he says to me as he heads over to them, Professor should be back here in a minute.”
A minute later (as promised), the Professor emerges from outside. He’s shaking off the cold, and carrying a take-out container of steaming hot soup. He halts in mid-stride, quizzically scanning my face for a second, then breaks into a huge grin.
“Professor!” I beam, extending my hand.
“Hey, what’s up youngblood?” We slap palms.
“How’s them females been treating you?”
I hesitate for a few seconds, embarrassed.
“Well…that’s-uh - kinda been my problem these days…lately…I was, um, hoping…you…could lay some knowledge on me about that.”
He chuckles.
“Alright, alright, one subject the Professor always has time for, is imparting wisdom on the mysteries of the ladies. Mmm-hmm, always time for that. Step into my office, son.”
We walk back to this tiny office cramped with jazz memorabilia, books and clothes. He squeezes into the chair behind his desk and I sink into the old chair in front of it.
“So, what’s up, young man?”
Suddenly, I’m just blabbing. I mean, it’s like I’m in some kind of crazy confessional booth. I’m spilling out months of frustration and excitement, at a manic pace. Professor sits there, first blowing on, and then stoically lapping, the cream of mushroom soup up with his spoon. At least I think its cream of mushroom soup, as I observe it collecting on his beard. And he’s vigilantly swabbing at it with his napkin. He’s quiet, sometimes nodding in acknowledgement, other times arching his eyebrows in surprise.
I pour out the stories, the details about Esperanza, and how she seduced me in her car that night. Then how I saw her kissing the guy in purple. I could feel the heaviness push its way up my body, and well up in my tear ducts. Moistness clings there, fighting to make its presence felt, and I do not want to get emotional in front of the Professor. Very uncool. I steady myself, hoping he doesn’t notice, and continue onward. He smiles gently.
“My young brother, let me school you here for a minute, ok?”
I nod, eager to lap up this morsel of forthcoming wisdom.
The female mentality…well, my man (he chuckles), they got a whole other rhythm going on there…and it can change like that. (he snaps his fingers) We fellas…well, we might not understand it, sometimes. We might get confused, y’know? But, ultimately, you got to respect the lady.”
“But…but – Professor… what do you think I should do? I -
Let me lay it on you this way, young man…it’s like jazz. It’s like playing the horn. Sometimes you’re blowing, and it just doesn’t feel right – so you got to make some adjustments, dig? Sometimes, you got to take charge of the horn, so to speak. Now there’s other times when the horn just leads you, takes you where you want to go, dig? Then all of sudden, you hit that high note – BAM! Out of nowhere. That’s when it’s bliss. It’s all about understanding how to play that flow.”
Silence for a moment as I struggle to take it all in, trying to make sense of it all. A fleeting second of insight follows. Whoa.
“You’re right, Professor … I think I know what I have to do.”
“There you go, my man.”
“Another thing you could do, youngblood. You could buy yourself your own purple ensemble right now, we have some clean rags up here, you know? Fight purple with purple…catch what I’m sayin’?”
He smiles.
“Excellent idea, Professor! I’ll do that.”