NA-NA

So, David White and the Orange Face brothers - they got me - David White has his switchblade on me, and they’re hustling me towards the stairwell. Just at that second, the boys room door, which is about ten feet in front of us, swings open. There appears a hulking, menacing figure clad in a long black leather SuperFly coat, twirling a big black umbrella. Like an angry cat, twitching its tail before pouncing on its prey. As he bops towards us, the footsteps resounding from his maroon patent leather shoes echoes throughout the hallway.

Oh my God, who is this? I had never seen this guy in the school before, and as he slowly approaches us, I wish I wasn’t seeing him now. Jesus, is he in on this, too? He looks like the kind of guy who would take considerable delight in the massacre and disembowelment of a variety of body parts. Ebony skin highlights a face positively demonic in its features. A sadistic half scowl-half sneer twists into a diabolical expression, magnified by sinister eyes, which seem to be in communion with another galaxy - or maybe Hell. I thought I’d already witnessed the crème de la crème of cruelty, but this? This is beyond what I could even conceptualize. I struggle to repress the quivering spasms moving up my body.

“Whassup, Na? We just about to fuck this mo’fucka up, an’ shit.”

They grab me roughly.

He struts up to us, and just stares right into my face, for what seems like five minutes. Like he’s studying my whole essence.

I am practically limp now, almost paralyzed, but I fight to put on a game face. He slides his umbrella point, which is bayonet sharp, across my mustache. The sneer breaks into a frightening grin.

“Yo, this mo’fucka be strong.” 

He announces this in a low, heavy voice, slow and deliberate in its manner. David White and The Orange Face brothers all peek at each other somewhat quizzically, and then back at Na-Na. It’s then that I realize that they don’t really know him much, if at all, which is amazing, because all black kids know each other. Furthermore, I detect a look of trepidation, almost fear in their eyes. What the fuck is going on? He peers at me even more intently now, his brow wrinkling into a mask of curiosity.

“Yo, how did it feel?”

I stare at him emptily, having absolutely no idea what he is referring to. After a few seconds of total silence among us, I ascertain that I better say something – anything.

“Um-yeah-it felt good, man! Yeah, good as a motherfucker! Mmm-hmm - it was the shit!”

The devastating grin again returns.

“Heh-heh.” a kind of chuckle, I think.

“Heh. Yes, my brother.”

He turns his attention to David White and the brothers, who apparently feel compelled to ingratiate him, as they start laughing.

“My man be strong, an’ shit.” 

He repeats slowly as he points to my mustache, with the razorblade-like umbrella point again.

“Y’all peasy head mo’fuckas ain’t got shit on y’all faces. Y’all niggas ain’t got shit. My man gots hair on his face… that mean he be goin’ down on females, an’ shit.”

They laugh nervously, unsure of what to do. His menacing scowl comes back, creasing his face.

“Aiight, Na.”

“I hear you, Na.”

“Right, right.”

“Now all y’all tackheads step off from my man, ‘fore I cut y’all asses up.”

They’re confused partly, and angry too, at the intervention. They hesitate, smiling falsely.

“Y’all niggas hear what I jes’ said?”

Without another word, they all disperse down the stairwell.

My mustache again! It’s my mustache, giving me that Puerto Rican appearance, which I believe had attracted Esperanza, in the first place. Now this. If I had only known that a mustache would provide all these benefits, I would have tried to cultivate it sooner. Just like my sister, Karen. She had hers for about a year now, although she was constantly trying to bleach it.

I stare at Na-Na for a minute, not sure if he is going to hold me prisoner, or stab me with his umbrella, or what.  

 “Aiight, Strong, wannna hear ‘bout that shit later.”  

Then he bops off down the hall, talking or singing to himself.

 Puzzling.

THE SCARE

    So, like I said, we get the token suspension of three days from the Principal, Mr. Rice, but when he tells me and David White and the Orange Face brothers to shake hands and make up - I knew he had most likely gone senile. I mean, he looks like the guy on the box of Quaker Oats, and he’s been here since the 40’s, when Roselle was like Mayberry. Whole different ballgame now...

    The first day back to school after the suspension, I am spooked. Jumpy. Maybe it’s in my head, but it seems like the white kids are gawking at me behind my back, like I have Legionaries Disease, or something. The black kids act eerily quiet around me, but I’m sure they are secretly signalling strategic death plots to each other. The whole mood provokes flashbacks of the time a few years ago when we visited Washington Square Park in New York City - and a mime followed me through the whole place - imitating my every mannerism.

The whole crowd of people there would spontaneously erupt into fits of uproarious laughter, and I would turn around, and suddenly, the mime would be right behind me, smoking a cigarette or reading a book, or something stupid, much to my annoyance. Fucking mimes. No wonder I hate them. Mimes and clowns.

Anyway, I am certain fiendish plans for my demise are being hatched at this very moment. Oddly enough, nothing out of the ordinary occurs the first couple of days, calming me down a bit. Then, the third day back though, I’m rummaging through my locker, maniacally scouring it for my colored magic markers for Mr. Silverstein’s second period art class. The bell had already rung almost five minutes ago, the halls are bereft of activity, and I’m desperate to get to class quickly, in order to avoid yet another suspension. I come upon the markers, slam my locker door shut - and run right into the posse of David White and The Orange Face brothers. Surrounded. It’s an ambush.

“Yo, whass up, mo’fucka?”

David White smiles cryptically through the gap in his front teeth. Instantly I hear a distinctive CLICK - and glance down to see a switchblade drawn and ready at his side.

“You be going for a walk with us, bitch.” Boo Daniels declares icily, as they tighten the circle around me, hastily pushing in the direction of the stairway. I am done.

THE BIG FIGHT

So, now I have the black clothes, the Isaac Hayes pimp glasses, the platform shoes, and the gold Italian Horn chain. It’s the first day of 10th grade at the notoriously violent Roselle High, me, Skinny and Ricky begin our tenuous trek into the unknown - it feels like we are walking to Vietnam. The tension is dizzying. I don’t know what to expect upon my entrance, but I’m bracing myself. At first it’s as if nobody even recognizes me - like I’m a whole new person - but I know this can’t last for long.

As if on cue, it happens. I’m opening up my locker at lunchtime, ready to grab my brown paper bag, when I feel a presence behind me. I instinctively turn around, and - who is it - but my arch nemesis. My Lex Luthor. David White.

“Yo, you ain’t even playin’ me, mo’fucka - just ‘cuz you gots a new haircut and shades. That ain’t shit. I still own your bitch ass, punk!”

He goes to grab my lunch, but this time I grab his arm. He looks shocked.

“Leggo my arm, white boy.”

“I’m Sicilian.”

I don’t care what mofuckin’ religion you be - you ain’t black, punk.”

I am not going to let it go, either. No fucking way. I push him back. Uh oh. White kids begin scrambling - they want no part of this. It’s just me and him - in the moment. I stare into his bloodshot eyes, and now I’m in another body, another life. I’m still clenching his arm with all I’ve got, and I’m walking this tightrope between my old feelings, the person who wanted to cringe and cave in, and this new unknown person. Feeling this strange power welling up inside of him. This new person is winning though, with every second that passes. I’m living right now. A precarious bridge I’m perched on. A line that could go either way.

“I’ll fuck you up, mo’fucka, I’ll fuck your pussy ass up,” he threatens.

He throws a left at my head, his free hand - I put my forearm up - and to my surprise - I block it. He follows with another one - and I block that one, too! Man, his eyes light way the hell up - for a second his whole swagger disappears. I could practically feel the momentum switching now. Hey, this boxing stuff must really work! A slight smile crosses my face, even though I’m kind of shaking inside. Shaking with delight. Adrenaline. Fear. What a rush!

A crowd starts gathering around us. A noisy black crowd.

“Oh shit, that mo’fucker be playin’ my man!”

“Kick his mo’fuckin’ ass, David!”

“Yo, smoke that mo’fucka!”

“Who that mo’fucka be, anyway?”

Surrounded. I recognize the voices of The Orange Face brothers. They want the kill.

But instead of folding, of giving in, a surge bursts through my body, a feeling of being locked in. David White comes around, tries to give me a roundhouse kick, some kind of bogus Green Hornet move. I grab his leg and push him. He goes down - hard. Now, for a second, it looks like he’s going to cry. I quickly pull off my pimp glasses, and place them safely in the pocket of my silkscreen shirt.  Instantly, Garland Daniels (Half of the Orange Face brothers) lunges at me while I’m putting my glasses away, sneaking me in the face. I only get madder. I don’t flinch. I get furious! I start yelling:

 “Come on! Come on!”

It’s a different voice, though, a growl that I don’t recognize. Then, this sense of totally letting go. I throw out a jab that grazes his chin. My blood is hot! It’s heating up by the millisecond - my body is scalding. I charge him, ramming him squarely in the stomach and knocking him to the floor. I’m freakin’ rabid now. I want to tear his Adam’s apple out with my teeth, and devour it. I’m screaming and crying at the same time, tears and sweat flicking off my face.

“Fucking motherfucker, go head!! You own me?! You own me, motherfucker?!”

I’m screaming in a satanic pitch. He’s punching the side of my head, pounding my ears. A huge crowd is around us now. Every ounce of pent-up, suppressed rage I’ve ever had explodes in a murderous fury. I have his throat tightly gripped around my hands, and I’m not relinquishing. I’m gonna kill this bastard - then I’m gonna eat his fucking Adam’s apple. Yeah.  Black kids start jumping on me, battering me with fists. Chaos reigns, as all the teachers come running from the classrooms. The gym teachers come flying down the hall with Hoss, the new security guard, right alongside them. Somebody gets me in a headlock, but I’m in another dimension now, I think I actually hiss at them, like a fucking vampire. They pull me off him, but I’m kicking, spitting, foaming from the mouth, the nose.

“I’m gonna fucking kill him! Lemme kill him!!”o finally pull me off him; I’m still flailing, gyrating, cursing, and crying. They drag me and David White down the hall in headlocks, into the principal’s office, the others are escorted a minute later. Kindly old Mr. Rice, who looks like the guy on the box of Quaker Oats Cereal. After much posturing and fierce glowering among us, Mr. Rice tells us to all “Shake hands and forget about it.” Shake hands and forget about it? Is he senile? We’re not in Kansas anymore. If anything, I am convinced this would only strengthen their resolve to obliterate me. To me, it’s obvious that it’s going to come down to one, or more of us, getting executed. That’s the only way this is going to shake down.

We all wind up getting suspended for three days, really just a token suspension, because Mr. Rice has to set some kind of example.

THE PICNIC PANTS EPISODE

       School is about to start next week. With all the excitement that’s been going on - Espernaza, the kiss, the new mod shag afro she gave me - I’ve completely forgotten about it, the summer just whizzed by. Still, I’m feeling pretty good. I’m not plagued with that horrible sense of gnawing and dread, like I usually have going to this high school.

That is, not until I come home to find the black Hefty bags waiting for me on the living room floor. Yeah - those black trash bags. The ones full of recycled picnic pants (they look like pants that used to be a picnic table-cloth). Damn! All summer I’ve been wearing gym shorts and cut-offs, the picnic pants becoming a distant memory. Now that they’re upon me again, a distressed nausea is returning to my stomach.

I had come too far, worked too hard to have to wear these freaking pants again, I think to myself, cringing as my mother unties the knot of the bag. She reaches inside, and I shut my eyes tightly, waiting for the nightmare to pass.

“Joseph - look at these!” I hear my mother’s voice, as I reluctantly open my eyes again.

I cannot believe what I am seeing. To my utter shock and amazement - they aren’t picnic pants at all! No - they are - they are - black clothes! Not the color black, but black people clothes! How could this be? Had the bag somehow been switched, in some kind of macabre plot? As implausible as it seems, there are not one - I’m telling you - but two pairs of pleated double knit polyester pants! One baby blue, and the other rust-colored. As if that isn’t fortuitous enough, there are also two silkscreen shirts! And they fit perfectly! This becomes one of the great unsolved mysteries of all time. Is God himself speaking to me through these pants, I wonder?

A series of strange events occurs over the next few days, which seems to confirm that suspicion. First, my mother takes me on the annual pre-school trip to the shoe store, Thom McAnn’s. Now, usually she buys me Hush Puppies, or something of that nature, but this time she actually agrees - to my great astonishment - to buy the pair of black platform shoes that I’ve spied there!

The next miraculous event occurs when my mother inadvertently plows over my glasses with the gas-powered lawn mower, as I lay out in the backyard, catching some rays. Ordinarily, this would be a disaster of the highest magnitude, but in this auspicious time period, apparently anything is possible. Since I now can’t see much of anything (at least not anything far away), and school is starting in only a few more days, my parents and I have to make an unexpected visit to Dr. Pine, the local optician.

As I resignedly pore over his unsightly collection of black and brown-framed nerd glasses, I shudder at the eminent possibility that I will be forced to have to wear something even more atrocious than the hated Benjamins. A dark muck of despair coats my insides, until at the last second in the far left corner of the display cabinet, I spot these elaborate gold framed, tinted lens, Isaac Hayes-type pimp glasses. They’re about five times the size of the Benjamin Franklin’s, and the only pair of glasses in the shop which caters to black clientele. There’s no way my father’s gonna go for this though, never mind paying the somewhat exorbitant price.

But with nothing to lose, I decide to beg and grovel anyway. A few adamant nays to my request pass. Then in a dramatic turn of events, Dr. Pine initiates a secret huddle between himself and my parents. I have no idea what transpires in that meeting of the Holy Triumvirate, but a tense few moments later, I am the proud owner of those amazing pimp glasses! What in the heavens is going on?!

Lastly, to complete this wheel of good fortune, the next night I’m on my way to Cumberland Farms to buy a gallon of milk. When right there, on the sidewalk in front of me, lays a thick linked gold chain - with an Italian Horn! It appears to be brand new. It’s not even broken! I slip it around my neck and kiss the Italian Horn, thanking God profusely for all the recent blessings He has bestowed upon me. Boy, wait till Esperanza sees me again - she’s really going to be in love.