THE MAN

Joey is at Three Guys, and has bought a pair of the most “happenin’” pants around - a pair of gold Swedish Knits - he wants to make a BIG impression on Esperanza when he sees her.

As I stand on the platform in front of the full-length mirror while he’s measuring my pants to be hemmed, the guy who had been playing the horn before, ambles over. Bakir asks me my name and introduces me to “The Professor”. They called him Professor, because as Bakir explains, “he has much knowledge. About jazz, about music, philosophy, religion, fashion, and especially-women”. The Professor chuckles, and lets out a slight laugh. He’s older, with some grey speckled in his beard, and wears this small - what I guess is an African hat. Kind of like a pillbox. He sports a long, white sort of Indian shirt, and exhibits gentle eyes, with an easy smile. He looks almost Chinese to me. Like a black Chinese guy. I had never met black guys who dressed, talked, or acted like this before. They seemed so different. Exotic in some kind of mystical way - I am thoroughly intrigued.

I feel easy with these guys, I’m curious, and instinctively, feel like I could talk to them. I hesitate, but then ask them about the music. I tell them it’s different from anything I’ve ever heard. I don’t know anything about it, but I’m digging it, man. Bakir’s eyes light up. He is totally and immediately impassioned, as he speaks about jazz.

“My brother, jazz is life. It is like the heartbeat of the soul; you can just feel it.”

He excuses himself for a minute as he finishes the measurements, and brings the pants in the back room for the tailor to hem them. When he returns, he carries with him a large book. The History of Jazz.

“My brother, Joe, let me lay some knowledge on you about the music of my people.”

He opens up the book, and starts explaining to me the roots of jazz, as he turns the pages crammed with pictures of some of the legends of the art. Joe ‘King’ Oliver, Louie Armstrong, Jellyroll Morton, Billie Holiday, Dizzy Gillespie, John Coltrane…the list goes on and on. After about ten minutes, The Professor comes over, and in his calm and even tone, further “schools me” about the artists and their music, as Bakir defers to him. He eloquently speaks of their struggles and hardships, of being black musicians in the white man’s world in the earlier part of this century. It is fascinating. The colorful characters and slang just totally floors me. It goes on for about half an hour or so, until my pants are ready. I had no idea what black people had done in the history of this country. There were black heroes that we had never heard or read about in history books, except for maybe Crispus Attucks, or George Washington Carver, who had done something or other with peanuts. I ask The Professor why none of these people were ever mentioned in our history books. He just shakes his head sadly and laments.

“They don’t want you to know, youngblood. The Man wants to keep that knowledge from you.”

I nod my head knowingly, even though now I’m not exactly sure who ‘The Man’ is. I had always thought that ‘The Man,’ was only the cops. But, as the conversation rolls on, it becomes quite apparent that he’s more. Much more. Perhaps even an evil conglomerate. A powerful organization, even more treacherous than the Mafia. One thing’s also for sure, without them coming right out and saying it, it’s obvious that ‘The Man,’ is always white. I’m absorbing this information like a Bounty paper towel, actually becoming dismayed when the tailor finishes up with my pants. I want this seminar to go on forever.

THREE GUYS

        I had already decided I am going to see Esperanza today. No doubt. I’m going to bring my portrait of her, too, make a present for her. But maybe even equally as important, I am finally going to the mythical Three Guys clothing store in Elizabeth. The ultimate place for the baddest collection of ‘rags’ on the planet. At least according to what I can ascertain in snippets of the black kid’s conversations. I knew enough that if you don’t shop there for your clothes, you were ‘raggedy,’ man! You were corny. You gotta be ‘clean,’ or you would be severely snapped on. I knew this place was somewhere around Broad Street, probably not too far from the PAL and Esperanza’s beauty shop. So I’m ready for the g-h-e-t-t-o. In fact, I’m really starting to dig the buzz that I’m receiving from journeying to these exotic locales. I had just completed my first adventure-filled week of work as a dishwasher at The Fox Hole, and the resulting wad of cash that is my reward is bulging proudly in my pocket. It’s amazing how closely manhood and money are tied together, I muse. It inspires me to dreams of lofty possibilities.

I bop purposefully down Broad Street, moving in the direction of where I believe Three Guys to be, all the while, visions of SuperFly, and pink and purple suited pimps wearing large Fedoras with plumes, roaming through my mind. I wonder if I would have to dodge machine gun fire to get into the store.

When I eventually do arrive at my destination, my anticipation takes a steep nosedive. Instead of stepping over dead bodies, and being accosted by ferocious drug dealers, the entrance to Three Guys turns out to be a shoddy, little brick face storefront! Tucked inside downstairs from Papa Bo’s Soul Food restaurant. I turn up my collar, and make my way down the rusty stairway, gliding into the small, cramped store, as yet another shock greets me. The atmosphere. What an atmosphere! It is downright mellow- even peaceful. Immediately, my shoulders involuntarily relax. Subdued, multi-colored lighting. A quixotic, sweet and sour type aroma permeates the air, reminding me of the ritual at High Mass, when a procession moved solemnly down the aisle. The Monsignor reciting prayers in some deep undecipherable Latin tongue, while swinging these golden decanters spewing a scented vapor. That’s what this smell reminds me of.

The soft, yet catchy music purring from the stereo, a music that is foreign to my ears, inspires a kind of calming hypnosis. All horns and clarinets it seems, as I subconsciously tap my feet to it. Ancient photos and posters, maybe from like the 40s or 50s, of black musicians blowing horns, adorn the wall. Others appear to be African musicians in their native dress, beating different types of drums. The name, Baba Olatunji, is written on a number of them.

In the back of the store, I see three dudes standing together, two of them bopping their heads skywards and snapping their fingers softly, as the other plays a clarinet, or some type of horn. It seems like they’re floating along in some kind of mellow musical bliss. More so as the horn player hits certain notes, until gradually coming out of it, when he finishes playing.

"Sweet, my brother, sweet".

"My man, you play a truly tight horn. Nice."

 It seems really magical, the state they’re in. Finally, one of them notices me standing there, and they all stare at me for a few seconds. The youngest one of the group approaches me. A dude with a big Afro, and small, rectangular tinted glasses perched on his nose. He wears a long multi-color type of shirt that I later learn is called a ‘dashiki’, which was traditional African dress. To my surprise, he smiles warmly, extending his hand to shake.

"My brother, welcome to Three Guys. How can I be of service to you today?”

I try to emulate his relaxed cool.

"What's up? Yeah, man, I'm looking to maybe buy me a pair of, like, some happenin' Swedish knits…and a silk screen shirt too, man."

I feel a little awkward using the slang, but I push myself through it. He smiles again and turns, as he waves his hand to follow him.

"Come my brother, let me hip you to a world of happenin.”

THE NA-NA SURPRISE!

So, this is the day after my sad realization with my cousin Skinny, when I am totally shocked by my meeting with Na-Na, who had rescued me from certain death at the hands of David White and the Orange Face brothers - because I had a mustache.

That next morning in school, I’m wandering down the hallways, all pumped up. I’m ten minutes late for Mr. Knapp’s English class, but I couldn’t care less. I’m giddy, my heart’s crammed with visions of Esperanza, and how I’m going to go up to the beauty salon, right after I get my first paycheck, or cash, or whatever, from The Fox Hole. I’m gonna buy some new black clothes, bring Esperanza my picture I drew of her, and I’m just going to impress the hell out of her. Man, I feel like literally anything is possible now! I am so ready! I’m   just walking around like this, totally wrapped up in my ambitions and fantasies, when all of a sudden a hard slap on my shoulder that almost bowls me over, blows me out of my daze.

My first impulse is to swing, but immediately, I hear a voice behind my ear.

“Yo, Strong!”

”Hey, Na-Na, man, what’s up?” 

I totally play off the pain, even though my shoulder is throbbing like hell.

“Yo Strong, come wit’ me, man,” he says slowly, still wearing that same menacing scowl, and his sharpened umbrella. He looks straight ahead, makes no eye contact, and keeps his hand clamped tightly on my shoulder, as he steers me down the hallway. The deranged look on his face offers me no clue as to if this is a friendly gesture, or if he wants to mutilate me. We continue down the hall. Now, a single stomach-tightening thought explodes into my head.

Oh shit! Maybe…what if – what if - he found out somehow, that all my stories about going down on my babysitter when I was 12, and the ménage a tois, and all the other sordid sex stories…what if he found out they were all bullshit?! That my mustache had nothing to do with being strong?! Busted!

Oh my God! He knew I had made a fool out of him, and in front of Warbush, too! I’m sure he had murdered other people for far less. Frantically, I go through thousands of excuses and scenarios I might use to extricate myself from this horror. I feel the sweat pouring down my forehead and chest. The halls are empty as we walk down them. We descend a flight of stairs, past Mr. Delroy’s print shop class, further down past Mr. Barche’s wood shop class, all the way till we arrive downstairs to the basement. Somehow, I have to get myself together; I can’t let him see me sweating and scared, even though I feel my legs start to buckle.

“Whassup, Na-Na - where we going?”

"Nothing, man,"

Past the janitor’s room, past even the boiler room - where nobody ever goes. The florescent lights flicker on and off, generating a constant eerie humming sound. It’s like some dank, evil laboratory. He turns me left into the darkest and most silent side of the basement, and we stop in front of a locker. His locker. How the hell does he get a locker down here? What did he do - strangle one of the janitors for it? He looks around for a minute or so, sniffing and rubbing his nose with his sleeve. Then his eyes focus on me. He looks me over real hard. My mind goes blank; I’m way past being able to think. It’s just overload. He opens his locker up, and reaching deep inside it, pulls out a manila envelope. I’m done. I’m sure it’s a gun, and he’s going to execute me right here, without even saying anything. Somehow, I kind of just let go. Just kind of leave my body, and resign myself to a brutal death. But as he unfolds it, I see there is no way it could be a gun, it isn’t bulky enough. Maybe it’s drugs? Maybe he wants me to run drugs? He very carefully unfolds it the rest of the way, and looks at me again. But this time it is different. There is a certain softening in his eyes, a bizarre mixture of a kind of vulnerability, anger, and suspicion. He hesitates a second, then he takes some papers out of the envelope, slowly handing them to me.

They’re drawings! Really intricate drawings - done in black and red ink. Things aren’t connecting in my mind yet. I’m somewhere between being numb, and throbbing. Why is he showing me these drawings? What the fuck is going on? Wasn’t he going to murder me for lying to him? It takes like half a minute to realize that no - he isn’t going to kill me. An unbelievable wave of relief washes over me as I look at these drawings, and do another complete emotional turn around. I become hooked in, fascinated, totally into them. Amazing drawings. The first one shows a black woman and man in a dilapidated bedroom, both half-naked, on a broken down bed. The guy is rangy and muscular, and has his hand raised like he had just hit her, or is about to hit her. The woman cringing, her arm in front of her face in self- defense, blood running from her mouth. There’s a little boy at the doorway, standing there in a raggedy T-shirt and pants, which are way too big for him. Tears running down his cheeks. He holds a sharp piece of wood in his hand. But it’s the expressions on the faces of the people that are so life-like, so heart breaking. Full of expression. The rage and fear - but beautiful in its sheer savagery. Almost like it’s in 3D. Whoever had done this had totally captured it! Nailed the souls of these people, even though the style - the technique - is pretty rough.

Another one shows an older black woman, maybe a grandmother, big and chunky, with grey hair, on her knees on the street, rocking a dying teenager, his shirt covered with blood. She was screaming and crying, as two white policemen stand in the foreground, one with a drawn gun. The anguish on the grandmother’s face…man, it is so real. You could actually feel it. It goes on like this, drawing after drawing, street scenes, cops, pimps, and prostitutes. All so starkly brutal, yet so intricate, and detailed in their vividness. Then it hits me. He had drawn these! Holy shit! This guy - this maniac - is a freaking artist! This seems so impossible, but it’s right there in front of me. I’m stunned. I don’t know what to say to him.

"Na-Na…these are- fucking- great man - I –"

He doesn’t look at me, as I hand him back the drawings. I believe I see a sense of pride though. Seriousness, as he carefully and meticulously folds them back in the envelope.

THE END OF AN ERA

As I come close to the end of my long, victorious journey, I’m still joyous -having snagged the job at The Fox Hole! Approaching my house, I see my cousin, Skinny, come across the street walking their German Sheppard, Heidi, in front of his house, across the street. He has his baseball glove on, and is tossing a baseball in the air repeatedly. I can’t wait to tell him my whole story. I’m so overwhelmed with excitement that I run to catch up to him.

“Skinny! Skinny! Holy shit, man, you’re never going to believe what happened today! I got a job, man.”

Whap! Whap! He pounds the baseball loudly into his glove.

“At the Fox Hole! You know, that Mafia restaurant on the other side of town!”

Whap! Whap! Whap!

You should see this place man- the guy that owns it - has all these Frank Sinatra pictures all over the place and -

Whap! Whap! Whap!

My eyes keep watching the ball pound into his glove, and it’s so loud and annoying, I can’t even hear myself talk.

“Do you gotta do that, man?!” I finally yell, irritated.

“What?”

“With the baseball! I’m trying to tell you something.”

Whap! Whap! He starts looking towards Floral Street. Finally, I grab the ball out of his glove.

“Hey, gimme the ball!” he retorts.

He keeps lunging for it, as I hold it away from him.

“C’mon, man - I’m telling you about -"

“Oh my God! he yells - what happened?!"

He points to the street. I turn around quickly to look, and he grabs the ball from my hand.

“Dickweed!” We got a game around the corner with Turski and them! They’re waiting for me!"

"Yeah, but I’m trying to tell you-"

“Good, I’m glad you got it- tell me after the game!”

With that, he turns, walks up the front steps with Heidi, and shuts the door. I look down, and pick up a baseball card he must have dropped. Sparky Lyle. The door slam shut.

A stinging pain rushes through my heart so quickly and sharply, that I almost fall down. Like a line drive to heart.

I don’t exactly know why, but this job at the Fox Hole, is going to change everything, somehow. I don’t even know if I want it to happen, but I feel, suddenly, like a part of my life is over. Skinny and me had been inseparable for years, we shared everything - everything. But for the last couple of months, there’s been a gradual distance between us. All these visions and memories of me, Skinny and Ricky watching Creature Features and eating Cocoa Puffs on Saturday morning. Endless baseball games on Floral Street. The clubhouse. Breaking into Daniel’s house. All these things flash through my mind. My emotions do an abrupt 180. Man, it is painful. I feel tears involuntarily forming in the corners of my eyes, even though I try to hold them back. I put the Sparky Lyle card in my pocket, and walk across the street to my house.