THE BIG NIGHT

So, after ‘my call to arms’ Nat Turner speech to Na-Na about Mr. Silverstein (and the White man in general) suppressing the artistic vision and creative process, I must now face the consequences of my diatribe.

First of all, what the hell was I talking about with that spontaneous call to arms? I mean, the stuff was just rolling off my tongue, but I had never even thought about it consciously before, to the best of my recollection. Port Elizabeth?  The Savoy Lounge?  With Na-Na Johnson?! From what I’d heard – and this was when I was at the PAL – those guys said they would never even set foot in the Port, that a “fool could get himself kilt over there.” And these were Gold Glove boxers! As for the Savoy Lounge, I had never even heard of it before. In fact, didn’t want to know anything about it now, either. Am I deranged? But, how can I possibly beg out of it now?  I am doomed.

The plan is that I meet Na-Na in front of the high school after I finish up work tonight. To make it even more treacherous, I have to go home first, because my father would surely be waiting up for me, as he always does.  Then, I’ll have to wait for my folks to fall asleep as I lay waiting in my room. Only then can I finally sneak out, wearing my coolest clothes.

Whoa. We figured on meeting around 11:30 PM. Apparently, the Savoy is hopping all night.

I wind up working longer than usual, and don’t even make it home until after eleven. There’s my father sitting on the living room couch, watching Mary Hartman! Mary Hartman! on TV.  Smoking a White Owl cigar, my Uncle Joey had left over a few days before.

My father always laughs when that show is on, which thankfully puts him in a good mood. We talk for a few minutes, and I make a point of telling him how totally exhausted I am. I trudge up the stairs heavily, yawning and sighing, hoping that he’ll take the hint and go to bed soon.

My patience is rewarded about fifteen minutes later. The familiar rhythm of his plodding steps on the notoriously creaky stairs, follows the equally squeaky shutting of his and my mother’s bedroom door. Within five minutes, I slip on my gold ensemble, grab my sketchbook, and am gently stealing down those stairs. Strategically avoiding the minefield of groans that would betray one misplaced step.

I’m late, and panic that Na-Na will be gone already, dismissing me as a punk. But when I arrive, breathlessly sucking wind on Sixth and Chestnut, there he is, casually leaning against a maroon ’73 Mercury Sedan, which matches his equally cool, full-length maroon leather coat.

“Yo Na-Na - what’s up? Sorry I’m- ”

“Aiight, Strong, let’s tip.”

He leisurely flicks the butt he had been dragging on, lights another Kool, and gives his ever-present umbrella one final twirl.

“Yo, that’s a bad ride you got, Na.”

“Aiight,” he nods.

We hop into the sedan, and I am immediately impressed that the seats are Corrrrrinthian Leather, the kind that Ricardo Montalban pitches on those Volare commercials. Corinthian Leather. The way he rolls those R’s kills me, man. Then I notice that Na-Na is starting the car not with a key, but with a contraption that looks suspiciously like some kind of wire. It takes a few seconds for it to set in.

Oh my God! We’re driving a stolen car! And I’m an accessory! Oh shit!

I almost yell it out, but quickly decide I’d better not. Jesus – not only am I going to this notorious Savoy Lounge place to ostensibly witness a murder - with Na-Na Johnson, no less - but we’re also driving a stolen car! Visions of me participating in the next televised documentary of Scared Straight flash through my mind.

THE SPEECH

After Na-Na reveals to me his plans for his next graphic pictures, it inspires me (in a revolutionary way - this IS the 70s -of course) to erect my own epic monument - an almost lifesize mural dedicated to the beauty of Esperanza - on the back of the art room wall, no less! However, the art teacher, Mr. Silverstein, adamantly denies me!

As I storm through the hallways after class seething with vengeance, I plot my next step. This was going to go down, one way or another. I descend the stairs, and then another flight, and another, until finally arriving into the bowels of the school - the boiler room.

I gingerly step through the darkened steam, as I reach my destination. There sits Na-Na Johnson on a wooden bench, a study in concentration. Sharpening the point on his umbrella to a magnificent finish with what appears to be some type of contraption from the wood shop or mechanical drawing class.

“Yo, Na-Na…whassup?” I half-whisper tentatively, not wanting to disturb him.

He immediately jumps up into some sort of Kung Fu stance! His umbrella at the ready to defend, before recognizing me through the dim lighting.

“Damn, Strong! Why you gotta be creepin’ up on mofuckas like that, and shit? Damn…”

“S-sorry Na-Na- I didn’t mean to scare you-”

“Ain’t nobody ever scare my ass, man. Never!”

“Awright.” 

I don’t know if he is going to pounce on me, or what, so I just stand very still and calm. A few seconds of strained silence pass.

“Whassup, man - why you be down here?”

“Na, man…check this out.  Remember yesterday when you hipped me to your idea? Of how you wanted to capture that look on a dude’s face, when he’s just about to kick it?” He eyes me with a mixture of intense suspicion, and guarded interest.

“Yeah man, I dug that shit man! I mean, that’s –that’s the joint…check it out, man. I got an idea! I wanna do something with you…remember that drawing I made of Esperanza? My female?”

“Yeah, that be tight an’ shit, man-”

“Dig this, Na-Na…I wanna do this mural on the art class wall of her! Maybe full body, but check this out…I wanna mix it up… my thing, with your shit.”

He looks me over calmly.

“Solid.”

“But Silverstein, man, he don’t – he won’t - let me execute it, man! He don’t wanna listen to nothin’! Wants to do some corny-assed shit from, like, the 1950s an’ shit! Then he threatens me, man, says he’s gonna bring in one of his punk-ass boys to do it if I won’t…”

“Here’s the thing, man – it’s always like this! That’s why I’m fired the fuck up. It’s like, the Man, he always wants to repress shit, see? Whatever don’t fit in with his system – he wants to shut it down! Know what I’m saying?”

“Right, right.” 

Na-Na is becoming increasingly enthused.

“The Man wants everything to be safe, don’t disturb the status quo, keep the true artist down, keep the people down-”

I am suddenly possessed with the spirit of Nat Turner, as I launch into a diatribe with the fervor of a cross between Patrick Henry’s, Give me Liberty or Give me Death, and, like, The Gettysburg Address.

“It’s – it’s – check it out – it’s like the same way the White man has always oppressed the Black man!  Shackled him – because – because – he’s afraid! That’s right – afraid of the black man’s creativity! We can’t let him do it, man, we gotta stand up!” I pause for his reaction.

“Na-Na, man, if he – if Silverstein – won’t allow the artist to express himself…then fuck it! We take it! We break in and do it!”

I passionately bang on the lockers with my fist, finishing up with a flourish.

His eyes glisten with murderous resolve.  

“Yo, Strong – tomorrow night, man. We be steppin’ out! Port Elizabeth. Savoy Lounge. Always be some bugged out shit goin’ down there, man. Niggas always be getting’ capped, sliced…all kind a’ shit. Yo, take your pad, man! We gonna capture that shit!”

He smashes his umbrella against the lockers, setting off a metallic rumble throughout the cavernous boiler room.

THE SCHEME

    Right after Joey’s punishment, his grounding for the whole Cumberland Farms window breaking episode, and it’s follow up of failing to meet Esperanza, he returns to school to encounter an unexpected adventure!

  I’m shuffling down the hall later in the week, consumed in self-pity, when all of a sudden, a few inches in front of my nose, the boys’ room door swings open violently. A huge cloud of aromatic reefer smoke pours out into the hallway. From behind the door, a large black umbrella with a murderously sharp point, is thrust forcefully right into the leg of Robert Hunter, who unfortunately, just happens to be passing by. He immediately goes down like a deer hit by buckshot, lying on the floor wincing in pain. This is followed by Na-Na Johnson emerging from the smoke, eyes ablaze, glowering over him.

“Get up, simple ass mo’fucka, ‘fore I really cut you!”

Hunter looks up at him with an expression of terror, usually reserved for one of those paintings depicting the victims from The Last Days of Pompeii. He limps to his feet, scurrying down the hall.

An inhuman sort of growl/laugh escapes from the twisted scowl, dredged up from deep inside the solar plexus somewhere. Now the offending umbrella begins to twirl wildly. Apparently, this is just another random attack for Na-Na, and one that is deeply satisfying. Everybody within a fifteen-foot radius scrambles, exposing only me, standing a foot away from him.

“Yo Strong!”

Uh-oh. I stand there frozen, not knowing quite what to expect at this moment.  He advances towards me; the maniacal glaze still evident in his eyes, clamps my shoulder, and without a sound, guides me towards the stairs. We descend one flight, and stop abruptly on the stairwell. Is this going to be the execution? He peeks guardedly around, up and down the steps. What now? I shiver to myself.

“Yo Strong, check this out, man,” he half whispers, eyeing me as if he is about to let me in on a terrifying state secret. 

My next shit, man, that I GOT to do…dig it - I gots to capture some mo’fucka, who is right about to kick it, y’ know what I’m saying?” He pauses, gauging my reaction.

I nod enthusiastically, although I have no real idea of what he’s even talking about.

“Yeah man, that point where the nigga - he jes' got capped, or cut, some shit like that, right. He know he be crossin’ over to the other side, an’ shit, but he right on that last mothafuckin’ breath. He be buggin’, y’ know what I’m sayin’? Cuz he know it comin,’ and that las’ expression on the nigga face, that las’ second befoe he dead, like he almost a ghost. Thass what I wanna get down on paper, man! Gots to capture that las’ mothafuckin’ second in ink, you dig it?”

He stops, again checks me out with a kind of peculiar, almost curious stance.

Seconds tick by as I let what he says sink in. Sink in to my core.

 “Damn! Oh shit, Na-Na…that’s - that’s intense, man.” I exhale.

“Solid.”

 He passes his gaze over me once again, apparently satisfied. 

“Check you later.”

HOW TIMES HAVE CHANGED!

HOW TIMES HAVE CHANGED

On a recent 'bucket list' road trip - I am met with some interesting observations!

September 5, 2021

Photo Credit: Mathias Konrath | Unsplash

I had just demonstrated the 'Yerba Mate Ritual' - a process stemming from a centuries-old Argentinian tradition of preparing and sharing a magical tea with a circle of friends. I was showing a few 20-something girls in my Denver hostel...I was sure they would be VERY impressed.

Wow! That's amazing, sir!"

Sir...the dreaded word. Soul crushing, in fact.

Recently, taking advantage of the Covid respite from work, I decided to embark on a sort of 'bucket list' trip through Minneapolis, Montana, and finally, Denver. Travelling on a super-low budget meant staying in hostel dorm rooms and camping -  easily the cheapest options.

Now, the last time I had traveled in such a manner (staying in hostel dorm rooms) was maybe 18, 19 years ago? Needless to say, much has changed since then! I am 51 now, so I was around 32 at that time - a world of difference - apparently! Back then, I was just a part of the scene, the 20's crowd who usually populate these establishments. When they would go on a pub crawl, for instance, there was no question that I would also be going. It wasn't even a second thought, and there was sure to be a good deal of drunkenness and heavy flirtation, to say the least.

  This is why this 'sir' business was SO jarring. I had basically become an outsider. Not that I should have expected any differently, really, it was just that I had become 'the wise uncle' now - which was kind of a shock to the ego. The male ego. Especially when you have always prided yourself on maintaining your youthful appearance and physical condition! Ouch!

  Now, when the crowd all went out on a pub crawl - I just wearily retired to my bed - and knit myself a gray shawl.