THE TRIBUTE

So there we are, me and Na-Na, sitting in the art room we have just broken into. We have just smoked up that joint of Hawaiin. It’s that quiet moment before the storm.

“Yo, Strong, what we was talking ‘bout? Les’ get to work, man.” With that, we break the tranquility of the moment, and start busily setting up the two small ladders Silverstein’s got in the back of the room.

I climb up and perch myself on the top. Just me and that wall now. The wall is more wide than high; more so than I had figured it to be. Maybe Silverstein was right all along – maybe I don’t have a clear sense of perspective. No way can I do the portrait of Esperanza standing up, like I had imagined it.  I close my eyes now; just letting go, thoughts and various images drifting in and out of my consciousness. No concrete focus yet though, it’s all fluid. I feel the weight of the pencils and charcoal in my hands, as the minutes clock by. The strike of a match redirects my thoughts. I hear Na-Na climb off down his ladder, the click of a cassette tape being inserted into the boom box’s tape player follows. The whir of the mechanism as it starts up, and the smoke from a Kool wafts through the air, circling my nostrils.

Igniting a new set of images, circulating through the screen of my memory. It transports me back to the smoke of Esperanza’s Virginia Slim, when we were standing outside in front of Tijeras de Oro. The day I finally had dragged up the courage to ask her out.  She gave me her number. That was the last time I saw her. The Dentyne gum she was chewing, the roar of the motors and black smoke, exploding from the tailpipes of the buses as they sped by.

That carries me back to the first day I ever saw her - a nasty, sopping boiler of a day, in late August.  Had to be at least 100 degrees. Relentless sun driving through the polluted haze. Even the flies buzzing you from the nearby dog-shit on the curb are dragging ass.  I see this insanely breath-taking girl in this Puerto Rican beauty salon. I halt mid-step, staring in incredulousness.

Daaaamn!

Their air conditioner must be broken, because all the beautician ladies are plopped down on the chairs, the ones who don’t have customers. Flushed, fanning themselves furiously with takeout menus from the Kim Wah, the Chinese restaurant across the street.

There she is. Esperanza. Stretched out on one of the small sofa-like waiting chairs. Legs curled up a bit behind her, right arm propping up her head in a way that totally accentuates every curve. Effortlessly exhaling that Virginia Slim, watching the rings of smoke dissipate into the heavy mugginess. The thing is, the girl is not even sweating! She is so ice. How could anyone look so hot on such a miserable day? 

A shiver, like downing a frozen Slurpee shakes me into another memory. A centrefold of Raquel Welch, in LOOK magazine last year. Lying in exactly the same position - except she’s wearing a full-length, white mink coat. Shit, I don’t know how many times I fawned devotedly over that picture. I still have it in my room, as a matter of fact.

BAM!

That’s what I would do! I would draw Esperanza in that same reclining position. Like a double tribute!

IT'S REALLY GOING DOWN!!

So here I am - it’s really gonna go down…we’re actually gonna break into the art room…holy shit!

Na-Na is there as advertised, standing in front of Roselle High, toothpick in mouth. He’s twirling his umbrella, and thrusting it forward in the night air, as if stabbing imaginary people, I presume.

“Yo, champ.”

“Hey, whassup, Na-Na?”

“Damn, my man be fierce, an’ shit, last night.”

I smile, trying to play cool, but now my curiosity is really aroused.

“What the fuck happened last night, man?”  

He studies me for a few seconds, I guess trying to figure out if I’m kidding, or not. He shakes his head, chuckles, and clucks his tongue, then picks up this huge boom box and knapsack.

We head towards the parking lot, to the green fire exit door on the side. I look at Na-Na, wondering what his plans are, as he pulls out this tremendous set of keys from his coat pocket. Where he got them? Who knows? Feeling our way into the darkness of the hall, he flicks on his gold plated lighter. We bound stealthily up the stairwell, our footsteps echoing like Goliath into the empty midnight hour.  

The spooky glow of the shadows cast by Na-Na’s flame, infuse me with a strange type of giddiness. I’m imagining I’m in one of those Adventures of Johnny Quest cartoons I used to watch on Saturday mornings. Exploring some ancient, forbidden underground temple in Egypt, or some crazy place like that. Suddenly, I get this uncontrollable impulse to yell out in that Indian kid, Hajji’s, accent.

“Johnny, Johnny! Race! Dr. Quest - look - it is the sacred jewel of the mythical Monkey God, Babaganush!”  One glance at Na-Na, though, and I resist that urge. Who was that kid Hajji anyway? And why was he always following around Dr. Quest, Johnny, and Race Banyon?

We march our way through the second floor corridor, till we finally reach the object of our illicit journey. Mr. Silverstein’s art classroom. Na-Na opens that door with another one from his magic set of keys, we switch on the lights - and it’s all right there in front of us, now. Gazing up at that wall above the closet in the back, the wonder of it all just stone hits me. This is to be the canvas that will fuel our revolutionary hunger. Whoa.

 Inexplicably, in the next second, pangs of fear and anxiety with all the force of a typhoon crash through me. Obliterating the exhilaration that had filled me on the way up here. Now, the wall seems to me a towering monolith of epic impossibility.  

This is gonna take, like, Michelangelo type of talent!  Who am I to even attempt to immortalize Esperanza like this? She is so beautiful. I don’t know if Na-Na reads the panic expressing itself in the sudden paleness of my face.  Maybe he does.  Maybe he doesn’t. He sets up his boom box on one of the tables.  

“Yo, Strong, check it out, man.  This be Hawaiian, man - this be the shit for creatin’.” 

He torches up the monster spliff he’s got in his hand, takes in a couple of major hits, and passes it off to me. I grab it warily, remembering last night when I nearly hacked to death. Man, I’m already feeling super uncool right now, I don’t need to sink even further in esteem. I close my eyes and pull in a toke. Fuck it.  

“My special blend a’ herbs and spices.” Na-Na says, the smoke still cascading out of his mouth. 

To my great surprise, this stuff goes down easy. Nothing like last night. No burning my throat or chest this time.  No, this is a distinct and different flavor and feeling. We just sit there in the night silence, me and Na-Na. Handing off to each other, puffing totally mellow. No laughing. No coughing.

THE MORNING AFTER

Ok, so this is the morning after our ( me and Na-Na) big trip to the Savoy Lounge to get ‘material!’

Next thing I know, I’m in my bed, waking up to the morning sunlight flooding through my curtains. Still clad in my dishevelled golden ensemble under my covers! The manic activity of everybody getting ready for school must have blasted me out of my slumber, and it takes me a minute to figure out where I am. To say nothing of how I even got here. This confusion is accompanied by nausea, and a headache bigger than Hardcore. I feel horrible. My mother sticks her head in my bedroom door.

“Get up, Joseph, you’re going to be late for school! 

Within minutes, I convince her, or she realizes, that I am way too sick for that. I’m careful not to let her see that I’m fully dressed under the covers.

I take a peek at my sketchbook, mysteriously lying next to me. Opened up to a crudely drawn picture of some black man’s face contorted into a fierce grimace, head apparently on the floor.  That’s weird, I think to myself as I drift back to sleep. I lay in bed the whole rest of the day, and somehow, in between frantic dives to the toilet bowl, and falling in and out of consciousness, remember that Na-Na and me had decided we were going to break into the school tonight. And, for the next three nights, to get down this mural thing. I just hope I’m not dreaming. Or, indeed, having a nightmare. I’m far too incapacitated to go to work, which is fine with me, and I take a certain redemptive comfort in that it’s a rainy day – raw and chilly. The real autumn is absolutely barging in on our Indian summer now.

It calms me, along with periodic visits from my mother, with homemade vegetable soup and hot tea with honey. There is a nurturing, soothing feeling I haven’t experienced in a long while.

It goes on like this all day, falling asleep to a fantastic montage of mysterious, other worldly dreams, waking up, and back again. Until the piercing whistle from the southbound train at the Roselle Park station blows me into final awakening. I dazedly peek at my clock radio! Holy shit, its eleven o’clock in the night!  Whoa. It’s almost time to go. As if on cue, I hear my parents turn off the TV downstairs, and begin their treacherous, middle-aged ascent of the steps. Yawning, as their footsteps drag. They take their turns in the bathroom, and have their nightly whispering argument in which my father asks my mother where the clean towels are. Finally, they close the drama – and their door. I wait the requisite fifteen minutes for them to settle in, don my work clothes, and creep down the stairs.

The rain had stopped, but it’s damp and cold as a bitch. The instant I hit the street, doubts about what I’m going to be able to accomplish tonight begin swirling around my head, like the invoking winds blowing down the nape of my neck. I shudder and quickly zipper all the way up.

The warm, satisfied feeling that had enveloped me while I was lying in my bed, has now disappeared. I observe the vapor from my breath, and begin trudging down Third Avenue, a stabbing tinge of sadness, of being alone - separated - curls around me. I hesitate, gazing back at my house, and stop for a second.

How am I going to do this mural?! I really have no idea of what I’m going to do! Panic sets in. Na-Na and I have never even talked about it, really. I mean, I made this big bravado speech and everything…what if I - we - get busted? How are we going to finish this in only three nights, anyway?! And, to be honest, I am still kind of afraid to be alone in a room with him for any extended period of time. Especially with nobody at all around. Maybe I should turn back now! I keep going, though, more scared of not showing up than anything else.

THE SAVOY

It’s REALLY happening! Oh my God - how did I get myself into this situation? But here I am, sitting in a stolen car with Na-Na Johnson at almost midnight on our way to the notorious Savoy Lounge!

I sit there on the Corinthian Leather, stiffer than a 47- year old virgin librarian on her honeymoon night. I look over at Na-Na, not knowing what to say. Apparently, this is as normal for him as, say, Ward Cleaver returning home from a day at the office. He plucks out a joint from his jacket pocket, sparking it up with his Kool, pulls it in deeply, and passes it over to me. What Na-Na doesn’t know is that I have never partaken of the good herb before. A virgin. In more ways than one.

I try to copy his nonchalant expertise, taking in a huge hit - and proceed to hack like a wounded seal for, like, the next five minutes. Tears are rolling down my cheeks like I’ve just watched, Born Free, or something.

“Damn, Strong, ain’t you never smoked this shit before?”

“Yeah, Na-Na, but – I protest between deep hacks – but…damn, this shit is potent, man!”

He nods knowingly.

“I ain’t never had shit like this before – whew!”

I can only hope that he believes my flagrant attempt at saving face.

He fishes out a pint bottle of NIGHTRAIN from his other pocket, and downs a big gulp. Then hands it over to me, keeping the steering wheel on cruise control, not using his hands at all.

I don’t know what type of liquor this is, but I eagerly down it in an attempt to extinguish the burning bush raging inside my chest. It goes down like a flammable concoction of pure rubbing alcohol, grape Kool Aid, and Vick’s cough medicine, and immediately sprays out of my nose. Na-Na gives me a look like I’m some kind of sexual deviant. In between the sneezing, wheezing, and tearing, I quickly take another long toke on the jay, then, throwing down a lethal gulp of the firewater, back and forth, in a manic effort to prove myself.  Suddenly, I start cracking up, Laughing, laughing, laughing, until my belly is sore.

Even Na-Na breaks a smile, which has to be a first, also, as we pass the twin vices between us.

“Man, you be buggin’ an’ shit,” he keeps repeating somewhat bemusedly, as I continue snorting NIGHTRAIN and smoke out of my nose and mouth. By the time we near The Savoy, I’ve completely forgotten what it is that I’m supposed to be afraid of in the first place.

We hop out of the ride, and Na-Na brandishes a brown leather cap, instructing me to put it on and wear the bill tilted heavily over to the side, overhanging the right part of my face.

“Yeah, now you cool.”

I start to wonder if I’m going to even get in tonight, never mind get served. I mean, I’m only fifteen and a half.

“Na – you sure I’m gonna get in tonight, man? I mean, I don’t have any I.D, or anything like that –“

“Yo – you wit’ me, man.”

Enough said.

As we’re bopping towards The Savoy, fog, the stench of the river pollution, dead fish, gasoline and diesel fuel exhaust envelopes our senses, and we finally come upon this crazy building set right off the docks. It looks like it used to be a White Castle, those greasy hamburger chains, where you could order a rat burger and fries for, like, twenty-nine cents. The color is a strange bluish-green, probably oxidized from the port air, like The Statue of Liberty.

James Brown blaring hard from the jukebox, pierces the silence of the chilly river breeze. We step inside, to find ourselves navigating through another cloud. This one of cigarette and reefer smoke, burning up my already ghoulishly bloodshot eyes. As I take off my glasses to rub the fumes out and then return them to my face, I believe we’ve somehow wandered onto the movie set of Cleopatra Jones. Only this is for real.

Pimps like the ones from, Starsky & Hutch, now strut right in front of me. Incredibly, they really are decked out in these outrageously colourful, bright orange and lime green gabardine suits. Wide-brimmed, plumed fedoras. Studded five-inch platform shoes. And a mouthful of gold, to match their blinding array of jewellery.

Holy Shit! I stand there for a minute, spellbound, the colors glowing in the dim light of the room. I strain to listen to the conversations over the steady bmmp-bmmp-bmmp of the music. Then my trance is shattered by the sharp sound of a cue ball smashing against a newly racked set of pool balls.

“Shit!  Mo’fucker singed my ass.”

Within minutes, I’m immersed in a carnival of sights and sounds, that amplifies the perception of my first-time stoned drunkenness.

Dice rolling. Knocking against the wall. Cards being expertly shuffled and dealt. Always followed by the most original curse words and swearing I have ever been exposed to. I soon realize it’s all about gambling. Gambling here is a skill, a livelihood, a game within a larger game.

Yeah.

Everyone seems to know Na-Na, and he introduces me around, always assuring them with - “He cool”, as they cast suspicious glances. This goes on for a while until he gets me my first order of ‘grog.’

The last thing I remember, is downing a can of Olde English 800, chasing it down with a shot of some kind of whiskey. Then, hearing Na-Na speaking with the largest, most muscular specimen I’ve ever seen, appropriately named ‘Hardcore’.

“It still be early, brother, shit definitely going down tonight.” He half whispers, assuredly.