A REVOLUTION

After all the volatility he is feeling - Joey wants to do something significant with his life.

My eyes are darting wildly around the room, searching for something to occupy them. Or maybe to enflame those eyes even more. Finally, they converge on my nightstand table. The copy of The Autobiography of Malcolm X, the Professor had lent me a couple of weeks ago. I grab it maniacally, start flipping through the pages. Briskly at first, then browsing, then finally….reading…reading…reading…reading…
Next thing I know, I look at my clock radio - and it’s almost 5:30 in the freaking morning. Holy shit! I was so into it, I had no concept that four hours have passed by, just like that. This Malcolm X, man, he was the shit! This guy comes from intense poverty. His father is murdered by white men when he’s just a kid His mother is eventually taken away to a mental institution. He goes from a detention home in Mason, Michigan, to his half-sister Ella’s place in Boston. In a short while there, he finds himself right in the eye of the happening black culture of the time. All by the time he’s about fifteen years old! Basically around the same age as me.
I’m totally entranced by his description of the lindy-hopping that went down into the wee hours of the morning at Boston’s Roseland Ballroom. How black folks would just go wild into a frenzy on the floor. Sweating, soaking wet, the crowd cheering you on, then pounding your back, gleefully, as you got swept off the floor, exhausted.
Famous big bands of the era, wailing. Lionel Hampton, Duke Ellington, Count Basie…man, that’s living!
I had always felt self-conscious and awkward when I saw the black kids showing off new dance moves to each other in the hall. I want to dance. I don’t want to be stiff! The white kids don’t care, they’re just content to sit in circles at their parties. Passing around a joint, and nodding their heads to Lynard Skynard and Judas Priest. But I want to let loose! I want to just fly, man! And in the back of my mind, someday I know I will.

TROUBLING THOUGHTS

After Joey’s conversation with Na-Na about his war with Contreau, he becomes agitated with all the nonsense in the world

Making my way home from work that night, Na-Na’s words are still tossing around in my head, like sneakers tumbling in the dryer. 

 It’s not only his words, really. It’s something more. A sadness. Actually, a foreboding begins descending upon me now. Something is going to happen. I’ve had this feeling before. This kind of intuition. Thick, murky, and vague, it takes over my whole body.  Whatever it is, or going to be - it gives me the shakes, as I navigate the isolation of the frigid, dimly lit streets.  

Ten after one in the morning. Can’t sleep. In my bed flipping from one position, then gyrating into another, in crazy, restless mode. Kicking away against the impenetrability of the covers my mother has tucked in ridiculously tight again, at the end of the bed.  Damn! Why does she always have to do that?  I can’t move! It’s like she’s in the Army, or something. She probably flips a quarter on the bed after she’s made it, too, to make sure it’s perfect. Bet you. My father would always tell stories about when he was in the Army, how the sergeant would come into the barracks to inspect things, and he’d flip a quarter on your bed. If the quarter didn’t bounce back up, it meant the sheets and covers weren’t tight enough, and he’d make you do it again. And you had to do 50 push-ups, too.  She always listened to my father. I just hope he hasn’t made her do 50 push-ups, also.

God, I would hate the Army. I would never join up, even if they drafted me. I’d definitely go to Canada or Mexico, or wherever. Especially after hearing the stories from a couple of guys around the neighborhood, who had served in Vietnam. Guys who came back all fucked up. Mentally. Physically. Missing limbs, fingers.  For no good reason, either.  

They would tell me how these sergeants would totally humiliate you, right in front of everybody in the platoon. And then, you’d have to, like, pledge you would die for these same assholes on the battlefield!

Fuck that, man. No way. I’d always hated that hierarchical type of shit. I remember, I even quit the Cub Scouts because of that. No, actually – I got kicked out of the Cub Scouts. By my Aunt Tina, no less. Yeah, she was the den mother for our Pack 51. I didn’t want to do those stupid Twelve Achievements in the Cub Scouts Handbook that you had to complete before you could graduate to - ooh - the Webelos.

I did do a few of the achievements anyway, though. I tied those eight different knots. I built a campfire and stuff like that, until I got to the one, the ninth achievement, I think, where you have to build a birdhouse. That was it. No freakin’ way! Now, why would I want to build a fucking birdhouse?  What was the point? I wouldn’t do it.  So, she kicked me out. My Aunt Tina.

I remember Gerald Schoenfeld (from our pack) told everybody in our 6th grade class that I refused to build the birdhouse – and it was, like, the big scandal of the year.

I pretty much hated organizations, in the first place. Especially, like, The Junior Achievement Club, where you had to make hangars, for some reason. Now, my mind just lurches forward in a sea of free association. Each more agitating than the next.

The Church. Sears. Yeah, I really despise Sears. Especially those damn catalogues. I remember a few years ago, Sears had this big parade in town, to celebrate the grand opening of their Super Shopping Center, in what used to be part of Smith’s Woods. Marching bands, cheerleaders, banners – even clowns. Clowns. They were the worst. I never did understand why they were supposed to be funny, anyway.  I mean, what, just because they wore a lot of make-up and big shoes? They were supposed to be, like, hilarious?  

I have aunts who wear too much make-up, and big shoes, too. I seriously don’t remember anybody laughing uproariously, when they walk down the street.

Anyway, the whole town turns out to celebrate this moronic parade. Everybody. There are these pretty girls up on the floats, waving, blowing kisses, and tossing ‘complimentary gifts’ out to the crowd. Cheap shit, like, Hershey’s Kisses, and Lifesavers. And stuff like little soaps.  God, you should see these ninnies diving and scurrying all over the street, like it’s a freakin’ gold rush, or something! What, they can’t just go to the store, and spend a freakin’ nickel for their own Hershey’s Kisses?

The worst part of all this, to me at least, is that apparently nobody cares that Sears had destroyed the remaining bit of the beautiful Smith Woods, the last woods around for many miles. Just so they can open up another one of their junky shopping centers.

I swear, it doesn’t matter if you have a parade for dropping bombs on people, or inventing a new flavor of toothpaste. Just as long as you have marching bands, clowns, and Hershey’s Kisses! People will always come out to cheer.

I’m really on a roll now, my mind bursting in a cynical diatribe. What annoys me even more than the whole parade nonsense is that afterwards, Sears keeps sending their freakin’ catalogues to our house! With those private-school-type Hardy Boy looking motherfuckers they have modelling the clothes. Man, that burns me! These guys standing around pointing to each other’s pants admiringly, and tittering smugly, like they’re at some kind of exclusive Aryan Youth Tea Party.

“Gosh, Chad, those sure are some really nifty Sears khakis you have there.”

I endured years of wearing Sears Tough Skins, and, I can assure you, not once did I have as much fun wearing them as these cornballs did.

I’m all hyped up now. Agitation in overdrive. No way I’m gonna sleep tonight. Turn on the lights. Pacing. Pacing. Pacing. I feel like breaking into somebody’s house right now…a bunch of people’s houses…smashing some fucking windows…

BACK TO THE FUTURE

It’s a few days after the big night at the movies with my sisters and Skinny and Kyla - and the final realization that it’s not going to happen with Kyla - what do I do now without Esperanza?

Of course, you know when I wake up the next morning, it all just seems like a nightmare, that flash of insight. And for the next few days, I can convince myself of that, as I buy another dime bag, and a little hash from Marc. I meander down the school hall, inattentive and dull over these next few days. Suddenly, from around the corner, a fist plunges into my forehead. I react instinctively, firing a punch back, but my reaction time, slowed by the fog of the weed, badly misses my target as he runs off, his laughter echoing through the hall. David White.  Motherfucker. Those hyenas are just itching to get me.  A welt grows on my forehead.

The next day, I come back to school a little warier now. A crowd is gathered in the hall around the words Uncle Tom, spray painted in huge red letters covering the span of about eight or nine lockers, across from Contreau’s office. Black kids and white kids are both puzzled, fearful, and angry. Na-Na Johnson and Contreau are still waging their own little private war, I think to myself. I don’t even get off on it anymore – too preoccupied with my own stuff. Besides, Na-Na is too smart, too stubborn, to get caught.

Later that day, walking down Chestnut Street on my way to work, I notice a black sedan following me, cruising along slowly. First, I try to make believe I’m ignoring it, clenching my fists in my coat pockets. I’m getting ready to defend and attack, as I pick up my pace. It’s David White and the Orange Face brothers, and their boys. I just know it is.  I cross the street ahead of me; the sedan pulls up alongside me.

I’m not going to run – fuck them! The window rolls down.

“Strong.”

“Holy Shit! Na-Na! Where you been? I haven’t-”

“Step in”

He’s puffing on some ganja. Sly and The Family Stone is playing on the radio, through a fog of aromatic smoke.  He offers it to me, and I take a drag.

“Them mo’fuckas been fuckin’ wit you?”

“Punk-ass David White snuck me in the head yesterday, then runs away like a bitch.”

He’s silent for a moment, as he ingests the fumes deep into his chest cavity, and holds.

“Aiight.”

“So where you been, man? I scoped out that shit you painted on the lockers today.”

He lets out a slight laugh with the exhalation of smoke.

“Contreau still doggin’ you, huh?”

“Yellow mo’fucka can’t do shit to me, ain’t got proof of a mothafuckin’ thang.”

I smile, enjoying the contact high.

“Yeah, he think he slick an’ shit – he don’t know who I am.”

We pass the spliff back and forth another time.

“Nigga think he back in the CIA or FBI, or some shit. like I don’t know what up wit’ his game.”

“Yeah, what’s up with that shit, Na?”

“Nigga think he gonna play me - me against your ass. They don’t do shit to you, calculatin’ I be buggin’ cuz you bitched me out. I come in lookin’ for payback…man, that nigga be illin’.

Divide and conquer shit, the White man be playin’ that same technique since back in the day…how he shackled them strong young African brothas and sistas. Turn niggas against each other. Plant hate in their minds. This mo’fucka ain’t nuthin’ but a Uncle Tom, pimpin’ for the white man. Kissin’ they ass like he be their house nigga… he don’t know. I got something fierce fo’ that nigga, somethin’ extra fierce!”

“What you gonna do, Na?”

No response. We drive around a few minutes in silence, take another toke each before he drops me off in front of The Fox Hole.  

“Yo, gonna hook you up wit’ my man, Malik, Strong. He a righteous Muslim brotha. Later.”

Of course, Philly is in front of the store again. He smirks and goes into his Mick Jagger impersonation again, this time singing Brown Sugar, using the broom as a mike. I don’t pay him no mind. I’m deep in the swirl of my own thoughts. Something gets switched on. Na-Na’s words strike something heavy in me.

THE HARSHNESS

          Its two o’clock in the morning now. I’m still standing outside in front of Kyla’s house, shivering in the frigid darkness. Everybody else, Skinny, Ricky, my sisters - they’ve all long gone home.  I spark up the spliff again, the one that (I dreamed) is supposed to bring Kyla and me together, on that special trip. I take a hit and put it out again. I’ve been repeating this same motion for the last hour and a half. Sparking up, greedily, frantically inhaling two or three tokes, coughing, spitting, and putting it out. Sitting on the curb, getting up, pacing the frozen tar, back to sitting on the curb again.  Again and again. Nothing. It’s not giving me nothing. The comfort, the carefree feeling I crave, never comes back to me. Only paranoia, fear, and anxiety reign. I look down at the tiny roach that remains of my jay, a reminder of what I feel like - a tiny roach.  And I don’t even have my roach clip with me. It also reminds me that just as the roach signifies the end of a joint, it also signifies the end of a part of my life. Both of the girls I have totally idolized, of whom I’ve somehow attached a significant aspect and meaning of life to, have basically rejected me. That is the cold, raw truth of the matter. Then I realize that this also is just an illusion. My illusion. Kyla made her choice a while ago. And she chose Skinny. I wonder if maybe the main reason that I idolize Kyla is, because, on some level, I know (or feel) that being with her will give me a kind of legitimacy?  Or, at least, maybe a sort of warmer, more comfortable, and safer path? A type of My Three Sons life, that I alternately despise and desire. As opposed to the other road that I might be embarking on. The Esperanza road. The Na-Na road. The artist road. Free-falling, chaotic, open, unknown, and potentially terrifying. And, even though it appears that we all   had such a great time tonight at the Park Theater…like it was old times, actually, I’m more cut-off from my family, my cousins, than ever before. Because, really, I’d been kind of using them. Plotting against my own cousin, Skinny, to get at Kyla. The paranoia makes me even more paranoid. Now I’m feeling paranoid about being paranoid.

Holy Shit!

This isn’t paranoia. This is lucidity. Total fucking lucidity. Hard insight. And this realization seeps into the marrow of my bones, seeps in like a bitter cough medicine that clears away the congestion. It shakes me, terrifies me, till I don’t want to leave that curb, that street. I don’t want to go home, and face the fact that I’m nowhere, floating between two worlds.