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.