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.

THE PUNISHMENT

So, after the ‘Cumberland Farms Incident’, and my subsequent capture at the hands of the faux McCloud cop, Officer Roccio, I am grounded for the next month, in addition to the embarrassment of it all. Talk about adding insult to injury!!

My father winds up having to pay for half the cost of replacing the window. Which is even more guilt inducing, since he’s still out of work, and can ill afford it.  Actually, he has to negotiate with the suits in management at Cumberland Farms, because Fat Jim, for all his newfound holiness, was really pushing to press charges - to punish me for my sins.

So my father saves me from that ignomious fate. But to do so, he has to borrow money from my Uncle Richie now, to pay for it all. I know that’s a major blow to his ego, since he so fiercely prides himself on his self-sufficiency and independence.  Yeah, it’s a guilt fest, alright. Thank God they’re still allowing me to work at the Fox Hole though, otherwise it would probably be a death sentence. I still have to go to school, of course, but on the days I’m not working, I’m confined to my room. No phone calls, no visits, no TV - and that includes the weekends!  

In an attempt at some form of reparations, I vow to give my father $25 every week till I pay off the debt, but even that gesture does little to soothe my twisted conscience.   

Otherwise, that awful sense of doom infiltrates my guilt, as I realize I’ve utterly blown it with Esperanza.  There’s no way to explain this one away. I make several attempts to call her to try to explain, but each time, I hang up the phone ashamedly, before she can even answer. I mean, what the hell am I going to tell her? That I’m grounded? Gimme a freakin’ break.  

Me - standing Esperanza up!  What a sad joke. I lay there on my bed that Saturday, the first day of my solitary confinement, a beautiful crisp late October day outside. My room, which has always been my sanctuary, now looms instead as my mausoleum. I guess that Skinny and Ricky are out playing baseball or football on Floral Street, with Daniel Webb and Bobby Turski, and the guys. I can almost hear their shouts of excitement if I lie still and listen hard enough. That all seems like such a faraway time ago.

Then I think about Skinny and Kyla McBride, and now anger intermingled with the melancholy. What are they doing, anyway? Are they really going out with each other? How could he do this to me? I wonder if all this stuff I had done …the boxing, the black clothes, The Fox Hole, and – especially - this pursuit of Esperanza. I mean, is it all really worth it?

Tears begin to roll down my face, as my eyes dart around the room in an attempt to evade the crushing swell of thoughts. My gaze finally resting on this statue, a bust of Napoleon, which is perched on the bookshelf atop my desk. I’ve always been kind of matter-of-factly aware of its presence, but never in any profound type of way.  Until now.

As I think back, though, it starts to freak me out. Napoleon has always been there! As long I can remember, even way back when we lived in Brooklyn! Always there in the same spot, on the shelf above my desk.  Why was it there - and where did it come from? What is the reason behind it?  Insidiously staring at me…unblinking in its smugness.

Conspiracy theories thunder through my head, forcing my heart to pound wildly. What does Napoleon mean? A Napoleon complex? Hmmm…yes-but-but-there must be more.  I mean, otherwise it could be just any bust! George Washington or Abraham Lincoln, or even Sammy Davis Jr., for that matter.  Why Napoleon specifically?

Ah! Napoleon had met his Waterloo! Of course! An omen. Is this my Waterloo?