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.

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.