THE CHEETAH

Right after the near riot in the artroom - there are some serious consequences to face!

I’m just standing there for a minute, all this insight bouncing around my brain, when the mysterious light-skin guy slips in. Without a sound, he yanks me out of the classroom by the shoulder, hustling me silently down the hall to the principal’s office.

When we get there, he firmly shuts the door behind us without actually slamming it, and then locks it. Mr. Rice is sitting behind his desk, not saying a word. Next, the mystery man quickly glances out the window, and then draws the shade. Uh-oh. This does not look good.

He agilely kicks out a chair from across the desk, and silently gestures for me to sit down. Pacing back and forth behind my chair, he is stroking his thin beard and mustache in a tightly controlled sort of way. Walking real lightly on the balls of his feet, he continues pacing. Wearing these rubber-soled brown canvas shoes, kind of like boat shoes. You couldn’t even hear his footsteps. This goes on for what feels like, a good five minutes.  

What the hell is going on here?  I peek over at Mr. Rice, searching his face for answers, but he just wears a real solemn look. At this point, I’m getting really spooked. Now, Silverstein comes crashing through the door, still steamed up and fire engine red. Finally, they all turn their attention on me. Silverstein starts screaming.

“How did you get that key to my art supply closet?  Nobody but me has that key!”

I stare at him innocently.

“You’re a sneak, Montaperto! Those paints were there for a special purpose!”

Light-skin still paces slowly, coiled up and ready to strike.  He turns to me, then Silverstein.

“Joshua, calm down. (He directs slowly and softly) We’re going to get to the bottom of this right now.”
But Silverstein continues ranting.  

“I don’t even know who this Na-Na Johnson character is!  Do you know you could have gotten us all killed today?!

“Joshua, let me take care of this,” Light-skin cuts in.

“Joshua, please.” affirms Mr. Rice.

Light-skin stares right into my eyes.  He definitely has some sort of charisma, a mesmerizing effect. I want to turn away, but just can’t seem to force myself.

“My name is Mr. Contreau. I’m the new head of security here, and you’re going to tell me what I want to know, son.”

He’s not a big guy, this Contreau, but not a small guy, either. Lean and rangy. Muscular, but not weight-lifting muscular. He’s sinewier and chiselled, with veins popping out all over his arms and biceps. With this jutting jaw that leans forward when he saunters about, he reminds me of a specific animal. Something I had just seen the past Sunday night on that Wild Kingdom TV show. You know, with Marlon Perkins. It wasn’t a lion or a tiger… a jaguar, maybe?  No…ah!  A cheetah! This guy looks and moves exactly like a fucking cheetah. Yeah. He’s stalking me now, his yellow cheetah face flashing his cheetah teeth. Glaring at me with those ravenous cheetah eyes.

Deftly, he kicks another chair over from by the desk, and in one fluid motion spins it backwards, sits down and positions his face directly in front of mine. His stare is intense and unblinking.

“How did you and Johnson get into the school?”

You’re not gonna break me, you lousy flatfoot, I’m no squealer, see? That´s the first thought that comes to my mind, for some reason.

As he’s questioning me, I can’t get that cheetah image out of my memory.  The way it mutilated this antelope, sinking its fangs into its throat and shaking it, blood flowing everywhere.

“Don’t be eyeballing me son - just answer my question.”

He keeps repeating persistently, the pressure almost unbearable.

 “I – I didn’t know this was going to happen…I mean...if Mr. Silverstein hadn’t said he was going to paint over it, that whole thing would never have happened, it”-

“Montaperto, that should never have been up there in the first place! If you -”

Contreau puts up his hand, and Silverstein reluctantly clams up.  

“I’m going to ask you one more time son. You can answer me and save your future - or - you can face the consequences of a ruined life. Your choice. Now, how did you get into the school?”

On some level, I feel I’m going to be made an example of here. They have to have a sacrificial lamb to quiet down the black kids, right?  I mean, isn’t that why they hired Contreau in the first place?  Yeah, I am screwed.

There was no way out.

 “The door was open…we- uh-just walked –“

“The door was not open, son, don’t try to play me.” 

 “Well…that’s how we got in! I swear!”

I didn’t want to give up Na-Na. Either way, it’s a death sentence.

“It was my idea…Na-Na didn’t really have nothing to do with it…we didn’t mean for anything – we… just wanted to create something, like, important! And we thought Mr. Silverstein…maybe, maybe he wouldn’t let us, so – “

“How did you get the keys, son?”  His voice is growing more forceful and irritated now.

I feel like I’m in a POW camp in Vietnam, like I’m in the movie, The Deer Hunter, which I had just seen. The same kind of torture tactics. I envision him (Contreau) giving me a pistol, to play Russian roulette with.

“There were no keys…we - uh – “

“So you’re telling me you didn’t have the keys?

Contreau glares at me with his cheetah eyes for a minute, unblinkingly right in my face. I don’t know what more he wants from me.

“Is that what you’re telling me, then? That you didn’t have the keys?

“Yeah, that’s right, I didn’t have any keys…”

He smirks.

“Thank you, son…that’s all I needed to know.”

He goes over to Mr. Rice, and they huddle together in this whispering conference. Mr. Rice is repeatedly nodding yes. I feel extreme wetness under my arms, and look down to two huge sweat stains soaking my silk-screen shirt. I can start to smell the odor emanating from it now. Shit.

Contreau finally turns back to me.

“You stepped in shit, Montaperto. You’re not going to jail. No, you’re not even going to be expelled. Not even suspended. We’re going to let Mr. Silverstein here deal with you, in the way he thinks best.”

My heartbeat becomes almost regular immediately.

“But know this, son - I’m going to be watching you.”

He makes a gesture with his hand like a gun.  

“Mess up once.”

He pantomimes a shot to my head and smiles.

It isn’t a very friendly smile either, in my opinion.

Even though I’m heavily relieved, I’m also exceedingly suspicious. Why are they letting me off so easy? What kind of secret plot is going on here?

“Wh-what about Na-Na?”

“Don’t worry about Johnson, son, we’re gonna take care of him.

He chuckles, as he cracks his knuckles, one by one.

Oh yeah, don’t worry about that.”

I step slowly towards the door, half-expecting some kind of booby trap to befall me, but none does. I exit the interrogation room and breathe deeply - it’s a troubled breath, though. This whole thing was way too easy. I stumble uncomfortably through the hallways, awaiting the bell for my fifth period class. I begin to experience a cyclone of emotions, from distrust to queasiness, to a sense of being castrated by Contreau - without anaesthesia. Followed by the skeavy sensation of hundreds of lice crawling all over my body. I want to scrub myself in a steaming shower. Fuck! I fucking ratted out Na-Na Johnson! Fear and sadness finally overtake the skeaviness.

THE SHOWDOWN

There is a stunned silence in the artroom when it is revealed the mural was done by Na-Na and Joey - a sense of disbelief and the tension of escalating violence permeates the room.

Then there’s a laugh, and another, and another. Now, the whole room combusts into a festival of merriment, palm slapping and congratulations.

“My man be a wild mofucka an’ shit!”

Yo, Na-Na, the man, G! Yeah, go ‘head wit it, brother!”

“Mmm-hmm! Dig that!” the chorus exploded.

The white kids peek at each other in strained silence, more in the dark than ever. In the space of about ninety seconds, the tension has now transformed into a kind of - celebration. Now the whiteys start laughing this sort of forced nervous laughter. Maybe, subconsciously hoping it would appease the black kids.

Silverstein, who’s been watching this whole drama in an apparent silent and simmering horror, now seizes the opportunity to assert his authority.

“Ok, alright - everybody’s had a good chance to admire the mural already, right?  So let’s all just move to our appointed rounds now, ok? If you want to come back again after school, fine, but (at this point he shoots me a nasty glance), it will be being replaced very shortly, for another project that had been previously planned for this class.”

I close my eyes. Oh no, Silverstein! What are you doing?!

An immediate hush, as the black kids stare at Silverstein aghast, then among each other. Stanley Hayward is the first to threaten.

“Yo, you best keep that shit up there, white man, less you want some fired up niggas ‘round here!”

That was the catalyst. Now everybody starts protesting and yelling, as the once-again angry mob turns on Silverstein, who it seems is just now realizing the full gravity of his idiocy.

WHAM! Somebody turns a desk over.

CRASH! The big table is overturned.

Now the whole place is getting smashed - and we know we’re fucking doomed. Noise, chaos, cussing and screaming ensue.

At that exact second, Mr. Rice, the principal, and Hoss, the security guard, come rushing in. They are quickly followed by this wiry, light-skinned black guy, someone I had never seen before.

Amidst all the madness in the room, he stands up in front, calmly puts up his hands, and in this intense, yet somehow soothing voice, says:

“My brothers, my brothers, cool out now, let’s cool out.  Tell me, what’s going on?”

Miraculously, the black kids just totally abort their rampage, as if some giant plug has just been pulled out of the video arcade.

Then a few seconds later, somebody puts the plug back in - they all start hollering and cussing again.  Some want to push on, and complete the destruction of the room. Others just want to destroy the cowering white kids.

“OK - which one of you intelligent brothers wants to represent?”

Rodney Slaughter strides forward, and points up at the mural.

“Yo, this was painted by a brother, for the brothers! For the black man’s culture. Black man ain’t got nothing in this school, man…they got paintings of all these white men, slave owners, all over this mothafucka! Dig, check it out, man, look around you…slave days be over, brother!”

A wave of cheers and anger surges out over the room.  

“Dig it, brother!  Right on!” Aiight Rodney!”

Michael Taylor steps up.

“Now, this white man wants to paint over our painting, wit’ mo shit for the white boys! Ain’t gonna happen this time, blood! Black man done had enough!

 Sho’nuff! adamant hollers back him up.

The mysterious yellow-skinned guy glances over at Mr. Rice, who quickly replies.

“Nobody is going to paint over that mural - nobody! You have my word on that. My promise. This is here to stay.”

“Word is bond my brothers. Now let’s everybody go back to our classes,” assures the mystery man.  

A tense minute follows. The black kids are collectively eyeing each other with measured glances. They’re probably trying to figure if they should trust this guy, trust again after many broken promises. In an instant, they start milling out in unison, hugging and slapping palms, joyous over their apparent victory. They’ve won the stand-off.

I can’t believe it, but on the way out, a few of them even pat me on the back and slap my shoulder, nodding approval of my work. Then they are gone. Just like that, it’s if the whole incident had never happened. The room is moribund. I scan the area. The white kids are wearing expressions like people who’d been aboard the Hindenburg, and had just, somehow, escaped with their lives.  

As they gaze up at the mural and back among each other, a sudden flash of insight pierces through my consciousness. Perhaps, it is that they’re actually more disturbed by the realization that it is Na-Na Johnson who’s created this mural. More than that they were just about to be trampled upon just now. I mean, Na-Na Johnson? To them, I guess, he’s just some crazy spook you have to watch out for in the hall. The one that stabbed you with his umbrella. They didn’t take him at all seriously, otherwise.  

Now, is there no sacred space left untouched? I just know they felt that. The art room had been the only place, the last bastion of art, civility and humanity, against the onslaught of the black kids. To think that a maniac such as Na-Na Johnson, had busted in this last pristine remaining territory was discouraging. What was probably even more disturbing to them (though I’m sure nobody would consciously admit it to themselves), was that not only had he trespassed into this sanctuary, but that he also had created something that far surpassed what they could even conceptualize. Let alone execute. They just kind of had to sit there in a kind of stunned, horrified resignation.

THE IMMACULATE CONCEPTION

So it’s the next morning after me and Na-Na put the mural up over the weekend, and I’m just waiting for the INEVITABLE reaction.

I step it up, entering the art room to find this crowd of kids all gathered around the mural, gazing up at it in astonishment. Not only the kids that were regular students in the class, but all these other kids too, including a number of black kids, who I’m sure had never even set foot in there before.

 They’re all gawking at it like they’re witnessing The Immaculate Conception, or something. Completely puzzled about how this could have suddenly appeared over the weekend.

The black kids are screaming out to their friends in the corridor, to come in and check out “the brothers” up on the wall. And now the din is really growing raucous. They’re even more confused than the white kids about the whole thing, because they can’t figure out how some white boys could have possibly painted this.

Silverstein is glaring at me in this stern silence, obviously annoyed by all the buzz. He really dislikes it when the quiet routine of class is disturbed, and I know he wants to come down on me - hard.

“Alright, alright, everybody! This is a classroom, please!” He’s shouting, in that pinched nasal voice of his.

“Let’s all calm down now, and go to our classes - I’m sure you all have other assignments to attend to!  You can come back after school today if you want to see it, but let’s move on! C’mon! Let’s go! Vamoose!”

He’s trying to make himself heard over the mess, but nobody is listening. Now, he’s becoming extremely red.

The black kids continue bounding in, hollering about this monument to “their culture.” There had never been anything like this in the school before. No tributes to black folk, famous or otherwise. While there were plenty of paintings and portraits of people like George Washington, Jefferson, Lincoln, and Kennedy. This is a first, no matter how it’s gotten there, and they’re all vocal about that. Suddenly, from out of the chaos, a loud shriek rings out.

“Oh shit! Thass Duke in that mofucker! Thass my uncle!  Mofuckers done kilt my uncle!”

“Oooh, Bobby - thass true! That be D’s face an’ shit!” exclaims the distinctive voice of Chuckie Jefferson, who sounds just like a crow.

Abruptly, the mood turns from a spirited curiosity, to one of rapidly brewing violence. You could just feel the seething tension rising up. One by one, other confirmations loudly join in, till a chorus of echoes spreads through the room.

“Yo, they fragged Duke!”

“Sure ‘nuff! That be his face!”

“Yeah, Bobby, thass him.¨
      ” Oh shit!  Some mofucker gonna pay for that - big time!”

I don’t really understand what’s going on now, you never really know what would set the black kids off. I mean, was this guy Duke everybody’s uncle, or what?

The suddenly outnumbered white kids have even less of an idea of what’s going on. Only that they’re reluctantly involved in something that they want no part of. Their bulging eyes vainly scope about for an escape hatch.

The black kids are howling now, working themselves up into some kind of tribal frenzy, as they advance on the flustered honkies. Just as it appears inevitable that a riot is about to break -

“Yo, yo, hold up, y’all!  Hol’ up!  Says here Na-Na Johnson painted this!  Yo, look, check it out! That be his signature an’ shit!”

Haley Cummings, one of the calmer of the black kids, detects our John Hancock’s up there, and is pointing up at them. For a minute, everything halts.  People even stop breathing, as it seems we all go into a kind of suspended animation.

“Say what?”

“Na-Na? Na-Na Johnson?!”

“Yo Chigger, you mus’ be buggin, man! Ain’t no mo’fuckin’ Na-Na Johnson paint this shit!”

“Yeah! Nigger, please!”

“Nah brothers, check it out!  Check it out!”

“Oh shit, J.B! Thass what it say right here! Nigga be right!”

“Nah, dig it man, thass them white boys, tryin’ to be fuckin’ wit’ our heads and…”

“Homeboy - ain't no white boys could paint that shit!”

They return their stares over to the frozen white kids, who are even more bewildered now than before, as they huddle together, and try to retreat.

“Dig it, blood, that shit be just too fierce for no white boy to do”

The white kids agree heartily, some of them even nodding in agreement.

“Some other name be up here too…Joe Mon-t-aperto- Mon-t-aperto - who that be?!”

All the white kid’s eyes turn immediately in my direction, relieved to be shifting the burden over to me.

“That mo’ fucka?”  A few blurt out in unison.

“Yeah…its – it’s me…”

“Say whaaat?”

“I’m… um - Joe Montaperto (I tried to sound calm and steady). Yeah, Na-Na and me - we came in here over the weekend…we did this mural. But I don’t know nothin’ about that guy…I just painted that girl over there on the other side.”

THE CONSEQUENCES

The next thing I know I’m being blasted out of bed by Cat Scratch Fever! Freakin’ Ted Nugent, man.  What are they doing playing that on WABC radio anyway?! Especially at this time in the morning?! I had just intended to lie there in bed for a little bit to rest my eyes. Figure I’ll be way too pumped up to sleep. Instead, I wind up drifting into this freakin’ coma, before Nugent rudely and loudly smashes me into wide-eyed consciousness.  

So now, I’m out of it. Groggy. Headache. Pissed.  Everything annoys me! But there’s no way I’m missing school today - not this day.  Just an hour ago, I was racing down the street against the sunrise, battling to get in before my father gets up. Full of excitement and pride and secrets.  Now, I’m trudging up the same street (3rd Avenue), the morning sun glowing in my face. It’s piercing my eyelids, which are stuck together by what feels like a ton of sand. The ruckus of the cars whizzing by, honking at the rush hour, sends painful shrieks up my spine. It’s all too much. Sensory overload. I just want to get back to my nice dream world.

I’m beginning to wonder if all this shit that happened this weekend…did it really go down? The Savoy? Probably witnessing a murder while in a drug induced state? To say nothing of smoking ganja and drinking, for really the first time in my life?  Breaking into the school?  Creating a mural? Come to think of it - that’s a crime, man. That, and stealing Silverstein’s paints to put up a mural he doesn’t even want. I mean, realistically, the cops could even be at the school this very moment! Jeez.

I step warily into the school hallway - scoping the whole area. No cops, no FBI agents lurking around the doorways, brandishing handcuffs. So far. I breathe easy for a minute. I walk softly towards the art room, slowing way down to take a peek at what might be going on.  Good. Nobody in there yet.  Just Silverstein sitting at his desk, seemingly staring at the mural.  Wonder what he’s thinking? Sitting through that first period waiting for art class is torture.  Agony. It’s like waiting for that guillotine to come streaking down on my head. It’s inevitable. My thoughts then wander back to the French Revolution. I contemplate what those Frenchies might have been thinking about right before the blade descends…in half a second, your head would be rolling down the platform. Nasty. What would it be like to think in French, anyway? Would they be the same kind of thoughts English-speaking people had? Or would they be thinking about flamboulie, or pate, or whatever?

The bell for next period mercifully rings. Time to face my destiny. Again. As I shuffle half-hesitantly, half-anxiously, down the hall towards the art room, I hear this major commotion.  

What the hell is going on?