THE SCORE AND THE SCARE

 Many things on his mind, Joey freezes when he thinks Na-Na is out to seek revenge against him!       

 I’m strolling through the Roselle High parking lot after school today, a kind of warm sunny day, uncharacteristically nice for November 1st.  Chugging down a can of Dr. Pepper, I’m mulling over the various conflicts and problems that have presented themselves in my life, the queasy feeling about basically betraying Na-Na to Contreau, the forbidden, puzzling pull over Kyla, and the determination that I have to go up to Elizabeth - and soon.

 Suddenly, a screeching white Cadillac lurches to a halt directly in front of me, jolting me out of my warring fantasies. It happens so quickly that I drop my can of soda, it hits the black asphalt like a fizzy grenade, rolling over and spraying carbonated foam everywhere. 

Shit. There’s nowhere to run.

The black tinted window slowly descends to an electric hum.

“Get in.”

Oh shit – this is it. I’m finished.

I reluctantly crawl in, and through the thick cloud of cigarette smoke I peer into the expressionless profile of Na-Na Johnson, ensconced at the steering wheel; Marvin Gaye’s, What’s Going On? playing on the radio.

As the electric window rises up again, he peels out of the driveway, a Kool clinging precariously to his bottom lip.  I involuntarily swallow the rest of the soda that remains lodged between my throat and esophagus. Another stolen car, too. Total silence.

“What’s up, Na-Na?”

I breathe heavily, fully aware that these may be my last breaths. We wail up Sixth Avenue, I don’t know where we’re headed, and, at this point, I don’t really want to know. I start blabbering at high speed.

“Na-Na, man, I was scoping for you yesterday. That dude - Contreau - he’s gunning for you, man. He was dogging you, he wants you out!  Dude was like “we got plans for him.” Serious. He was using these, like, Vietnam tactics on me too, yeah, and Silverstein.” 

“Yellow-tone Uncle Tom mo’fucka, he interrupts, nigga ain’t gonna do shit to me. Got something for that nigga.”

I relax a tiny bit now - at least the venom isn’t being directed at me. Not in this moment, anyway. He hands me a large piece of paper. It’s a drawing, one of his ink drawings, and in typical graphic Na-Na style. It depicts a scene in which this rabidly fierce black Doberman Pincher is springing in mid-air, teeth gleaming, ears pinned back, saliva spewing, going for the throat of this guy, who appears to be white. Except that he has Negro, kinky hair. A horrified, almost pleading expression dominates his face, which Na-Na has captured expertly. The outline of the school lies in the background, a sign that reads – BEWARE OF GOD – written in what seems to be dripping blood, is posted right next to the attacking dog.

“Give this to that yellow ass Tom. Tell him I know what time it is.”

He takes a long drag from his Kool.

“Where you tippin’ to now, Strong?”

“I gotta go to work at this restaurant, The Fox Hole…it’s near Linden”

“Aiight”.
He apparently has a pretty good idea of where it is, and a few minutes later we’re pulling up in front of The Fox Hole, in the big white stolen Cadillac.  

Philly’s out in front, sweeping the sidewalk.  I notice his sarcastic sneer as I pop out of the ride, clutching the rolled up drawing.  

“Check you later, Na-Na.”

“Aiight.”

As he skids away, Philly smiles widely.

“Who’s the gar in the fuckin’ Reverend Ike mobile, Joey? One of your coon friends?”  He shrieks.

Here we go. “Gar” is short for nig-gar, at least in Philly parlance.

“Not today Philly, awright?”

“That your pimp there, Joey, heh?”

Tommy Boy steps out the front door, smoking a cigarette.

“Hey Tommy Boy, ya know Joey’s a niggeh loveh? Yeah, he just pulled up here with his fuckin’ pimp!”

Tommy Boy laughs.

“What’s the matter, Philly, you jealous? You want me all for yourself?” I retort sharply.

“Ooo-ooh, cold!” Tommy Boy laughs.

Philly turns all red and deflated.

“Awright, niggeh loveh, get in there and wash them dishes now.” He responds with false bravado.  

“That’s weak Philly. You’re burned!  Just keep sweeping.”

HALLOWEEN

After the excitement of everything involved in painting the mural and the confrontation with Mr. Contreau, Joey has to settle down to the more mundane vargaries of life…here he experiences his first miserable Halloween.

No way can I see Esperanza like this. I thrust my hands disgustedly back into my jacket pockets, and trudge down the dark, cold streets on my way back home. Only a couple of hours ago, they had been teeming with boisterous little Supermen, Wonder Women, and Frankensteins. Now they are empty and silent. A frigid wind is blowing the remaining dead leaves back onto lawns that had just been raked. I do see some old guy trick or treating though, as Mr. French, the butler from the old TV sitcom Family Affair, strangely enough. I’m still not sure if it’s a costume, or if he just regularly enjoys dressing like Mr. French. As I continue on my journey homeward, grumbling to myself, I look skyward to note the rolls of toilet paper dangling from the depleted tree branches, illuminated by the solitary street light. The houses I pass are splattered with dried eggs, and their windows, as well as car windshields, are smeared with soap graffiti. I smile. Mischief Night. The night before Halloween, when you bombard all the houses and cars in the neighborhood.  What a great tradition!  I think back to last Halloween, which now seems like eons ago, when me, Ricky, and Skinny went Trick or Treating. Ricky, for some reason, had decided to dress up as Teddy Roosevelt. Teddy Roosevelt on San Juan Hill, when he was a member of the Rough Riders, to be precise. As if anyone would get that. He was very intricate in the way he prepared his costume, but almost every house we went to, the people thought he was supposed to be McCloud.  He spent the whole night trying to explain to everybody that, no, he was actually Teddy Roosevelt on San Juan Hill. Obviously, nobody knew what in the world he was talking about, and Skinny and I, of course, thought this was hilarious, as he grew more exasperated. We start busting on him, calling him McClod, until he gets so pissed he starts chasing us. But he can’t run anyway, and especially in those clod-hopper cowboy boots he’s wearing. So we’re falling all over each other, laughing, as we try to get away, carrying these heavy pillowcases of candy.

I start cracking up at the memory, laughing so hard to myself that I have to cover my mouth. It’s one of those times where you just can’t stop yourself.

“Joey?” A girl’s voice calls out, totally busting me.  I look up and peep right into the eyes of Snow White, smiling at me brightly. It’s like I am suddenly transported into some beautiful fairy tale.  Of course, it’s not actually Snow White - but Kyla McBride, in her costume. With my cousin Skinny, who’s supposed to be Spock, I think. For a minute, I’m breathless, speechless. I just cannot avert my gaze.  I mean, she’s more like Snow White than the real Snow White. I almost expect any minute now, a bunch of birds and forest animals to be gathering to dance around her. I have never seen a girl look so sweet, so pure. So wholesome.  

“What are you doing out here, laughing all by yourself?” she asks, still smiling.  

I try hard to regain my composure, my cool, as I ashamedly jam my hideous claws back into my pockets.  I smile, hoping she doesn’t notice.

“Yeah…I- uh- had to work tonight and I was - uh… just remembering last- 

“Aww, you had to work tonight, on Halloween?  Poor guy,” she coos with genuine sympathy. 

She hands me a piece of candy from her trick or treat bag. Me and Skinny exchange greetings (I respectfully call him Chris in front of Kyla) although there’s a bit of awkwardness. We haven’t really connected in a while, and our last significant exchange was that incident with the baseball.

I begin to recount the story of last year’s Halloween with me, him, and Ricky, though, and the laughs start to flow, melting away the tension.  As we continue bullshitting and joking, and cracking up for like the next half hour or so, a warm familiar feeling runs through me. Kind of like being in a time warp, where we’re all close and happy again. Very comforting.

I’m regaling them now with tales of my adventures with Na-Na. The experiences of going to the Savoy Lounge. And especially about breaking into the school those nights. Painting that mural, smoking pot, and listening to Etta James. I have them spellbound, wide-eyed; I’m in total control now, a master storyteller! Just like that time with Na-Na and Guy Warbush, relating tales of fictitious cunnilingus with my alleged babysitter.  

Kyla’s gazing at me like I’m a combination of James Bond and Eugene O’Neill, all rolled into one.  She just keeps going “Wow. Wow”, every time I finish a story. The cold night breeze accentuates the natural pinkish hue, giving her that real rosy-cheeked look. Wow.

I start dropping in stories about Esperanza, about how beautiful she is. How she’s an older woman, a beautician in Elizabeth, and how we’re supposed to be going out soon. All the while I’m searching Kyla’s blue eyes, her face, hoping to detect maybe a hint of jealousy, a bit of envy, but I don’t see anything. She just listens attentively, smiling, and even Skinny watches me admiringly. They seem genuinely happy for me, and with each other. Which, for some reason, makes me depressed. I realize that Kyla is the polar opposite of Esperanza; where the latter is sleek, sexy, hot, unpredictable, Kyla epitomizes the girl you go ice skating with, and then to the malt shop, or something.  

“Hey, Joey, you want to come to the movies with us all this weekend?”  she asks sweetly.  

“Who’s going?”

“Me, Chris, Katelin, Barbara, the Eichorns…there’s supposed to be a really good picture playing at Park Theater…”

“Um, yeah, maybe, I got to see what’s going’ on first…”

“Yeah, let us know, OK?”

We continue walking to my house, still gabbing and laughing, stopping at my front door to bode goodbye. I figure I’ll talk to Skinny now, catch up on what he’s been up to… but he says goodbye too, and starts walking Kyla home. As I watch them disappear down the block together, I stand there alone in front of my house, choking back feelings I don’t totally understand, stabbing pangs of remorse, maybe jealousy. I struggle to convince myself that I have an exciting life. I’m on the cutting edge, man, breaking all the rules, exploring new cultures…and that kind of a safe life would never work for me. I vow to myself that I have to go up to Esperanza; she’s got to see my mural.

BACK TO WORK

After the excitement and turmoil of the past week with everything regarding the mural, Joey returns to the more mundane world of work at The Fox Hole.

I make my way to the Fox Hole now after being out ‘sick’ for the last three days, actually feeling way more ill than I supposedly had been before. I walk in, and Tommy (the owner) is sitting at his usual table in the back of the restaurant, a half-empty bottle of Campari off to his side, the standard glass of Campari and soda in front of him, grumbling to himself, as he reads over the Newark Star Ledger. Heavy rings of smoke from his ever-present cigar linger lazily in the dim lighting, and My Way plays in the background, as usual. I figure he’s probably drunk (again), so I sneak past him, hoping to avoid having to sing My Way with him again. As he usually demands when he’s soused.

I tread lightly into the kitchen to find Tommy Boy there at the counter, violently chopping the heads off of the day’s fish. Ashes from the Marlboro dangling from his mouth drop down, mixing with the blood.  

“Nice of ya to show up,” he grunts, without even looking up at me.

“Where’s Marc?” I ask, referring to the other dishwasher.

“He’s not here.”

He motions with his head over to the sink area, where there’s a mountainous pile of those huge 20 gallon pots they cook the sauce in. All stacked up, stained with burnt, hardened tomato sauce. Great. This day is just getting better and better. I hate that job, man. You have to use these Brillo pads to scour that burnt shit out - only they aren’t even real Brillo pads. No, they’re these cheap, third-rate, pseudo Brillos that fall apart right in your hands, in only a few minutes. Even though you’re wearing these rubber dishwasher’s gloves, the fibers from these shitty pads go right through them, cutting up all your fingers.  Even worse than that though, is the heavy-duty detergent soap water that you’re scrubbing with. It seeps inside the gloves, and mixes with the acid from the tomato sauce, burning the fuck out of those cuts on your hands. Misery on top of nausea. To complete the torture, the sound and the sensation those quasi-Brillos make when they scrape against the metal of the pots, just completely freaks me out.  Nails raking the blackboard got nothing on this nightmare.

Salvatore, the other son, comes stomping up the stairs, carrying a few crates of tomatoes.

“You got a lot of fuckin’ work tonight, Joey.  Marc’s not comin' in.”

“Thanks, Salvatore.”

About the only good thing, is that Philly won’t be in to bother me tonight. So I take some comfort in that.

Hours pass by as I dutifully scrub pot after nasty pot. My thoughts begin drifting to Esperanza, and the mural, and how I had put my ass on the line just to impress her. It’s only when Tommy Sr. announces that we’re closing early, because of Halloween, do I snap out of my ruminations. Of course, that’s why we were so dead tonight! All the parents had probably been out trick-or-treating with their brats. Making sure there were no razor blades in the Snickers bars, or Candy-Corn drenched with Drano, or anything like that.

And here I am, scraping fuckin’ burnt tomato sauce off of fuckin' twenty gallon pots. Yeah, Happy Halloween! As I hit the street after work, I wonder what Esperanza is doing tonight, and who she’s doing it with. She probably has a bunch of parties to go to. I should go up there, man; I gotta get her to see this mural. Yeah.

 As I zip up my coat, I get a good look at my hands. Oh my God! Shit, they’re like the scariest costume out there! That tomato sauce and the detergent have totally fucked them up, even worse than usual. It burned right through those rubber gloves, man. Yeech. They look like something from the Creature Features, like, some mutant monster claws from a nuclear radiation accident.  Red, scaly, cracked and cut up, they are nasty! They had been getting like that for a while anyway, but this is catastrophic. No girl is ever going to want to hold these monstrosities. No way can I see Esperanza like this. I thrust them disgustedly back into my jacket pockets, and trudge down the dark, cold streets on my way back home. 

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.