“I went into that wager with all the liquid cash I had on hand that night. The rest of my capital was all tied up in other ventures. Damn near all or nothing. You weren’t the high score. But you were the man. Timing is everything. Knowing when to lay low and when to come up, when to step out of the light and when to come out of the shadows—perfect.” He held his hands together, like a clap. He leaned forward.
“I came up so big it gave me the liquid capital that propelled me to the next level in my business. The twenty-five I’m giving you, you earned it. But because I see that you’re into honesty, and I like that, I’mma let you know that twenty-five thousand is not even one-hundredth the amount I earned off of you.” He gave me a serious stare so I would believe him.
“Cigars?” The breasts were back to refresh our smoke.
“We’re good for now,” Santiaga said. She was smiling widely. He pulled out his wallet and folded a clean one hundred once and slid it between her coconut-sized titties. She wiggled them, said a string of graciases, and asked if she could get him a drink, “or anything else?” He ordered a glass of Louis XIII. She left.
I was sitting, calculating. One hundred times twenty-five thousand. I was moving the commas over on the numbers. One mistake with a comma or a zero and my answer would be all wrong. I calculated it three times in my head. That’s $2,500,000. My eyes widened. I calculated it one more time. That’s the minimum amount he earned on the bet, that he won based on the shot that I made. On top of that, he had the balls to tell me calmly that what he was paying out to me wasn’t even one percent of his prize. I leaned back. Some minutes slipped by.
“You said you are a businessman, right?” Santiaga said impatiently. It wasn’t a question, I know. Leaning forward again, he checked his Rolex, letting me know we were running out of time.
Still, I paused for a minute or so, then said, “True, I made the shot, but I didn’t make the wager, you did. I don’t know nobody who could wager those kinds of numbers, or who could afford to lose that amount if their gut feeling turned out to be wrong. That means that all of the winnings are yours, not mine. You went all in with the money that you earned. I didn’t help you earn a penny of it. ‘Winner take all,’ as they say. So you take all of it. But thank you, word,” I added sincerely.
“How much are those vending machines you’re selling?”
“Fifteen hundred dollars each,” I said, thinking of the model I purchased, not the discounted seven-hundred-dollar “horsey ride.” “But since we’re being honest, I pocket five hundred dollars off of each sale,” I confided.
“Give me seventeen of those at fifteen hundred each,” he said. “I’ll put them in my stores.” I was calculating. Seventeen machines times fifteen hundred dollars each equals $25,500. Damn, he was swift with his numbers and figured out seventeen machines would get the deed done. He was determined to place $25,000 in my hand either way. Now he’d made me a straight-up business proposition, not a charitable donation or a gift, or a questionable payoff, all of which I could never accept.
“You’re a young businessman, not a young fool, right, son?” he asked me with an even more serious look. “You either take the twenty-five I’m handing you as your earnings on the amazing shot you pulled off, or you sell me seventeen machines for twenty-five thousand. You drop the extra five hundred since I’m buying so many, and you pocket twelve thousand dollars profit since you’ll have to pay for the machines, and you don’t want to take twenty-five thousand no-strings-attached free dollars.” He stood up. Because he stood, I stood.
He checked his Rolex again. “You got twenty-five seconds. Each second is worth a thousand dollars. Go!” he said.
“Deal,” I said in less than a second. “You ordered seventeen machines at a cost of twenty-five thousand dollars total, a five-hundred-dollar discount. I pocket twelve thousand dollars,” I said. He smiled.
“Now you and I are in business.” He extended his hand to me.
“It’s a clean sale. Once the machines are delivered to you, our deal is done, no strings attached. I don’t owe you, you don’t owe me nothing,” I said. His smile evaporated.
“Deal,” he said. “After tonight, I don’t owe you nothing. You don’t owe me nothing,” he confirmed with a serious expression, mixed with a disappointed, angry, and almost sad look.
“I’ll come play for the team. That’s a separate matter, though. Treat me like every other player. If I miss one more game I disqualify myself from the possibility of earning the most valuable player purse,” I said. “I’ll be at every practice and every game barring an emergency.”
He smiled brightly, and it seems his smile made the ladies, who were all looking in our direction since we had stood up, happy too. We gave each other a pound on it.
* * *
“You drive. I had a couple of drinks,” Santiaga said, throwing me the keys. It was a test, I knew. I opened the driver’s-side door. He got in the back. “If the cops pull us over, which I doubt, not twice in one day, we’ll say I’m sick and you’re driving me to the emergency room. If that don’t work, we’ll press some paper in his palms.” He reclined and closed his eyes. I was thinking this cat either believed or knew for sure that money straightens out all matters. I hoped so. We were on River Road in Edgewater, New Jersey. I didn’t think his arms reached all the way across the George Washington Bridge or through the Lincoln Tunnel, same as they reached across the Brooklyn Bridge to uptown Manhattan.
Sitting in the driver’s seat in his Maserati, which my shot probably paid for, I was thinking about my father, and how he used to challenge me, just like how I was being challenged right then by this man. In both cases they were men who were much older than me, placing me in an unreasonable situation and challenging me to work my way through it and come out clean. I knew Santiaga was not drunk and that his one drink was not strong. Even if it was strong, it still wouldn’t matter ’cause he only sipped it for show. He watched me. I watched him.
I accept the challenge from him, same as I accepted the challenges handed down by my father. In both cases they were not challenges to be turned down or avoided. They were tasks all about manhood, and of course they involved risks.
“I’m ’bout to turn the ignition. Insha’Allah . . .” was the most I could feel or think at the moment.
13. IDENTITY
“Uncuff him,” the lawyer said to the guard posted outside my hospital room the second she arrived. He did. “Please excuse us.” She dismissed him politely but with a tone that caused him to obey her. He exited, but went no farther than the front door, where he stood immediately outside. He was not the same officer who stood over me in the hospital waiting room this morning for three and a half hours. It was nighttime now and she was just arriving, looking hurried and slowly calming herself.
“We have the right to refuse medical treatment,” she said to me strangely. She was the one who had requested the court order that I be checked into a hospital. Why was she saying this now? I didn’t respond. “I want you to be aware of your rights,” she said.
“You have some legitimate—I mean real—injuries, so it was within my power to insist that you be examined at a hospital. However, I also wanted to slow down the process and have you and me get organized. A lot of crucial legal decisions are made in a hurry, without regard for the truth,” she said, and I understood. I took note of how she switched from using the word legitimate to her translation of the word into the simple real. Of course, I knew the word legitimate and did not need her to break it down for me. She didn’t know that, because she didn’t know me.
“Besides, believe it not, the food here is better than the jail food at Rikers Island, much better.” She seemed sure, as though she had eaten at Rikers, or observed or overheard the opinions of others eating at Rikers. I had eaten a bland but decent meal here in the hospital, challenging myself to lower my standards regarding food so that I could endure imprisonment.
“Baked chicken, mashed potatoes, and string beans—that’s what
you ate—and orange juice and water,” she said, making me aware that even when she is not present, she knows each of my actions and choices. “You didn’t eat the slice of chocolate cake,” she added and looked towards me as though she expected a reaction. It was nonsense to me, for her to care about such a small detail. I gave her no reaction. The truth is, I purposely didn’t touch that cake because it’s sugar. As I prepare to be locked away doing real time, I didn’t want to be enslaved to any addictions, like salt, seasonings, sugar, or food prepared with love and quality ingredients like I enjoyed every day at home, whether it was prepared by my Umma or either of my wives. I didn’t want to yearn for things. I would hold on to them in my memory, but not crave them. “Craving anything is a form of self-torture,” my sensei had taught me. “Letting go of your desires is the key to self-control in captivity. Even in living life as a free man, it is necessary that you have the ability to control your desires.”
She opened her briefcase, the one with the stickers plastered on the inside. It was fuller than it had been earlier in the day. She pulled out five thin books, more like pamphlets. “These are each books of names,” she said. I looked as she spread them across the table. “In case you decide to choose a new one for yourself,” she added. Her name books each had a different title: Spanish Names, French Names, Christian Names, Jewish Names, Muslim Names, African Names.
“It looks like you were hit in the head. Perhaps you don’t remember your name?” She stared at me. In her eyes was feminine strength. I was thinking carefully. Was she suggesting that I should say that I can’t remember because I was injured by the police? Was this some legal strategy that she needed me to follow, but that she wasn’t allowed to tell me straight out?
“From here forward, your fingerprints, your blood and urine samples, everything will be linked directly with the name that we place on your legal papers, at least until your parents or guardians show up, or an authority discovers and confirms something different. Do you understand?” she asked.
I was sitting still, but my mind was spinning faster than the rotation of the Earth. I had not identified myself to them, but now, they were creating an identity for me through my body fluids and prints.
“And this information that the system collects and compiles will follow you for the rest of your life,” she said. “Since you are a juvenile, or shall we say an adolescent,” she paused and looked again into my eyes, “there are cases where minors can have their records expunged. Hardly ever in the case of murder, but even if your misdemeanor charges are successfully expunged, it’s never actually erased.” She had me now. I did not know the meaning of the word expunged. I didn’t have access to a dictionary. I wouldn’t ask her to define it for me, either.
“I’m going to grab a coffee and I’ll be right back,” she said, leaving her opened briefcase on the table. She grabbed some coins from her purse and left her wallet as well. Another test, I knew. She had only been here for six minutes and it seemed that she had set up six different tests for me through each of her words and gestures, questions and actions.
Everything I had accomplished and avoided in my young life was now coming into the open. I realized she was correct. What I had working for me, though, was that this was my first and only arrest. I had never been a part of their legal system, or their school system or even their employment system. Even my job at Zhou’s fish market was a cash-only transaction. I got it when I was thirteen, from a Chinaman, who like most foreigners, such as myself, knew young people are capable and need to work, despite American ideas and laws forbidding it. I had never been hospitalized in America. There was no medical history for me. I had not been sick or even visited a hospital except for the time that Naja was born. Back then I didn’t sign anything. They only asked questions of Umma, and required her signature. True, I had translated their questions so that Umma could understand them, but Umma and I do not share the same last name. We are Sudanese, from the “Land of Fathers.” Each Sudanese person is identified through his or her father, grandfather, and great-grandfather. Umma’s first name is Sana. The name of her father is Safieldin. The name of her grandfather is Al Salam. The name of her great-grandfather is Saif. So her true name is Sana Bint Safieldin Abd Al Salam Saif. And the meaning is deeper than any nonbeliever could or would ever imagine or know. Sana means “splendor,” Safieldin means “pure religion,” Al Salam means “peace,” Saif means “sword.” And Umma is the splendor of pure religion, and Umma brings peace, and the sword, well we know that is so necessary to guard peace. Not one of Umma’s names, or the names of her fathers, is my name. My name is only the names of my fathers. On all documents that Umma ever signed in America, she used a combination of one of her four true names. Americans only require two names, first and last. Sometimes she was Sana Saif. Sometimes she was Sana Safieldin. Sometimes she was Sana Abd Al Salam. Sometimes she did not even use Sana, but a combination of the names of two of her fathers. We believed our true names, their meanings and depth, were wasted on Americans who couldn’t seem to properly pronounce any name or thing that was not English. Americans whose names mostly had no meaning or depth. I found that out in casual conversation. Ask an American his or her name and follow up by asking the meaning . . . and there is no meaning, at least not one that any of them knows. Other than my friends Chris and Ameer, I knew better than to ask any African Americans about their father. It was considered some type of intrusion or insult, and it was a question they honestly could not answer.
But there is Immigration! That thought exploded like a bomb in my mind. Umma and I had recently obtained citizenship. They required a thumbprint from me. We had also obtained passports. My true name was definitely registered on my passport, and the name of my mother was required there as well. They won’t check that far or look that deeply, I told myself. I desperately wanted to believe that. Yet, I knew now that it was my vulnerability, and it was a link that I had not considered.
They’ll see that my fingerprints don’t match anything or anyone in their criminal system or criminal records, and they will stop right there! I convinced myself. I reassured myself. I needed my thoughts to become facts. As long as there was no way for them to connect me to my Umma, I kept thinking and repeating that to myself.
Fuck it, I’ll choose a new name that cannot be traced back to my Umma, who I have to protect with my life. I’ll choose a name that completely separated me and severs any connection to my real life and true identity. I’ll choose a name that will follow me for my remaining time living on American soil. The name I choose will be for them. For those who I am certain will only ever see me as a murderer. My true name will remain the name known and used only by those who love me loyally and deeply. My true name will remain the name of my fathers, and most importantly, the name of my soul.
Renaming myself took effort. Even though it would not be my real name, I did not want the name of a fool, a clown, or a sucker. I thought about African Americans and the types of names they had. I needed my false name to sound American so they wouldn’t go searching through immigration records. Names of American entertainers and athletes kept circulating in my mind. Those were the things American blacks were known for.
“Michael Jordan,” I said aloud as I sat alone in the guarded hospital room. He has a father. He’s black-skinned like me. He plays ball like me. He’s a man of action, not a trash talker like most. He went at that game with a concentration and an energy that was unlike any other player. I admired that, to the fullest. More than that, I admired how he gave the game his all, is a champion in his own right, even without his team. He seemed real, faced the same challenges that any and every regular everyday man faced. I remember the game he played this year on April 20. It was against the Boston Celtics, starring three-time MVP Larry Byrd. Me and Ameer checked that game on his television. I remember the announcer saying, “Can one man beat the Celtics?” Referring to Michael Jordan, who is young, only a sophomore in the league and coming off of a foot injury, but up against some hefty com
petition and seasoned players. That’s how my life is. I’m just one young man up against some hefty circumstances and some dirty players, but I’m still pushing, working, fighting, and most of all believing solidly that I can win. Michael Jordan knew he couldn’t win by being like every other player or by playing the game the same way his opponents did. He was even comfortable looking like himself, styling his kicks and basketball shorts the way he needed to rock ’em and then reversing it, causing everybody to want to be like him instead. In that game Jordan scored sixty-three points, crazy! He had them Boston boys frustrated, afraid they were gonna lose on their home court, which had not happened to them for a long stretch. At the free throw line, he forced the game into overtime with his accuracy and skill. I smiled. Then I laughed. I loved the way he made them sweat. I loved the fear he put in their eyes. I loved the way he made them hustle hard so that even if they won over him, they had to fucking earn it. I loved the way even though Boston won that game, all everybody was talking about was Michael Jordan and the spanking he gave Boston. A whipping so severe, it was clear that even though they won, he was a force to fear in the future. He would become a record breaker. Even though Jordan was not more than seven feet tall like the veteran Wilt Chamberlain, he was swift, skilled, and accurate enough to break Wilt’s record-setting 100-point game. Young Michael Jordan was the future of absolute dominance. I smiled. That’s the name I’ll call myself, Jordan. I didn’t dig the name Michael, so I’d drop that. Yes, he’s a real man living a real life. He hit 63 points but still he didn’t win. I could relate to that. In his mind was probably the same type of thoughts I had moving in my mind at this very moment. Time to refresh, and reflect and strategize and train hard, and go hard, and hit ’em again. Maybe Jordan was watching the film of his game and thinking to himself, even though I did a tremendous performance, I see a few flaws that I need to clean up and fortify.
A Moment of Silence: Midnight III Page 17
