Beyond Poetry

by Nathan Jarelle

  “So, what should I do?!” Junior asked. “If I go, I’m just as good as dead when I get back.”

  “I can’t answer that, Junior. That’s a tough one. But whatever you decide to do, this conversation never happened between us – let’s shake on that.”

  Brother Gay extended his hand out for Junior to shake. As they slapped skin, Junior’s teacher winked at him, leaving him on his own to make the decision. Thinking, deciding, Junior lifted his bookbag onto his shoulder and headed out of Medgar before he could be seen. As he neared the door of room 454, Brother Gay spoke once again.

  “Brother Junior,” he called to him. “New York is a beautiful city. Make the best of it.”

  Smiling, Junior disappeared down the back staircase undetected and slipped into Casey’s car in front of the school. As he approached her car tip-toeing like a cat burglar, Casey cocked her eyebrow at him before looking around for Sandy.

  “Yo J., where’s your mom?” she asked.

  “She said not to worry about it. She’ll see us when we get back.”

  “See us when we get back, huh?” Casey repeated. “Hmmm. Interesting…”

  “Yeah, she was uh, late for work. She told us to go ahead.”

  “…OK. Well. As long as she’s good with it that’s alright, I guess. We better get going.”

  At the Broad Street bus terminal, Junior and Casey boarded Greyhound Bus 808. Once inside, Junior stuffed his bookbag beneath his seat and piled next to Casey as she handed him an arrival and departure receipt. When Junior realized he wouldn’t get back to Brooke’s Rowe until after 8 p.m. that night, his eyes nearly blew from both sockets. Medgar generally let out around 3:20 which meant Sandy (or worse Senior) would be there to pick him up shortly afterward.

  “Shit, Casey!” he freaked. “It says we won’t get back to Brooke’s Rowe until after eight!”

  Pushing past Casey, Junior went to confront the bus driver.

  “Man, you sure this bus can’t get back to Brooke’s Rowe any quicker?!” he asked.

  The bus driver, who looked every part of Samuel L. Jackson from Die Hard: With a Vengeance, glared at Junior. The man then looked down at Junior’s big feet as Junior’s eyes soon followed down to the yellow line; one of Junior’s sneakers had breached the toe line. As Junior moved his foot back, the driver cranked the engine to his bus, keeping his eye on Junior until he returned to his seat next to Casey in the ninth row.

  “What is with you, Junior?” she laughed. “Who do you think you are? Barry Sanders or somebody? You almost knocked me over. Why are you so edgy this morning?”

  “Sorry, just a little nervous,” he said. “I promise, once we get moving, I’ll be fine.”

  “Good. You’re gonna have so much to tell your folks about when we get back!”

  Exhaling, Junior agreed. “Yeah, tell me about it…”

  Junior had seen images of New York on TV before, but he soon learned that New York on TV was nothing compared to New York in person. Just after noon, their bus passed the bright blue signage welcoming them to the Empire State. From the interstate, Junior saw some of the tallest buildings he had ever seen in his life. Next to his window in the opposite lane, was a green Dodge Minivan with New York plates. The driver was wearing a New York Yankees ball cap as he dangled his arm from the car window in the wintery air, unusual for a December day. The second he spotted the tall buildings lurking in the background, Junior forgot about his scheduled execution for later that evening. With the day ahead of them, he decided to spend his remaining hours immersed in his new favorite city.

  As Casey rode beside him, Junior leaned in to steal a kiss on her puffy cheek. Flabbergasted, she quickly jerked away. “Junior?! C’mon, don’t do that!” she gasped, blushing.

  “Sorry,” he apologized. “Just wanted to say thanks.” Reaching into his backpack, Junior cycled through some of his favorite rap cassettes, searching for the perfect listen as Casey looked down into his bag.

  “So, who is it today, J.?” she asked. “Eric B. & Rakim? Nas? Biggie Smalls? The Roots?”

  Junior popped open the deck on his Walkman to show Casey a single from Bone Thugs-N-Harmony.

  “Man, you can’t understand shit they say! They rap too fast for me!”

  “I know, but it sounds so good!”

  With his Walkman blasted high, Junior cracked open his window and took a whiff of the cool New York air. Emerging from the Lincoln Tunnel, Junior saw a glut of city cabs and buses at every street corner, just like at home. But Philly traffic was nothing compared to New York traffic – not even close. There were enough traffic lights at each street corner to fill every Christmas tree back on Kennedy Street. In a one-mile radius, Junior thought he saw nearly every ethnicity. Back in Brooke’s Rowe, Black and Puerto-Rican families dominated the ghetto genre with a sprinkle of poor white folk.

  Somewhere near Times Square, a pre-Christmas parade was taking place for a group of elementary school children. Junior leaned out of his seat to catch a glimpse of Cookie Monster and Big Bird waving to a crowd of kindergarteners as they waved back. A few lights down, a man dressed as Superman braved the cold in a pair of blue tights. Meanwhile, Batman took on Joker in a corny Kung-Fu exhibition to the cheer of a festive holiday crowd. Above it all, light snow trickled from a white sky. Junior wondered if heaven was anything like New York City. Back home, the only exhibitions Junior saw were cops slamming a man’s head into the ground or junkies tripped out on dope.

  When their bus arrived at Rockefeller Plaza in Midtown Manhattan, Junior rushed off to get a look at the Christmas tree. The fifty-foot-tall tree towered so high, it hurt his neck to look up. Adults, some with their children, were dressed in ugly Christmas sweaters as they glided across the ice in skates, some twirling magnificently. The bus driver told his riders to be back no later than 5 p.m. to depart for Philly at the scheduled time.

  Junior stood near a wall, admiring a gang of ice skaters as they floated by him, waving as a crowd of visitors gathered to cheer them on. Back when Lawrence was around, he and Junior would go to a school not far from the house to sled down a hill with the other North Philly kids when it snowed. They didn’t own a sled, but Senior allowed them to take the trash lids from out back, provided the boys returned them to the house. At the school, the neighborhood kids would make a makeshift ramp that would send them hurling into the air and into a batch of snow. The sledding came to a stop when Junior and Lawrence lost their lids.

  As Junior watched the group of skaters, in awe of New York’s Christmassy bliss, Casey offered to rent him a pair of skates for twenty dollars.

  “Casey, black people don’t ice skate!” he laughed. “Don’t they have any lids?”

  “Lids?!” she asked. “I’m black too, fool! And we’re not in North Philly anymore – we’re in Manhattan – and don’t you believe that! Black people can do whatever black people wanna do as long as they don’t worry about what other black people think about them. Here, take this.”

  As Casey handed Junior a crisp twenty, he challenged her to join him.

  “OK, but you gotta do it with me, Casey,” he negotiated. “I ain’t going by myself.”

  “Look negro, my fat ass is not gettin’ on that ice!” she laughed. “Not for all these people to see me! Besides, I’m rusty. If I fall, I might break the ice. I’ll fall right down to hell. It’ll be a shit show. I won’t be allowed back in New York. Hell, I might get kicked out of the country!”

  Junior used Casey’s wit against her. “Black people can do whatever black people wanna do as long as black people…”

  “Oh, shut up!” she interrupted. “Gimmie the damn money! And don’t be laughin’ at me!”

  Junior had never seen ice except for when it snowed back in Brooke’s Rowe. The second his feet touched the glassy surface, he went down. As he tried to get up, he went down again…and again. Casey fell once on her big butt but managed to recover as she glided down the ice, twirling like a beached whale on skates. She then went over to Junior
to encourage him as he went down a fourth time. Frustrated, he crawled back to the bench, ducking incoming traffic before ripping off his skates and placing them next to his soggy socks. After a few minutes, Casey skated over to him, spraying him in the face with chipped ice from her blades.

  “Fuck it, man.” Junior shook his head.

  “Yo, just take your time,” she stumbled. “Don’t give up, OK? Look, we came up here to have fun, right? So, let’s have a good time. C’mon, we’ll hold hands.”

  Cussing, pouting, Junior put back on his skates and braved the ice as he held onto Casey. As he reached out for her gloved hand, she grabbed onto his, teaching him the basics of footwork and balance. It took a while, but Junior got it. On wobbly legs, he began to smile as Casey wrapped her arm around his waist, gliding beside him.

  “See!” she laughed. “I told you! Look, you’re doing it!”

  As his stumbles minimized, Junior melted into a sweet laugh next to his best friend. “So, how’d you get so good?” he asked.

  “My sister taught me.”

  Holding hands, the two bladed slow and steady across the ice, soaring gingerly. Over-confident, Casey tried to dance and fell. As Junior began to laugh, his karma followed and he landed on top of her. Embarrassed, Casey laughed loud enough for all of New York to hear. After floating around a bit more, the two returned their skates to the rental booth, slipped on their tennis shoes, and returned to the viewing area. As they enjoyed their festive afternoon in Manhattan, admiring the glow of Christmas decorations and seasonal holiday colors, Casey sat Junior on a nearby bench to share her heart.

  “I got a confession to make, J.,” Casey told him. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about. I don’t know how this is gonna go, so bear with me.”

  Turning to face her, Junior tuned in.

  “So, look, I got offered a new job. I won’t be in Philly much longer. Couple more weeks or so into January, but I’m gonna be moving in with my sister, Courtney. She’s got a townhouse over in Fort Foote – not far from here.” Casey grabbed Junior by his hands and looked into his eyes.

  “Listen, this isn’t an easy decision to make – you’ll need to talk it over with your folks, and there’s a lot more to it – but I’ll just say it anyway,” she continued. “So, there’s this… school in my sister’s neighborhood. It’s privately run, but I think it’d be perfect for you. They take kids all year. All you need is a New York address, and you’re good.” She paused to catch her breath. “I was thinking…maybe…you know…you’d like to come and live with us? You know? For school?”

  Taken aback, Junior swallowed. “…So, you mean like, you wanna adopt me or something?” he asked.

  “Not adopt you-adopt you,” Casey explained. “You’ll still go home on the weekends. But during the week, you can crash with us for school. My sister, Courtney, she’s on board with it. You’d have to get used to living with two women, but I already talked to her about it before I asked you. I’d just need to know if Mr. and Mrs. Robinson could agree to that. What do you think – are you interested? Would you like to come and live with me?”

  Junior looked into Casey’s green eyes and saw his deceitful reflection looking back at him: His parents had no idea that he had just finished ice skating in New York. Unbeknownst to Casey, she was harboring a fugitive on the run from justice. In theory, New York was an opportunity of a lifetime. For Junior, however, getting his parents to agree to terms on a joint residency would be a tall order as the Robinsons seldom agreed on which roach spray to buy or what gas to use in the cars. Not to mention, in the year since Lawrence had passed, Junior’s family had become a tight ship. Not only had Sandy become overprotective of him, but Junior was also Senior’s right-hand man for his handyman business. He was also the buffer between his parents to keep their marriage from collapsing after being held together with a safety pin for the last year. For Junior, leaving Brooke’s Rowe meant his parents would lose another son. As he flirted with the idea inside his head, he soon came to the reality that living in New York beside Casey was a pipe dream.

  “I’d love to live with you, Casey,” said Junior. “But there ain’t no way my parents would let me stay here in New York. Then, I think about Lawrence and it’s like… I don’t know – I feel like I don’t deserve all of this sometimes. I guess I’m just bound to Brooke’s Rowe, you know?”

  Casey became angry with Junior, angrier than when he had taken his daddy’s .38.

  “Yo!” she barked. “You are not bound to anything, J., and you damn sure ain’t bound to fuckin’ Brooke’s Rowe! Brooke’s Rowe is where you live, but it’s not who you are. Even if you don’t ever come back to New York, I don’t want to ever hear you say some dumb shit like that again. You hear me?” She raised her voice. “Do I make myself clear?”

  “I didn’t mean to make you upset, Casey,” Junior explained. “But it’s just a reality for kids like me in a Crawford or a Brooke’s Rowe situation. It is what it is, you know?”

  “No, it’s not!” She leaped from her seat. “It’s not, OK? You’re not bound to Brooke’s Rowe. That’s stuff that’s inside your head that we need to get rid of. Man, you can go any damn where in the world, Junior! All you need is a plane ticket and some hope,” she carried on. “I’ve seen you write – I’ve seen you dream – I’ve seen you come up with poetry that no other fourteen-year-old kid has ever done in my life, J. I’ve lived in the ghetto longer than you’ve been alive. I’ve been around that mentality my whole life. I’m here to tell you that you can break these curses right now if you want to. OK?”

  As Casey rejoined hands with Junior, he took a deep breath.

  “Just think about it for me?” she asked him. “Can you at least just think it over?”

  “Sure, Casey.” He smiled. “I’ll think it over.”

  But Junior did more than just think about Casey’s invitation that day. He internalized what it would be like to live with Casey. In his mind, he felt unworthy of such a tender soul willing to take him under his wing and wondered if he was even good enough for the opportunity. Off in the distance, a tower clock nearby read 1:36 p.m. Two hours had passed since they arrived at Rockefeller Center. With their stomachs grumbling, they traded in their skates for a bite to eat.

  To change gears, Casey offered him to lunch at the exquisite BuBoy’s Café & Lounge on the corner of West 44th and 7th Avenue. Through a glass elevator that glowed green and red, Junior followed Casey to the top floor. At the door, a hostess eyeballed Junior with suspicion as Casey requested a table with a window seat. The woman looked Junior up and down as he played the role of a civilized adult.

  “He’s my little brother,” Casey giggled. “He just turned eighteen...it’s his birthday.”

  Sharing a small booth, Junior and Casey sat overlooking the city from the nineteenth story. Peering into the snowy air, Junior wondered what Lawrence would have thought of New York. He thought about Brother Gay back in Medgar, wondering if his new teacher could keep a secret. He thought about the other kids from his neighborhood and imagined how different life would look if they could gaze down at the world from the nineteenth floor.

  For lunch, Casey treated Junior to a delicious ham, egg, and cheese melt with hot chocolate and marshmallows. Out in the lobby, next to the hostess stand, a pianist softly tickled Claude Debussy’s “Clair de Lune”, to Casey’s delight. Enjoying the serenity, she closed her eyes and swayed from side to side, sipping on her toasty latte. Junior couldn’t believe the genius of the artist behind him. He watched as the man’s fingers raced crazily across the piano in unison, each digit responsible for dishing out its melodic tune. He glanced down the other end of the street, staring out at the World Trade Center’s huge structure off in the distance; he wished the day would never end.

  Sometime after 2:30 p.m. on a crowded New York Street, Casey flagged down a cabbie for their next excursion.

  “So, where to now?” Junior asked her. “Empire State Building?

  “Even b
etter,” she told him. “While sitting in BuBoy’s, I realized seeing the Empire State Building only gives you a view of New York. But this school I’m about to show you, J.,” she touched his arm, “will allow you to see the world.”

  Casey handed the taxi driver a ten-dollar bill.

  “Driver, Langston Hughes School of Art, please.”

  Don’t drown in your miseries.

  Paddle your fears.

  Kick your legs. Tread the bayous

  of your subconscious.

  Survive the wave and float to shore sure.

  —LEONARD G. ROBINSON JR.

  Eleven

  From the cab window, the Langston Hughes School of Art in New York was a stark contrast to any school Junior had ever seen. The tall and immaculate structure looked like a minimall from the outside with large stone-cut walls and elegant landscaping. Unlike Medgar, no gamblers were loitering near the entrance to give Junior and Casey a warm welcome. As their cab arrived at the front of the building, Junior stepped out onto the campus driveway, removed his hat, and held it against his heart as if someone had died.

  The inside of Langston was nothing short of breathtaking. In the middle lobby was a small reflection pool with a running fountain, and a bust of the late, great writer and influencer. Next to Hughes was a collection of his embroidered poetry and passages. Junior’s favorite, “The Negro Artist and the Racial Mountain” was encased at the bottom of the pool along with the hopes and dreams of the students there. Unbeknownst to Junior, Casey had arranged for a tour that afternoon with a school recruiter. While waiting in the lobby, Casey handed Junior a shiny nickel from her bag and asked him to make a wish. Taking forever and a day, Junior closed his eyes, made his wish, and launched his dream into the pool. Casey doubled his wishes with a dime.

  “What is this place?” he asked her. “It’s incredible.”

  Pleased with his enthusiasm, Casey placed her hand onto Junior’s shoulder.