Slave Day

by Rob Thomas

  “He says ‘ask’ instead of ‘axe,’ but more than that, he’s a people person! Get him a contract!”

  Uh-oh, they’re calling for the Speller. That means it’s time to find something to make myself look busy. I walk up to the microphone, switch it off, and try to say something to the crowd. I look all baffled ’n’ shit and try tapping the microphone, but since it’s off, it still makes no sound. I kinda shrug my shoulders. By now Trailer Parks is into his routine, but I’ve gone over to the soundboard, and I’m kinda scratching my head, looking real serious. I turn some knobs about the time the Speller is into the big ending. I hop back up on the stage, switch the microphone back on, and say, “Testing, one … two … three.” My voice goes booming out over the crowd.

  I haven’t pissed off the misfit Speller fans. I haven’t pissed off the cheerleaders. And, I’ve made myself look like some sort of technical sound wizard. Yeah, Priscilla, tell me ’bout politics.

  Before I start the assembly, I scan the crowd. It looks like the same number of black folk I always see. Then, I spot him. In the very back row, looking like he wants to move back to Africa—Keene Davenport. Now I hafta laugh. Brotha couldn’t even convince himself to stay home.

  Denhart gives me the signal. It’s time to start. I clear my voice and lean into the microphone.

  “Are you ready for Slave Day!?”

  Cheerleaders herky. Drummers in the band pound their snares. The crowd shouts something back that I take as “Yes, Shawn. Please proceed.”

  “Well, all right then. I know you know how this works, but Mr. Gant wants me to remind you about the rules.” (The scattered boos I expected come now.) “First of all, five dollars is the minimum bid, except for the teachers. For them, we’ll take whatever we can get.” (A few laughs.) “Second, Slave Day lasts from the end of the assembly to the end of the bonfire just before midnight. No taking your slave home with you tonight.” (I wag my finger accusingly at the crowd. There’s more booing, plus some fool shouts, “I love you, Madonna.”) “Slaves will be dismissed five minutes early from class so that they can be waiting for their masters at their masters’ classrooms. Slaves will also be allowed five extra minutes to arrive in class. The last rule is that you can’t ask your slave to do anything illegal or against school rules.” (Assorted boos and aaahs.)

  “First we’ll auction off the teachers, then all the student council members in alphabetical order. Get those wallets out, ’cuz here we go.”

  MR. TWILLEY

  9:41 A.M. Assembly period, gymnasium

  “Marc! It’s good to see you up here. We’ve needed some fresh blood. These students are getting tired of the same ol’, same ol’,” says Mr. Tristan, the geometry teacher and NHS sponsor.

  “Marcus,” I say.

  “Mmm, that’s right.” Tristan examines his fingernails, crosses his legs back toward Denhart, and strikes up a new conversation.

  Am I really expected to converse with a teacher whom students refer to as the Candy Man? He makes those NHS students sell Skittles for most of the first semester. Now, if students aren’t supposed to eat in the classrooms, why do we allow clubs to sell candy at school?

  Mrs. White, the typing teacher, leans toward me. “Isn’t that Shawn Greeley the sweetest boy? Have you ever had him in class?”

  “Last year. Made a seventy-nine.” This answer doesn’t seem to please her, so I go on. “But he was certainly polite.”

  “I just think he will go as far as he sets his mind to. He’s such a handsome boy, bright, respectful, and so athletic. The other kids seem to really like him too,” White says.

  “Wit that can creep, and pride that licks the dust,” I say, sure she will catch neither the drift nor the theft of Pope’s words.

  Greeley is explaining the rules of Slave Day, making the most of the spotlight. Maybe this is progress. When I first started teaching at Lee, a black student-body president was unimaginable. I just wish the first one was more of a thinker. Greeley was an adequate student, but he couldn’t be accused of intellectualism. Seemed to have a bee in his bonnet. Then again, we’ve had plenty of white presidents who couldn’t even manage to pass my class.

  Denhart’s the first faculty member up for auction. He sashays to the front of the stage like he’s a runway model balancing a book on his head, turning, pivoting, staring off vacantly. The students laugh. Then he flexes and poses in bodybuilder fashion. This almost makes me chuckle, as Denhart’s an exceptionally slight young man. Greeley opens the bidding, and the students all seem to raise their hands at once. Bidding wanes only after the figure goes above ten dollars. Eventually a senior boy, one of Esther’s best students last year, wins out with a twenty-two-dollar bid. Tristan goes for ten to his National Honor Society president.

  I’m up next.

  TOMMY

  9:45 A.M. Assembly period, gymnasium

  One thing I’ll say about the Hats, they waste little time savoring a moment. When I make my way back into the stands, Rid tells me I didn’t point my toes on the L. “The Romanian judge gave you a six,” he adds. “When you gonna learn that backflip that Delgado used to do?” I see a bunch of bills and brims bobbing at this comment. Delgado was the Speller two years ago, the lowest of the low riders, and something of an acrobat.

  “After you learn ta let the sheep out the gate ’stead o’ forcin’ ’em through the fence.”

  “Bite me, Trailer.”

  “Lookin’ fer love … in all the wrong places,” I croon back at him.

  By the way. Case I didn’t mention it. Some people—all right, most people—call me Trailer instead of Tommy. Trailer Parks. Get it? Pretty funny, huh? Even teachers have slipped up and called me Trailer.

  Speaking of teachers, they’re starting to auction them off now. I betcha I can guess every teacher who volunteered to be a slave. It’s always the same ones. I just can’t believe someone is gonna blow twenty bucks buying any of ’em for the day. Shit, that’s a full tank of gas. Plus, I doubt those kiss-asses even make the most of it. Make ’em sing the alma mater, maybe. Call ’em by their first name. Oooh, not that!

  Wait a minute. Is that Mr. Twilley up there? What’s that rat bastard thinking? That someone here likes him? Not likely since his wife left. Apparently she didn’t think much more of ’m than the rest of us. That sumbitch failed me for the year with a sixty-eight, and I busted my ass in there. All right, I busted my ass for the last six weeks, but most teachers let you slide if they see you working hard. Not Mr. History. He probably beats off, thinking about turning in failing grades.

  All right, Twilley’s up. This oughtta be rich.

  MR. TWILLEY

  9:47 A.M. Assembly period, gymnasium

  Dead silence.

  Dead silence turning into uncomfortable dead silence. I hear tittering and realize it’s coming from behind me. From the teacher section. Et tu, Brute.

  Greeley makes a new pitch.

  “Come on, let’s see some hands. This is probably your only chance to get your way with Mr. Twilley. Remember, there’s no minimum bid on teachers.”

  Now the students start laughing. I try to think of students who might bid on me. They would have to be A students. Students who understood that all the hard work serves a purpose. Every year I get a letter or two from former students saying, “Mr. Twilley, I didn’t realize at the time why you were so tough on us, but now that I’m in college …” So where are those students now? Surely one or two see the logic behind the pop quizzes, all the reading, the research papers.

  Greeley visits Denhart, unsure of what he should do in this situation. The crowd is in hysterics, but somehow I’m detached, analytical. It was never my aim to be a popular teacher, just respected. Like Churchill, I offer my blood, toil, tears, and sweat. Is that not enough? Is that not worth a dollar or two?

  I wouldn’t have thought it was possible, but the noise level just got perceptibly louder. I look down and see Thomas Parks—sixty-eight last year, though he almost saved the day—striding toward th
e stage. I have no earthly idea what he’s up to.

  TOMMY

  9:48 A.M. Assembly period, gymnasium

  It’s moments like this that keep me comin’ to school. I mean, I don’t know what the geezer was thinkin’ when he volunteered for Slave Day, but he sure’s gonna get more ’n he bargained for.

  “Make way! Clear a path!” I say as I work my way down to the floor again. Now, someone really should stop me from what I’m about to do, but if it’s one thing I’ve learned: If you look like you know what you’re doin’, no one messes with you. The further I get out onto the gym floor, the louder the carryin’-on gets. I hop up on the stage and move toward Twilley. For a second, I catch his eye. I expect to see confusion, but what I see instead makes me want to laugh. He’s scared.

  I stroll around him, stroking my chin, sizin’ him up like he’s a used car. I kick one of Twilley’s shoes like it’s a tire. Mr. Tristan’s laughin’ so hard, I think he’s gonna have a coronary. Twilley’s got this crooked expression on his face. I think he’s tryin’ to play along, so what the hell. I reach up to his jaw, and before he figures out what I’m doin’, spread his lips apart and check his teeth. The crowd roars, but I see Denhart start walking toward me. My time’s about up, so quicker’n you can spit, I dig a handful of change out of my pocket, lean into the microphone, and bid.

  “A dollar fourteen,” I shout.

  “Sold!” shouts that black dude who’s always on the microphone.

  Twilley just stands there starin’ out at the crowd. I’d swear he was vibrating. I know it sounds weird, but he looked like one of those players in old-timey electric football ’cept he wasn’t moving anywhere. I figure that—since he’s my property—I oughtta deal with it.

  “You can sit now,” I tell ’m.

  BRENDAN

  9:49 A.M. Assembly period, gymnasium

  I’m in trepidation mode. Total, moby trepidation mode. That’s going to be me, but with a five-dollar minimum bid, nobody’s gonna want to bid on me—even as a joke. I thought about giving Lloyd five dollars so he could make an offer, just in case no one else would. Now, I wish I’d followed up on that.

  KEENE

  9:49 A.M. Assembly period, gymnasium

  See now, that just proves my point. They try to tell us that Slave Day has nothing to do with race, that it’s not a parody of that “ugly chapter” in American history. What they’re really doing is glossing over it, making it funny. Just like Hogan’s Heroes made yucking it up in a Nazi prisoner camp look like a frat party—Slave Day does the same thing with a few hundred years’ worth of suffering. Trailer Parks checks Mr. Twilley’s teeth, and everyone here thinks it’s the funniest thing they ever saw. But that’s what they really used to do. That was real life!

  It doesn’t look like my letter had any kind of effect. Every black face present and accounted for. There’s Laurence sitting down there with the debate team, laughing like he doesn’t have a care in the world. His life is right on schedule: valedictorian, then Ivy League, med school, house in a prestigious suburb, summers at the Inkwell.

  And I sit up in the audience like some old plantation-house nigger, my silence looking like acceptance of the status quo.

  But what can I do? They’ve started auctioning off the student council members now. Shawn Greeley has the crowd eating out of his hand. Laughing at his jokes. Settling down when he gives ’em a stern look. They look up there, see a brother running the show, and suddenly everything’s hunky-dory. Wanna play “Dixie” as the school song? Bully. Of course, it’s dandy to wave all these Confederate flags around. Sure, let’s name the school for a general who tried to keep an entire race in chains. Why not? This is the South, y’all. Shawn Greeley doesn’t seem to mind, and isn’t he popular? Don’t we all love to watch him play basketball? Don’t we all love to watch him? … wait a minute.

  SHAWN

  9:52 A.M. Assembly period, gymnasium

  Some ugly shit goes down on Slave Day. It’s entertaining in the same way as those blood films in drivers ed are—just watching who bids on who. All the dark, hidden secrets bubble their way up to the surface. Rumors, crushes, jealousies—they all emerge from the depths. Now, most of the bidding is done by girlfriends for boyfriends and vice versa, or friend for friend, but lots of times, folks just be biddin’ to dis each other. Ex-girlfriends bid on boys to piss off current girlfriends. Or worse: Current girlfriends bid on ex-girlfriends just so’s they can demean ’em all day.

  Eventually it’s my turn, so Priscilla takes over the auctioning part. I stand up at the front of the stage, but I don’t do any of that wacky posin’ stuff that Denhart and some of the goofier council guys try. I’m Mr. Laid-Back.

  This light-skinned sophomore girl gets in that all-important opening bid—not that I was worried, ya understand. She’s cute, but I’m hoping for somethin’ major-league. Then bids start coming from everywhere. Couple teachers even stay in through the ten-buck range. Coach Preppernau stays in through fifteen. Finally it gets down to three major players: Humphrey Brown, LaTisha Caldwell, and Carla Strahan.

  Humphrey’s probably my best friend ’cept it seems like we hardly see each other anymore. In junior high we were like the biggest rivals. He was still playing basketball and I still played football. Now he QBs the Rebs, and he’s always gone on weekends on recruiting trips. Last weekend they flew him up to Penn State. The week before it was Michigan. Says he’s gonna get outta the South no matter what.

  LaTisha and I hung out off ’n’ on last year. She’s fine ’n’ all that, but she kept asking for more from me. “More what?” I’d say, but she’d shake her head and come back with “You just don’t get it.” But I get it, all right. I just ain’t willin’ to part with it. Then one day she tells me she’s late.

  I say, “Late for what?”

  She just says “Late.”

  … hello. “Late late, you mean?”

  “Yeah,” she says.

  So for four days I’ve got the mornin’ sickness. I’m throwin’ up. I can’t eat. I keep picturin’ the sentence in the media guide. “Shawn’s two-year-old, Shawn Jr., lives with the child’s grandmother in Deerfield.” Then they’d run a quote sayin’ how much bein’ a father has matured me. Damn if that ain’t a tired story. Day LaTisha got her period I went down to Roscoe’s and got, like, two pounds o’ brisket. I hadn’t noticed how hungry I was. We didn’t see each other much after that. I heard she was seein’ some Kappa Alpha Psi up at Central. Guess that’s through.

  Now Carla, she’s the toughest chick I know. You know how most white girls will get drunk and pull you into some closet at a party or somethin’? Then act like it never happened? Carla ain’t like that. She’s a player. Or a liberal. Same thing in my book. Anyway, she doesn’t even care that ’bout half the white guys in school won’t touch her ’cuz she’s dated a couple brothas.

  Man, any o’ the three of ’em, and I’d be set. I’m pretty sure Humphrey’ll drop out o’ the biddin’, and shore ’nuff, at eighteen bucks, he’s through. So LaTisha and Carla are going back ’n’ forth a dollar at a time. I don’t know why some of the fine girls say getting auctioned makes ’em feel cheap. To me, it’s a rush. I decide to flash a few teeth while they up the pot.

  “Twenty-one dollars.”

  “Twenty-two.”

  “Twenty-three.”

  Then I hear it, and I know ’zactly who said it. My day has just been shot to hell.

  “Thirty!”

  Keene Davenport wants me to be his slave.

  KEENE

  9:53 A.M. Assembly period, gymnasium

  I wait to see if either of those girls are gonna go any higher, but I don’t hear another bid. Oh man, this is sheer genius. The fact that I’m keepin’ Shawn from spending the day with one of Lee’s loveliest just frosts the cake. The vice president girl is taking a long time waiting for higher bids. She keeps lookin’ over her shoulder at Shawn, but he’s holding firm to that “nothing fazes me” face o’ his. At least he’s lost
the lawn-jockey grin. Finally she closes the deal. “Thirty dollars is the bid. Going once. Going twice. Sold!”

  Question is, Where am I gettin’ this hypothetical thirty dollars?

  I know. I spot Laurence’s moon face turned around gawking at me. I raise my eyebrows, and he knows immediately what’s up. He shakes his head no, but I’m sure he’s got the cash on him. I make my way down the bleachers to where he’s sitting with the master debaters.

  “Guess if you can’t beat ’em …,” he says when I reach his row.

  “How much cash you got on you?”

  “None. You’re not gonna catch me ridin’ this metaphorical bus of oppression,” he says. His geeky friends squeal and giggle.

  “You’re gonna be ridin’ my foot up your butt if you don’t open up that wallet of yours.”

  “Ghandi, King, Davenport—our esteemed leaders in nonviolent resistance.”

  “I’m gonna count to three,” I say. “One … two …”

  “Tell you what,” Laurence says. “I’ll give you the cash if you stay away from me for the rest of the day. Better yet, until you graduate. People are starting to think we’re related.”

  “That’s it?” I say. Like I really want to hang with Laurence, anyway.

  “Yeah. Besides, I’m tired of watching Shawn scam his way onto the honor roll. It devalues it for those of us who really belong there.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Be careful,” he says as he takes the money out of his wallet. “He may forget how friendly he’s supposed to be after you snake a day with Salt ’N’ Pepa away from him.”

  CLINT

  10:10 A.M. Assembly period, gymnasium