Gumbo

by E. Lynn Harris

RUNNING

  “So where do you go when you run?” I asked, looking into his eyes.

  “It depends on my mood,” he said, staring boldly back.

  “Explain.”

  He looked down for a second, as if gathering strength. “I run north on Thirteenth Street when I'm trying to remember—”

  “Remember what?” I asked interrupting.

  “When I'm trying to remember my roots and where I've been.”

  “And you run south on Thirteenth when . . .”

  “I run south when I'm trying to forget.”

  “What are you trying to forget, Lionel?” I asked, looking directly into his eyes. Waiting.

  “Shana, I believe in being completely honest, but I'm not ready to tell you that yet. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  We spent the rest of the afternoon lounging on Kelly Drive, where I took pictures of boats passing along the Schuykill River. As his hand came to rest on my thigh, I felt his heat combine with my own, and the result for me was almost orgasmic.

  Hincty

  BY KAREN GRIGSBY BATES

  FROM The Chosen People

  James Simpson Lee Hastings, Jr. was a chunk of the nineteenth century that had been vomited into the lap of the twenty-first. Simp Hastings; as he'd been known since his days at an East Coast boarding school, had been a moderately competent Boston accountant who had put himself on the mainstream media map by becoming the social arbiter of modern Negro society. His gossipy history of same, Chosen People, had briefly been on the New York Times bestseller list. Since then, Hastings had all but quit his day job to make the circuit, describing to innocent and unknowing white people Who Counts—and Who Doesn't—in black communities across the country.

  The West Coast swing of a speaking tour had landed him here in Los Angeles, at Ashanti Books, one of the country's biggest and best black bookstores. I'd dropped down to see, firsthand, what all the fuss had been about, and perhaps to get column out of it.

  My name is Alex Powell, and I am a journalist. I write a column for The Los Angeles Standard that runs in the Metro section on Thursdays and Sundays, and I'm always looking for good ideas.

  This, however, might not have been one of them. Simp Hastings' book had been the cause of considerable ire in several sectors of black communities across the country. Although many of the upper-crust black folks about whom Simp had chosen to write had resolutely refused to talk to him “If we keep quiet,” one Philadelphia doyenne had sniffed, “perhaps he'll just go away . . .” A few had cooperated and, augmented by a raft of eager wanna-bes, given him interviews. As a result, Chosen People spent several hundred pages chronicling the “I gots” of a certain kind of black person, and listing the Right Clubs and Organizations to which strivers should strive to belong.

  Some of the Negro Old Guard thought Simp suspect as well as traitorous. “Really,” grumbled one Chicago doctor; “who is he, anyway? I've never heard of him. My children have never heard of him.” A Charleston socialite from a family that had been living in that city for over 150 years simply sighed and said (to one of my aunts), “The bad part is, they get it wrong and we—myself included, I'm sorry to say—don't speak up and correct them when they do.”

  Black activists who'd struggled for decades to minimize class differences among us in the interest of developing a more progressive agenda that would benefit all of us were furious. They felt that Simp was ripping the scab off old hurts covering touchy issues such as skin color, hair texture, and the keenness of one's features. They bitterly mocked his now-trademark inquiry to every new acquaintance: “Do I know your people?”

  So here I was, at 7 P.M. on a rainy Monday night, crowded into a standing-room-only group of people who'd come to be given The Word from J.S.L. Hastings, Jr., as he was listed on the book's cover.

  The room seemed to be about equally divided between business-suited professionals and afrocentrically-dressed people in cowrie-tipped dreadlocks and clothes from the Motherland. The room quieted as Hastings stepped to the podium.

  “Good evening,” he began.

  His voice was high-pitched and boyish, like Mike Tyson's. But unlike Tyson's Bronx accent, Simpson's was a carefully-aped Locust Valley Lockjaw, a nasal, almost whiny voice, kind of like millionaire Thurston Howell III's had been, on Gilligan's Island.

  And instead of the onetime heavyweight champ's massive body, James Simpson Lee Hastings, Jr., was tiny, elfin. His skin was a deep, unattractive yellow—almost orange—as if he'd just gotten over a severe case of jaundice. His hair crunched in poorly suppressed waves all about his head. There was less of his chin than there should have been, proportionately speaking, and his nose stuck out of his flat-cheeked face like Pinocchio's.

  Hastings did possess two saving graces, however: He had a magnificent set of teeth—white, even and natural—and beautiful eyes that I'd seen change color from bright green to gold to light brown, depending on what he was wearing.

  Tonight they were greenish, and fairly snapping with excitement. And maybe just a little malice. Hastings shot his cuffs, straightened his tie, took a drink from the glass of flat mineral water that had been carefully placed at his elbow, and smiled out at the assembled.

  “Good evening,” he cooed to his audience, again.

  “Good evening,” the audience dutifully responded.

  “Whassup?” yelled some wag from the back.

  When the laughter subsided, Simp Hastings continued.

  “What's up, indeed? That's why we're here tonight, isn't it?—to discuss what is up with the depiction of black people in this country. For too long, the only images of us have been of happy slaves, buffoons, or criminals. Today when the media writes about ‘real black life,' it's always welfare mothers with eight children and no daddy, gangbangers, and crack addicts.”

  There were murmurs of assent from some in the audience.

  “Well, I'm sure those people do exist—I know they do—but those people are not my people. My people get up and go to work every day, and they are successful at what they do . . .”

  “Uh-hum,” a fiftyish lady in a burgundy tweed suit murmured, nodding in assent.

  “My people live in lovely homes, with original art on the walls and inherited silver in their sideboard drawers . . .”

  Two women my mother's age nudged each other as if to say “Finally!” while a young woman with expensively monogrammed everythings—purse, tote bag, shoes, and earrings—waved her hand, revival-style, in the air and said “Tell it!”

  “My people have been summering with other people like them, in the same places for decades . . .”

  “Hincty muthafucka,” snorted a man near me, shaking his head in disgust.

  “My people are not ashamed to have servants, and they know what to do with them . . .”

  Uncertain looks all around.

  “In short, my people have not been discussed by mainstream America, which has no idea we exist. Which is why I wrote Chosen People: I want America to know that we are here. I want us to take our rightful place in American society. I want people with money and taste and breeding to stop hiding these assets and to be proud of them. We should be proud: We are special. We are different. We are chosen. And now is our time to shine.”

  The room broke into vigorous applause from the people who felt strongly as Simp did. Others kept their hands in their pockets, frowning. Some people shook their heads, as if they couldn't believe what they were hearing. And about four folks simply got up and left.

  During all this, a white magazine journalist for the local monthly was scribbling furiously into his notebook. Clearly he'd never met or heard from anyone like JSL Hastings, Jr., and was fascinated.

  “Now, I could go on for hours,” Hastings chuckled. “My fiancée—who some of you out here may know; she has an M.D. and a J.D. from Yale and she's a medical correspondent for the Today show—Dr. Sheila Howe?—says I go on all the time. But I'll stop, because I'm sure you have questions, and I'd love to hear them. And answer
them.”

  So saying, he drank some more water, and looked over the rim of his glass at the audience. You could hear chairs squeaking as people shifted.

  “Come on, don't be shy! What's on your mind?—Tell me!”

  A tall, thin woman rose slowly. She was elegantly dressed, all in beige, with a cream-colored cashmere shawl draped gracefully around her shoulders.

  “What I'd like to know, Mr. Hastings, is this: Why?”

  He blinked.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Why bring all this up now? We've gone through so much as a people, this is such a hurtful subject for many in our community. Why do you insist on raising it?”

  Her voice was well modulated and confident. She was probably in her late sixties. Her gold bracelets jingled softly as she sat again.

  “Well, Mrs . . . ?”

  “Elton, Grace Elton.”

  “Oh my God—I cannot believe I'm talking to you, finally!” Simp squeaked. “Does anybody here not know who this is?”

  Many people looked at him as if saying “Duh—of course we do.” A few people shrugged, confused. They didn't remain unenlightened for long.

  “This is the wife of Dr. Howard Elton, one of the premiere civil rights activists in this city. Dr. Elton's father established the first black hospital in Los Angeles. You may be too young to remember any of this—I am, too, actually, but I did my homework: The hospital Dr. Elton senior started is now Los Angeles Municipal Children's Hospital.”

  Gasps of recognition.

  “You're exactly who I wanted to write about in this book!” Simp Hastings chided the woman old enough to be his mother. “You should have let me interview you!”

  Mrs. Elton rose again, and looked squarely at him.

  “I had no interest in being in your book, Mr. Simpson. Like my late husband, I feel strongly that if we are to move forward as a people, we have to concentrate on what binds us together, not focus on what could tear us apart. This book never should have been written. Or perhaps it should have been written—by someone else. I have no quarrel with a book that outlines the achievements of successful blacks, but this is not that book. This is merely a . . . a shopping list of things to have and to get, and a wretched catalogue of the worst snobberies and sillinesses some of our people insist on displaying. So I have become a Chosen Person: I have chosen to remove myself from any association with it at all. I wish some of the people who had decided otherwise had had second thoughts. And I pity you, Mr. Hastings. You have completely missed the boat on what being black means in this day and age.

  “I'm sorry,” Grace Elton turned and apologized to those around her; “I'm becoming a little emotional. I wish you all a good evening.”

  And, wrapping her shawl more closely around her, the chic Mrs. Elton picked up her purse and left to thundering applause.

  Simp Hastings wasn't fazed in the least.

  “Well,” he said, only a smidge huffily, “some people are still in denial about their station in life. Such a pity. She would have been fabulous to include. Other questions?”

  It went on for about a half hour, with varying degrees of civility: why had he included So-and-So but not Thus-and-So? Why hadn't he thought to include more cities in the Midwest? Would he consider, ever, doing a history of “the best sororities and fraternities? White folks need to understand we've had these organizations for years . . .” Was it true that he'd signed on as a consultant to a Movie of the Week about life on the East Coast's now-vanished black summer resorts?

  After the questions, Simp Hastings signed books for another half hour. Some people bought loads—one for themselves, several as presents. Many people bought them for their children “because they need to know this about us.”

  Toward the end, a big, burly brother with twists and a Malcolm X T-shirt came up to the signing table, leaned forward and said, softly:

  “We should be beyond this shit by now. It's niggers like you that are holding us back. You need to rethink your utility to the community, brother.”

  The menace in his voice was unmistakable.

  “I'll be sure to do that,” Simp said blandly as the angry man stalked out of the store.

  “What's with him?” wondered Logo Lady, who was having three books signed.

  “E-N-V-Y,” Simp said, looking at her knowingly. She nodded, and slipped the books into a stylish tote with a big metal G on its front.

  Hastings had promised a brief interview after all this was over to both me and the white guy from the city magazine, so we hung around waiting for the last person to receive a signed copy.

  Unfortunately for the remaining few, Ashanti had run out of books. Simp had sold seventy-five in thirty minutes.

  “Oh no!” one disappointed customer moaned. “I'd wanted to give one to my mother for her birthday.”

  “We're getting another shipment in two days,” the store owner assured her.

  “My mother's birthday is tomorrow,” the woman said stonily.

  The owner retreated to the cash register, muttering something about “last-minute Negroes who think they can just throw a present together when their mama's birthday is the same day, every year.”

  Disappointed Customer rolled her eyes at him.

  “Know what? I think I have a few extra in the back of my car,” Simp said. “Let me go out and look, and if I do, they're yours.”

  “Oh, would you? Thank you! Do I make the check out to you?”

  “Yes,” he called as he walked out into the misty night air. “I'll be right back.”

  Either he had a huge trunk or he was having trouble finding the books, because after ten minutes, Simp Hastings hadn't returned.

  “Maybe he's out having a smoke,” someone suggested.

  “Or making a call on his cell phone.”

  “Or,” said the bookstore owner, “he can't see. Those rental cars are notorious for leaving off as many of the essentials as possible. I'll bring him a flashlight.”

  He was back in forty-five seconds, looking ashen.

  “Call the police—now!” he snapped to his startled cashier.

  The few of us left in the store looked up.

  “Something bad has happened,” the bookstore owner said tersely. “Nobody go outside.”

  Which meant, of course, that everyone immediately did.

  Logo Lady started screaming at once. I pushed her aside to look, and wished I hadn't.

  There, on the ground, promised books in his outstretched hand, was James Simpson Lee Hastings, Jr., wearing an ear to ear grin.

  On his neck.

  To Haiti or To Hell

  BY ALEXS D. PATE

  Arrow stood on the bow of the Starry Eye as it hit the breakwater. He felt powerful standing there. If it would have borne his weight, he'd have stood on the very tip of the bowsprit. If he could, he'd stand there with his shirt open, his large brown chest with its thick nest of kinky coils the only protection from the salt spray, and ride the rolling power of the water below him. But even from this place, even sliding along the tranquil waters of this Tortuga Bay, he could feel the gentle bucking and bobbing of the ship as they approached port.

  He was ready to touch dry land. Much had happened since he'd last stepped foot ashore, and he had the booty to prove it. And although his crew was tense, he knew they were also satisfied that their adventures had returned a profit. Brethren of the coast, they were. Scallywags all. Arrow didn't like the word “pirate,” and refused to let that word be used in his presence. But regardless of what he called them, he knew what they were. They were out for themselves.

  Luckly, Arrow also knew who he was. If you made a mistake and crossed his path in free and open waters, then you'd better have a very fast ship or an army hidden in your hull. He straightened his crisscrossed leather sashes so that they intersected at the center of his chest, just below the cut in the neck of his shirt. Affixed on these sashes was a collection of razor-sharp throwing knives. Twenty in all. And no one could throw knives as quickly
and accurately as Arrow. That was how he'd gotten his name. He threw knives with an archer's skill. But faster. So fast that he could pepper a group of ten or twelve men with those darts in an eye's blink. So fast that men who witnessed his skill often turned on their heels. In shipboard fights, when he joined boarding parties, he could stand in one place and cause the ruin of a third of a small ship's company. Arrow would also carry and use his firearm, but by the time he got to his pistol, there would already be a handful of dead men lying about. He was the Black Arrow. A knife throwing terror who now sailed on his fastest ship yet, the Starry Eye.

  Arrow turned aft and headed amidships, ordering sails dropped and the anchor readied. Their journey was over. His strong voice danced about the decks, over the trouble he could feel brewing. Yes, they had come into some fortune and the crew was happy about that. But last night after they'd divided up the booty and each man received his share, and before the rum keg was opened, Arrow had announced his plans to sail to St. Domingo after a short stay in Tortuga. He knew they were uneasy about it, given the rumors about the revolution that was coming there.

  But there had been no way to have a deliberation about that then. Everyone had been too excited to be sailing into the port the next morning. They were almost giddy as the shares were divided. That spontaneous ceremony had graduated into a carnage of rum, petty fights, and loud singing. Now even he felt a little light-headed in the midday sun. He was ready for a good meal, some drink, and a standing bed. And he would present no strong argument to the first pretty woman who offered to join him there.

  His loins stirred with a force only a woman could tame. He looked forward to the surrender his body was determined to make.

  As with the end of every voyage he'd taken, there was a natural sadness that overtook the ship when the next port was sighted. Yes, everyone wanted to hit shore. Everyone wanted the same things, and most of those things were found on land. To the seaman dreams exist on land. The only reason to be engaged in the business of piracy was to get money so that life on land was better. Well, that wasn't entirely true. There were some, whom Arrow knew, who loved the sea more than anyone or anything else. On land, these men were hopeless drunks or beat-down husbands. But once the ship was under way they became crackerjack shipmates. Foisting and heaving and battling at the slightest need. But that wasn't what had driven Arrow to the sea, wasn't what had pushed him to the ostensible command of his crew of sixty-seven men. Oh, he loved the sea. He did. But it was a lucky thing that he loved it. He was there because it was the only place in the entire world where he actually was free.