by Omar Tyree
Polo said, “Yeah, if you fly out by like, eight, then I can drive you back over to the airport after work.”
Shareef continued to nod to him as he climbed out.
“Aw’ight, I’ll call you up.”
As he walked to the entrance of the hotel, Polo continued to stare at his friend’s back, knowing better. He shook his head and mumbled,
“That nigga ain’t gon’ listen. That’s just what makes him Shareef.” Then he started his jeep back up and drove off.
SHAREEF CLOSED and locked the door to his hotel room and fell out across the bed near the window. He looked up at the ceiling and pondered his fate. His decision had already been made. He couldn’t leave Harlem. The streets would have to force him to leave. And it didn’t matter what his friends had to say about it. Because Harlem had a story to tell, and a good writer had to write it.
Walking the Walk
THE FIRST THING THAT MORNING, Shareef called up his grandparents over in Morningside Heights.
“Shareef. What are you doing up this early?” his grandmother asked him.
It was just after seven in the morning.
He grinned and said, “Come on, Grandma, I’m always up early. I’ve been up early my whole life.”
“So what are you trying to say? I’m getting senile already? Is that it?”
“No, I’m not saying that at all. I’m just stating the facts. I’ve always been an early riser. But anyway, I’m just calling to say that I’m on my way over there to visit you guys at the house this morning.”
His grandmother became hysterical.
“What? You’re back in New York? And you didn’t tell nobody?”
“I’m telling you now,” he argued.
“Well, how long have you been here?”
Shareef chuckled, knowing that he was in for it.
“Come on, out with it,” his grandmother pressed him.
He said, “I got in Tuesday night.”
“And it’s now Thursday morning. That’s just my point,” she told him. Then she called his grandfather. “Charles, Shareef’s on his way over here! So get yourself together!”
Shareef shook his head and couldn’t wait to see them.
AS EARLY AS at 8:32 that morning, Shareef was dressed, groomed, fully alert, and already walking west on 122nd Street toward his grandparents’ brownstone home off Amsterdam Avenue. When he reached Morningside Park, he analyzed how the natural boundary and height separated Columbia University from the rest of Harlem. The school and the established neighborhood that surrounded it sat way up on the hill.
Shareef loved walking through Morningside Park because it felt like a nature hike right there inside the urban jungle. Central Park gave him that same feeling, but Morningside was closer, and his grandparents lived there, which made it more relevant to him.
Once he had made his way through the park and up to Morningside Drive, the economics of Harlem became crystal clear. The City College of New York was separated from the lower parts of Harlem in the same way, divided by St. Nicholas Park. And so was the celebrated neighborhood of Sugar Hill, up above Jackie Robinson Park. Was it all by accident? Hell no! It was aristocratic architecture. The civil engineers of America had always taken such natural boundaries into consideration. In the game of housing and property value, prime land was tagged with prime prices.
So Shareef paid extra attention to all the fabulous brownstone homes he passed that morning before he reached his grandparents’ home, a place that had cost him close to seven hundred thousand dollars on an absolute steal. The seller had decided that he loved Charles and Wilma Pickett so much, and with them coming so close to being able to afford the place with the help of their famous grandson, that he was honored to let them buy it for less than the asking price, knowing they would treasure the home and maintain its value. And they did, becoming the sweethearts of the neighborhood with their morning walks.
Shareef rang the doorbell that morning and was proud all over again of his decision to move his grandparents up on the hill to Morningside.
His grandfather answered the door in a tan jogging suit and soft tennis shoes. He said, “Are you sure you weren’t in the military in your past life, Shareef? Because you’re always on time.”
Shareef laughed and said, “Maybe I was,” and stepped inside. He wore gray sweats and athletic kicks himself.
The tall ceilings, crown moldings, and hardwood floors of the foyer were all reminders of old-world design, and made the brown-stones more valuable.
Shareef said, “I forget how nice this place is.”
His grandfather responded, “We don’t. We thank the good Lord every day for you and for all the good fortune you’ve brought us.”
“Aw, you know how I feel about that, Grandpop. It was what I was supposed to do. Any thankful grandson would have done the same if given the chance,” Shareef told him.
His grandfather said, “Well, it don’t matter how you feel about it, I’m just telling you how we feel. And every grandson wouldn’t have done what you did for us. Some of them out here are ungrateful bastards. And they end up doing the opposite of what their parents told them. So you’ve been a dream of a grandson to us.”
Shareef wondered how his grandparents’ assessment of him would change once they learned of the Harlem underworld story that could put his life in danger. Would they think it too risky as well?
“Wil-ma! Shareef is down here!” his grandfather yelled up the stairs.
She yelled back down, “I know! I heard the doorbell!”
Shareef smiled and took a seat in his grandfather’s tall, comfortable chair inside the large living room to the right of the foyer. He picked up a copy of Uptown magazine, a new Harlem life publication that sat on the reading table beside him. The actor Terrence Howard was featured on the cover.
His grandfather mumbled, “No matter how much time they have in advance, you always end up waiting for a woman to get ready. That’s exactly why I got that chair sitting right there next to the door. So I can sit there and read while waiting for her.”
“I heard that!” his wife yelled down the stairs again.
Charles looked at his grandson and shook his head in silence.
Shareef figured he would have snapped Well, do something about it then! to his wife. But that was the difference between him and his grandfather. Charles Pickett had a lot more patience.
Shareef asked him, “Did you always have this much patience, Grandpop?”
His grandfather looked at him sideways. He said, “Are you kidding me? I was as impatient as you are at your age.” Then he whispered, “But I didn’t have as many options as what you got to stay impatient. You know what I mean? So I just had to deal with what I had to deal with.”
His wife trotted down the stairs dressed in a light blue jogging suit with a white stripe up the side, and a matching light blue visor hat with her own tennis shoes. They were all dressed appropriately for casual walking.
Wilma Pickett told her grandson, “Don’t let this man tell you no lies about what he had to put up with from me, Shareef. Because if I didn’t take that man, he would be old and lonely right now.”
She said, “I’m one of the last surviving women of our neighborhood. Them other women were droppin’ like flies. Harlem living was just eatin’ them up.”
She looked at them so comfortable inside the living room and asked, “So, are you two strong black men ready to take this neighborhood walk or what?”
Shareef set the Uptown magazine back down and stood up.
“Hopefully, I can get the cover of a magazine like that one day. I’m from Harlem,” he commented. It was a prelude of what he planned to talk about with his grandparents that morning, rediscovering his Harlem roots.
His grandmother looked at the magazine and said, “Well, I’m gonna write them a letter, and give them a few phone calls to put you right up on the next one then.”
“Uh oh,” his grandfather looked away and grumbled.
�
�What, he said he wanted to be on there. And if you want something, you gotta learn how to ask for it.”
“Exactly,” Charles responded sarcastically.
“What are you trying to say?” his wife asked him. “That I don’t know how to ask for things?”
“You said it, I didn’t,” he responded.
“Yeah, but that’s what you’re getting at.”
Shareef followed his grandparents out the front door and continued to smile. Between their friendly bickering and what he had been around the night before with Polo and Spoonie, he realized how much he had missed the wit of his Harlem family and friends.
“SO, WHAT ARE YOU up here researching, Shareef? Because I know you’re always researching something,” his grandfather asked him as they walked through the campus of Columbia University—even campus security knew the couple. They had often visited the school libraries and attended various campus events.
Shareef’s grandmother listened for his response as well.
He answered, “Well…I’ve just been thinking a lot about home lately, you know. And I just feel like I need to be able to do something special for Harlem.”
His grandfather nodded. He said, “That’s good.”
But Wilma was listening more intently. She said, “What do you mean by ‘something special’?”
“Well, I’ve been pretty much writing…you know, romance stories so far. But with Harlem…I mean, I just want to flip the script for a minute and write about the realities of this community, you know. Harlem got a lot of history that shouldn’t be taken lightly.”
His grandfather asked him, “So you’re trying to write a more historical book on Harlem?”
“Well…” Shareef hesitated, looking for the right words to use. He said, “I wouldn’t call it historical, it’s just more…dramatically based than it is romantic.”
His grandmother read through all of that and said, “So you’re planning to write a book about Harlem crime and the street life, like that last film about Sugar Hill, starring Clarence Witherspoon as a drug-addicted father?”
His grandmother didn’t miss a beat. So Shareef decided to humor her and throw her off track.
“Actually, I was thinking about writing a book about a cute older couple who fight the elements of the streets to maintain Harlem as the classy, cultural, significant place of their youth.”
Wilma looked at her grandson and smirked. “Bullshit,” she told him. “Who’s gonna read a book like that unless Oprah says so? I mean, I know what you gotta do, Shareef. You gotta write about the real. I listen to what’s goin’ on out here today with the youth. That’s why we attend a lot of these campus events up here. And they need a good lesson every once in a while.”
Shareef was surprised to hear that from her. He expected to have to defend himself with her. Instead, he got excited.
He said, “Yeah, Harlem could use an updated story that could stand the test of time. And I figure I’m good enough of a writer to do that.”
“Sure you are,” his grandfather agreed. “As long as you present the whole story with balance.”
Shareef frowned and said, “That’s the biggest problem. The youth don’t like balance too much. They just like action and drama. They don’t want no backstory and details. And then the elders typically only want to read who they’ve been reading.
“Then I got my romance audience who only want more of that,” he commented. “So my editor wants me to write this Harlem street story under a pseudonym, called The King.”
His grandmother eyed him sideways. She said, “The King?”
“Yeah, short for King of the Streets,” Shareef answered with a grin.
“Hey, how are you guys doing today?” a student asked as they approached him on campus.
Wilma said, “Hey, Arthur, this is my grandson, Shareef Crawford, who writes the books I was telling you about.” She looked to Shareef and said, “Arthur is a journalism major and an aspiring writer himself.”
Shareef shook the dark-haired white student’s hand. He reminded him of his editor, Bill Sorenski, before corporate America got to him and refined his image. Arthur was still rough around the edges in his choice of wrinkled clothes, tumbling hair, and loose posture like a college student would be.
He said, “Yeah, I read one of your books, Chocolate Lovers.” He nodded and said, “It was pretty good. I’d loved to interview you one day for the campus paper, on your work.”
Shareef put a professional bug in his ear for the future.
“Yeah, we can call it ‘The Revival of Harlem Writing,’” he told him.
Arthur nodded and said, “Hey, I like that.”
“Yeah, I’m working on something right now that I think the school might be interested in,” Shareef added.
“All right, well, let’s trade numbers and talk sometime.”
Since the young journalist had already done some homework by reading one of his books, Shareef figured he had nothing to lose. So they traded numbers and email addresses.
When they all separated, Shareef’s grandmother told him, “You see that? You even have a white America college boy reading some of your work.”
Shareef grinned, knowing better than her hype.
He said, “Yeah, after you’ve talked to him about me several times already, I’m sure. In fact, you probably gave him a copy of that book of mine he read.”
He hugged his grandmother and added, “But it’s all good, Grandma. I wish I had a million people like you working the college campuses for me.”
They all shared a chuckle about it before Wilma got back to their conversation.
“But anyway…now, what was I thinking about before he walked up and interrupted me?” she asked herself aloud. “Oh, yeah, this pseudonym thing your editor was talking about. I don’t like that idea.”
She said, “If you have something to say, then you should be brave enough to say it. I don’t like people hiding behind these anonymous names and things. That’s just cowardice.”
Charles spoke up and said, “I don’t believe that’s the reason he’s doing it though. I believe he’s trying to keep Shareef’s romance audience while at the same time gaining him a new audience.”
“Well, that didn’t work when Stephen King tried it,” she argued. “It just confused people. So if you want to separate the work you’ve been doing from this new book, then all you have to say is ‘Shareef Crawford Presents, Harlem Nightmares’ or whatever, and then explain that it’s a different kind of book. That way you don’t do all this work only to confuse an audience and fail at what you’re trying to do.”
She said, “I still believe that honesty is the best policy. So if you want to do something different, then you tell the people, and you make sure you explain why.”
Shareef nodded and liked the idea; “Shareef Crawford Presents…” It held the illusion of a more dramatic creation, which was exactly what he wanted from the book.
He said, “Thanks, Grandmom. I might use that. Shareef Crawford Presents…”
Wilma grinned from ear to ear. She told him, “And you make sure you tell people where that idea came from, and that’ll help you to sell more books to the older crowd.”
She even stopped walking and asked him, “You need me to go with you on your book tour for this one? ’Cause I’ll let ’em all know. ‘You read my grandson’s new book. It’s good spiritual medicine for you. All of you.’”
Charles heard that and shook his head. “Aw, you dun’ did it now, Shareef. You’ve created a book-pushing monster.”
As a wide smile stretched across his lips, all Shareef could think about was the show of support his grandparents were giving him to be brave enough to finish what he planned to start, a cutting-edge book about the underworld of Harlem.
BY THE TIME Shareef made it back to his hotel room, it was three o’clock in the afternoon and he had four messages on his cell phone to return. Two messages were from Cynthia, one was from Polo, and the last was from Jacqueline back home i
n Florida.
Shareef called Jacqueline first.
“Are you still having fun in Harlem?” she asked him.
Her tone sounded antagonistic. Shareef pushed her buttons on purpose to see if he was reading her attitude correctly.
“Oh, yeah, I’m having big fun up here. It couldn’t be better.”
“I know how it could be better,” she commented.
“Oh yeah, how’s that?”
She said, “If I was up there with you.”
Shareef decided to go for broke with her, especially since he no longer trusted Cynthia.
He said, “Well, come on up here then.”
Jacqueline paused. “So, you can buy me a plane ticket for tomorrow?” she asked him.
Shareef answered, “Nah, you get the plane ticket yourself and I’ll reimburse you for it when you get up here.”
She said, “You not gon’ buy the plane ticket for me?”
“If I was there with you, I would. And when I’m ready to bring you up here with me, I will. But if you insist on coming up here before I’m ready to bring you, then you gotta get your own plane ticket and fly yourself up. And I’ll reimburse you like I said.”
Jacqueline was silent for a minute. Then she said, “You told me you would take care of me if I take care of you, Poppi. Then you told me you would take me to Harlem with you. But now you’re telling me to take care of myself.”
He said, “I’m not telling you that. I’m just saying, if you wanna come up to Harlem so bad right now while I’m still doing research, then you gon’ have to get yourself up here, because I got other things on my mind to worry about right now.”
“You can’t make one phone call to the travel agency and get me a ticket to fly to New York tomorrow?”
She was persistent.
“What about your job?” he asked her.
“I’ll take a sick day. Then I can stay up there in Harlem with you for Friday and Saturday, and we come back together on Sunday. Come on, I miss you, Poppi,” she whined to him.
