by Omar Tyree
“Yeah,” Troy repeated. But I wish she’d shut the hell up, he wrangled to himself. Her constant jabbering was getting on his nerves.
“Oh well, I’ll see you, Troy, ’cause I have a test to study for tomorrow and I have to meet my girlfriend at the library at seven. So I’m going to take a nap, then I’ll probably eat before I go to meet her, OK. I’ll see you.”
“All right, then,” Troy said as they broke off. He then realized that he knew very little about her. Mary had spoken strictly about her schoolwork. Troy had not received a chance to talk at all. If someone had asked him where Mary was from, what year she was in, or what her major was, he would have had nothing to say.
“Yo, what’s going on, Pete?” Troy asked, entering the freshman lobby, spotting Peter sitting by himself on the aluminum benches.
“Grades. I don’t know what I wanna do now. I heard that psychologists have to search real hard for jobs, and they don’t get high wages unless they’re extremely good, like a top-notch professor or something,” Peter moaned. He looked depressed. He sat with his book open across his lap. “The Lord shall give me strength to overcome. And with his strength, he will lead the path that I will follow.” Peter perked with glowing confidence.
“Yeah, well I’m gettin’ tired as hell of studying. I hope the Lord can give me some strength, too,” Troy said.
Peter kept a straight face. “The Lord can and will strengthen all who follow him, my brother.”
Troy grinned deceivingly. “Well, Matthew has his own strength. He still studies every night. I think I need the power of the Lord, though, ’cause I’m weaker than Matthew.”
“You don’t need to be weak to need the Lord’s strength. His strength is for every man, for protection against the influence of evil,” Peter insisted.
“Yeah, man, there you go with that devil shit again,” Troy said, shaking his head. However, before he could start on the religion issue, Peter got up and left to avoid it, passing by Matthew, who had just returned from class with some White students. Troy got up and left without bothering to speak. For some reason he felt a sense of betrayal while heading back to his room. When he arrived at his door, Bruce and John were waiting for haircuts.
“Troy, mayn, I’ve been over here for twenty minutes, cuz. Where have you been?” Bruce asked him.
“I’m sorry, boys, I ran a little late,” Troy explained. He opened the door to a messy room. It looked as though no one had cleaned it for weeks. No one seemed to comment on it.
“Yup, Troy, mayn, I’m goin’ out for the football team this spring. Training camp is in four more weeks,” Bruce said, sitting in the chair before John could. “Oh, I’m sorry, mayn. I beat you to a haircut, didn’t I?” he asked, teasing. “So yo, cuz, how you get in that White fraternity?” Bruce asked John. They were having a conversation before Troy had arrived.
“I’on know, I just pledged,” John answered. “I just hung out with a lot of the kids in that fraternity. It’s another Black guy in there, too. We went over at the same time,” John said. Troy noticed that John was as dark as his friend Blue, but John kept a low haircut. Blue had never had his hair cut low, as far as Troy could remember.
“Ay’, man, did you get any good-lookin’ White girls yet?” Troy asked John. He felt that if John could get into a White fraternity, then he would be an expert on the subject.
“Nope. It’s like too many White guys up here to get any. And I’m not gonna go for an ugly one,” John said. “A lot of fat and ugly White girls keep looking at me. My friend dates one. I just won’t get laid for all that,” he hinted. They all laughed as Troy started on Bruce’s cut.
“How come it seems that it’s harder to get a dark-haired girl?” Troy asked.
“I’on know. Some dark-haired girls are more down than the light-haired ones. But I think it has something to do with that blond-haired, blue-eyed stuff,” John answered. “See, since they have dark hair and dark eyes, sometimes they may feel like an outcast. And if they mess with you, they’re kicked out completely. So they try to stick with the light-haired White people.”
“Yeah, that’s the same thing that I figured,” Troy told him. “That’s kind of deep, though, to see that they discriminate in their own race. Just like us and shit.”
“Hell yeah, especially against poor Whites,” John said.
“Yeah, but I don’t know about them poor Whites who talk that ‘I’m not racist’ shit. I always wonder what they’d do if they had some money,” Troy pondered. Bruce had no comment as Troy finished their haircuts after about an hour.
Troy emptied the hair into the hallway before going to get a vacuum cleaner from the downstairs office. It was his usual procedure. He would empty the hair on the hallway rug, then get it up after he got the vacuum cleaner to keep it from accumulating inside his room. A White student who lived two doors down the hall said, “Hey, buddy, I’m a little tired of you putting all this hair all over the rug. People have to walk out here after taking a shower.”
Troy looked down to see that he was barefoot. “Well, learn to put some shoes or something on,buddy ,” Troy responded in mockery. “I was going to get the vacuum to clean it up anyway. So don’t worry about it,” he added with an attitude. The White floor mate looked at him and left, and when Troy returned to his room, he found shaving cream all over the door, with Simon trying to clean it up.
“What the hell happened?” Troy asked Simon.
“I don’t know. I was going to ask you the same thing. I thought maybe one of your homeys was playing some kind of joke on ya.”
“One of my homeys, hunh, Simon?” Troy asked, chuckling.
“Yeah, man, one of your boyz,” Simon said. He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned his head to the side, trying to look tough.
Troy shook his head and smiled. “I know who it was, Sime. It was that punk-ass White boy that did this shit. He was complaining about the hair in the hallway. And I had already told him that I’d clean it up,” Troy said seriously. He felt like breaking something. He walked right over to the student’s room to speak his mind.
“Ay’, yo, cuz, you think that shit is a joke or something? I’m telling you right now, if you do some dumb shit like that again, I’ma kick ya ass,” he declared.
Simon remained inside their room, waiting for Troy’s return.
“What are you talking about?” the student responded to Troy.
“You sprayed my damn door with shaving cream. Don’t play that dumb shit with me.”
The White floor mate remained calm, keeping his cool throughout the ordeal. “Look, I didn’t do it. I don’t know what you’re talking about. I swear to God. Look, my name is Jim. What’s yours?” he asked, extending his hand to Troy. He stared Troy straight in the eyes. Like in a trance, Troy shook his hand and told him his name, feeling like a fool. He couldn’t believe he didn’t punch the White boy in the mouth. He had been beaten in the game of persuasion.
“God damn it, Simon!Do you know that White boy just suaved the hell out of me? Like I was a girl and shit. Damn! I don’t believe I went for that,” Troy screamed, returning to his room.
“Well, what did he say to you?”
“That lying punk said he didn’t do it. And I shook his hand, like a nut! Now who the hell else had a better motive than that White boy? He did that shit. I know it! He’s probably over there laughing at me now.Damn, Simon!”
Troy twisted and turned, trying to do his work, and was not succeeding. He could not seem to concentrate. The White students were starting to get to him. The competition did not seem equal. He felt that they always had an advantage. He could feel himself winding down, losing the strength to get back up. So he decided to study with Matthew, jumping on the elevator to the third floor.
“Ay’, Mat, it’s me, Troy,” he yelled through the door, trying to open it.
“Yo, come on in,” Matthew yelled back.
“I would have, if the door wasn’t locked.”
“Oh, word. It’s locked?”
Matthew asked, getting up to open it.
“Since when you start lockin’ your door?” Troy asked, grinning. “What, you trying to hide from some ugly girl or something?”
Matthew smiled. “Naw, man, I’m just trying to get some work done. And yo, y’all niggas keep comin’ in, distracting me,” he commented, chuckling to himself.
“Yeah, well look, man, I need someone to study with, ’cause I can’t concentrate no more,” Troy explained.
“Aw’ight, troop. I’m always willing to study with someone. You get kind of lonely when everyone else is out partying and whatnot,” Matthew said.
They studied chemistry for an upcoming test. Hour after hour they underlined concepts that would most likely be covered. What Matthew didn’t know, Troy would help with. And what Troy didn’t know, Matthew would help with. The teamwork set a winning combination. The material was comprehended in more detail and in less time than either could have ever expected to achieve alone. It reminded Troy of the quizzing sessions he and Peter had. And it reminded him of the teamwork he maintained in basketball practice, although he received minimum time in the games.
Back inside the chemistry lab before the first test, Troy found that he was tricked by his previous four partners on the first week’s experiment. The instructor handed the assignment papers back several weeks later. Troy was shocked to see that his partners had changed the answer that he had provided them. His answer turned out to be correct, yet they had entered the wrong one. They denied his research because they felt they knew more than he. They felt that he was incapable. Still, Troy led the class discussion as they sat back, seeming to know nothing.
The test results, however, proved that they did know. The average grade was high. Troy hit only the median score. It made no sense to him. Or maybe he had showed too much in class and slacked up on the test, thinking that he knew everything.
In anthropology class, Mary had talked him out of his homework one day. Troy didn’t even have her phone number. He had later spotted her with a blond-’n’-blue White boy. No one had to tell him that he had been duped. Mary was as good a liar as Jim, who Troy was sure had sprayed his door with the shaving cream. Mary had succeeded in using Troy for his homework.
Troy had given ninety percent of the correct answers in anthropology class discussions, only to score a B on the test. To top it off, Mary got an A, after not even having a book for the first two weeks. Or so she had said. Troy found out that her roommate had had the book and the same class on a different day. He began to wonder if any Whites ever told the full truth.
Troy, again, had to release stress. He had not been to the gym since quitting the basketball team in early January. And it was nearing March.
“Ay’, Simon, you down to go run some ball tonight?” he offered after dinner.
“Yeah, all right,” Simon said, taking off his earphones. “Let’s go.”
They ran north to the gym, playfully wrestling each other on the sidewalks with the basketball. When they arrived, the court at the far end of the gym was empty. They had an entire court to themselves.
Troy had talked of embarrassing Simon on the court since the first night they had met in late August. Troy took the floor and worked himself up before they got a chance to play. He was out of shape since quitting the team, but it was only Simon. He felt he could beat him easily.
For fifteen minutes, Troy ran up and down the court, practicing his moves before they began. They were ready to face off. Simon wanted to change the rules.
“OK, Troy, let’s play. But we don’t have to check the ball after making a basket. We’ll just take it back to the foul line and go up again, ’cause checking the ball just wastes time. And take it easy, ’cause my ankle is sore,” Simon said. Troy was so ready to whip him that he agreed without thinking about what was said.
Simon hit his first three shots right from the foul line. He then slammed twice off of rebounds. The score was suddenly 10-0 before Troy had even touched the ball. He felt as though he was cheated but did not know how. His Jewish roommate was beating him.
Simon pocketed two more baskets, increasing the score to 14-0. He was four inches taller and thirty pounds heavier than Troy, able to force his way under the basket for easy hoops.
“Hold up, man, let’s start the game over,” Troy demanded, grabbing the ball and shaking his head. “Your ankle ain’t hurtin’, you ain’t takin’ the ball to the foul line without me checking it, and I was tired as hell before the game started anyway,” he blurted out.
Simon cracked up before responding. “You’re the dummy that was running around getting all tired. And who told you to believe me when I said that my ankle was sore? You fell for the oldest trick in the book, boy. Always know what the rules are before you start the game. I don’t even think you listened, since you felt you could whip me so bad,” Simon said with a smirk.
“Yeah, well like I said, let’s start the game over,” Troy repeated, still holding the ball.
“Hell no, I’m up by fourteen and you didn’t score yet. If you think I’m giving up that kind of advantage, you’re crazy.”
Troy grumbled on their way home. He was frustrated. Simon had even won ten out of the twelve bets that they had had on college and pro basketball. Simon had a subscription toSports Illustrated , which Troy did not think contributed to the winning of bets. Simon used his body weight when playing basketball, which Troy did not figure helped. Simon also had different spins he would use each time they played table tennis, where Troy had only one good serve he felt would suffice.
“Damn, you play Ping-Pong good as hell, and basketball,” Troy said. He took off his sneakers and clothes to take a shower once they had returned to their room.
“Yeah, well I have a table at home in my basement. My brother and I used to play all the time,” Simon revealed.
“What? You didn’t tell me you had a table at home.”
“Yeah, well it never came up.”
“Yeah, aw’ight, you probably not tellin’ me about some basketball team you were on, too,” Troy said to him.
Simon began to snicker as Troy waited for another surprising comment. “Yeah, I played small forward in high school,” Simon told him.
Troy listened while thinking how stupid he had been. He was fooled without a clue as to the information abruptly being presented. Simon was from Brooklyn, New York. He had played against New York’s finest high school basketball teams. His school was ranked twenty-third in the nation. He had been used to boxing out quick Black players. He had perfected his jump shot. Simon also used to bet with a bookkeeper in his hometown. And he was an announcer who had called the games in a Brooklyn summer league. He kept up-to-date with all the athletic news. He knew if one team was unhealthy or missing players. He also knew how many games each team played, to predict if they were tired. And Simon checked the history of each team rivalry to get a historical edge.
Troy was astonished. There was no way to compete with an opponent who knew things that he had not known. For six months he had talked up a game that he thought would be equal. Simon didn’t look like an authentic athlete. As it turned out, Simon had received a scholarship to play basketball at a small college. He turned it down. He said that he would rather watch the game with an education ahead of him, instead of jumping in and possibly reinjuring an ankle he had problems with during his senior year in high school.
Later that night, one of Simon’s friends came over to borrow a calculator. Troy and Simon were both busy doing homework.
Bloomp bloomp bloomp.
“Go the hell away,” Simon said jokingly. His friend, hearing Simon’s voice, decided to come in on his own. Kevin was from West Virginia, of German descent.
“Hey, pal, I need to borrow your calculator. I messed around and lost mine when I was running from the premed library,” he said.
“Well, go get it. It’s right on my desk, stupid,” Simon told him.
Kevin went to get it, only to be tackled onto the bed. The two, playing,
reminded Troy of playful puppies. They were just like the White couples who would cuddle up, kissing and hugging, all over campus. They were free-flowing, positive-attitude-having, joyful White people.
“Come on, Simon. Cut it out, man. You’re getting my shirt all wrinkled,” Kevin said, trying to free himself from Simon’s wrestling hold. Simon let him up, only to be wrestled down himself.
“Oh, OK. I let you up so you can sneak me,” he said.
“Well, no one said I wasn’t gonna jump on you, just because you let me go. That’s why you never let your enemy back up, Simon. I could keep you down here forever if I had to. Now, do you give?” he asked. Simon was bigger than Kevin but he was helpless because of the position he was in. His hands were tied behind his back, with his face pressed into his pillow.
Troy finally stopped from studying to watch them.
“Well, do you give, Simon?” Kevin repeated.
Simon continued to struggle to free himself. “Yeah, damn it. You win. Now get the hell off me!” he shouted, scuffling to his feet with a pink face. He was too out of breath to counterattack. Kevin then gave his attention to Troy.
“Hey, Troy. How’s it going, pal?” he asked.
“I’m aw’ight, man. But did you say you were coming from the premed library?”
“Yeah, I was in the premed library. Why, are you thinking about going into medicine, too?”
“Yeah, man, ’cause doctors make a whole lot of money.”
“Oh yeah, well that’s great. You’ll be there with me. There aren’t that many Blacks in medical school, though. Have you had biology and calculus yet?” Kevin asked him.
“Not biology, but I’m taking calculus,” Troy answered. He hoped that Kevin would not ask him any more questions about medical school requirements. Troy was informed that most students going into medical school carried about eighteen credits a semester. He had only fifteen and was already behind.
