Darius and the Vanilla Funk

by Phil Wohl

  The one constant Beast brought to the table was that he had absolutely no regard for his well-being. He would have given his life to save mine, and he put his life on the line for the Bloods every day. The guy had dropped out of school, although I was never convinced that he ever went to school beyond the first grade.

  I was strolling through the neighborhood one afternoon when I saw Mr. C’s familiar PT Cruiser rolling down the street towards me. It was 4:30 and I was in full Bloods mode and on my way to make a delivery. He rolled down his window and I leaned in and we banged fists.

  “Hey DM, what’s up?” Mr. Cohen said.

  I looked around and replied, “Not much, just doing my

  thang.”

  What he said next has stuck with me ever since; he looked me straight in the eyes and softly said, “If you ever get in a jam you can’t get out of, or you just want to talk outside of school, call me.” He reached over and tore a page out of his notebook and then scribbled his number on

  the piece of paper.I acted all cool as I stepped away from the car saying, “Ayight, Mr. C.”

  As his car rolled away from me tears streamed down the side of my face as the impact of love caused me to have temporary paralysis. Little did I know that the pain I was causing my teacher, and my friend, was equally as debilitating. Little did I know that Mr. Cohen drove his car around the corner and tears started flowing out of his eyes, too. You see, as cool as we both seemed on the outside our insides were as active as a volcano ready to blow at any moment.

  In the world of the average man, public emotional displays are few and far between. We like to keep every mushy and squishy moment to ourselves; no matter how much pain it causes us down the line. Don’t hate us for it; we feel things just like women, but we don’t like to show weakness. Apparently, the only weakness I showed was anger; I was angry that the Crips had gunned down my dad and I wouldn’t rest until I got revenge. I did keep that piece of paper Mr. C gave me in my pocket everywhere I went. It

  made me feel somewhat comforted to know that he had my back. The only problem was that if I really got into a tight spot, his white butt would be the last person that would be able to pull me out of a black hole.

  Court’s In Session

  I love basketball. Back then, basketball was the only thing I had control over. I could dribble that basketball like it was dangling from a string connecting my fingertips to the ground. I could crossover guys twice my age, just like my idol Allen Iverson. I got so good at making people look foolish that guys in the neighborhood would call me A.I.

  I could always find moments of calm in my life and my mind by shooting around by myself. In my neighborhood, it was pretty tough to find an open hoop but I took any free shots I could find. The block where I lived was rarely ever quiet because there were so many kids parading around—it was often difficult to find some privacy.

  Mr. Cohen would often look at me when we were approaching lunchtime. He probably wanted to get out of that stuffy classroom as much as the rest of us, so he would give us an incentive to finish our work in a timely fashion. He was not one for details, so we were all usually on the playground a good ten minutes before any other class. This gave us plenty of time to run our own hoop game before it got too crowded.

  Mr. C. always played with the weaker athletes in our class and I ran with my squad: Jessie, Gonzo, D Train, and T, who was the only girl on our team. Tunisia, or T as she was called, was nearly six feet tall and weighed close to 200 pounds. We figured that she must have been on the frequent leave-back plan because nobody had ever seen her before the year had started.

  Kids in our school had a way of appearing out of nowhere in the beginning of the year and disappearing in equally mysterious fashion at the end of the year. We all liked Tunisia so we never really questioned where she came from, we were just happy she was there to protect us. She

  could throw a ball farther than any kid in the school and she could take out three average-sized kids when she went for rebounds. She gave me enough daylight so I could shake the kid that was trying to guard me.

  I had never seen anyone play like Mr. Cohen before. He rarely ever shot the ball, but when he did it usually went in. It was more important for him to get his teammates involved than steal all of the glory for himself. There was really no difference between his on and off-the-court attitude. It was like he was able to transfer his unselfishness from the classroom to the court. What did that say about me? I must be a self-centered person and player.

  I never really evolved into a Mr. Cohen-type player, primarily because I had many more God-given skills. I’m sure if he heard me say that it would bring a big smile to his face.

  It was spring and there were only a few months left in the school year. The class had become so overbearing and obnoxious that Mr. C often sat in front of the class and wrote in a small notebook. Some kids would ask him, “What are

  you writing about us?” and he would reply, “Why do you think it’s always about you?”

  Mr. Cohen focused on empowering even the meekest kids—by the end of the year, even Jayla Smith was acting like the rest of us. You have to understand that Jayla, or “Jail” as she was called, rarely spoke and was tested every year for a hearing problem.

  All Mr. C had to do was look in Jayla’s eyes and he knew she could hear him. People were so crazy at school and at home that she was a little shell-shocked. She became embarrassed every time a teacher would call on her and would curl up into a protective shell. Mr. Cohen not only called on her all year, he also made her stand up in front of the class and voice her opinion.

  We were on the basketball court the first time I heard Jayla talk. I stole the ball from her and was headed the other way. She whispered, “Foul” and I stopped short and said to her, ‘What did you just say?” She said meekly, “You hit my on the arm, you fouled me.”

  Although I felt for her lack of speech, I nonetheless went after her. “You never talk and now you’re going to call a foul on me! I never touched you!” She rolled up her sleeve to reveal and long scratch and on her forearm. She looked at the scratch and then at me as her eyes instantly widened. “Not a foul! I’m gonna’ foul you!”

  I started running as she chased me all over the playground. The guys were cracking up while watching us from the basketball court. From that moment on the mystery of Jayla “Jail” Smith was solved and she was free to talk out of turn like the rest of us.

  Jersey Blues

  The last few weeks of school were merely a microcosm of the rest of the year. The fifth grade classes were in the auditorium every day practicing for their graduation ceremony, but our class was constantly treated differently.

  Why did the other students and teachers think they were better than us? Mr. C had pumped us full of so much confidence that we felt that no one was better than us. Teachers would scold us every time we breathed wrong or talked out of place.

  There was this one teacher, Mr. Tool that loved to talk down to me in a tone that made me want to kill him. In fact, I almost borrowed a gun and blew his ass away. It was a good thing for Tool that Mr. Cohen saw the look on my face and talked me out of it. He said something like “You’re going to throw your life away for that sorry-ass human being. Even the bullet would be insulted.” Mr. C didn’t like the guy either and he had a knack of making me laugh when I didn’t want to laugh.

  While most teachers saved their comments and grades for the viewing of parents only, Mr. Cohen felt that every student should be informed of their progress. Mr. C took the time to meet with all of us personally and discuss what we were doing well and how we could make things even better.

  He was able to find a positive even for Javon, who had come back to rehearse with us after being at the alternative school for the last half of the school year.

  “Did I ever tell you how great you did on that Social Studies test? You didn’t even study and you got three out of f
our on the writing part,” Mr. Cohen said in a positive tone. I’ll never forget the happy look on Javon’s face; you could tell that he was nervous about being around the class and Mr. Cohen.

  Javon looked up at Mr. C and they hugged each other briefly away from the class. He knew that Javon didn’t mean to stab him and wasn’t even going to mention the incident. Javon eventually got the right blend of medicines and went on to become an upstanding citizen and even graduate high school.

  I’ll never forget what happened at the end of the school year. We were taking final exams and Mr. Cohen was doing his usual motivational tour around the class. He always knew the exact incentive to give to us so we would reach a little higher.

  One last afternoon we were sitting in our usual reading group and I walked over to Mr. Cohen’s desk. “You ready for the ELA final?” he asked me. I was not only unprepared for the English Language Arts final, I hadn’t even looked at the book. “Yeah” I said in a pretty unconvincing tone. “Well, if you can get better than an 80 I will have a surprise for you after graduation” He responded.

  Some students responded to candy, others to comic books and food. I had been talking about this cool Allen Iverson jersey all year and Mr. C knew that was my button. “What’s the surprise?” I asked. He shot back, “Well, if I told you it wouldn’t be much of a surprise.”

  A few days later, Mr. Cohen caught me as I was running out to recess. He left every day at lunch to spend some time with his wife and was in the process of walking to his car. I followed him on the school side of the fence until he stopped and we were face-to-face on opposite sides of the fence.

  “Allen Iverson jersey,” Mr. C said and then strolled out of view. It took me a few seconds to get what he said but

  then I jumped around and ran all over the playground like I had won the lottery. The only problem was that the test was two days away and I hadn’t even cracked the seal on my books.

  Those next two days I worked hard and made my Bloods deliveries right after school. I knew I couldn’t fail as long as I gave it my best try. Before Mr. Cohen’s class I would never try as hard as I did on the basketball court. On the court, I would leave everything I had out there and the results were usually positive. Schoolwork was hard and it was only hard because I didn’t exert any effort.

  When I got the test back the afternoon following the test, I knew the jersey was mine. The circled “87” with an equals sign and a jersey with the number three on it accompanied a smiling Mr. Cohen. He bent over and whispered, ‘See, you can do anything if you put your mind to it.”

  My report card was the best I had received since kindergarten. Five B’s, an A in gym and a B+ in ELA were probably the apex of my schooling experience. I was starting to get a little edgy the day of graduation. It had been a few days since my stunning 87 on the ELA exam and I still hadn’t received the jersey. On the one hand I was sure that Mr. C would come through, but on the other hand I was an anxious kid looking for immediate gratification.

  School ended and still no sign of the jersey. Mr. Cohen kept telling me not to worry but I was like a kid on Christmas Eve. School was over for the year and a bunch of the kids in the neighborhood were handing out outside my house playing basketball.

  In the middle of the game I saw a familiar car headed toward us at the end of block. I completely forgot about the game going on and floated toward the driver side of the car. Mr. Cohen’s smiling face came into view as he slowly stopped his car. He reached over and flipped the red and white Allen Iverson jersey at me through his open window. He looked me in the eye and nodded in approval as I pounded my chest with my right fist. The jersey was about three sizes too big for me and I wore it for a good four years after that. It was both a happy and sad moment for me—I

  finally had my dream jersey but felt a little blue because my time with Mr. Cohen was now over.

  Shot In the Dark

  I wish I could say that my life became easier once I graduated from Acorn Road Elementary. Getting through Turtle Creek Middle School was a real struggle trying to balance my gang time with playing hoops on the school’s team.

  It was a daily battle trying to stay in school and I often skipped class to take care of gang business. By the middle of sixth grade, I would see my mom in the vice principal’s office more than I saw her at home. By the end of sixth grade, she stopped coming to school and basically walked out of my life.

  By the end of seventh grade my mom met this guy from Atlanta, Georgia and decided to sell our house and move down south with him. She asked me only once if I

  “would like to come with her.” My brothers and sisters were scattered all around the country, with the oldest, Malcolm in California, Martin in New Jersey, Julia in South Carolina, and Rosa latching on to my mom and her money train. Rosa should have given back her name because she was nothing like the courageous Rosa Parks. If someone told her to sit in back of the bus she would have gladly taken her seat.

  I had the option of going to Atlanta or staying with my mom’s cousins, who lived on the other side of Branchville. I decided to have my Aunt Angela as my legal guardian so I could stay in school and play basketball. I had been spending my all of my time at the Bloods hangout and hadn’t been home in weeks.

  It is still a bit fuzzy in my head whether I actually said goodbye to my mom. She was far from the wishy-washy, hug me ‘till you squeeze the life out of me type. She had become so numb that the moving truck was there only a week after she told me that she was leaving. It was a good thing that me and my boys went in the house and cleaned

  out everything of value.We figured it would save mom the time and aggravation of getting all that junk out.

  I really only had a few things that I couldn’t let go, but most of my stuff fit in a few gym bags and a box. Keeping some of my dad’s possessions was always on my mind; I made sure to get his badge, uniform, and the American flag they gave me at his funeral. I also went through the house by myself to find every picture I could find of the two of us. My dad had a way of keeping me strong and weak at the same time.

  Once my mom cleared out of town, my family was now the Bloods. Although her move only made the formality a reality, I still harbored some anger over being abandoned. As usual, I would find my way back to Mr. Cohen’s class and be able to talk to the one person on the earth that really knew me.

  I would walk in talking about basketball and walk out talking about life. Mr. C would always tell me that “basketball is a microcosm of life.” Once he told me what “microcosm” meant I was good to go. He was right—

  basketball was just like life—sometimes the ball goes in and sometimes it doesn’t. Sometimes you get knocked down and have to dig deep to get back up. Sometimes a referee’s call or a bounce just doesn’t go your way and you have to keep your head up.

  My freshman year at Branchville High School was interesting. I still wasn’t going to class much but I was the starting point guard on the varsity basketball team. Not only was I starting as a ninth grader, I was also leading the team in scoring and assists.

  High school was a lot different than middle school—the teachers mostly left me alone and the principal and vice principal made sure I was comfortable, not distracted and hassled. This lack of discipline not only expanded my creativity on the basketball court, it basically gave me free reign of the school and town.

  By the time my sophomore year rolled around I was taking more and more stupid chances, feeling as if I were invincible. I especially remember this one day after a game when I hooked up with a bunch of my crew and we thought it

  would be fun to terrorize the people at Kmart. We usually grabbed a bunch of carts and sprinted up and down the aisles grabbing anything of value within reach. The 30- second romp was designed to keep up sharp and get some cool stuff at the same time.

  In hindsight, I guess it wasn’t the smartest idea to hit the same Kmart four times within the same month.
We raced out into the parking lot and people scattering everywhere like Godzilla was stomping through. I was feeling like Godzilla until five police cars came at us from every direction, rendering us helpless to escape. I thought about running for a split second, but the feeling of a cold pistol pressed against the back of my neck took away that desire.

  Sitting in the back of a police car with my cuffed hands behind my back wasn’t exactly my idea of a fun afternoon. I knew that I couldn’t be stopped and once they found out who I was, I would be free. Three hours and many interrogations later, I was still sitting in the cell with my Bloods brothers

  when a cop came to the bar and told me that I could make a phone call.

  My reflex reaction was to call some of the Bloods to get me out but quickly realized that most of them were wanted criminals and the police would surely scoop them up if they rolled into the precinct. I reached deep into my right pocket and pulled out a piece of paper with Mr. Cohen’s faded number written in black ink with the words “ANY TIME” written in bold letters.

  For some good reason I had kept Mr. Cohen’s number in my pocket, probably realizing that he would help me if I got in trouble. He was also the only person on the earth that understood me and my tortured soul. My instincts proved right as Mr. Cohen came quickly and had baled me out within the next half hour. He also appeared at my hearing the next day, despite a confrontation we had, and help get me off with just a little slap on the wrist.