Then there were the “hard-to-get” girls, fine-looking debutantes who practiced a “better than you” role, most likely inherited and encouraged by their parents, assuming a prim, condescending manner that pleased no one but themselves.
And last, but certainly not least, were the “fo’ sho’ ” girls. If you had something to drink and your own car, you could win. They were the final call, giving new meaning to the DJ’s rant—“Last dance!” This was our playground. And just like maneuvering through monkey bars, we dangled from girl to girl with guile and intent. Phone numbers written on napkins, kissed with cherry red lip gloss, scented with her momma’s second-best perfume, were passed out and collected like Uno cards. There wasn’t a wild card in the bunch, given my recent celebrity status. Even the “hard-to-get” girls looked on me with favor and cautiously offered congratulations and praise. I was now somebody they could bring home or attend the cotillion with or Sweet Sixteen. I was becoming somebody—somebody who wasn’t from South Park.
The crowd paused as the lights dimmed, decisions were made, offers were rejected or accepted, and the couplings were determined by the third bar of Bobby Brown’s “Roni.” The grinding commenced.
Her hair smelled like apricots, her breath like mints, and her ass was soft as Charmin. I had a hard-on and I didn’t know her name. But I lost myself with her on that dance floor, grinding like there was no tomorrow, groping like nobody was looking. I could feel her lips haphazardly caress my neck, then she wantonly swabbed her tongue in my ear. It felt great as long as nobody was looking. But they were looking. Mike, Russell, Ricky, Patrick, and Donna. Donna? It seemed her babysitting gig was canceled. And there she was, hairy legs and all, petrified with quiet tears as her friends whispered and pointed. There really wasn’t much I could do, so I kept dancing and looked elsewhere, following the domino effect of whispering girls and glares. Oh, I was a scoundrel, but they already knew I was a cad. And Donna held her ground the way women wait for their man to come to his senses, to come home, to come back to them. But I kept grinding with my nameless tenderoni, half drunk and avoiding Donna’s silent siren song.
As our song came to an end, I noticed a coy girl standing far off in her best skirt. She went to my school but I didn’t know her. In fact, she was the only person at the dance from my school. She glanced nervously at the faces; she didn’t know anybody there. Could she be attempting a social exodus? Had she grown as weary of South Park’s morose social fabric as I? She found my familiar face with a hint of relief and a grin. She wanted me to come to her, acknowledge her among her friends, confirm her upward mobility by the acquaintance with I, El Social Butterfly. And I saw that need and I felt compassion, even more. I felt oneness with her, my South Park sister. Us. We. We were at this party, spiritually together as countrymen fight in foreign lands, unified by origin and language. Ours was the language of South Park. The knowing of its secrets that bind us eternally. I had to speak with her. I must. My existence depended upon it, as the hand connects to the arm or the foot to the leg. I was she. I promised my nameless tenderoni another dance in a few and was making my way toward my sister until—
“Them niggas shootin’ outside!”
The curious rushed to the door. The cautious huddled close together near the rear of the center. But it was no use. A group of twenty or so Third Ward knuckleheads burst through the front door, knocking down the admission table and stealing the scholarship money. They were met by some resistance, a few guys from private school varsity football. But they were no match against this wild group of street kids who didn’t play varsity nor win scholarships. Three private school guys were knocked out before the last of the scholarship money was swiped from the floor. A large crowd of angry partygoers managed to push the invaders back, past the broken doors and outside, creating a passageway for flight. Mike was right behind me. This wasn’t our fight. We didn’t start it and we damn sure weren’t going to finish it. Mike’s eyes agreed. We skirted along the wall for our exit. Yet when we got outside the real hell broke loose.
Beer bottles flew, gunshots rang, girls screamed, boys were targeted and jumped, car windows were shattered. The panicked partygoers realized that this attack was planned and quickly shifted from defense to offense. An all-out brawl. We moved through the crowd, avoiding hostiles, headed for my gray ’84 Volkswagen Rabbit. I had just unlocked my door when the gunfire heightened. It seemed some of the enraged partygoers had reached their vehicles to retrieve their weapons. Ghetto. Bourgeoisie. This was now a gunfight.
The tight parking lot was congested with cars attempting to exit onto Blodgett Street, a narrow, asphalt two-lane sided by four-foot-deep ditches. But the mass exodus created a snail crawl on the two-lane. Invaders lined Blodgett and pelted rocks at cars stuck in traffic; we turned left into the procession.
Thud, thud, thud, thud.
My heart was racing; couldn’t this traffic move faster? Yellow Adidas warm-up suit flashing pearly whites, black skin. Thud, thud, thud. Giant Wasp rushing to my car. My car. Toward Mike and I. Thud, thud. Toward I. Me. Thud, thud. The Wasp holds a black object, holds it heavily. Thud, thud, thud. The Wasp is certain. The Wasp is closer. Thud, thud. The black object is a gun. Thud, thud. The black object is a gun. The gun is coming closer to me. The gun is coming for me. I’ve seen this before and not on TV. This is real. Thud. This is now. Thud, thud. I must respond. Mike is scared and so am I. Thud, thud, thud, thud. The Wasp with the gun is getting closer, getting certain, aiming the black object.
Sonnier leaned into my ear, into my head, and said firmly—
“Tirez ça nèg!”
Shoot that nigga!
Under the floor mat of the driver’s seat—
Deus meus, ex toto corde paenitet me omnium meorum peccatorum,
eaque detestor, quia peccando,
non solum poenas a te iuste statutas promeritus sum,
sed praesertim quia offendi te,
summum bonum, ac dignum qi super omnia diligaris.
Ideo firmiter propono,
adiuvante gratia tua,
de cetero me non peccaturum peccandique occasiones proximas fugiturum.
Amen.1
Don’t you see I’m innocent?
THUD, THUD, THUD, THUD.
Ninety-eight miles an hour down 288 south, turn west onto 610. We were moving, fleeing the scene with anger and fear. My hands gripped the steering wheel tightly to restrain the trembling. Dry mouth, fluttering heart. I wanted to vomit but I had to get away, get to safety. Mike’s adrenaline was in overdrive, arguing with me to go back and get him. I told him that we were out of bullets, but he couldn’t hear my words, shrouded in outrage, gasping over the cliff’s edge and not falling but walking over the cliff, daring God to let him fall. His fear had turned into fierce rage, ignited by the scream of the gun and the aroma of gunpowder, warrior’s incense. He was now a lion; only minutes ago he was a lamb. Mike, incensed by the threat yet encouraged by my response to the Wasp’s stinger. A chrome .380 semiautomatic.
Pushing down Main Street with headlights attacking and passing on to their next target, a neon sign hovered afar like a finish line. Two Pesos Mexican food, a late-night hangout. I desperately piloted the vehicle to a parking spot. Thud, thud. Silence but for my heartbeat, which was anxious to rest but still in flight. Hands still gripping the steering wheel, I turned to look at Mike, who scowled out the window. It was over.
“Say, Johnny! Whatcha get when you mix red and yella? A nigga on the ground.”
I hadn’t noticed the brown Seville following me from the battle. It was Broderick and his boys from Fifth Ward. They jumped out of the Caddy whooping and congregated around my car. I slowly let go of the steering wheel and my hands shook violently. I eased out of the car. Mike didn’t move. They cheered and gave me every detail. The Wasp had been maimed. One shot above the knee. One shot from a nickel-plated .380 semiautomatic. Oh, no.
A hot fog settled over me, percolating into every pore and follicle, suffocating my be
ing in one long, hot flash. Nigga hot. I couldn’t tell if I was breathing, certain that for two of the longest seconds in time, I was dead. Broderick handed me a bottle of Orange Jubilee. I drank deeply, searching for the prize at the bottom. I had achieved a status that none of us had before. I was officially a gunfighter, and I didn’t like it.
Broderick and his boys continued congratulations and comments, then left for a nacho plate. I still leaned against the car in a daze, clutching the cheap wine for dear life.
“If you gonna drink that, you better get in your car before you get busted.”
And there she stood. An angel cut from the clouds. A demon escaped from Hell. Lilith reborn. Charity Alexander. For the first time she looked directly into my eyes, staring at my naked truth with a grin. I thought of Noelle.
Somehow her expression revealed a new development, interest. She approached me with certainty and asked for a sip. I obliged. She didn’t need a cup; she went straight from the bottle, and that turned me on. Hallelujah! What a sweet distraction. With Fate dealing and Fortune at my right, I was dealt a pair of deuces for the evening, yet as she lowered the bottle, warmed by the libation, it occurred to me that a pair of deuces just might win. I opened the backseat door and we climbed in. Mike was still stoic, frozen in anger. She took another sip, then passed the bottle.
“Why’d you shoot that boy?”
“ ’Cause he was gonna shoot me.”
And now I had said it, offering my defense that might someday be heard in court. I focused on the open sunroof, watching the bright neon sign announcing “24 Hour Mexican Food.” She stared more intensely, more closely. I met her eyes, she took my trembling right hand, then offered, “Is there anything I can do?”
My head fell back against the seat, loaded with guilt. How could I let this happen? I must be. I have to be. I gotta be. I am. I am the dumbest nigga in the world. I had hoped better for myself. I raised the bottle to my lips, hoping for sweet orange salvation fermented with the promise of a better moment. Better than now. But no amount of alcohol could hide the truth—I fucked up. I pondered my next move with dread. Yet Charity saw a hero, a bad boy, a gunfighter. She saw a reason, so she went down on me. And I? I finished the bottle of jube with Charity giving me head and cried.
I rolled down the window and pointed a shaky finger toward the night sky to write my petition. Mike noticed in the rearview.
“Man, what you doin’?” Mike asked.
“I’m pointing at God.”
“Why?”
“ ’Cause He’s pointing at me.”
* * *
1. Act of Contrition in Latin.
thirty-six
pointin’ at god
Since I was old enough to sneak onto Ricky Street, I was aware of everything that was wrong with South Park, and not just its lack of noticeable glamour. Compared to the rest of Houston, or the world for that matter, South Park represented the stereotypical blight of Black America, a true ghetto, heart and soul. And I tried at every opportunity to distance myself from it, to not fall prey to its depressed trap. I had reprogrammed my machine to counter its effects. But when I awoke that next morning and considered the events of the week, I knew that I was a South Park nigga. And my survival would depend on my knowledge of being a South Park nigga. I had shot someone. Inquiries would be made. And the Wasp was somewhere thinking of revenge. He had a gun too, and certainly he had every reason to use it.
Mother entered my room with a strong, proud smile and a letter in her hand. University of Pennsylvania had offered to pay my tuition. She had hoped better for me and her prayers were answered. My ticket out of South Park was confirmed. Now, the only thing I had to do was survive.
Monday morning I pulled into the student parking lot and prepared for the morning dice session. Country stood near the guys and motioned for me. He walked away from the crowd, and he wasn’t smiling.
“ ’Sup, Country?”
“Man, what the fuck you think you doin’? Shootin’ at niggas and shit.”
“Man, that fool was coming for me.”
Country paused and stared at me. He was the school drug dealer, a transplant from Dallas who had to graduate as part of his parole. Flashy and clownish, Country earned his rep for using his head and staying under the radar. Buffoonery was his veneer, a clever ruse to keep rivals and cops off his back.
“You still got the gun?”
“Nawh,” I lied. It was in my backpack.
“Good. I don’t think you gonna have to worry ’bout ole boy, tryin’ to work something out now. I need your keys.”
“Wassup?”
Then I saw a few guys approaching. It was Raymond Earl and Joe Boy. But they didn’t go to my school. They didn’t even go to school. And I hadn’t spoken with them in years, just nods and waves as I traveled in and out of Clearway Drive trying to be somebody. Somebody else. My abandoned childhood friends had conferred with Country and come to my assistance. They had a plan and an objective. Under no circumstances was I to go to jail or be harmed. They greeted me as though no time had passed between us. They made no inquiries and requested no explanations for my absence from their lives.
In the movies the car would be dumped in a river off the beaten path, but who could afford a new car? They were going to get my car painted to avoid identification. They only had one question. Which color? And before I could swallow my embarrassment and guilt, Raymond Earl, el Comandante, chimed in, “Black.”
After school I took a bus to the better side of town for a scholarship interview with Houston’s prominent white leaders. The interview was held at the posh Waldorf-Astoria hotel. The black doorman tipped his hat—it was Sonnier.
“Don’t fuck this up for me, Nonc,” I asked.
He grinned and snapped his heels together.
I entered, greeted by a barrage of the affluent who smiled and commented. The newspaper article had been distributed like handbills announcing the circus or cheap auto insurance. I was the event. This wasn’t the first time I had participated in such spectacles, seeking to wrangle favor from the privileged, assuming the role of the brash stripling with a flair for sharp repartee.
Three individual interviews with pillars of the community sans South Park, Third Ward, Fifth Ward, Acres Homes, Sunnyside, and anywhere else black folks huddled in Houston. These were representatives of the “other” community, the community of the “haves.” I performed my routine tongue-in-cheek “white talk” with ease, reassuring my benevolent patrons that, indeed, I was a good investment. Then, the final interview.
He was the district attorney for the city of Houston, responsible for putting niggas in jail five days a week. He was short, cocky, and wore a well-tailored suit. We sat five feet apart from each other, and he didn’t have that cheesy grin that the other interviewers had had before. He was accustomed to questioning young black men. He was discerning, intent on finding a flaw. Why? Because on paper, I was perfect. So his questions started, one after another, some relevant, some trivial. My school record. My dating preferences. My school choices. My favorite TV show. Current events. The person I admired. He wouldn’t stop, then started floating arcane Jeopardy! questions. Unnecessary questions meant to catch me slipping. But I had all the answers, and I could tell this was really pissing him off. This small man with the well-tailored suit who put niggers like me in jail. South Park niggas. And only arm’s distance away was a chrome .380 semiautomatic in my backpack. I didn’t have any bullets, but I was ready to pistol-whip him if I had to.
Then he stopped. I’d won and he knew it. The conversation shifted to my car as I rose to leave. We shook hands, then he threw one last jab—
“Volkswagen, huh?”
“Yep, ’eighty-four.”
“You know what Volkswagen means?”
That had to be the stupidest question I’d ever been asked. What in the hell did that have to do with anything? He mustn’t have known, couldn’t have known. I am John Paul Boudreaux, Jr., Free Man of Color. Somebody
better tell him.
At the half-open door, I paused. He waited for an answer that he assumed I didn’t have. The cicadas screamed. Nonc Sonnier screamed. Booger screamed. Charles Henry screamed. Raymond Earl screamed. Country screamed. The Wasp screamed. Arthur Duncan screamed. Pork Chop screamed. The Median Man screamed. Father Jerome screamed. Mike Braddock, Jr., screamed. Johnny Watson screamed. Edmund Guillory screamed. Herman Malveaux screamed. Joe Boy screamed. Paul Boudreaux screamed. Donnie Carter screamed. Paul Gagnier screamed. Squirrel screamed. Harold screamed. Coon screamed. Bruce Watkins screamed. Even Black Jesus screamed. EVERY NIGGA BOY SCREAMED—
“TELL THAT MUTHAFUCKA, TI’ JOHN!”
I shifted my backpack on my shoulder, feeling the weight of the empty chrome .380 semiautomatic resting above my kidney. The small man felt big, triumphant, another nigger going to jail. I heard whispers competing for my ear, but I tuned them out.
“The people’s car.”
And I left.
I walked out of the Waldorf-Astoria and nodded to the white doorman with a bounce in my step. A lightness of heel.
“Have a good evening, young man. Ya might need an umbrella tonight if you’re ridin’ the bus,” he offered.
“Nawh, I’m good. I think I’m gonna walk tonight. Rain ain’t never hurt nobody,” I countered.
He tipped his hat with “Sounds like a mighty fine idea, young man.”
Mighty fine, indeed.
A nice set of hedges hugged the pearly white building. I looked around, then unzipped my fly. A few drops of drizzle hit my penis. I laughed while zipping up my pants and headed into the wet streets.
Walking down Main Street near Hermann Park, I could see Hippo Hill. That’s where he was waiting for me.
I climbed up Hippo Hill and approached him with a deep bow. He returned the salutation. We sat down on the grass. He was eating a piece of sugarcane.
“I’m gonna be leaving soon,” I said, waiting for a response. None.
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