As I found out later, Zack, an ally, had sliced about six people with his straight razor. Stevie, John, Arlan, and Victor went to jail.
This turned out to be another one of life’s big turning points for me. Friends started going to prison while I went to school and work. Truth is, we all started going separate ways ever since that day I left the burglary scene. The routine of calling or stopping by gradually trickled to a halt. Instead of discussing life, confiding secrets, they now whispered when I was around. They turned glamorous, sometimes stopping by Central at lunchtime wearing sharkskin suits, Florsheim shoes, and gold and diamond jewelry, sporting the infamous “Five Dollah’ Patten Leather Doo.” At that time, when the price of lunch was twenty-five cents and a carton of milk a penny, my buddies held up the lunch line with hundred-dollar bills. In addition to losing friends, I felt way-way left out, especially since all the girls were so impressed.
“When you gonna grow up, Melvin?”
Bighead Benny Beebop Lightbulb, with his extremely overly enlarged cranium, was our own in-house neighborhood ghetto genius. He could draw, paint, sing, play the sax, mimic superstars, design and make clothes. Above all, he read these things called books. He and his brothers slept in the basement of a house just down the street. Ever since Benny injured his leg, he was almost always down there reading or rehearsing. So I’d literally drop in, through the window.
Before long, they’d leave this window unlocked for me. Sometimes I’d open the window, releasing the sound of the Beatles’ “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds.” I’d slide in feetfirst, legs dangling, dropping down onto the unlit cement floor. “Say, man, you down here? Benny?” Then a whispering voice across the room. “Shhh, just a minute … over here meditating.” After a pause, a light clicked on.
First of all, don’t nobody listen to no damn-ass Beatles! Where the Temptations at? Secondly … meditating? Who the what? But that was Benny Lightbulb for ya!
Benny’s conversations took me beyond inner-city boundaries and limitations. He loved Marvel Comics, and their stories, art, and imagination grew on me. The characters were significant because of their personal flaws, being smitten or bitten. It was the mishap, the disadvantage, that made the character a superhero complete with issues, fears, syndromes, and complexes. Who the heck couldn’t relate to that? Daredevil never would have been great had he not been blinder than a bat. Spiderman, an aloof misfit, had severe self-esteem and self-confidence issues. The Thor stories transported us to another place and another time.
But everybody’s main character was the Incredible Hulk, a nice guy until you pissed him off. When the Hulk went off, he’d have a mega temper tantrum and smash up everything on my behalf. The harder he fell, the madder he got, the more powerful he’d become. But he’d somehow always protect his loved ones from himself. So he’d catch himself getting mad, about to lose his mind and blow his stack, and flee far away from the ones he loved.
All these guys had two personalities. I could relate—but I had way more than they did.
About 1966, the year I turned eighteen, the world grew larger than St. Paul, Minnesota, and life came hurtling at accelerated rates of speed.
Suddenly, drugs had appeared in our neighborhoods, without the knowledge or consent of parents or elders. Where drugs came from or how they got here was anyone’s guess. But one thing was for sure. Blacks lacked the resources—airplanes, trucks, high-seas shipping capacity—that brought them to this country. Drugs were not funneled in by Black folks.
All males eighteen and over by law had to carry a draft card. My official status was l-A, which meant bye-bye—but I was still in school. Nobody never heard of no Vietnam, but our friends were being shipped out to kill and die. Most came back alive, some maimed, some dead. Part of me wanted to go and fight for my country. Me ’n’ Henry talked about this all night and day. After all, we were very good at combat-type stuff. We just needed to understand the threat to St. Paul, or maybe even to understand the issue. Okay, so make us scared of this enemy. We didn’t get it. Okay, so at least make me mad at him.
But as much as we tried to get scared of or mad at this enemy, I couldn’t. The domino theory? The spread of Communism? Can’t let Cambodia fall? I decided to avoid combat.
At this time, change was woven in every fiber of social fabric. Just the week before, calling someone “Black” would have resulted in a fight. Now a Black consciousness swept inner cities. Large Afros, aka “naturals,” replaced chemically processed hair, aka do, or jap, or conk. On TV we watched NAACP activists hold hands, lead marches, sing songs, while racists called them “niggers” and spat on them and let huge German shepherds bite men, women, and children. Unable to understand the wisdom, courage, and strategy, I considered this foolishness. The Autobiography of Malcolm X had a profound impact on my young mind. Identifying more with Malcolm and the Black Panthers, I’d “rather die on my feet than live on my knees.”
Standing up for beliefs was one thing, but life was precious, especially my own. Bare-knuckle fistfightin’ was my weapon of choice, my way of takin’ on bullies and makin’ the world a better place. Old-fashioned ass whoopin’s solved everything and gave the learner the opportunity to repent and get a second chance. I decided to avoid this killing and dying like the plague.
By this time the world was a spinning whirling ball of confusion racing through space and time. I graduated high school without even knowing I’d done it. I went to sign up to make up for a history class that I thought I had flunked, and the guy behind the counter said, “Carter, we have a diploma for you.” He looked under a stack of stuff, blew off the dust, and handed it to me. So I did it! I graduated with Henry, Fatso, Jasper, and them.
Whirlpool, Inc. hired the whole ghetto—Fatso, Tweet, Jasper, and a bunch of others. Man! I thought sitting in class waiting for bells to ring was torture. Instead of bells, we lived by a big loud industrial whistle. I hated assembly-line work. My life consisted of trying to make it to the next whistle. And the looming draft still threatened.
’Bout this time in my life, stuff had built up and caught up with me, stuff I was guilty of, stuff I was innocent of, stuff I shoulda done but didn’t do, and stuff I was guilty of by association. Yes, I was at the after-party the night a couple of Swanny’s girls got beat up. I had nothing to do with it, stayed out of it, but did nothing to stop it. Swanny, an old hustler, knew that I had nothing to do with it, but I knew that he had to make an example of somebody in order to save face. And then ol’ Slim was still slitherin’ around lookin’ for me. I got fired from Whirlpool just because I quit coming to work.
The concussion of my confused angry Black male trials and tribs forced my family to avoid me. My father had to put me out for the sake of his household and my siblings. Then I smashed up my 1959 Olds Super 88 in a snowstorm over there on Washington and Huron.
“Guess what, everybody!” I was walking into the house while family members shrugged and moved into another room. “I’m going into the navy!”
Joy erupted. “When ya leavin’?”—Pats on the back!
Then, early afternoon, April 4, 1968, while I was sitting comatose in front of the TV, waiting to ship out next week on another Thursday, April 11, there was a news flash—SPECIAL BULLETIN: MARTIN LUTHER KING ASSASSINATED. I sat there still, silent, maybe paralyzed, waiting to see where time would take me.
PART 2
9
Maiden Voyage
Guess I always knew I’d go in the navy someday, like my father. I’d stayed up to watch late-night television and see Fred Astaire, Gene Kelly, Bob Hope, and those guys in navy uniforms tap dance across New York and Los Angeles, get in and out of tight jams, escape the barroom brawls, and in the end get a big kiss from the pretty girl. That’s what my daddy did.
I also knew runnin’ with stampedin’ wild horses had to end one way or the other. I’m not sure which happened, but either life chose different directions for us or we made the choice ourselves. Me, Henry, and Fatso all went into the US Navy a
bout the same time. Others evolved to be considered Minnesota’s most notorious criminals, or went to prison, or died tragically.
Mercifully, April 11, 1968, finally arrived. We were due at the Minneapolis Government Building at six AM, and the flight didn’t leave ’til about four PM. I was the only Black out of about twenty young men sitting and waiting in a long narrow government hallway. Everything was centered on waiting to wait. Everyone had warned me not to get sloppy drunk the night before departing for boot camp—and my head-throbbing hangover aggravated everything. Eventually we were herded onto a bus to the airport.
This was a big adventure! I’d been to Texas with Mommy, and me ’n’ Arlan took a Greyhound to Wisconsin, but this was my first big trip, my first flight. I was ’bout to find out that the world was far bigger, more vast, more complex than science fiction. Fasten your seat belts. The attractive stewardess welcomed us to this six-stop flight to San Diego on this dinosaur DC-3. She went on and on ’bout safety stuff.
There was only one main thing I wanted to know. “Say, ma’am?” I asked. She came over to my seat. “Ma’am, where are the parachutes?”
Looking into my eyes, realizing how serious I was, her face was blank. She went and got another stewardess to tell me. This next stewardess looked just as blank, and got another person who gently broke the news to me.
“Saaay whaaaat? No parachutes! Ain’t that like the Titanic not havin’ no life jackets?”
For the rest of the flight, through each of the six takeoffs and landings, I held the plane up with my white-knuckle-death-grip on my seat cushion.
Palm trees and open salt air at boot camp in San Diego directly contrasted with brutal Minnesota winters. Momma sure must have loved Dad to leave all this.
The navy stripped us of clothing and hair, issuing authorized gear, issuing authorized identities. Standing in lines, physical exams, peeing in jars, having hearing tests, reflex tests, and vaccinations were the plan of the day, later to be followed by marching in ranks, physical training, classroom instruction, and Uniform Code of Military Justice (UCMJ) threats about how disobeying direct orders or striking an officer can get you the firing squad or being thrown in the brig and fed bread and water only. I tried to refuse the tetanus shot, but they said the old serum had been from horse extract and the new serum was safe.
The next long line paraded us bare naked around a huge swimming pool. A team of smock-wearing physicians followed the lead doctor from man to man. After a hundred men or so, the doctor placed the stethoscope on my chest. Routine turned to interest, then curiosity, then amazement. They gathered around, taking turns listening to my chest. They huddled up, whispering doctor stuff, peering back and forth at me strangely. Finally, the lead doctor said, “Now, that’s what I call a heartbeat!”
I snapped, “Whaddaya mean?”
“It’s like hearing a diesel engine inside a Mustang body,” he said. Then they moved on.
Two decades after President Truman abolished racial discrimination in the US armed forces, it was clear that the navy had done the poorest job of bringing equality to the ranks. No more than one or two Blacks were allocated to any one company. So our company, Company 268, had only two Black men, with bunk assignments at opposite ends of the barracks.
Somehow I had been made guidon bearer for Company 268, which meant that my job was to high strut in front of a military marching formation, flaunting our flag. It also meant that I wasn’t expected to do as much physical training as the rest, which was slightly disappointing because I had expected the training to take me to a new level physically. Me ’n’ Henry had trained harder than this back on the third floor. Heck! Me ’n’ Fatso got as much exercise in our childhood daily routine.
“Hey, Carter, the Smokers are this weekend, and you’re on the roster to fight Friday night!”
I’d almost forgotten that I had signed up. I’d claimed never to have boxed. I had only one lesson from Mr. Nins, I’d practiced in the Fatso’s Basement Boxing Wars, and I’d watched and studied Muhammad Ali’s fights, but I had never been in an official boxing competition. Still, I didn’t know if I was telling the truth or not.
Ringrose, the fellow who was yelling at me about the fights, was another navy recruit. Although he was a motorcycle biker–type white kid from California, he and I had somehow connected. “I’m gonna be your second!” he yelled even louder.
“My second what?”
I had never heard the term. He was to be in my corner, have the stool ready between rounds, come out in the ring and get me if I went down, remove my mouthpiece (which we’d never used down in Fatso’s basement), and give me water if I needed it.
Just before the fight, Ringrose said he had heard that my opponent “was s’posed to be a nigger-killer, and that was what he was gonna do to you.”
Company 268 was confined to the barracks because of an emergency standby status and could not attend the fight, but the bleachers in the huge outdoor arena, seating about four thousand, were jam-packed. I’d never attended anything so huge. There were so many people that even the silence seemed to make a hum.
Company 268, US Navy, San Diego, 1968. I’m the guidon bearer, and Ringrose is kneeling at right in the front row. (Find the Black guy.)
My bout was first. “And in the blue corner, from St. Paul, Minnesota, standing five feet eight inches, weighing in at 150 pounds, representing Company 268, Seaman Recruit Melvin Carter!” Trickles of obligatory cheering were overwhelmed by sincere booing.
“And in the red corner …” My opponent received a standing ovation. Ringrose, my cornerman, squirted water in my mouth from a quart-sized dirty water bottle. “Don’t swallow! Don’t swallow! Just rinse and spit in this bucket!” He jammed a used chewed-up mouthpiece into my mouth and gave me a pep talk, reminding me about the nigger-killer stuff.
Then we stood mid-ring, eyeball-to-eyeball, the Mohammad Ali stare-down. This was my first time actually seeing a real boxing ring, let alone being a principal in one. But my heavily tattooed opponent was only three inches taller than me, and not too much heavier. Then the ref issued the orders. “Protect yourself at all times! Obey my commands! May the best man win!”
A special intensity looms when two men walk into the arena knowing that one will win and one will lose. My commitment to myself was either to come out alive or be carried out on my shield. I analyzed my opponent’s movements as he crossed the ring, returning to his corner. Just before the bell rang, he dropped to his knees, making the sign of the cross.
Yeah, you better say your prayers, I thought. Then the ringing bell brought about a certain hush throughout the arena, ushering away prefight jitters. We danced around trading blows. Red hot blood trickled from my nostril down to my lips. It wasn’t that I hadn’t felt his punches, but tasting my own blood brought about a deeper depth of primitive survival. His blows became an interruption of the infliction of my will on him. “That all you got?” I asked, my usual in-fight material.
About halfway through round one, I sidestepped his jab and dropped him hard to the canvas with a right cross. The crowd rose to its feet cheering with excitement. Dropping a fellow warrior with a single blow before all the world to see was an indescribable power rush. Suddenly I was not an insignificant human being. This was my one single moment, instant-in-time flash of fame.
The bell rang. Ringrose had the stool ready, the mouthpiece out, water in my mouth, wiped streaming sweat from my face. “You’re slightly ahead, but why are you letting this mahfukkah stay in the ring with you?” The bell rang. Coming out, I dropped my opponent with a stiff left jab (a punch from my weak hand). Looking into his eyes, searching his heart, scanning his essence, seeing who was in there, I respected him, didn’t want to hurt or humiliate him. The bell rang. Ringrose had a fit! “Finish this mahfukkah NOW before he finishes you! It’s you or him!” After scoring another knockdown with my jab, I lightened up and danced around until the bell rang.
We stood mid-ring, waiting for the decision, ref standing betwee
n us holding both of us by the wrists, waiting. I suppose there was some suspense because in any Black vs. white event with all white judges, you gotta expect them to cheat you if they possibly can. Then … “And by unanimous decision, from St. Paul, Minnesota, in the blue corner, Company 268, Seaman Recruit Melvin Carter!”
They gave me a trophy for fighting—of all things, fighting. My biggest flaw as a human being, fighting, the thing that had kept me in trouble all my life. The very thing that my father connected to my not having good sense and commanded me not to do. And now the United States of America gave me a fuckin’ trophy! Go figure!
After the fights, all the fighters were led to the back door of the chow hall and rewarded with a steak dinner. A steak dinner? In boot camp? For fighting?! The fact that these military-issue steaks were more like meat-flavored gristle somehow commemorated the occasion even more, maybe as a tribute to our toughness. The big muscle-bound brute from Alabama sitting across the table got tired of chewing, put his knife and fork down, and licked his steak on his plate.
I woke up the next morning in my top bunk, caressing my trophy like a child with a teddy bear. A narrow aspect of my being had faced the world and survived the global/racial/government-issued nobody-ness!
“Carter, did you get your ass kicked last night?” echoed across the barracks.
“Hell no!” Ringrose jumped off his bunk, executing air punches demonstrating. “You should’ve seen Carter, stickin’ ’n’ movin’! I swear, you wouldn’t know Carter had it in him!” Everyone was so surprised that I didn’t get beat up. “I’m tellin’ ya’, Carter pounced on him like a fuckin’ cat on a dangling ball of yarn! Got balls this big!” Ringrose stretched out his hands an arm’s width apart.
Diesel Heart Page 8
