Diesel Heart

by Melvin Carter Jr

  I was held hostage, mesmerized, by every aspect of her being. The way she twirled her hair and chewed gum while sitting in a chair reading a dusty old book just blew me away. Her tiniest gesture called me by my name, obliterating my will to resist. I’d respond to pucker or pout like a puppet on a string. Her smile was my reward. She and I could talk unceasingly for hours. She’d talk about Big Momma, being raised in the South, about Uncle Grady, and how exciting it was when Uncle Bruh came home from the coal mines, unstrapped his prosthetic leg, put it on the fireplace, and told stories. But this Negritude thing of hers was too international for my localized mentality, too big for my Selby-Dale, St. Paul mind. Then, although neither of us was particularly good at it, we’d suddenly go bowling at three in the morning, then go to work the next day. I memorized our reflection in windows and glass doorways as we passed by. It was the first time in my life I wanted to be with someone all the time.

  That fall, I agreed to help her and her friends move her furniture to a new apartment across town, using my four-door bobsled Pontiac. We made several trips, tying down a mattress on top, then later a couch, then a dresser, and so on. Everything was fine to this point. Smaller appliances, tables, and chairs came next. At first everyone helped with the loading and unloading. My task, being the only male, was to carry a bunch of stuff to the front door, and the women were to carry it inside. This worked until the last carload.

  Gradually it began to drizzle, then it poured rain. Frantically I struggled, racing, moving furniture to the door, then inside to keep it dry, when I noticed that I was the only one moving anything and that all other activity had stopped. After getting as much stuff inside as possible, I peeped into the apartment to see if anything was wrong.

  I could hardly believe my eyes! Here’s my ass outside, huffin’ and puffin’ all by myself, getting soaked, and they’re sitting around in the living room, chatting and sipping tea. But the biggest shock was that not only did I not get mad, not even slightly irritated, but instead I felt a peculiar confirmation. This was evidence and even the substance of my transformations. My life was still wandering in the valley of the shadow of death, but somehow my spirit smiled and was comforted. As guilty as I felt for surviving Henry’s death, and in this rain, how could I even flirt with joy? Oh well, let my lungs be filled with air.

  At some point, I knew she was ready to give me the ultimate ultimatum: to either get married or move on.

  Confused—no, perplexed, I met Huff at the Cozy Bar. Thoughtfully, he listened, then sipped his drink and sat back in his chair. “Now, Quarter, let me get this straight.” He restrained his gentle insightful smile with a curious twinkle in his eyes. “You always want to be around her?”

  I agreed, “Right!”

  “You never want to be without her?”

  “Right,” I confirmed.

  He went on. “And you think about her all the time?”

  I nodded.

  He sat up straight and rendered his diagnosis.

  Toni and I, married.

  “Quarter!” He took a sip. “You are in love!”

  Huh?

  Winter came and went. Toni and I got married July 12, 1975. I was twenty-six—I had kept my end of me ’n’ Henry’s childhood pact. Marrying Toni was obviously predestined, once I saw the light. My life suddenly began to make particles of sense, and glimmers of light gradually trickled in. I was wandering out of the wilderness.

  But my decision to become a cop was a painful, counterintuitive transition. Surprisingly, Toni had no extreme opinion of my becoming a cop, one way or another. She thought that the dangers of the job were not as dangerous as not living for a purpose in life.

  18

  The Police Academy

  Late that same summer, on September 8 (my dad’s birthday), I found myself in the St. Paul Police Academy. The very first day I arrived to class a few minutes late. I walked across the front of the classroom embarrassed and humbled, then apologized to the best of my ability and took my seat. Weeks later I learned of the rumor that I had boldly barged into the classroom late and announced, “Yeah! I’m late! What about it?” Come to find out, some considered the way I walked as strutting. From that day on, I tried to live down the “cocky little guy” label, even to the point of sometimes playing small.

  Any police department suddenly hiring Blacks was a huge, big deal. The very first day kicked off with lights, cameras, and action, saturated with radio media and interviews. Our class of 1975 consisted of forty-two cadets. Ten of us were Black, as ordered by the court. I, having the lowest score on the entry exam, was officially rated the least qualified. I qualified high enough not to be dead last only because my veteran status gave me a little boost. To complicate matters, I was the shortest officer ever hired. (The police department had just dropped the height requirement. Previously, the average height was at least six feet.)

  So my Black ass is sittin’ in this sterilized all-white-ass police academy, wondering (like everybody else) how I got in. Don’t ask me how I got here! I dunno! I was the only cop ever arrested several times at gunpoint, the only one shot at by cops, and the only person ever who had to repeat second and third grades back-to-back.

  I didn’t come on talking too much about what I could do. Nobody wanted to hear it. Nobody would believe it, and too much information may have been incriminating. Although they knew about my street fighting history, it somehow contained no adult convictions, just petty patty-cake misdemeanors. And then there were my issues, syndromes, and complexes, secrets I presumed nobody knew.

  All police academies are intense, designed to weed people out. No wonder I was selected. As a slow reader with a short attention span, and a rotten test taker as well, flunking out was my art form. An 80 percent academic average was mandatory—anything less and “That’s it, buddy! Get your stuff, clean out your locker, and get the heck out!”

  The first day’s assignment was volumes of reading—laws, policies, procedures, and first aid. I studied pretty good that night. But my first written test score was 62 percent—the lowest in the class. Here I go again with all this flunking stuff. This academy had been all over the news, in the papers, and especially the Black newspapers. I could see the breaking news headlines: “Just In!—Carter Flunks Again … After all the community went through to get him in, after all the hype and hoopla, Carter, once again too stupid! We should’ve known.”

  My family and community were proud of me. But my best wasn’t good enough. I had to find myself a better best. If my 100 percent was inadequate, I had to function at 120 percent. In a dire necessity, an emergency, that seemed possible.

  In not taking this academic ass whoopin’, I committed myself to the fullest, dedication and devotion to face this unbeatable foe, determined that my ass ain’t flunking this time. Hell, I had studied only three hours before the first test. Class took eight hours, so that gave me the rest of the night and part of the next morning to study. I’d train like a ninja, like I did for all those fights! This was an academic guillotine of a new and different sort. I’d transfer all that dedication and devotion like I had in the boxing ring, absorbing all that punishment, finding resources, and refusing to fall.

  Realizing that flunking us out was the game plan, the Black cadets formed an informal group that studied at least three hours every evening. Then, afterward, I’d go home and study some more until blood trickled from my ears, sometimes until three AM.

  To Dad, this cop thing was impractical because life had enough problems. “Taking on other people’s problems just makes no sense!” In his own way, he forbade me to be a cop. As for Mom, my being a cop made her stop worrying about me for the first time in my life. My closest friends in the criminal community were baffled, and some felt betrayed. One of those friends said, “The day may come when I might have to kill you, or you might have to kill me!” Bighead Benny Beebop simply stopped speaking to me for several years.

  And these white boys! Bless their hearts! These poor guys, forced to hire me by
court order, didn’t reach out to embrace me. Many made a point of unwelcoming me. To them my very existence was an intrusive invasion. Racial tension in the locker room was tangible, complete with squaring off and shoving matches that had to be broken up. Most instructors began their classes stating, “I don’t think youse ten unqualified people should be here!”

  Getting past the police psychiatrist was huge. Dr. Hobart, the hard-nosed police academy shrink, flunked candidates if he thought they were nuts. In class one day, he had everyone stand, one at a time, while he announced their extreme personality characteristics. A verbal response was mandatory. The most talkative guy stood and blabbed on and on until he was interrupted. The class laughed. The least talkative guy stood, said nothing, and shrugged. There was the biggest spender, the most this, and the most that.

  My diagnosed extreme characteristics were most clever, cocky, and quick tempered. I stood up, shrugged, and responded, “Yeah, I’m clever!” The class roared with laughter. I sat down.

  Every morning started with an intense written exam, timed with a stopwatch. Questions about state laws, patrol procedures, rules of evidence, traffic control, arrest techniques, advanced first aid. Finals included writing out the Bill of Rights, the first ten amendments to the Constitution, word for word, verbatim, and also what seemed like most every Minnesota statute in the book. Missing words like and, or, and either were potential game stoppers.

  The law instructor flaunted his disdain for the Black students. White students could ask the dumbest questions and he responded with explosive support. “I’m glad you asked! That shows your wheels are turning!” But when we asked questions, he’d snap impatiently, “We don’t have time for that! Learn on your own time!”

  Racial standoffs became so intense that they had to call in outside consultants for intervention. Hostile tensions were brought to the surface. There was shouting across the room. One white guy summed it up: “Duh! I don’t got nothing personally against any of youse Black guys, only that youse took up ten whole jobs that white guys could have had!” He took his seat as though his statement was perfectly reasonable.

  I said that the question whether I should be here or not was now moot. “Now what you got to deal with is the fact that I am here!”

  It was understood that, “In the police academy, you ain’t even a rookie yet. The first year is probationary. You better tiptoe through the tulips, or you’re outta here.”

  Our every move was acutely scrutinized, analyzed, and recorded to be used against us. The method of supervision was predatory, even somewhat so for the white boys. Supervisors followed me around with clipboards, documenting the slightest thing that could possibly be interpreted as a flaw, just waiting for me to fuck up. I’d make secret sacred oaths, like I ain’t takin’ no ass whoopin’ today, whatever it takes!

  The academic material itself revealed secrets and was even interesting, which made reading and studying easier. Still, I had to stay up later than everybody else, get up earlier, and read paragraphs usually three times. But after the initial crash, my grade average nosed up.

  Proving yourself was the big deal, which wakened old issues from back in the Bouk days and was personally infuriating. What does that mean? Me? Prove myself to whom? For what? Other than in academics, kiss my ass! I lifted a quarter ton off Tommy Brown’s hand, outran a speeding bullet, fended off attacking dogs, violent mobs, and a human guillotine, not to mention surviving a plate glass ax falling across my neck. I grew up and hung out where the brave dare not go and defeated unbeatable foes. You prove yourself to me! (But I never said this to anyone.)

  Some of these guys clearly had been good athletes. But in self-defense training, I privately wondered how are you gonna fight crime if you can’t fight? (But I never said this to anyone.)

  Physical training—running, hurdling, punching, wrestling, rolling, and diving—was how I grew up, and I kept it up at Bouk. So the only possibility for getting me out of here was to pile on tons of academics, paperwork, and tests in a short time. Incredible workloads were dumped on the whole class as a strategy to disqualify those of us perceived to be already unqualified—such heavy workloads that we completed twenty weeks of academics three weeks early. By the grace of a higher power, I finished the police academy with an 87 percent grade point average, ranking twenty-eighth in a class of forty-two.

  In January 1976, I took the sacred oath and was sworn in. After Henry, Gregory, and Dennis were all murdered, the valley of the shadow of death seemed to define my life. The swearing-in ritual to me was equivalent to what Catholics call Extreme Unction, a last rite—because I expected that being both a Black man and a cop doubled mortality risks. I had little or no expectation of surviving for long. But two generations of my family attended the ceremony, where it was formally announced that I was top gunslinger in the FBI combat course on the gun range.

  19

  Probationary Blues

  For the next year, all of us newbies worked regular shifts under strict supervision of senior officers. My first night on street patrol was exciting and intense. Lovely Willetha waited up for me to come home. In great detail, I reported, “With enormous courage, without concern for my own personal safety, at much risk, I wrote some poor slob a parking ticket.”

  Back at the station, there was lots of advice to be had. Everyone said, “You gotta kiss a lotta ass, take a lot of shit until you get off probation. Don’t bust a grape! Don’t crack corn!” While on probation, you could be fired for little or no reason. There was no cushion, no forgiveness—you had to cover your ass, never make any mistakes, because failure was not an option. But if you could survive the probationary year, it would take an Act of Congress to get rid of you, especially if you were a veteran—which I happened to be.

  Officer Carter, December 3, 1975.

  The police workplace proved to be hostile, vicious, racist, and violent. More amazing was how badly cops treated each other. It was a competitive workplace full of well-educated, highly skilled, contentious, and well-trained professionals, very good at their jobs. Many loved patrol. Some wanted to advance, gain rank, and be paid more. There was this elite good ol’ boy brother-in-blue network, largely the result of nepotism. But make no mistake, there were two shades of blue: White blue and Black blue. Then there was the rumor mill, in which pure raw gossip ran rampant, far worse than in junior high school. The first one to get up and leave the room got talked about: “I always liked him, but …” And even worse was that the official career decisions, transfers, and assignments were often based on a story that somebody made up.

  Roll call had a pecking order. Officer Machoman was the big dog that ate first. The squad room door exploded open. Everyone got out of the way as his boots echoed across the hard floor. He had been a big heavyweight boxer, said to have killed a man with one punch, and he walked in that persona. Although I was sitting way on the other side of the room, all eyes followed as Machoman walked straight to me. With little effort but lots of disdain, he grabbed the collars of my jacket and lifted me up off the floor, eyeball-to-eyeball. Looking away, avoiding eye contact, I commanded myself to Look stupid! Look stupid! Eventually he tossed me aside like a child bored with his toy. This became a predictable, recurring event.

  Months later, still on probation, I was walking down a hallway with a cup of coffee. Stan Draggit, a senior officer, stepped in front of me, blocking my path, and just stood there with a bizarre smirk. Awkwardly, I reached out for a handshake, saying, “Hello, I’m Melvin.”

  Up close, his eyes glittered with contempt. He removed the chewing gum from his mouth, looked me dead in the eye, dropped it in my coffee, and said, “Nigger!”

  Ambushed, yes; but I had prepared myself not to retaliate, no matter what. No! I yelled to my innermost beast, who was trying to escape from his invisible leash. And not kicking this punk bitch’s ass right then proved to be the ultimate test, required the most restraint ever in my life. As I turned and walked away, gagging on anger vomit, he shoved me hard fr
om behind. No! No! Don’t worry, I comforted the inner caged beast. You’ll get him! I stumbled, delirious with anger. He’ll be yours, just not today, I promised. Now, now, you’ll get him. It’s okay. Viciousness and stupidity being a bad combination, when the time comes it’ll be easy to bait and lure him and make it look like he started it. Then I shall have my way with him!

  Come to find out that some of these guys were perfectly willing to take an old-fashioned deep-ghetto ass whoopin’ in order to get Black cops fired. That sucker was absolutely aware of my probation status. Draggit knew good and well of my anger issues, too. That’s why he did it. I had just avoided a premeditated trap.

  In the spring of 1976, lovely Willetha confirmed our first pregnancy. Immediately, all that “might not survive” stuff was off the table. Now it was “I must survive!” I programmed myself every day in the mirror before going to work. While suitin’ up ’n’ strappin’ down, I repeated, “I must survive! I must survive! I will survive!”—at least long enough to see my baby. Everyone said I’d want to survive beyond the birth of my first child, but for now that would do.

  The most intimate relationship I ever had in life was with Willetha as she carried my children. At every step she took, my mind tossed invisible pillows under her feet. I thought of ways to place my body between her and any possible danger, real but mostly imagined, clearing the way for the new arrival. We talked every night, with my hand on her stomach, until she fell asleep, and then I continued conversations with my unborn baby late into the night. My baby responded with kicks, tosses, and turns as I spoke in a two-way conversation. We’d agree, argue, laugh, and fall asleep together. “Don’t worry, baby, we’ll getcha outta there! … Zzzzz.”