All the Right Stuff
Read All the Right Stuff Online
Authors: Walter Dean Myers
THE
RIGHT
STUFF
by
WALTER DEAN MYERS
My thanks to Peter Minowitz,
professor of political science, Santa Clara University,
for his careful reading and valuable insights
To live is not merely to breathe: It is to act;
it is to make use of our organs, senses,
facultiesâof all those parts of ourselves
which give us the feeling of existence.
       âJean-Jacques Rousseau
There are two kinds of equality; that which
consists in dividing the same advantages
indiscriminately among all the citizens, and
that which consists in distributing them to
each according to his deserts.
                                 âIsocrates
1
“Police!”
I cursed under my breath and felt around in the darkness for my table lamp, found it, and checked the small travel clock on the end table. Three o'clock. Nothing good ever happens at three o'clock in the friggin' morning.
“Paul, don't get near the door!”
Mommy wisdom. Just before Christmas, somebody had shot through a door on the floor above us. I stood to one side, pulling on my jeans.
“What you want?” I called, trying to sound older than sixteen.
“Richard DuPree live here?”
“No.”
“He's been hurt.”
I looked through the peephole. Two cops. I opened the door.
The officers filled the narrow space between my apartment and my next-door neighbor's. Down the hallway, I saw Mrs. Rivers poke her head out for a second, then quickly disappear.
“We come in for a moment?” The officer's voice was calm.
Mom gestured with one hand and held her robe tight with the other. On the kitchen table, a half bottle of Red Devil hot sauce stood next to a plate I had forgotten to wash.
“What happened?” Mom asked.
“There was a fightâI don't think he was directly involved in itâ”
“So what happened?”
“What's your relationship with him?”
“My father, but ⦠he doesn't live with us,” I answered.
“Your name?”
“Paul.”
“Paul, I'm really sorry, butâ”
Mom burst into tears before he could finish.
There were questions. Did my father have any disagreements with anyone? Was he a street person? How long had he lived away from home?
I just wanted them to leave. We didn't have the answers they needed. We didn't want to give them the answers we had.
My dad had never really lived with us. It was more precise to say that he came around when he wasn't doing a bid. He had been out of jail nearly two years this time and was actually working. At least when I saw him, he wasn't doping himself up. He lived three blocks away in a little kitchenette that he liked to say was “just big enough to change your mind in.”
The cops weren't in a hurry. They sat and talked for a half hour, telling us where we could go to get details later from the police, where my father's body was; and they gave us the number of an organization that helped crime victims. When they left, Mom went into the bathroom and threw up.
I didn't love my father. I wanted to, but I didn't. Sometimes I didn't even like him. He hadn't been a guy you could really get next to, because in a way he was never where you thought he was. If I ran into him on the street, he would try to halfway get himself together by brushing off his clothes or trying to say something he thought would make him sound smart. Nothing wrong with that except that you could see it coming and it never worked. Or maybe I just wanted something more from him?
He and Mom had had something going once, but as soon as she had gotten pregnant with me, he got scarce. I thought he might have loved Mom, but from what I could see, he never seemed to have enough of whatever it took to have a real relationship. Since he had been out the last time, he had been coming around more often. Mom was talking about how he was “settling,” as she called it, and I thought they were thinking about trying to get something started again. I wasn't for it, but I wasn't against it, either. I wasn't sure if Mom actually cared for him or just needed somebody bad enough to take him back.
The funeral was held in a small private chapel on Lenox Avenue. It was hot outside, and the fans stirred the heat around the small room. I didn't recognize half of the people there. My father was dressed neatly, looking better in his coffin than he had looked walking around. Two women I recognized as his auntsâtheir makeup, a flat beige, looking as pale as the makeup they had put on my father's faceâwere making noises as if they had really been close to him. It was a struggle for Mom to even listen to them.
“Ebony, I know how you must feel, girl.”
Mom was too overcome with emotion to say much of anything. I just felt kind of cheated. I should have felt sad, but somewhere deep inside, I knew I had wanted so much more from the man who lay in the front of the room. I remembered how, when I was a kid, I would think about being in danger and having him come to rescue me. In my dreams, he would come bursting through a door and I would leap up and cheer as he knocked out the bad guys. In real life, he never came.
They got the guy who shot him. A twenty-year-old dude had been arguing with a clerk in the bodega on the corner about the price of loose cigarettes. He shot through the store window to “teach the clerk some respect.” Instead of hitting the window, he had hit forty-two-year-old Richard DuPree, underemployed ex-felon, ex-drug addict, father of one.
Mom cried every day. Sometimes, when she wasn't telling me that I was all she had, she was blaming herself for my father's being killed. It wasn't a thought-out thing, where she had added up the pieces and had come to a conclusion. She hadn't caused him to use drugs or steal to pay for them. It was just Mom's feeling that she could have done more for him. It saddened me to see the hurt in her come to the surface like that. I had always known somehow that she was holding on to the hurt about her and my father not being together. I didn't have any answers for her, but I promised myself that I would somehow be more than he had been. I would get myself ready to burst through doors for her. To be the hero he had never been.
My school had been notified about four community jobs at ten dollars an hour over the summer. Fifty kids applied, and four of us actually got one of them. Three were at Harlem Hospital on 135th and Lenox, and one was in a soup kitchen for senior citizens. I got the soup kitchen.
“You're lucky,” Mrs. Brown, my guidance counselor at Frederick Douglass Academy, said, smiling. “You work four days in the soup kitchen and then you get to mentor for three hours on Fridays. But you get paid for the entire day.”
“Who am I mentoring?” I asked.
“I don't know who,” Mrs. Brown said. “I know
where
. At the Harlem School of the Arts. Nine o'clock Friday mornings. Got it?”
“Yeah.”
It was cool. I really wanted to work in an office or something like that, but a soup kitchen was okay, and it was in the hood. So was the Harlem School of the Arts. So I could walk to work and save carfare.
I was late for my first day at the soup kitchen because I couldn't find the place. It wasn't marked
SOUP KITCHEN
or anything like that. It was on the basement floor of a brownstone on 144th Street, and there was a small sign over the bell that read
ELIJAH JONES'S SOUP EMPORIUM
.
I rang the bell and a small, bright-eyed man with gray hair answered. He looked old.
“My name is Paul DuPree,” I said. “And I'm supposed to be working here four days a week.”
“Welcome, Mr. Paul DuPree,” he said. “I'm Elijah Jones. Please come in.”
I followed him in, through a room with six long tables set up and into a large, airy kitchen. The sunlight shone through the back windows and lit up the place nicely. Mr. Jones sat himself down at one end of the table in the kitchen and gestured toward the other stool. I sat down.
“Hand me one of those vidalias over there, please.” He pointed in my direction, then started cutting up vegetables for the soup we were making.
I looked over to where he was pointing and didn't see what he was talking about. The only things sitting on the bench were some onions.
“Some
what
?” I asked him.
He put down the knife he was chopping carrots with and turned toward me. “Give me your particulars again?”
“Paul DuPree,” I said. “Sixteen years old and just finished eleventh grade.”
“Did you want to add anything in there about not knowing what a vidalia was?” he asked.
“Not really,” I said.
“Well, a vidalia is a sweet onion,” Elijah said. “I reckon most people would know that. What do you know about onions, anyway?”
“I know I don't eat them,” I said.
“I guess that's what the world is coming to today,” he said, turning back to his cutting board. “We got wars going on all over the world, we got people robbing and shooting each other, and we got young people like you don't even know what a vidalia is. You thinking this might be the end of the world creeping up on us?”
“No, sir, it's more about you dealing with onions and your vegetables, Mr. Jones,” I said. “And if it was the end of the world, I don't think your onions would help too much.”
“You'll call me Elijah,” he said. “And I rather resent your opinion of the power of onions.”
“Sorry⦠Elijah,” I said.
“How about the soup? You think the soup would save the world?”
My man had a soup emporium, so I figured he was definitely into soup. “If you say so,” I said.
“You never heard of anybody doing anything really bad while they were having a bowl of soup,” he said. “At least I haven't. You ever hear the newscaster come on and say, âMan robs bank while eating a bowl of chicken noodle soup?' Nope. You ever see a headline that said
CRAZED KILLER SHOOTS FIVE PEOPLE WHILE EATING A BOWL OF MOCK TURTLE SOUP
? Nope, you have not.”
