College Boy : A Novel (9781416586500) (15 page)

Scooter nodded. “Yeah, aw'ight, then, cuz. If you feel that way, then it's cool. 'Cause you don't need to be back out here fighting anyway.” Scooter sat on the basement stairs himself, above his troubled friend, and shook his head. “Damn, cuz! Niggas don't know how to act!

“You come home from college and can't even go to a party. That's fucked up! All they wanna do is start fights and sell drugs. You the only one that got a chance at making it out, and look how they treat you when you come back home. Niggas just don't care about shit. They try to bring everybody down. We don't deserve shit any damn way, 'cause all we gon' do is tear it up, no matter what it is. You know?”

Scooter continued to talk for as long as they could stay awake in the basement. His views seemed to shine with new truth. Blacks terrorized one another constantly. Never was there a concert where there wasn't a robbery. Never was there a social function in the neighborhood without a fight.

 

Troy knew little about slavery, but he could see the effects of it. Blacks were the lowest, nonhaving humans in the United States. He walked around his aunts neighborhood for the next couple of days, finding the same results. The Black residents made up ninety percent of the geographical population. However, they owned only twenty-five percent of the commercial businesses.

Troy sat outside on the patio each day, thinking about and watching his roughneck cousins play with their friends. He wondered about their future, the next generation.

“Troy, can you go to the store for me?” his aunt asked him, opening the silver screen door.

“Aw'ight. What do you want me to get?”

“A box of cereal and milk for tomorrow.”

Troy ran to the store, happy he had something to do. When he arrived, the Korean owner went to his stockroom while his young son tended to the cash register. In a dash, three Black kids grabbed a bunch of candy and ran out the door. The Korean boy hollered to his father, who returned much too late to do anything. They had gotten away free.

Troy looked embarrassed. Maybe he and his young son could work side by side in business one day.

“I don't know who they were that stole the candy bars, but I'm willing to pay for it,” Troy offered. His nerves were shot as he reached out an extra $2.

“No, no, dat's all right,” the owner responded. He smiled, shaking his hands in front of his face.

Troy smiled and shook his own head. “You know, us Blacks live such a hard life that sometimes it's hard to care about anyone else.”

“No, dat's fine,” the owner repeated, still smiling.

Troy was pleased with the wide smiles he had gotten from the Korean father and son. He felt that he had given them something to remember. A young Black man was willing to make amends for a crime he did not commit.

For the next couple of days, Troy continued to survey his aunt's area. It was cleaner and had nicer homes, but violence still plagued the neighborhood hot spots. His aunt had already told his two young cousins to defend themselves if attacked. Most likely, it would be against another Black child. The chain of violence would continue. But who could stop it? Every other parent on the block would say the same thing to their kids. It was a never-ending story.

Troy pondered reasons as to why Blacks could not own business enterprises in their own communities. As long as the Italians had the stores, it was OK. As long as the Jews owned the stores, it was OK. If Asians owned the stores, it was OK. Yet when another Black owned a store, jealousy seemed inevitable.

 

“Troy, are you gonna get a job this summer?” his aunt asked after he fixed himself a ham and cheese sandwich to watch a martial arts movie on television. “Oh, I see you like that karate stuff too, hunh?” she asked. Aunt Judy didn't bother him much. Still, Troy didn't hear her; he was trapped in the plot of the movie. “Troy!” she shouted, walking closer.

“Hunh, what did you say?” he asked, facing her from the sofa.

“Are you gon' to be looking for a job this summer, 'cause it's a whole lot of money you'll be missing out on?” his aunt asked again, standing over him.

Troy nodded and took a bite of his sandwich. “Yeah, you're right. As a matter of fact, I might as well go looking for one today.”

He left at the end of the movie and caught a bus to the nearby mall. Blacks worked in every store there.

He felt confident he could get a job after finishing a year of college, although he had never had a job before. He had always thought that jobs restricted your freedom. He laughed at his friends, working on Friday and Saturday nights while the crew was out enjoying life. He had learned different now. He was back home, from a hard year at college study, looking for a job like everyone else.

Troy desired to work in a large department store where he could feel low-key, as opposed to employment at a no-class place like McDonald's.

He entered a John Wanamaker's department store. It had large, elaborate clothing displays. He imagined the weekly gross of the seven floors of accessories from clothing to furniture. All of the designer names represented private entrepreneurs who went out on a limb to perfect a product. Their only bosses were those of public taste and demand. For the self-made man and the self-made woman, the sky was the limit.

Entrepreneurship was the American way, not working for people. In the future, Troy planned to have his own business. It was a must!

 

“Yes, could you possibly direct me to the employment office?” Troy asked the White woman sitting in the information booth.

“It's on the third floor,” she informed him.

He didn't bother to say, “Thank you.” He was rude.

He figured it was her job to provide the information.

He squeezed onto an elevator holding nothing but White suit-and-tie wearers. They spoke of politics and governmental plans. Troy never thought such issues applied to Black people. What reason would there be for them to vote?

At the employment office, on the third floor, Troy was pleased to see a brown face for a change. “How are you?” he asked, trying to be polite. He was simply happy to deal with one of his own, where he could speak freely.

“I'm fine. And how are you?” the freckled-faced woman responded.

“I'm OK, but I was wondering if you were hiring.”

She grimaced. “Well, not at the moment. But we do have openings for a temporary position, if you're interested.”

“Yeah, OK, then,” Troy said.

She grabbed a piece of paper. Troy filled out his name, phone number, address, and social security number.

“Ok, Mr. Troy Potter, if you could get here Saturday morning at ten o'clock, we can set you up with the first interview group,” she said. Troy wasn't really interested in a temporary position, so he continued to shop around.

He went on to JC Penney, Sears, and Bamberger's, determined to get hired. It was only Tuesday. He had plenty of time before Saturday, so over the next couple of days, he traveled to large department stores all over the city. He wished he could just talk his way into a position. Nevertheless, all of the offices he had visited had only representatives with no authority in hiring. All he could do was fill out applications. By the time he was tired of job hunting, Troy had filled out at least thirteen applications. He waited all that week, expecting to receive a call, and got nothing. Since he had never had a job before, Troy didn't realize that sometimes it took longer than a week to get a callback. All he had secured was an interview with John Wanamaker's, for a temporary position.

 

Friday afternoon, Troy received a call from his friend Blue. They went to a suburban mall, just to look around. Troy had not talked to any of his friends for a week. He no longer felt an urge to be near those whom he grew up with. After his college experiences, he felt torn from his previous social group. He wasn't lonely, just confused, needing space to think things through.

“Can I have a hamburger and some fries with an orange soda?” Blue asked at a Burger King inside the mall. Troy wasn't hungry. He watched as a highschool-aged girl got Blue's food and put it inside a bag. “Umm, I would like to eat it here,” Blue told her, expecting a tray and some napkins.

“Oh, sure. You can eat it here,” she responded, sneering as if Blue had made a stupid comment.

“Well, I would like to have a tray. That's why I said that. I wasn't asking you if I could eat here or not,” Blue snapped.

She got the tray and mumbled, “Sorry.”

Troy took a seat with Blue, who could not help commenting on the tray incident. “You see that shit, Troy?” he asked. Troy nodded his head, smiling. “White people think they slick. She gon' sit there and deliberately try to embarrass me and shit, like I really was asking her if I could eat here. See, man, I figured 'em out. They wanna change things around to what they wanna hear. And they don't really listen.”

Blue ate a few fries and took a bite of his sandwich before continuing. “Troy, man, I was messing around with this dumb White girl from Frankford while you was up in college. This chick asked me to repeat myself all the time, like she couldn't understand me or some shit. Then she always did stupid shit, trying to tell me she's sorry.

“Like, one time she called me up and said she was pregnant, as if it was a joke. I was scared as hell, cuz. Then she gon' tell me she was just kidding. Man, I damn near took her neck off.”

Troy raised his brow, intrigued. “You hit her?”

“Yeah, I hit her, man. I ain't like that shit she did at all, cuz. See, White people think they can do anything and get away with it. That's why they say ‘Sorry' all the damn time, 'cause they got a guilty conscience,” Blue said, philosophizing. “ ‘Sorry' means to forgive, to me, man. It don't really mean that you acknowledge that you did shit wrong. Sayin' ‘Sorry' is that cute shit that people say to calm you down.”

Blue paused to eat his food. Troy sat and listened without interrupting.

“Like us, Troy. Most Black people we hang out with say, ‘My fault,' which means that you did something wrong. Saying ‘Sorry' don't mean shit! It don't change a damn thing. I mean, look what they done to our race. Do you think that sayin' ‘Sorry' would change that shit? Fuck no! And why did I mess with a White girl in the first place? I guess I just wanted to see if the shit was different. But never again, cuz. Never again.”

After leaving Blue, Troy realized that he was not alone. He began to think strongly about his college friend James. James had long ago witnessed the harassment, racism, and trickery. Troy began to wonder if all Blacks knew. Maybe they just didn't discuss it, never taking part in a solution.

Troy realized that he, too, had contributed to the self-destruction of his race by not feeling obligated or interested in change. He had never gone to any Black events at school, yet he possessed newfound nerve to be concerned with others who were disinterested.

The National Association for the Advancement of Colored People had held events on his Marsh County campus, along with the National Urban League, the National Council of Negro Women, and even Minister Louis Farrakhan from the Nation of Islam had spoken on campus, to much protest from White students, particularly from the Jews. Troy attended none of the events.

 

Troy got dressed that Saturday morning for the interview at John Wanamaker's. He wore blue jeans, his brown docksider shoes, a striped button-up shirt, and a thin, tan jacket. After riding an empty bus to the subway station, he waited ten minutes before the train arrived. He rode the train downtown to find that he was early. The doors at Wanamaker's were still closed.

Troy walked around, window-shopping. He doubled back to Wanamaker's after a half hour or so. The doors were opening. He walked inside thinking about the temporary job.

Troy suspected that he was heading to the same room as the other young Black teenagers who were entering the department store with him. They all headed to room 407 at a side door. The staff members were gathering themselves for the presentation to the future temporary employees.

A group of Black hopefuls sat outside of the conference room. The staff informed Troy to sit with the others inside the room of twenty-five desks. A small blackboard faced them like the inside of a classroom.

All of the desks were quickly filled. Troy ended up sitting in a chair, away from the rest, where he could easily observe everyone.

A young White woman walked in from the conference room wearing a charcoal gray suit with a pinstriped white blouse. She positioned herself in front of the blackboard and moved her hands nervously in front of her body. “Hi, my name is Carol Hanson, and I'm from Columbia University, home for the summer,” she said, getting everyone's attention. “I would like to describe the temporary position to you,” she added. Troy could not believe his eyes and ears. He attended State University and was home for the summer as well. What makes her any better than me? How did she get a supervisor position? he asked himself.

“The temporary position is fifteen days,” Carol went on. “You will be be paid three seventy-five an hour to help clean up stock.” She spoke with excitement, as if it were a privilege to receive the temporary positions. “You will work every day from nine to five until those fifteen days are up.”

Troy was appalled. He thought that temporary meant at least a month or two. He figured he might as well wait for another offer and give Wanamaker's up. Yet the rest of the prospects watched as though they were paralyzed.

Troy started to twitch as he stared at the Black hopefuls sitting patiently in school desks, listening to a young White college student. She was younger than many of them. He couldn't stand it any longer.

“Well, if anyone does not desire the position, you are free to go,” she ended. Troy looked around and saw that no one even budged. After Carol Hanson started up again, seeing that no one else would leave, he got up in the middle of her speech.