College Boy : A Novel (9781416586500) (26 page)

Peter frowned at him. “Yeah, right. So how come you say you were so tired this morning?”

They crossed Madison Avenue, heading west.

“Because I don't ever get any sleep in small beds if somebody else is in it. So I would have been tired if we had done something or not. I need a lot of space to go to sleep,” Troy snapped back.

Peter gave no rebuttal as they reached the dorm and rode the elevator.

“So, Troy, how you gettin' home this week for Thanksgiving? Peter's getting a ride with me when my pop comes up to get us,” Scott said before Troy got off at the fourth floor. Scott, Roy, and Peter all lived on the eighth.

“Oh, cuz, can I get a ride with you?” Troy pleaded, holding the elevator door open.

“Yeah, man, we got room. I'll call you tomorrow.”

Troy got back to his room and remembered that he was supposed to meet Karen's father right before he went home for the holiday. But Scott and Peter were leaving one day early. Troy called Karen up and told her that it would be better, economically, to get a free ride home instead of paying $86 dollars for a round-trip bus ticket. She agreed and made arrangements to have him over after the holiday. Karen had already told her father about Troy. He was anxious to meet the young scholar.

 

On the long, five-hour journey from Marsh County to Philadelphia, the four Black men talked about race, gender, politics, and economics. Scott's father talked about his days in the army and his travels around the world. Then Troy asked him what he thought about Malcolm X.

“To tell the truth, I thought Malcolm started compromising his strong racial views when he got caught up into that international arena,” Scott's father said.

“That's the only thing that I didn't like,” Troy agreed.

“And now people talkin' 'bout Malcolm was into that ‘brotherhood of man' stuff. But my problem is: how can we trust White people to be our brothers? They are some of the most misinformed people in the world. And it's hard for them to give up the privileges that they have in being White to become our brothers.”

“Yeah, you're right. They got crackers down South that swear they're superior to Blacks. And most of them crackers ain't got sense the first,” Scott's father responded.

“What do you think about African-centered education?” Troy quizzed.

“I think that's the only way to do it. But I wouldn't call it African-centered, I'd call it ‘truth curriculum.' A lot of people, even Blacks, will not accept anything from Africa. The first thing they'll say is, ‘I ain't no damn African.' So we gotta get them to listen first.”

“Yeah, but that is the truth. Africa is where all life, language, and civilization began. So if they can't accept that, then it ain't no hope for ‘em.”

“Every man who has faith in the Lord has hope, my brother,” Peter interjected to Troy.

“Peter, if you got people having faith in lies and forced religion like Catholicism, then it's going to be a whole lot of people deceived, my brother,” Troy argued with mockery.

They dropped him off in downtown Philadelphia. Troy really wanted them to see his neighborhood, but they would have been heading in the wrong direction. Scott's father still would have driven him home, yet Troy did not want to be a bother. It was one of those confusing back-and-forth deals that Troy wished Scott's father had won. He ended up waiting nearly an hour for a SEPTA (Southeastern Pennsylvania Transportation Authority) bus.

 

Charlotte was away at work when her son came home. The house was empty, except for Grandmom Bessie, who was sleeping. Normally she had at least four grandchildren to watch over. Fortunately, Cookie had taken everyone to the movies and had a sleepover.

Troy dashed over to Scooter's house, where he could always find his same friends, doing the same things and talking about the same dreams while they let the days go by.

“What's up, my nigga?” Raheem shouted as soon as Troy stumbled down the steps. “Yo, cuz, you right on time for a hit. This is our Thanksgiving Day bash,” he said, holding up a forty-ounce bottle of Olde English 800.

“Y'all brothers down here gettin' drunk, hunh?” Troy asked them.

“Naw, man, not drunk. We just gettin' nice,” Blue answered.

“Yeah, cuz, I only took a couple swigs, 'cause these niggas is down here trippin',” Scooter said.

“Stop fuckin' lying, man. You always trying to play Mr. Nice Guy whenever Troy comes home and shit. Now you was down here gettin' zooted like the rest of us,” Raheem said from the couch.

“I know, 'cause he do be jockin' Troy all the time,” Blue agreed.

“Man, I think they sleepin' together,” Raheem added.

“Yeah, aw'ight. Y'all niggas is drunk, not me,” Scooter said.

“Yeah, well this drunk nigga gon' get some sex tonight, from a new fly girl. 'Cause I done spent, like, two hundred dollars on this chick, and I definitely feel that's enough for some drawers,” Raheem said.

Troy sat on the couch beside him, thinking that there was no way out for his friends.

“Yo, Troy, my Puerto Rican chumpee got an abortion, cuz,” Blue told him.

“For real?” Troy responded blandly. He had figured as much. Blue wasn't ready for kids.

“Yeah, man, 'cause that chick started actin' crazy. She was talkin' 'bout she need money all the time. And yo, that shit got on my nerves. So I gave her Spanish-speakin' ass, like three hundred dollars and said, ‘Here, go have an abortion, 'cause I'm not gon' be dealin' with you no more.'”

“Dag, cuz, you told her that?”

“You damn right! This is my life and my money,” Blue snapped, shaking the forty-ounce bottle in his right hand.

Troy shook his head, depressed. “Man, what am I gonna do with y'all brothers?”

“What? Ay', man, don't come back here talkin' that black shit, cuz. I'm really gettin' tired of hearing that shit,” Scooter said to him.

“Oh, now Scooter gon' try to have a fight with his boyfriend,” Raheem said, giggling.

“Naw, man, I'm sayin', that's the only thing that Troy talks about,” Scooter explained.

“Well, it's something that we all gotta get into,” Troy insisted.

Blue stared at his college friend drunkenly. “No it ain't. All I gotta do is stay Black and die, cuz. Fuck niggas!”

Raheem looked at Troy and laughed. “You wastin' your time, Troy. You might need to find some new friends, cuz. These niggas ain't going nowhere.”

“Raheem, who the fuck are you to talk, man? You 'bout ta get locked the hell up soon!” Scooter shouted at him.

“I can't leave y'all, man. I love y'all brothers. That's why I always come back,” Troy said seriously.

Blue laughed at him. “You sound like a damn White man, cuz. ‘You old niggers are the best thing I ever had.'”

“Aw, cuz, shut up. You the only one in here Black enough to be a nigger,” Scooter said, cracking up himself.

“Yo, man, we can still all make it out. Malcolm X did it,” Troy alluded.

“Uht-oh, he's a Malcolm X fan now,” Raheem said before taking another drink from his bottle. “What chew know about Malcolm X, boy? You don't know a
damn
thing about that man. So shut ya wise ass up.”

Blue and Scooter laughed.

Troy refused to let it faze him. “I was thinkin', y'all. If we could all start up our own business or something, we could get rollin',” he persisted.

Scooter sighed as if he were bored to death. “You just don't get it, do you, Troy? If that Black shit was all that, then there wouldn't even be no ghetto.”

“Naw, man, it's a ghetto because it was set up like that,” Troy told him.

“We all know that, so what you plan to do? What chew gon' try ta change it?” Scooter challenged.

“Yeah, but it ain't the effort of one man. It's a holistic thing.”

Raheem interrupted again. “Uht-oh, now he's talkin' 'bout Africa.”

Troy looked at him. “How you know what I was talkin' about?” he asked, wanting Raheem to say what he knew.

“What chew think you the only one that can read, nigga? I read about ancestor worship, medicine, science, and African spirituality, cuz. That shit ain't nothin' new. It might be to these niggas but not to me,” he answered, shaking his bottle at Blue and Scooter.

“He don't know shit. My grandmother from Trinidad was tellin' me about that when I was little. But fuck it, 'cause we in America now,” Blue said.

“Yeah, but that don't mean that we can't think like Africans,” Troy reasoned with him.

“OK, then, Troy. How the hell are we gonna get money for that shit, if we gon'
think
like Africans? The last time I heard, Africans were poor as shit, unless something changed recently,” Scooter commented.

“We gotta nationalize our products like they do in socialism,” Troy answered.

Blue choked on his drink. “Oh, and then everybody supposed to give up their shit? Naw, fuck dat, 'cause my shit is mines. I'm not givin' no nigga my money. O-o-o-h n-o-o. Fuck dat,” he wailed, grabbing his left pocket, filled with greenbacks.

Raheem silenced Blue with a raised hand. “Hold up, cuz. Go head, Troy, 'cause you got some good-ass ideas goin' on,” he said.

“First of all, Black people need to be reading more.

Then we will all come to the same conclusions,” Troy reasoned.

“So what chew trying to say, we all think alike?” Scooter asked.

“Basically. We all have common sense, but we've been misinformed. So if we all get the right information, we can come to the right conclusions.

“See, there's a group of White men who are running the world and controlling the information. That's done through the schools, the churches, the television, radios, and in the newspapers. The Bible is even messed up,” Troy answered.

“So who the fuck told you all this?” Scooter asked, astonished.

“The boy been readin', dummy, somethin' that you never do,” Raheem snapped. “But the shit still don't matter, cuz. We too fucked up, now. You ain't got a shot in hell to reeducate over thirty million niggas in America, let alone the rest of the confused niggas around the world. And who the fuck said that the White man is gonna let you?”

Raheem starting putting his coat on. “Well, it's been nice chattin' wit' y'all niggas, but I'm 'bout to go get me some drawers.”

Troy followed him out, grabbing his own coat. “So you know more than you tell, cuz,” he said to Raheem.

They walked outside into the chilly November air.

Raheem faced him. “Look, man, I went through the shit you goin' through right now, like, two years ago. I couldn't take the shit, and that's why I dropped out of school,” he revealed. “I felt like all the White teachers were tellin' me the wrong shit. Then I was like, ‘Fuck workin' for a White man.' So that left me where I'm at today, livin' in an underground economy.”

“But if we make networks, we can get away from the underground economy,” Troy told him.

“What networks, cuz? Networks to punk-ass niggas that kiss the White man's ass! They all spending the same money, Troy!” Raheem responded passionately.

“White people got shares in all their shit. That's why Africa is so fucked-up now. They should have an underground economy where Europeans don't know that they're exchanging goods, 'cause you know what happens once White people get in shit,” he explained.

“Well, what about if you get locked up?” Troy cautioned.

“For what, Troy, drug possession? Fuck it, man. I ain't got no record yet, plus I'm 'bout to start workin' with my uncle anyway! I'm 'bout to get outta this drug shit, cuz!”

“Yeah, that sounds good, but I don't know if you really gon' do that. You can tell me anything.”

Raheem calmed down and shook his head. “Yo, it's like dis, Troy. Education and African studies is cool and all, but niggas need money, man. That's what this whole shit is about, the love of material things. And if niggas can't pay for food and shelter, you can talk all the Black Power and African-centered-education shit that you want. And I'm gon' tell you something else,
Black man!
It's gon' come a day when White people gon' try to set up a system of one currency. And the shit is gon' be computerized. Then niggas ain't gon' be able to buy nothin'. And see, the Bible talks about the numbers of the devil in your right hand or on your forehead. And it may not be six-six-six, but it will have some type of numerical code. So while you talkin' all that shit about education, you better start tellin' niggas to form their own economy.
Underground!
”

A
FTER RETURNING TO SCHOOL FOR FINALS
, T
ROY WAS TOTALLY
unfocused. He had been sitting at his desk for three hours attempting to force himself to study.

“That's it!” he angrily announced to himself. “I'm tired of studying.”

He closed his book, stood up, kicked off his shoes, and leaped into his small, unmade bed. He plugged a pair of borrowed earphones into his radio, which rested on top of his headboard cabinet, and pumped up Public Enemy.

Brrrloop brrrloop.

He was still able to hear the telephone ring. Bouncing from his bed excited, he was expecting Karen. “Hello.”

“Yo, what's up, Troy? It's Rej. Come sign me in, cuz.”

“Aw'ight, I'll be down.”

Grabbing his keys and forcing on his Nikes, Troy dashed out of his room, closed his door and sprinted down the stairs to the sign-in table. Reggie Mason was standing next to the dorm monitor waiting to be signed in. After showing identification cards, they leaped onto a departing elevator to the fourth floor.

“So what's been up, man?” Reggie asked.

“Nothin' much. You know, basic studying,” Troy answered. “I thought you was my girl, though, Rej. She's supposed to call me to go to the movies. I'on really feel like going to the movies, but you know how it is.”

“Dig. Babes will have you doing anything, even when you don't feel like it most of the time,” Reggie commented. He took off his coat once they had arrived at Troy's room. “Where do you want me to put this?”

Troy looked around. “Just throw it in that chair,” he said, pointing to the sofa. “So how do you want it cut, the same way as last time?” he asked.

Reggie stooped down and looked into the large mirror over the dresser. “Yeah, Troy, just block it up again and put that same part on the side,” he answered. He took a seat in Troy's desk chair.

Troy wrapped a towel around Reggie's neck and clipped it into place with a safety pin. He then went to work with his clippers.

“Yeah, so Rej, I seen you with that White girl the other day. Are you into that?” Troy probed.

Reggie shook his head urgently. “Oh no, cuz, we was just studying. I can't talk to White girls. I'on even know what to say to them juhns.”

Troy nodded with a grin. “I had a few of 'em from being on the basketball team last year. But this year, I ain't even thought about it.”

“I never had a White girl before,” Reggie said. “As a matter of fact, I haven't had anything out of our race. All I've had is Black women, cuz.”

“Yeah, I can dig it,” Troy told him. “When I go to Tubman next year, it's gon' be honeys galore, from every city. But my girl gon' be goin' there with me. So I'm cool.” He grinned from ear to ear.

Reggie pondered as Troy worked on the block shape of his haircut. “You goin' to Harriet Tubman University, Troy?” he asked.

Troy reflected. “Yeah. I didn't tell you that?”

“Naw, man, you didn't tell me. Why you goin' there, though?”

“Because I'm tired of being with all these White people up here,” Troy snapped. “I'm losing my concentration up here, man. I wanna be a student instead of a minority on campus, you know. And who knows, I might even be a student president at Tubman.”

Troy finished shaping the top of Reggie's hair and got his scissors out to cut off the loose ends. “Plus, Tubman has one of the strongest Afrocentric curriculums in the country,” he added.

“Yo, man, it's a White world,” Reggie said. “And this shit ain't Africa.”

Troy was disappointed. “Let me tell you something, cuz. African people started civilization, so the most important education that you can get is from knowing your roots and African achievement. African descendants were the first to know all things.”

“Yeah, well we don't know shit now,” Reggie responded humorously.

“Aw'ight, I agree. A lot of us don't know shit. But unfortunately, Rej, if we stay in these White schools, most of us will only learn how to remain slaves, whether we have a high-paying job or not. And if you notice, Rej, all of the people who come to give lectures in our programs are always from the Black colleges. “They say that up to forty percent of all AfricanAmerican graduates are from Black colleges. And there are damn near three or four times as many Black students in these White schools. Nevertheless, Black schools graduate almost half of our educated workforce,” Troy said, starting to preach the race thing again.

He felt a surge of relief after letting Reggie in on some statistical information he had read in
Black Collegian
magazine.

“Damn, cuz. That's a sharp-ass haircut,” Reggie commented, looking in the mirror. “Anyway, that's probably true, man. But I'on know. Since I've been in this mug for three semesters already, I might as well hang in here and finish,” he insisted. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a roll of green. “You got change for a twenty, Troy?”

Troy dug inside his desk drawer and pulled out his roll.

“Damn, cuz, you rackin' up, hunh?!” Reggie exclaimed. “My man Troy got a fat knot!”

They grinned as Troy peeled through his twenties and took out a ten and four ones.

“How much do you make in a week?” Reggie asked him.

“Like, forty to sixty dollars, depending on how many people want a haircut. I can't make nothin' if nobody wants a cut,” Troy answered. He got out his broom to clean up the hair.

“Dig,” Reggie agreed. “But brothers always need haircuts to look pretty for these black sweethearts out here, you know.”

They chuckled again as Reggie grabbed his coat.

“Yeah, man, my girl is like that,” Troy said. “She was like, ‘Since you're a barber, I know you keep a haircut.'”

Reggie laughed while preparing himself to go. “My man, Troy. You be trippin', cuz.”

Brrrloop brrrloop.

They both looked to the phone.

“Yup, Troy, that's probably your girl now,” Reggie commented.

“It should be. She was supposed to call an hour ago,” Troy said, picking up the phone. “Hello … What's up, girl? You was supposed to call me an hour ago.” He looked at Reggie while listening to her explain.

“Yeah, yeah, excuses, excuses,” he said. He and Reggie smiled at each other as he continued to listen.

“So that means you ain't gon' be here in time for the movie?”

Reggie took another peek at his sharp haircut in the smaller mirror over Troy's sink. “Yo, cuz, this a suave-ass cut,” he repeated. He then opened the door and walked into the hallway.

“Oh, Rej, you gon' sign yourself out?” Troy asked, taking his mouth from the phone.

“Yeah,” Reggie answered.

“Aw'ight, then, man, I'll check you out later,” Troy said as Reggie left and closed his door. “So, umm, Karen,” he continued, returning to the phone, “you just gon' spend the night now or something? … What time you gon' get here?”

He leaned against the wall next to his dresser and rolled his tongue around the inside of his mouth. After two minutes of listening to the hassles of Karen's long day, he finally got another chance to speak.

“Yeah, aw'ight, then. Bring 'em. So you gon' be down here, like, ten o'clock? … Bet. Call me when you get here.”

He hung up the phone and put away his barber equipment. He then turned on Public Enemy,
It Takes a Nation of Millions to Hold Us Back.

Usually, on Friday nights, Troy would do homework, locking himself in his room until hustling a party. Or he would call one of his lady friends over for late-night sex. But Karen was special to him. He had been with her the longest, and she had literally forced him to respect Black women sexually.

 

Bloomp bloomp bloomp.

“Yo, Troy, can I get a haircut, man?!”

“Ay', Doc, stop bugging me!” Troy hollered through his door.

“Ay', Troy, I'm for real, man. I need a haircut.”

“I don't feel like cutting no more. Come back tomorrow.”

“Come on, Troy … Well, yo, just let me use your edgers right quick.”

Doc sounded confident that his barber friend would open up the door and let him in. However, Troy decided to ignore him.

BLOOM!

“Aw'ight, then, you punk. I'll remember this shit!”

Doc yelled after kicking the door. He stormed up the hallway feeling angry and defeated.

Troy was curious. He decided to go see how bad Doc needed a cut. He didn't have far to walk as he stumbled across a floor mat and tripped into Demetrius's room, around the hall.

Doc howled. “You punk! That's what you get.”

“Ay', Troy, you should have heard Doc in here cussin' you out, man,” Demetrius said. “He's mad as hell about that big wolf on his head. I mean, just look at it, Troy. It looks like Yellowstone Park. He looks like one of Buckwheat's boys and shit.”

Troy and Demetrius chuckled. Doc bounced onto Demetrius's bed to watch a videotape. His dark curly hair was all over his head.

“What movie is that?” Troy asked.

“Shut up, man,” Doc snapped. “You ain't gon' let me use your clipper, right? Now see if I ever give you anything again.”

“I mean, Doc, I let you use my clippers all the time. You don't even come to me for a haircut no more.”

“ 'Cause you might fuck my hair up. You ain't got no license.

“You know what I mean, Meat. He might be mad 'cause he got a F on his test or something, and take it out on me,” Doc explained.

Troy sucked his teeth while they laughed at him. “How many people have you seen me mess up? Seriously, cuz, all I give is fresh cuts.”

Demetrius attempted to side with Troy. “Dig, D. Troy do give some nice-ass cuts.”

“So how come you don't let him cut your hair?”

“I'on know, man. He might fuck my hair up, too.”

Doc fell out across the bed with laughter. Demetrius chuckled at the comment himself. All the comedy forced Troy to join in and smile.

“See, Troy, Meat don't trust you to cut his head either,” Doc said. “I gotta get something to drink.” He was still giggling as he headed toward the door. When he got close enough, Troy gave him an elbow to the chest.

“Oh Troy, all that, man?” Doc asked seriously.

Troy threw his hands up in a boxing stance. “Yeah, boy, you don't want none. So go ‘head.”

Doc took heed and retreated as Troy smiled in victory.

“Yo, Troy, I heard you going to Tubman University,” Demetrius said.

“Yeah, man, I gots to get away from these White people.”

Demetrius frowned, confused. “Get away from White people? You can't get away from White people,” he responded with a smirk. “I mean, once you get out of school, they gon' be right there waiting for you, unless you go back to Africa or Haiti or some shit, where it's, like, limited White people. I mean, that's just the real world, man. You better wake up and smell the coffee. You just gon' make yourself miserable.”

Troy shook his head in disbelief as Doc returned to the room.

“I'm telling you, Troy, if you going to a Black college to get away from White people, you just fooling yourself,” Demetrius added. “This is their country. They took this shit from the Indians, and they ain't trying to give it up to no niggas. That's just plain factual.”

Doc looked Troy over and smiled. “He ain't goin' there to be with Black people. He really goin' for the girls.”

“Dig, that must be it, 'cause you can't get away from White people if you plan on making a lot of money in this country,” Demetrius said. “And you wanna be a doctor, Troy? Now, come on, man, you know you gon' have to deal with them.”

Troy sat on Demetrius's dresser and prepared himself, mentally, for battle. “Yo, cuz, we gotta learn to change the rules of the game. It's enough blacks with money to help us. We just gotta put pressure on them and do what we say we gon' do.”

Demetrius threw his hands up in the air as if he was exhausted with the conversation. “Look, man, if you think these Black businessmen gon' come to your rescue, forget about it. Niggas only be thinking about themselves,” he insisted.

“Yeah, you right. That's why we gotta stop being niggas and start being humans. African humans,” Troy snapped. “I can see right now that that selfishness manifests itself right here on this college campus. We gon' have to look out for our fellow African descendants sooner or later.”

Doc found amusement in Troy's statement and began to snicker. “Ay', Meat, he called us African descendants and shit.”

Troy shook his head and turned to leave the room. “Brothers gon' have to work it out, man.”

“Yeah, aw'ight, nigga!” Demetrius shouted into the hallway. “You better stop listening to that Public Enemy shit. I mean, they cool and all, but don't let that shit go to your head!”

Troy rumbled to his room still hearing the mocking laughter of his college friends. He entered his room feeling betrayed and hateful and didn't notice that it was a quarter after ten. Karen was downstairs waiting for him in the lobby, and after lying across his bed to gather his thoughts, Troy finally realized that it was late.

“Damn! It's ten-twenty!” he yelled right as the telephone rang. “Hello,” he answered, grabbing it off of the wall.

“Boy, I've been down here for thirty minutes, trying to call you. Where have you been?” Karen declared.

“I was down the hall and lost track of the time. But if you trying to rank me, you can stay down there even longer.”

They laughed as Troy hung up the phone and went to sign her in. At the sign-in table, at least five couples were waiting in line already. Karen sat with her bag on a couch behind the desk. Troy went over and sat next to her without saying a word. He eagerly watched the line move.