First Semester (6 page)

“That's what they say. She lives right next door in Tubman Hall. You'll see her.”

Judging by the way he'd just gotten shot down, for me to believe him, I'd have to.

O.G. SCHOOLING

W
e walked across the street to the Student Center just in time. The last tour group was about to leave. There had to be at least two hundred people waiting for a tour of the campus. Half of them were students. Of the hundred students, at least seventy-five of them were females. The odds were definitely in my favor. There were six orientation guides leading the tour groups. Five of them wore the red T-shirts with O.G. written on the front. The other one was a short, stocky guy with a tattered Afro, who was wearing a pair of blue Dickies, a white T-shirt, and blue Chucks. He looked older. I could tell he was from the West Coast, but I couldn't figure out why he was leading the tour. He threw his hands up in the air.

“Everybody staying in Marshall Hall, come with me,” he said.

I didn't want to leave the group of females, but I followed directions. About twenty other guys huddled around him.

“Y'all can probably already tell I ain't your average tour guide. I ain't hella bootsie like the rest of the orientation guides. Plus, I'm not really feeling the color scheme. My name is Terrell but everybody calls me Fats. I'm the only
real
O.G. out here, cuz. I've been at U of A for a while now, so I know the ins and the outs and the outs and the ins of this yard. I know these professors like the back of my hand, cuz. I stayed in Marshall Hall too. It seems like just yesterday I was getting off the plane from L.A. and moving in. It's crazy how fast seven years can fly by.

I could've damn near had a Ph.D. by now, but I ain't been on my p's and q's. I didn't even sign up to be an orientation guide. I just wanted to holla at y'all young playas and make sure you got the
real
campus tour. Feel me?”

I was feelin' Fats. It was refreshing to hear some of that left coast slanguage again. We followed him all around the campus, stopping every few steps for him to pull up his baggy Dickies. It seemed like he had a story to tell about each building we passed. When we passed Woodruff Library he told us about how hard it was for him to study the one time he'd gone in there to get some work done.

“Everybody calls the library Club Woody because everybody gets geared up to go in there at night, just like a club,” he said. “If you're trying to come up on a dime who can probably help you with your homework, the library is the place to be.”

As he took puffs of his Black & Mild cigar, he told us all kinds of stories about everything from the run-down corner store across the street from the library called the Shack to all of the different ways he'd managed to fail the classes he'd taken. First, he told us about the morning he fell asleep on his Spanish final in Douglass Hall. He told us about the time he got caught cheating on an algebra test in Carmichael Hall. He said that he had the answers to the test programmed in his two-way pager. Halfway through the test, he got a text message from the teacher that said:
Cheaters Never Win, Turn in Your Paper Now!
He couldn't stop laughing when he told us about the infested couch in Turner Hall.

“Some breezy in Turner Hall had caught crabs and sat down on the main couch in the waiting area wearing some booty shorts. I guess the critters crawled out of her crevice and marinated in the couch because every dude who sat on that couch came out with the itch. Gotta watch them girls in Turner, cuz. If they don't turn on you, they just might burn on you! I ain't Usher. Ain't no way I'm figna let it burn, cuz. I don't know about y'all, but Fats just ain't going out like that.”

By the time we made it back to the Student Center it was almost time for our mandatory meeting with our resident assistants in Marshall Hall. We had about ten minutes to spare. Fats wrapped up his tour with a few closing comments.

“I got the hookup on a little bit of everything, cuz. If I ain't got it, I can get it. If I can't, I know somebody who can. Get at me if you need anything. I got pull like tug-of-war around here.”

Just as I was about to merge back across the street toward Marshall Hall, I felt a tug on the sleeve of my white Lacoste polo. It was Fats. He was standing next to some cat who'd come on the tour of the campus with us. It was hard not to notice him. Dude was wearing a black Dobb hat with a burgundy feather on the side of it. Even with his hat on, you could see he had more waves than a tsunami. He was rocking a burgundy short-sleeved dress shirt, black linen pants and a fly pair of black-and-gray Steve Maddens. A toothpick rolled back and forth across his bottom lip as he talked on his cell phone. I was just waiting for him to pull a pimp cup from his back pocket.

“Say, pimp skillet,” Fats said. “Ain't too many player-type individuals on campus. Most of these clowns are about as square as a box of Apple Jacks, ya dig?”

“Game recognize game,” I said.

“Well, it would be very valuable for you to link up with pimperoni to my left,” he said, motioning toward the pimp-in-training. “I met him earlier today, cuz. He's cool people. We linked up like a booger and a nose and we've been kickin' it all day, so I know y'all can do it big in Marshall Hall like I used to.”

“Fa sheezy,” I said. “What's your name, family?”

“I'm gonna call you back, baby,” he said, holding up a finger as if to ask me to give him a second. “I'm serious, boo. As soon as I get done handling this business, I promise I'm gonna call you back…for real…I love you too, Chantel.”

“Damn, cuz,” Fats said. “You be dripping like a faucet on that phone. I just knew you were going to be blowing kisses through the phone any second.”

“That was wifey, folk,” the guy said. “You know how that be.”

“Nah, cuz,” Fats said. “I know how daytime minutes be. Anybody calling me before nine p.m. better have a real emergency to talk to me about.”

“She's paying my cell phone bill, so I ain't really tripping on that.”

“Say that, then, pimpin',” Fats said. “That's exactly what I'm talking about. That's why y'all two need to link up. You're cut from the same cloth, cuz.”

“What's your name, blood?” I asked.

“My government name is Lamont, but my pimp friends call me Fresh,” he said, removing his hat just long enough to pull a brush from his back pocket and quickly touch up his Caesar.

“Why they call you that?”

“I got my first pair of gators when I was in sixth grade and I wore them on the first day of school. I got to school late, so when I came into class everybody saw my shoes. The teacher said, ‘You must think you're fresh with those fancy shoes on.' I told her, ‘I'm fresh without them.' Ever since, everybody in that class started calling me Fresh, and it just stuck.”

“I can dig it with a shovel, family.”

“But come to think of it, I didn't start going by Fresh until my uncle, Bishop Don Magic Juan, told me that I should use it as my pimp name.”

“Hold up, blood. Are you talking about Bishop Don Juan that be with Snoop Dogg all the time?”

“That's my uncle, folk.”

“I smell that, playboy,” I said.

“What's your name, pimpin'?” he asked.

“James. But everybody calls me J.D.”

“What floor you stay on, joe?”

“Who's Joe?” I asked.

He laughed.

“It ain't no thing,” he said. “That's just our way of saying homie.”

“Where you from, blood?”

“Chi-town.”

“I'm staying on the first floor,” I said. “What floor are you on?”

“The third.”

Fats interjected, “We used to get blowed on that third floor, cuz. If you want to blaze that chronic, all you've got to do is slip a wet towel under your door and you're good to go. Y'all don't know nothing about that chronic in the Chi, though.”

“I done been on that chronic before. One of my cousins is from Long Beach. But y'all don't know nothing about that dro. Y'all ain't never smoked none of Chi-town's sticky, icky ooh-wee!”

Just as our conversation on illegal substances was about to intensify, I glanced at the sky-blue face on my watch. The long hand showed two minutes after the hour.

“Damn, we ain't gonna make it to that mandatory R.A. meeting on time, blood,” I said.

“You ain't lying, joe. Let's get there.”

Both of us dapped Fats up and jogged across the street to our dorm. We were late.

DISCERNMENT & DISCIPLINE

W
hen we made it to the staircase leading to my dorm it looked like a ghost town. Nobody was outside. The stoop next to the steps leading to Marshall Hall was vacant except for a couple of crows pecking on leftover chicken bones. I assumed everyone was already in their dorm meetings, but I didn't think we would be the last two to make it to ours.

I was right and wrong. Everyone else was in their dorm meetings and we were the last two to stroll into ours. The room was slightly musty, filled with about three hundred guys, most wearing cutoff T-shirts and flip-flops. The fact that there was only one way in and one way out made sneaking in impossible. As I got closer, I overheard Varnelius talking about curfews. He was wearing a purple T-shirt with a red V in the middle, mirroring the Superman logo. It had the word “Man” written underneath in gold. As we neared the entrance, Fresh and I looked at each other. Without speaking, we decided to split up. I veered to the right side of the room, while Fresh tried to blend in with the left side of the crowd. The damn feather in his Dobb hat blew our cover. Varnelius stopped in midsentence, cleared his throat and rubbed his hands together like he was about to dig into a bowl of gumbo. He had a devilish smirk on his face.

“You with the pimp hat and your boy,” he said. “Y'all grab a seat in the front. There's plenty of room.”

I knew that was falsified. It had to be a trick. There were no seats in the front. Instead of walking to the front, I tried to play dumb. I looked around like he wasn't talking to me. But everyone else in the room had turned their mugs to look at me. My roommate was standing right next to me staring in my direction.
Sellout,
I thought.

“Yeah, you,” Varnelius said in an uppity tone, pointing me out. “Cool Cali. Come on up to the front.”

I took sluggish steps, shuffling around guys seated on the floor. Fresh and I reached the front at the same time. There were four guys who looked like upperclassmen sitting on a desk just behind the head honcho. I figured they were either late like us, or the floor R.A.s. I looked around for a vacant seat. Just as I thought—not one. I looked for a spot on the dirty gray tiled floor, but the only spaces to sit down were so close, looking up at him talking would have been like sitting in the front row at a movie theater. Instead, we just stood there, looking like fish out of water.

“Y'all fellas know this meeting was scheduled to start at eight o'clock sharp, right?”

I knew he had an ulterior motive. Fresh and I shook our heads in unison.

“I see y'all wearing some pretty stylish watches. Young playas in the game. I like that. What's that you got there, a Fakeob?” he asked Fresh, referring to his cubic-zirconia-riddled knockoff Jacob watch with the multicolored face.

“Nah, this is a real Jacob,” Fresh said. “Maybe it's just your first time seeing one.”

Varnelius switched to a more serious tone. He was noticeably perturbed about being challenged. “Maybe you're right. Maybe there's so much bling-bling in it,
you
couldn't tell the time. But if you haven't noticed by now, you and your buddy here are late. We started this meeting five minutes ago. If I recall correctly, the agenda said, in bold words, that this meeting was to start promptly at eight. Obviously, y'all have a hard time comprehending the rules. But the rules are all we have to go by in Marshall Hall. And breaking them isn't something that V-Man or any one of the floor R.A.s sitting on the desk behind me will tolerate.
Capeshe?
”

Anybody who refers to himself in the third person is obviously feeling himself way too tough. We just shook our heads, hoping to spare ourselves from further lecturing. We started to sit down.

“Wait,” he said. “You didn't have a problem interrupting the meeting, so don't be so courteous all of a sudden. Fellas,” he continued, talking to the crowd. “We want to have a lot of fun with you all this year, but we've got to stick to the rules. There aren't that many of them. No loud music after ten. Clean up behind yourself. Don't pull the fire alarm unless you see smoke. And visitation hours are over at eleven o'clock. Not eleven-oh-one. Not eleven-oh-two. Eleven o'clock p.m. But since your new friends from California and…where are you from, sir?”

“Chicago,” Fresh said.

“Since your friends from
Cali
and
Chi-town
can't seem to tell time, we're going to have to postpone visitation until they grasp the concept. You have them to thank for restricting your hormones. In other words, no females are to be inside Marshall Hall until further notice.”

The crowd groaned and looked at us like we were the cochairs of the Klu Klux Klan. V-Man told everyone in the meeting to report to our respective floors to meet with our floor R.A.s in a private cluster setting. The crowd grumbled and murmured their way out of the room. V-Man was making it really tough for us to make friends, so for the most part Fresh and I stuck together. I gave him a pound before he cut the corner to go upstairs to his floor meeting. Just as I was about to shake the spot and get to mine, I noticed my roommate coming from our room, holding his inhaler in one hand and the orientation booklet in the other. He was wearing a T-shirt that drooped to his knees with a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle on the front and some dingy, white K-Swiss classics. Timothy was about five-nine, and couldn't have weighed more than a hundred and thirty-five pounds soaking wet with bricks in his pockets. He was all skin and bones. His pajama nighty made me laugh.

“Where you headed, blood?” I asked him, with a smile.

“Outside,” he responded.

“I thought we were supposed to be meeting with the R.A.?”

“He told us to meet him outside on the stoop. Weren't you listening?”

I disregarded his last comment. I'd already been ridiculed enough. I didn't have the patience to answer to Revenge of the Nerds without disrespecting him. “Why are you taking the orientation booklet with you?”

“I just want to brush up on some of the course descriptions for my classes. From what I understand, Dr. Johnson's First Year Seminar class is extremely challenging.”

“I'm taking his class too. What time are you taking it?”

“I believe, nine a.m.”

“We're in the same class, then,” I said.

I followed Timothy outside, giggling at the illustration of Master Splinter on the back of his nightshirt. I hadn't seen that cartoon since I was a little kid. I didn't know they still made those T-shirts. And I damn sure didn't know anyone my age who owned one. I hoped this was an isolated incident.

When we got outside, there were about fifty guys crowded around the stoop. The stoop was a short set of steps attached to Tubman Hall, our sister dorm, which was conveniently located right next to ours. Timothy walked to the far side of the stoop. I heard some of the foul comments about his nighties from a distance, but Lawry's was the loudest.

“Oh, hell to tha naw, shawty!” he shouted.

I posted up at the top of the steps. I didn't want anyone to know I was affiliated with Timothy just yet. Just as I was about to check the time on my watch, a slender light-skinned dude with wavy hair stood up on the cement bench about three feet from the center of the stoop.

“What's up, fellas?” he said in a tender voice. “My name is Lester Santiago and I'm going to be the first-floor R.A. this year. I know all of you want to get back to your rooms and finish unpacking, so I'm going to make this short and sweet. I'm from Detroit. And anybody who knows about D-town knows we love to kick it. I look forward to making this the best year possible for y'all. If you want to smoke weed, don't let me smell it. If you want to drink, pour me a glass, but don't get behind the wheel. Other than that, I really couldn't care less what y'all do. I'm not here to be your mama or yo' daddy. I just want y'all to have a good time. As long as you respect each other and keep the first floor clean, y'all can do pretty much whatever you want. As long as y'all don't get caught by V-Man, y'all straight with me. But if he gets you, he's got you. Any questions?”

“When do we get our visitation back, yo?” Dub-B asked.

“Like I said, that was V-Man's call. It's really on him to decide.”

A thunderous storm of complaints torpedoed Lester's way. He defensively put his hands on his hips and shifted his body weight from his right to his left side. As far as I could tell, Lester was hella cool. But his body language was a little on the feminine side.

“Look,” he said as his eyes widened. He spoke in a whispered tone with one hand still on his right hip and the other pointing from side to side. “If you guys want to sneak somebody in here on the late night, that's on you. I'm not saying it's okay to do it. All I'm saying is if V-Man catches you, you will have to deal with the consequences. And you can't get into Marshall Hall without passing his room. It's right there.” He pointed to the window to the immediate left of the front door of Marshall Hall.

“Questions?” he asked, looking around with his lips halfway poked out.

“When is the first dance gonna be, shawty?” Lawry asked. “If we can't get no cut in the room, at least I can get crunk.”

“I'm surprised you guys haven't heard about it by now. The Olive Branch is going down tomorrow night. That's got to be one of the best parties I've been to since I've been in college.”

“Where's it gon' be at, shawty?” Lawry asked, with excitement in his voice.

“It's on the football field. I'm telling you. It goes down. All of the freshmen from Lighthouse, Elman, Dorris Brown and U of A will be there. All on one football field at the same time.”

“All twelve Dorris Brown students are going to be there or just the three freshmen?” someone asked jokingly.

Everyone laughed except me. I didn't think Dorris Brown losing its accreditation was funny. Especially since the school had to basically close because none of its students could receive financial aid from the government. The registration packet said that Dorris Brown was the only school in the Atlanta University Center founded by a black person. I didn't see how these fools could laugh about something so serious.

“On the real, though, B, how much is that ticket running?” Dub-B asked, while trying to bring his laughter to a halt. “You know a playa's money is funny. Gotta save something to cop them books, son.”

A few of the guys who were standing around me looked around at each other in amazement. They couldn't believe how hard Dub-B was trying to act black. I gotta admit, he had the voice down.

“That's the best part about it. It's free! All you have to do is wear the Olive Branch T-shirt you got in your registration packet and you're in there.”

The way the fellas began grinning and rubbing their hands together, you would've thought Lester had just told everyone they'd won an all-expense-paid trip to the Bahamas with Beyoncé.

“Any more questions?” Lester asked.

I wanted to ask him why, out of all the schools in the AUC, he mentioned Lighthouse first, but I didn't. Timothy tilted his head back, pumped his inhaler and took in a deep breath of his prescribed air. When no one responded, Lester unofficially adjourned the meeting by jumping off the cement bench. Everyone began to walk back into the building. Before I joined them, I heard Lester's soft voice.

“Hey, Cali,” he said.

“My name is J.D.,” I responded.

“My bad, playa. J.D. it is. What part of California you from?”

“Oakland.”

“Them Oakland 49ers ain't gonna be about nothing this year. They need a new coach.”

“The 49ers play in San Francisco, blood. And I got the Oakland Raiders to win the Super Bowl.”

“Oh yeah, them Raiders are going to be serious this year. Anyway, I stopped you to tell you not to worry about that little performance V-Man put on in there earlier. That's just how he is. He's always power-tripping. He was the same way when I was a freshman staying in Marshall three years ago and he was my floor R.A. But anyway, anytime you need anything, just holla at me,” he said, extending his hand toward mine.

I shook his hand. The nails on his long fingers were perfectly manicured and gleamed as if they had just been coated with clear polish. His palms were sweaty and his hands were unusually soft. I figured he had probably played high school basketball in Detroit or something since he was about as tall as me. Either that or he had never had a job working with his hands in his life. I shrugged it off, wiped my damp hands on my denim shorts and went inside.

As I turned the corner to walk down my hallway, looking down at my cell phone to check my missed calls, I felt someone brush up against the side of me, damn near knocking me off balance. Normally, I'd get mad at anybody crazy enough to run up on me like that, without at least saying “Excuse me,” but when I peeped the situation, I couldn't do anything but laugh. Fresh was sneaking a girl, disguised in baggy sweatpants and a hooded sweatshirt, up to his room. We hadn't even been to our first class yet, and Fresh was already breaking the rules.