Gold Dust
Authors: Chris Lynch
Chris Lynch
To my buddy Jacqueline Woodson
extraordinary writer,
friend,
role model.
For reminding me that
good intentions
are not
good enough.
N
APOLEON CHARLIE ELLIS SHOWED
up just after Christmas. When he landed here there was almost a foot of snow on the ground. When he took off from Dominica, there probably was not.
That was the first shortchanging he got. The second was that they shoved him back down into seventh grade when he was supposed to be in the eighth. Language problem was what they were talking about. What language did you speak back home in Dominica, I asked him. English, he told me, and told me in some pretty fine English, I must say. So I didn’t quite get why they did that. Anyway.
“They announced my name when I came in,” he said to me. “So you have the advantage of me.”
“Huh?”
“What is your name?”
“It ain’t half what your name is.”
“Ain’t?” Napoleon Charlie Ellis asked me, sounding very surprised. My ain’t never surprised anybody in the past. Mr. Ellis apparently expected Boston, Massachusetts, USA, Hub of the Solar System, Athens of America, to be an Ain’t-Free-Zone. It would be my job to enlighten him.
Richard Riley Moncreif, I told him.
Ain’t
it purdy? I added. I was loaded with confidence that day, and lots of days before then too. Meeting people, talking to people, mixing... I never had any problem with that the way a lot of people do.
Napoleon Charlie Ellis stuck out his hand, right there in the boys’ bathroom, and after a small pause I stuck out mine. My hand.
It was an excellent shake, kind of formal, kind of hard, little bit of challenge, little bit squeezy. I had very little experience with the hand-shaking bit since it was never really much of a thing in my circle, and I never figured it to be all that crammed with meaning, the way grown men take it so seriously. But if I wanted to try thinking that there was more to it than a couple of guys trying to show each other how firm their grip was, I might have thought, this feels like the hand of somebody I could like.
But I didn’t want to try thinking that. Don’t make things more complicated than they should be would be my philosophy if I had one. So.
It was a fairly tough grip to match squeeze for squeeze if it came down to it. That was what I thought mattered about the handshake of Napoleon Charlie Ellis.
He was well known before he knew it, his story circulating through our little population before he did. He was not a full year older than me, despite the being kept back thing, which they could call lots of other things but we recognized as being kept back. I was on the old side of seventh and Napoleon was on the young side of eighth, so we were pretty close anyhow. I’m sure he recognized that and that was one reason we became friends so quickly. And I was a little bit taller too, so he could respect me, even if this was only my first run-through of the seventh grade.
“I do wish you wouldn’t do that,” he said to me.
“Do what?”
“Making the jokes. About my getting reversed. I don’t care for it. I can forget about it when you don’t mention it, since there is nobody here who knew me when I was in eighth grade, but when you bring it up, I am reminded. I don’t care to be reminded.”
Which was, I guess, the third part of the shortchanging of Napoleon Charlie Ellis. All his people were somewhere else.
“I’ll stop,” I said. Napoleon had a very smart face. Could make me appreciate things I couldn’t manage on my own. This could be a good thing or a bad thing, depending on what you wanted out of a guy. Mostly, I was happy enough knowing what I knew, and doing what I did. So this was a thing that we’d have to keep an eye on.
But as long as he had me looking, what did I know about being removed from my everything? That was for sure something Napoleon had that I didn’t. All my people were right here around me, always were and always would be. I had what and who I needed right here. Mine was that kind of neighborhood, that kind of life. “I’m sorry,” I said, mostly just to make the thing go away. “I’ll stop.”
“Yes, you said that,” he said.
See there, he could have said, okay, cool, Richard. Great. He could, and obviously did, notice that I felt bad enough to repeat myself. Could have let me off easier then. So what did he do instead? Pointed it
out
to me, that I had repeated. Threw a spotlight on it. Cold spot. And that was the way he did things. Letting a guy off was not his way. Like if I made a mistake with him I had to feel it twice, as if I couldn’t really get it the first time. Frankly, I didn’t understand why a guy should be that tense.
“Oh right, well I just repeated myself because I know you have that problem with the English and all.”
Times like this, a joke at just the right moment can really smooth things...
“Where are you going, Napoleon? Come back, wouldja please just...”
Did I ask for this? Was I looking for this? Did I go following anybody into the bathroom to spark up a friendship? No, I did not. I was minding my own business, doing just fine, marking off days on the calendar until baseball season started. Next thing I know I’m chasing a guy out of the bathroom to patch things up. Makes no sense. If I ran things, nobody would have names. We would just have batting averages. Then there would be no misunderstandings.
In the meantime, Napoleon Charlie would not get shortchanged by me at least.
“I’m sorry,” I said, catching him at the foot of the yellowed marble steps of the school basement. “I didn’t mean anything. I swear.”
His face remained rigid, only slowly and slightly softening. Then he nodded.
“So, what’s your batting average?” I asked.
He let his face freeze again, then headed up the stairs.
“What?” I said, following. “That one wasn’t a joke. That was a real question. Jeez, man, you eat a box of nails for breakfast, or
what?
”
I
AM NOT A
scientist.
And I’m not a poet or a bishop or a musician or an architect or a statesman or a television repairman.
Lots of things don’t make sense to me. The solar system, for one. God. Evolution, the piano and anyone who plays it, and the Red Sox not winning the World Series even one time since 1918.
These things are unexplainable.
Here’s another. A city where the people dislike each other so much that the court had to force the different kinds of kids to sit together in school. Where people throw rocks and try to tip over school buses. Where the
mothers
of some students show up on the news at night and they are screaming the most horrible things they can think of at the kids on the buses. And then one of those same mothers comes on the interview to say it’s not about hating anybody.
I’m fairly certain in that case that I do not understand what it is about. I’m not even close. And it hurts my head to try, so I don’t.
“You see this?” I say to Butchie, holding my baseball bat high in the air like Thor with his hammer. “I am going to take
this,
and I am going to hit
that
ball, out into
that
patch of bushes in left.”
It is that simple. And it is true. I know it and Butchie knows it. It is a beautiful, simple fact.
“Hard. Down the middle, Butch. That’s what I want.”
“Anybody can hit that, Richard. Big deal.”
“No, anybody cannot hit that. You, for example, can’t hit that.”
“Can.”
“Can’t. I’m talkin’ hard. Crank it up and let it go. You can start throwing me your junk in another week or two. I’m not gonna mess myself up trying to hit live balls two months before anybody even wants to play a real game. But you
can
throw it just as fast as you want. I only want to swing the bat and hit the ball. Hard, and hard. Simple.”
I love every bit of it. I love the sound. The sound of the ball approaching, whistling, if it’s thrown with the right snap. The sound of my bat whipping around, again, a sort of whistle in there. But above all... of course. Above all what I love is the sound of my bat hitting his ball. I can hit it. I can hit any one.
I don’t do a lot of bragging. But I do my share. It’s just part of the game. A fun part. Anything that adds fun to the game is okay anyway, and doesn’t do any harm as long as you’re not a jerk about it. So I can talk a little, when the opportunity arises.
It doesn’t arise all that often when I’m playing basketball. I’m okay at basketball, but just as okay as a zillion other guys. Or football, at which I am better than basketball, but not better than, say, a billion other guys. Or hockey or skeet shooting or Tae Kwan Do, all of which I have tried and none of which I have embarrassed myself at, but neither have I set the world on fire with.
But I can hit a baseball.
Can throw one too.
But I can
hit
a baseball. I
understand
hitting a baseball.
“Pitchers are always ahead of hitters in the first weeks, Butchie, so it won’t prove anything for you to snap a curve past me in February, will it?”
“Might not prove anything, but it’ll sure feel good.”
Butchie grins. He’s got a good, intimidating pitcher’s grin, to go with a very stretched-out body and great wing-span that both give him excellent leverage and the appearance of being even faster than he is. He’s tough enough too, in that desperate way pitchers need to be.
I stand in there, scratching hard into the frozen dirt of the petrified batter’s box with my spikes. Butchie keeps grinning, leans back, and back and back, then comes over the top, and over and over, and finally reaches his perfect release point and lets go of the first pitch of the 1975 baseball season.
It whistles. It is such a beautiful thing, the sound of it, the east-west spin—which I can pick up easily in the superior clarity of winter’s air—that I am almost too excited to react properly to the pitch until...
I drop to the ground, flopping hard on my back an instant before the ball nails me in the head.
“If you can’t stand the heat...” Butchie says, blowing warm steaming air through his pitching hand.
Could’ve told you he was going to do that.
I do love this game.
A
CCORDING TO NAPOLEON, HIS
mother chose to send him to St. Colmcille’s for the sense of community.
I squinted. “Community,” I repeated, in a way that was not a question, exactly, but did communicate confusion.
“Catholic community,” he pointed out.
“Catholic,” I said. “So you’re Catholic? Huh. Go figure.”
Napoleon shook his head at me. Already not an unusual reaction. “Yes,” he said, “go figure.”
I should have been getting used to imports of new types to the school by now. Up until my sixth grade year it was nearly unheard of for anybody to come to this school by any other method besides on foot. Neighborhood school, and all. It was a nice school, comfortable old building, big playground, couple of trees splashed around, Garcia’s Superette, which sold everything smaller than a car, right on the corner. But it was probably not unlike loads of other parochial schools all over the place. Same uniforms, same Pledge of Allegiance, same boring subjects, same Jesus. So there was never any reason for folks to go to any great trouble to send their kids across the city any distance to get here.
Until the busing thing. Kids crisscrossing the city to go to
public
schools. In
other
neighborhoods.
