New Boy (12 page)

Outside the club, it had gotten chilly. Burns and I were having a short discussion on the sidewalk about how we were each going to get home when a tall, light-skinned Negro in a dark suit and tie and a black raincoat approached me. "Say, young brother, can I have a word with you?" said the man. He took me by the elbow and firmly steered me away from Gordie, as though he wanted to speak to me in private. He had reddish, close-cropped hair and a sober expression, and he was wearing those severe eyeglasses that schoolteachers wear, the ones with dark plastic frames and metal under the lenses. I had a feeling that I had seen him somewhere before, but I couldn't place him. Something in his manner was imperious, and it made me cautious, although I went along with him. "Look here, young brother, you know you're too young to be in an establishment like that," he began, once we were out of earshot of Gordie. "You got to be eighteen years old to be hanging out in a nightclub, and I
know
you ain't no eighteen yet. Am I right?" His voice had a soothing, streetwise pitch, a door-to-door salesman's voice, and he gave me a quick, disarming smile, as though he already knew the answer to his question.

"No, sir," I responded.

"Well, let me make a proposition to you. Why don't you meet me at the mosque down on Lenox Avenue tomorrow morning. We're holding some classes on the problems of the so-called Negro in relation to the white man, and what's the best way to deal with him. You look like an intelligent young brother. You'd probably like these classes. We got classes on self-defense, African history, Arabic, and the teachings of the Honorable Elijah Muhammad. What do you say?"

"I'd like to," I said, trying to sound as sincere as I could, "but I have to go back to school tomorrow."

"What school is that?" he said, raising his eyebrows.

"Draper," I said. He seemed puzzled.

"Draper what?" he said.

"Draper School. It's a boarding school in Connecticut."

"Well, look," he said. "If you give me your name and address, I'll see that you get a copy of the paper every week. Won't cost you a dime."

I didn't know what to say. I wasn't sure what paper he was talking about. "What paper is that, sir?" I said. He gave me a stern look.

"The voice of the messenger, of course.
Muhammad Speaks.
"

"I'll have to think about it, sir," I said. "Do you have an address where I can write for it?"

"Hey, Rob!" called Gordie, "we better get a move on or we're really going to be in trouble," and he walked out to the street to hail a cab.

"He's right," I said to the man wearing the black raincoat and the schoolteacher eyeglasses. "My folks were expecting me half an hour ago. You'll have to excuse me." And as I moved away from him, I heard a loud voice coming from a group of men standing around a dark sedan parked down the street. It was a voice I was sure I knew from somewhere.

"
Don't waste no more time with him, Minister Malcolm. He ain't black. He just a so-called Negro, wantin' to be a white boy.
" I wasn't sure just what it meant to be a "so-called Negro," but the accusation that I wanted "to be a white boy" stung as soon as I heard it. I had never had my racial identity challenged before, and immediately, I wanted to confront the person who was responsible. I looked down the street toward the group to try to identify the speaker, but from that distance, the men were indistinguishable, all thick-necked, young colored men in dark suits, white shirts, and dark clip-on bowties, heads shaved just like Tyrone's.
Tyrone!
Of course. It had to be Tyrone. Although I couldn't make him out in the darkness I noticed one member of the group lurking behind the others in the shadowy street, hunched over like a running back waiting for the play to begin. I wanted to tell Burns what Tyrone had said, so I walked over to him. He was still standing in the street futilely trying to flag down a cab. "Gordie," I said. "I think your chauffeur Tyrone is over there with those men on the sidewalk."

"Where?" said Gordie, looking around quickly. "Maybe he can give us a lift."

"Over there, near that sedan," I said, pointing to the group of five or six men around the car. Although they were dressed up, they stood grim-faced under the streetlights, looking as though they were spoiling for trouble. "He just shouted something that he must have wanted me to hear. He must not like me."

"What did he say?" said Gordie.

"He said I wanted to be a white boy," I said.

Gordie looked surprised. "Tyrone said
that?
" he said. "Are you sure it was Tyrone?"

"It sure sounded like him," I said.

"Come on," said Gordie. "Let's see if we can find him." We walked over to the group around the sedan. A couple of them, who were leaning against the car, stood up with the others when they saw us approach. A few were wearing dark glasses, and they all had their arms folded across their chests, forming a small phalanx that took up most of the sidewalk. A couple of the men were dark-skinned, others were brown or lighter, each one dressed like a beefy funeral director, standing motionless, expressionless, on the sidewalk. "Do any of you know Tyrone Gaskins?" said Gordie when we reached the group. "He works for my family and I'd like to speak with him for a minute." There was no response. Gordie began to inspect them, walking along the front of the phalanx like a foreign dignitary as they stood at attention, but Tyrone wasn't there.

"I don't see him," said Gordie, turning to me. "You must have heard somebody else."

"I'm sure it was Tyrone," I said. "I don't know where he could have gone." Suddenly Minister Malcolm rushed over, the tails of his black raincoat flapping behind him. "What's going on here? What are you doing with my men?" He sounded indignant.

"We're looking for Tyrone Gaskins," said Gordie. "He works for my family, and my friend here, Mr. Garrett, thought he saw him a moment ago standing over here with your men."

Malcolm smiled. "The only Tyrone we have is Tyrone 27X. I don't know nothin' about no Gaskins. Maybe that's his slave name," he said. "We don't recognize the names that were given to us by our slave owners."

"Well, where is
he,
sir?" said Gordie. "I'd like to have a word with him."

"He's in the car," said Minister Malcolm, still smiling, as though he had been harboring a secret, nodding at the darkened sedan whose windows were rolled up tight. Indeed, as I peered through the windows, I could see a burly figure in the darkness sitting motionless behind the steering wheel. "That's my driver," said Minister Malcolm, proudly. "He drives for a white family downtown during the day and he drives for me at night."

"Well, can I talk to him?" said Gordie, moving suddenly toward the car to open the passenger door. In a flash, Minister Malcolm's smile disappeared, replaced by an angry frown.

"Don't you touch that door, white boy!" he shouted. He was infuriated, although managing to control himself, but his hazel eyes nit
were hard as agate. "Don't you
dare
put your hands on that car without my permission," he said, spitting out his words. For the first time, I saw a glimpse of the rage I had observed in the photograph of Minister Malcolm on the front page of the newspaper, and I knew this was a man who was capable of exploding when provoked.

Gordie froze and then stiffly backed away from the car, his face ashen. The minister's men were still standing in formation with their hands behind their backs, nodding at each other with knowing smiles and murmurs of approval. A little audience of bystanders was beginning to form a semicircle around us to watch what was going on, while, standing next to the sedan, Minister Malcolm smoldered, his hazel eyes blazing behind his schoolteacher glasses.

Gordie walked over to me and whispered nervously, "What do you think? Maybe we should just leave." I wanted to leave, but I was still smarting from Tyrone's insult, and I was convinced it was Tyrone who had spoken. I wanted to see him face-to-face, to confront him and get an explanation, but it was obvious that I needed the minister's cooperation.

"The only reason we came over here, Minister Malcolm, is because the man insulted me," I said. "We're not looking for trouble, but I don't like somebody calling me something I'm not, and I have a feeling you wouldn't like it either." He gave me a wry smile, as though I had struck a chord somewhere inside him, and then he walked around the car to the driver's door and opened it. The driver was still seated inside, staring straight ahead.

"If you wasn't black, young brother, I wouldn't be doing this," said Minister Malcolm, and he told the driver to get out of the car. We were half a block away from Jinxie's, so the light wasn't perfect, but as soon as the driver got out, I knew it was Tyrone. At first I could only see his back, as he and Minister Malcolm were quietly talking back and forth, but the height was right and the neck and shoulders were broad enough and he was dark enough, and then, slowly, he turned around to face us over the hood of the sedan, and there was no question it was he. It was like being in a cop movie, when the cops show the suspect to the victim for the first time.

"Tyrone?" shouted Gordie immediately. "Why didn't you come out? I was standing right here next to the car. You must have known it was me. We just wanted to talk to you. I just wanted to get a ride home." Tyrone stared straight ahead, his face a mask of cool indifference, as though Burns wasn't even there. Gordie was shaken by Tyrone's refusal to recognize him.

"Tyrone?" called Gordie across the hood of the sedan, as though the chauffeur had not heard him the first time. But Tyrone remained impassive. "Can't you at least look at me?" said Gordie. He was pleading, as he would to a friend, but Tyrone continued to stare blankly ahead. It was apparent that in Tyrone's mind, at least in this setting, Burns had ceased to exist. He had become invisible, like a magician's assistant at the circus, and Gordie seemed stunned by his inability to get Tyrone to look at him. "What the hell is happening?" he cried. He was becoming agitated, as though he had been somehow betrayed. I
saw a smile briefly flicker across Tyrone's face, a cruel smile, like the ones the boys at Draper flashed when Vinnie and I were standing outside the dormitory. The bystanders on the sidewalk were becoming loud and their number was beginning to grow.

"What's goin' on, anyway?" said a bedraggled old colored man in a worn, smelly overcoat. He was using a cane, walking all around, asking others in the audience the same question.

"Nothin', old man," said one of the minister's men, fiercely. "It ain't
nothing

"Look like somethin' to me," said a middle-aged Negro woman in a sweater and a housedress. "Why is that white boy upset like that? What did them Black Muslims do to him?"

"Who is that fellow standing over there with Minister Malcolm?" said one voice.

"Anybody call the cops?" said another.

I couldn't be silent any longer. "What you got against me, man?" I yelled at Tyrone across the sedan. He gave me a baleful stare. His eyes had become slits. "I never did anything to you. You don't even know me. So how come you want to call me out of the race, telling the man I want to be a white boy? I don't want to be nothin' but myself,
nigger,
" and as soon as I uttered the word, I could see his face light up like the sign at Jinxie's. Minister Malcolm was leaning into him, holding the lapels of his suit coat to restrain him, murmuring softly to him, but Tyrone was built like an ox and Minister Malcolm, though tall, was lean. I could see them struggling on the other side of the sedan, and the bystanders in the audience were beginning to cheer.

"Get in the car," ordered Minister Malcolm as Tyrone broke away, trying to feint around him and get to the other side of the sedan. "That's an order," said Minister Malcolm emphatically. "Get in the car." But Tyrone was in no mood to obey. He looked at me across the sedan with a malevolent frown. "How you sound, motherfucker, callin' me a nigger! You Jew-lovin' dog. You must be a Jew yourself," and he threw himself on the hood of the sedan to try to scramble across and reach me. I froze with fear.

"Grab him," Minister Malcolm shouted to his men, "and put him in the car," and they swooped down on Tyrone, who was by now spread-eagle on the hood of the sedan, and hustled him into the back seat of the car. Two men climbed in the back on each side of Tyrone and slammed the doors. Minister Malcolm took the wheel and they sped off rapidly into the night, followed by a second car carrying the others.

Gordie was slumped against a light pole, quietly sobbing. Most of the crowd had disappeared, but a few people walked over to him, examining him with curiosity, as he had examined Minister Malcolm's men earlier.

"What he do to you?" said an older colored woman with gray hair. Gordie just shook his head and looked away, wiping his tears with his bare hand. "Musta done somethin' terrible to get you all upset like this," she said, patting him on his shoulder. "Don't worry, son. The Bible say, 'Weeping may endureth for the night, but joy cometh in the morning.'"

It was after midnight. I knew I was late returning to Cousin Gwen's, but I couldn't leave Gordie in that condition. "Come
on," I said. "Let's go for a walk," and I took him by the arm and led him down Seventh Avenue. We were both still trembling. Even at that hour, there were people sitting on stoops and on the fenders of parked cars, and they silently watched us as we made our way down the street. "You gonna be all right?" I said.

Gordie nodded. "I'll be all right," he said, but I could see he was still shaken. After a couple of blocks, he seemed to loosen up. He took out a cigarette and lit it, and his face was illuminated in the Harlem darkness. In that moment he looked like an old man, as though the incident with Tyrone had suddenly aged him.

"Let's go back," I said, and we turned around and headed toward Jinxie's. Gordie seemed much calmer after lighting the cigarette, so I decided to have one myself. "Let me try one of those," I said, and he handed me the pack and the lighter without a word. We stood on the sidewalk and I took a cigarette and placed it between my lips, letting it droop slightly, the way I had seen the detectives do it in the movies, but as I tried to click the lighter, the cigarette drooped so much that it fell from my lips onto the sidewalk before I could get the lighter to work. Gordie laughed and I laughed and it was good, because we both realized that despite what had just happened, life would go on. I quickly bent over to pick up the cigarette and put it back in my mouth, while Burns expertly clicked the lighter and produced a flame.