The Nigger Factory (5 page)

5

Confrontation

Earl’s green Oldsmobile wheeled through the open gates at the mouth of the university. The arch stretching between two twenty-foot-high stone pillars announced: SUTTON UNIVERSITY. A small wooden plaque nailed into one of the columns noted that the arch had been donated by the class of 1939.

Fifty feet from the gate was a huge oval flower bed, containing now, in autumn, only dead reminders of the blazing color that had decorated the front of Sutton’s administration building from early spring until late summer. An arrow in front of the flower bed pointed all traffic to the right, around the famous circle that emptied into a large parking lot.

Earl drove slowly past the Ad Building, Washington Hall, the remodeled Student Union Building, Adler Annex, Paul Lawrence Dunbar Library, and Simmons Hall which housed almost six hundred men. To his left, the old science building, Carver Hall, Garvey Plaza for freshmen women, Mallory Hall for upperclass women, and the three-story fraternity house which had once been for home economics (before Adler Annex) completed the other half of the oval.

Earl parked in the ample lot, took a look at himself in the rear-view mirror, lit a cigarette, and got out. The newborn wind whistled at him. Smoke came from the chimney atop the small wooden hut that housed the security guard in the corner of the area. He saw through the naked branches of trees a pale-eyed, unblinking moon that hovered low in the sky like an oval of cold, shadowy clay.

Jonesy was standing on the steps of the frat building. The stocky MJUMBE chieftain, who played linebacker on the football team, was dressed in a black, short-sleeved dashiki and dark trousers.

‘Niggers always rather be hip than warm,’ Earl thought as he contemplated how strongly the wind was whipping against the short-sleeved African shirt.

Jonesy looked as though he wanted to say something, but noting the cold indifference on Earl’s face he merely nodded. He led the way into the building.

The first floor was in total darkness. Earl could hear couples positioning themselves in the dark. It was against school regulations for women to be in the frat houses unless there was a chaperoned dance or some other university-sanctioned function going on. The frat men gave little attention to what school regulations stipulated. They unscrewed the first floor lightbulbs and did as they damn well pleased.

‘Upstairs,’ Jonesy mumbled.

The two men took the stairs quickly and entered the thirdfloor meeting room where Baker, King, and Cotton sat around a square card table. Abul Menka sat in the corner staring intently out of the window. Earl took the chair directly opposite Baker. Jonesy stood by the door and folded his arms, looking over his shoulder out into the hall from time to time.

‘Happ’nin’, Earl?’ Baker asked.

‘Nothin’ much,’ Earl replied lightly. He hated bullshit like this, but he had expected a great deal of it. ‘I could use a run-down on the score.’

‘Yeah,’ Baker said as though bored. ‘We got a lista shit t’gether fo’ the Head Nigger.’ He grinned and continued to look through a pile of papers in front of him. ‘We figgered maybe you could take ’um over there if you wanned to.’

Here we go, Earl thought as he took the list from Baker. If I wanted to.

There was a tight feeling in the pit of the SGA president’s stomach. He could feel his pulse vibrating and drumming an uptempo solo next door to his brain. He lit a cigarette and left the pack on the table. He could feel the pairs of eyes drilling holes into his forehead. Though he noticed that Abul Menka
had not looked up when he entered, he felt that even the notorious Captain Cool was tense, watching and waiting.

‘Yeah,’ was all that Earl said when he had completed his reading of the list.

Ben King snorted like a bull. Earl cast a glance in the black giant’s direction and the returned stare blazed dislike. He met the look head-on. He was by no means intimidated by the huge football hero, though he had no eagerness to test the myths that had been built up pertaining to the larger man’s strength and ferocity.

‘So, uh, this is the score,’ Baker stammered uneasily. ‘We decided that perhaps, uh, things might be working out a little slowly for your office. We know how hard it is to get organized since we’re always tryin’ to organize things in the frat . . . we thought maybe you could, uh, use a little help to get the ball rollin’ an’ get people behind you.’ Baker was choosing his words very carefully. ‘Uh, it was shapin’ up like another one a them years like las’ year.’ The tension in the room could be felt as Baker dragged on. Earl did nothing to ease the pressure. He did not move or frown.

‘So we got things off the ground!’ King said suddenly.

Earl chose to ignore King and did not even look to his left in the challenger’s direction. He wondered how much more he would be told about the things that were lying beneath the surface. He didn’t buy what Baker was saying for a second and the lie was infuriating him more than the overall maneuver. Everything was too hazy, but Baker was waiting for Earl to start the name-calling. Earl would have to force any direct split that became visible between the two groups. Baker could then go back and report that he had tried to work with the SGA leader without success. Ice. Ice. Ice.

‘Everybody knows the problems around here,’ the MJUMBE spokesman said slowly.

Earl almost laughed. He could see that he was rattling Baker instead of the other way around. Baker had wanted to see him squirming, nervous, and uneasy in the unfamiliar
position of follower. Earl’s deadpan composure was reversing the pressure and anxiety was crawling deeper and deeper into Baker’s eyes.

‘We got the same pains in the ass that they had here forty years ago if you read back issues of
The Statesman.
But whenever it comes time for a direct confrontation the students shy away. They so concerned wit’ a fuckin’ piece a bullshit paper that they refuse to pull their heads outta the fuckin’ groun’. Who cares if they spent four years in hell and lived like pigs in a sty? Thass why I sed: “if you wanted to get involved.” I don’t know how concerned you are about graduatin’ on time.’ Baker leaned back.

‘You may git in trubble,’ Ben King baby-talked. ‘We wudn’t wan’ anything like that.’

‘Look aroun’,’ Baker injected. ‘We all seniors. Fo’ uv us are on football grants that they could snatch in a minnit, but ain’ no
man
s’pose to sit fo’ alla this shit! We cain’ live with a pipe up our assholes, can we?’

He was talking to keep Ben King quiet. Ben was spoiling for an argument with Thomas. He had been told to lay cool. They had everything on their side. Earl had nothing. But the SGA leader’s apparent calm was unnerving.

‘What do you expec’ Calhoun t’say ’bout these?’ Earl said, fingering the demands.

‘He has ’til tomorrow noon. We don’ expec’ him t’say anything in particular t’night. When you take him a copy a the things, you need not even ask what he thinks. We’ll wait ’til tomorrow when the new copy a
The Statesman
hits. We boun’ t’git some readin’ out befo’ he does. Then we’ll be in good shape wit’ trustees, faculty, all the resta the bullshit artists . . . what we want ’um to see is some laid-out thought ’bout whuss happ’nin’.’

‘That’s short notice,’ Earl commented. Baker’s last lines about
The Statesman
had let him know that Victor Johnson was lined up with MJUMBE.

‘Shit! We too damn late!’ Speedy Cotton snorted.

There was a pause and the only sound that could be heard was the tap-tap-tapping of Jonesy’s foot on the hollow floor.

Earl was glad that shadows cloaked most of the room. He knew that a smile was creeping into his face. If he stayed there much longer he was a cinch to blow everything.

‘Waddaya think?’ Baker asked suddenly.

Earl almost laughed. If anyone had ever told him that Ralph Baker would ever ask his opinion on anything he would have called them absolutely insane.

‘I couldn’t say,’ Earl breathed. ‘Like I sed: thass pretty short notice.’

The room stirred. Something was going on in the doorway behind Earl. He didn’t bother to turn around.

‘What, man?’ Baker asked someone.

‘Dude name Johnson downstairs t’see you.’

Baker watched Earl. No reaction.

‘Tell ’im ta wait. I be there.’ Baker snorted.

‘What time is Calhoun comin’ home?’ Earl asked.

“Bout ten,’ Cotton said. ‘From the thee-ate-uh.’

‘Ol’ bag bitch!’ King cursed, recalling the maid.

‘Does he know about these?’

‘I doubt it,’ King said. ‘The firs’ thing you do when people start plottin’ on you’ shit ain’ goin’ to the movie.’

Earl got up. ‘I’ll be goin’ over there ’bout ten.’ He turned toward the door. He could feel that heat rising to his head. Somehow he could feel that Abul Menka was looking at him for the first time since he entered the room. He turned and caught the stare head on. Yeah, he thought. I got alla these muthafuckuhs shook . . . thass good. But it’s not time fo’ you yet, Captain Cool. Or you, unfriendly Giant, as he thought of King. Time
will
come though.

‘You can wait here!’ King exclaimed on the verge of rage. Earl confidently estimated that he had upset King more than any of the others.

‘No. I missed dinna, man. I’m goin’ to O’Jay’s for a bite befo’ I go to the Plantation.’

‘Yeah,’ Baker mumbled.

‘Later,’ Earl said, leaving.

When Baker next looked up Earl had gone and the only reminder of his presence was the echo of Ben King hammering the already battered card table time and time again.

6

The Plan

‘Jonesy? Do me a favor and go down ta git Johnson.’

‘He in the lobby?’

‘Somewhere down there.’

Jonesy exited. The four remaining young men in black dashikis sat in silence. Baker ran his hand over his hairless head. Speedy Cotton, the lithe, coal-complexioned halfback, yawned broadly. Ben King sat frozen in his chair. Abul Menka looked out of the window.

Jonesy came back in, followed closely by a short young man of medium build who wore thick glasses and a blue business suit. He carried a pad and a pen under his arm.

‘Hi, brothers,’ he said emitting a smile that looked like a cracking mirror. He was extremely nervous and uncomfortable with the five MJUMBE chieftains and they were all aware of it.

The three seated members vaguely acknowledged his presence. Abul Menka remained silent. Johnson didn’t notice. He fidgeted with the pad, looking through it for notes that obviously did not exist. He wished he hadn’t allowed Baker to talk him into this situation. He had wanted the details for his story over the phone, but he had been bribed. Baker had promised him an inside seat and the real detailed story Victor wanted in return for two promises. One, that Earl Thomas not be interviewed until after Calhoun had been served with the papers. That demand had not bothered Johnson. He didn’t like Earl and had never received any real cooperation from his office. But the second point was a sore spot with him. Baker was asking to see the story before it was printed. That went against a lot of things. It went against professional ethics, objective standards, and everything else. Baker sounded intent
on having his way however. So what could Victor Johnson really do? Nothing. He sat there, knees rattling.

‘Did’ja bring them numbers I ast for?’ Baker questioned, breaking the silence.

‘I, uh, already knew those numbers,’ Johnson smiled weakly. Naturally he wanted to be cool.

Ben King was already on edge. He was tempted to reach across the table and slap the sniveling muthafuckuh! Those goddamn glasses and that bitch’s voice. Shit!

‘I’ll take ’um down. What are they?’ Cotton asked.

Johnson handed Cotton the pad and pen.

‘Uh,
Portsmouth Bulletin –
TU 6–3090. Uh,
Roanoke Tribune
–
UL 9–6200. What were the others? I forget?’

‘The
Norfolk News
and AP and UPI county offices.’ Baker snapped.

‘Yeah. Uh,
Norfolk News
–
LO 2–0000. AP and UPI news services can, uh, be called through the
Norfolk News.
Extension six-nine-nine for AP. Extension eight-two-two-three for UPI. Uh, I donno what county this would be for.’

‘You got ’um?’ Baker asked Cotton.

‘Uh-huh.’

Baker hoisted himself upright. He never talked to the group sitting down. He needed his hands and arms to gesture.

‘Everybody know what to do?’ he asked.

No one commented.

‘All right then. One more time: Speedy, you an’ me go wit’ Johnson. While we gittin’ the paper t’gether you gonna be callin’ them people tellin’ Calhoun been served wit’ deman’s on Sutton University’s campus. Tell ’um tomorrow we expectin’ a answer. At that time we gonna respon’ to his responses.’

‘Right on.’

‘Ben? You ready?’

‘You know that,’ King said.

‘What you gon’ do?’

‘When Calhoun come out tuhmaruh, if he don’ say we gittin’
what we want, me an’ the guys gon’ start closin’ shit down fa’ the boycott.’

Johnson’s eyes popped. ‘Boycott?’

Baker laughed. For a minute the tension was knifed, stabbed, and floating melodramatically to the floor. Everyone except Abul smiled at the grotesque look of horror that masked the editor’s face and the awkward, choked question that had slid from between his tightly closed teeth.

‘Yeah,’ King growled. He was especially dramatic for the benefit of their visitor. ‘Tuhmaruh if shit don’ go right we callin’ off classes an’ we stop eatin’ inna cafeteria an’ alla resta that shit. People who don’ dig it can come see me. I’m gon’ be the complaint department.’

‘Jonesy? You ready?’ Baker asked.

‘Yeah. I got it done . . . the statements you want released to the press and whatnot been typed up by some sistuhs in the dorm. I kin git ’um anytime I need ‘um.’

Baker smiled. He felt better. ‘We’ll want ’um t’night, okay?’

Everybody laughed.

‘Abul?’

Abul Menka swiveled away from the window with exaggerated slowness. The eternal question was in his eyes. Baker laughed again.

‘Captain? Captain, why you
so
damn cool?’ Baker almost choked on the words. ‘Johnson, why is this man so muthafuckin’ cool? Goddamn! This is the iceman an’ what have you.’ He turned to King. ‘Benny? Why?’

‘I donno, brother.’

‘I swear. Captain Zero! Ha! Tell me, captain, hahahahaha, iz you or iz you not ready?’

‘I iz, suh,’ Menka drawled
slowly.
‘Tuh-ma-ruh afternoon iz in my con-trol. When I heard you needed a bit a my help I immediately stole the white boys’ quickes’ steed an’ hopped nimber-ly into the saddle. I iz gonna pass out copies a yo’ statements to the faculty hopin’ alla while ta pull a few insomnia cure-ahs ovuh to our way a thinkin’.’

Johnson’s mouth fell completely open.

‘You the cooles’,’ Baker said.

‘Ultra cool,’ Jonesy chimed. Baker almost collapsed. Whoever heard of Fred Jones saying something without being asked?

‘Uh, what ’bout my story?’ Johnson asked, trying to capitalize on the upsurge of good spirits.

‘Ha! Baker, did this cat ast you somethin’ or am I gone completely outta my head?’

‘Vic, my main man an’ campus Waltuh Cronkite, I’m gonna give you a story to take the salt outta the shaker. After this muthafuckuh thay givin’ me a gig writin’ fo’ the
Secret Storm.
Ha!’

Everyone was thinking the same way. ‘To hell with Thomas! To hell with Head Nigger Calhoun! We gonna step out there with a program God hisself cain’ do nuthing with. We bad! We Black! We MJUMBE!’