Tuff (36 page)

“Astronaut?” Winston said, embarrassingly covering his mouth when he realized his bafflement was audible. Winston looked up at the ceiling. It was still riddled with shotgun holes from his father’s poetry reading.
What the fuck am I doing up here?

Jordan addressed the audience in the bold, clear voice of an old-fashioned orator, his Hitlerian stare and backwater Baptist inflections holding them spellbound. “What we as a community need to do is start imagining ourselves beyond race.…”

Winston gazed into the crowd. Inez sat in the front row, her angry face trembling with hatred, reddening with Jordan’s every word. She knew that despite his representing the district, Jordan’s only real connections to his constituency were a couple of second cousins he saw once a year at the family reunion and a post-office box he didn’t have the key to. Two rows behind her, Spencer sat on his hands. He’d seen German Jordan speak before, and once counted himself a devout Jordanite. Two years ago they even shared the podium at a conference on identity held in Minneapolis. Jointly chairing a workshop on multifarious identity, they succeeded in affirming the oxymoronic confab of black Jews, hermaphrodites, white niggers, and the walking dead. It was at the conference he first became disenchanted with Jordan. It wasn’t the rampant rumors of a white mistress salted away in a New England log cabin or the cocaine habit that led to his disillusionment; it was the realization that no matter the topic, if there was an African-American subtext (and isn’t there always?), Jordan gave the same speech. Every aspect of black culture from art to athletics had its roots in the church. Louis Armstrong was the trope
for all things black. The ills faced by America’s impoverished could be righted by embracing radical Christianity and never wearing anything less dressy than a cardigan sweater. To Spencer’s way of thinking, Jordan’s regimented cures for colored America amounted to tweed-jacketed fascism.
I know Stephen Jay Gould
, Spencer thought,
and you’re no Stephen Jay Gould
. Most of the audience vigorously applauded Jordan’s every point, and occasionally, shouts of “Amen!” rang throughout the hall.

Where’s my peoples at?
Winston asked himself, scanning the rear of the auditorium, where his friends and family were seated. They weren’t listening to German Jordan; they were fixated on Winston, their pride evident even through their efforts to make him laugh with hand signals and distorted faces. Winston shyly waved at them, like a child playing an elf in the school Christmas play.

“Though for the past four years I’ve represented the concerns of this district to the fullest extent of my abilities, I am ashamed to say that to this day I am afraid to park my Mercedes-Benz in this neighborhood. We must do something about …” Inez caught Winston’s eye and made the yap-yap-yap sign with her hands. Winston rolled his eyes in agreement. When they centered, he saw his father, arms folded, standing underneath the Emergency Exit sign. His left eyelid twitched as he recalled the times his father had embarrassed him from this very same stage.

“I have traveled in space, seen the stars, and know that they are within our grasp if only we …”

How this fool get to space? Why him? How does he get to do the one thing I really want to do? What a nigger got to do to get to the stars?
Unable to hold off the jealousy, Winston covered his ears with his hands. German Jordan’s mouth was moving, but no words were coming out. His silent podium pounding and stiff oratorical gestures were reminiscent of a nineteenth-century wooden whirligig toy come to life. Tuffy’s eyes closed. He hummed an impromptu tune to himself, pretending the pastel flashes dancing on the insides of his eyelids were novas and nebulas beckoning him onto the dance floor like house-party trip lights.

Margo Tellos tapped Winston’s shoulder. Awakened from his disco daze, he moved his hands away from his ears and the audience’s laughter replaced his daydream. The moderator beckoned him to the microphone. “Next up is one of our young charges, who’s following in the activist footsteps of his father, ex-Panther Clifford Foshay, who’s standing over there in the back of the room. Please welcome Winston Foshay.” Tuffy sheepishly
approached the mike, unsure what portion of the applause was for him and what belonged to his father. From the back of the auditorium Clifford slapped palms with his boys, then pumped a black-power salute in his son’s direction. Winston answered the encouragement with a subtle middle-finger scratch of his temple.
Nigger, I’m fixing to embarrass you, so that you ashamed to be my father like I’m ashamed to be your son
.

“Like Ms. Tellos over there, I too am a mother … a motherfucker.”

The foul language thrust the audience back into their seats as if they were fighter pilots pulling g’s in a steep climb.

“I don’t know why you looking so shocked. Most of y’all know me and know it’s true. I know you motherfuckers too. I see you goin’ to church Sunday morning, walking your kids home from school. Y’all the normal nine-to-five people. Don’t think I don’t be hearing what you say at your block association meetings. Ms. Nomura tells me what y’all be whining about. Nothin’ different from what everybody has said so far. ‘We have to support our youth. We have to find ways of reaching these kids.’ Well, here standing in front of you is a nigger who been reached. And the question is, now that you have a brother like me by the scruff of the neck, what you going to do with him? If you think me standing up here in slacks and a tie means that me and other thug niggers like me is going to settle for the drab life y’all niggers livin’, well, you got another think coming. ‘Support the youth. Support our youth.’ That’s all I ever hear, and here before you is a youth asking for your support—y’all goin’ to give it to me? I doubt it. Most of you already set on votin’ for that slick nigger over there, German Jordan, the renaissance man, whatever the fuck that is. A motherfucker you can tell wasn’t even born and raised in the neighborhood. Because if he was, he’d be a lazy bitch-ass pimp nigger runnin’ prostitutes on Mount Pleasant Avenue.”

Winston walked over to the table and poured himself a glass of water from Cienfuegos’s pitcher.

“I wasn’t listening too hard, but I heard him say something about we need to imagine ourselves beyond race. Look at me,” Winston said, raising his arms to crucifixion height. “What you see is what you get, a big black motherfucker from a low-budget environment. If I’d been to outer space, written books, had dollars, drove a Mercedes-Benz, I’d imagine myself beyond race too. I’d imagine myself
way
beyond race. I’d imagine myself right out of this fucked-up neighborhood. Leave y’all motherfuckers behind to fend for yourselves. This nigger up here talkin’ about he
afraid to park his Benz on the block. Wants to make the block a place safe enough to park his car. Like he the only nigger in the world got a fancy car. Much uptown niggers got Mercedes-Benzes. Tommy Touch got a brand-new fuckin’ Mercedes that does everything but tuck you in bed at night, and that nigger park his damn car anywhere he pleases. Why? Because unlike German Jordan, niggers know who Tommy Touch is. Tommy known on the block and in the community. Whether you know Tommy personally or just know of him, you know not to fuck with his car. ‘Imagine yourself beyond race.’ Shit, imagine owning a brand-new Mercedes-Benz. If you goin’ to fantasize, go all the way.

“Imagine Jordan, Ms. Tellos, Mr. Cienfuegos, or Ms. Cox goin’ to the hospital with you to watch your uncle die of AIDS, posting your bail, writing you letters while you upstate, sending commissary money, defending you on the street. Shit I’ve done for and with many of the sons, daughters, and grandchildren of many folks that’s up in here tonight. I don’t need to mention no names. You don’t think it’s true? Ask the person next to you. If you about supporting the youth, vote for me this Tuesday. Remember—
‘mi barrio, su barrio, nuestro barrio.’
”

The speech drained Winston. Too dazed to hear anything other than Fariq, Armello, and Charley stomping their feet and yelling “Damn!” he slumped back to his seat, his face beaded with sweat. He looked up to see if his father had a smile or tears on his face. He’d never know, because Clifford was gone, replaced by a newspaper photographer.

Tuffy struggled to occupy himself during the remaining speeches. He rolled and unrolled his tie. Doodled on his notepad. Interrupted Wilfredo Cienfuegos to ask for more water. Inverted the nameplate, scribbled ‘Tuffy 109’ on the blank side, and placed it back in front of him. Apologized when the snickers discombobulated Collette Cox during her speech. Winston welcomed the moderator’s first question.
Forty-five more minutes and I can go
.

“The first question is from Juanita Navarro of East 111th Street. What strategies do the candidates have for reducing juvenile crime?” Each of Winston’s fellow aspirants answered the query with the requisite campaign forthrightness, their responses identical save for German Jordan’s couched verbiage: “It is imperative we provide our children not only with the physical infrastructure for advancement, but also a bold social and mental infrastructure. Just as the streets need sewers, the children need community centers, midnight basketball, tutorial services.…”

Winston’s answer set the jocular tone that would be his for the remainder of the debate. “What would I do about juvenile crime? I’d lower the age when niggers are no longer minors to five years old. Juvenile crime would be eliminated just like that,” he said, snapping his fingers for emphasis.

Slamming his hand on the table, German Jordan stood up and demanded Winston respond to the question with the sincerity it deserved.

Tuffy snorted. “That’s how they lowered welfare. Kicked me and everybody else off and said, ‘We lowered the number of niggers on welfare.’ When they did that I bet you didn’t jump in the mayor’s face talkin’ ’bout ‘Would you be serious?’ So sit your punk ass down, you little astronaut bitch!”

When the debate ended, it was apparent from the number of strangers wishing him good luck come Tuesday, that Winston had won over a few of the electorate’s more cynical voters. His friends invited him to a celebratory dinner, but he begged off, saying he needed to be alone for a while. He kissed Yolanda goodbye and told her he’d be home in about an hour. On his way out, he stopped to hug Inez, who was in German Jordan’s face, lambasting him about his duplicitous policies. Stopping in mid-tirade, she squeezed Winston. “You did good. That speech alone was worth fifteen thousand dollars. Thanks.” She held at him arm’s length. Winston had survived another summer. “What, Ms. Nomura, what?”

“Nothing, just looking.”

“Ms. Nomura, I ain’t changed.”

“Yes you have.”

“How?”

“I don’t know.”

“Same as I ever was,” Winston said, returning her hug.

Spencer came over, looking contrite. “Winston, I want to say—”

Tuffy raised his hand. “Look, man, I have an idea. I’ll call you about it in a week or two.”

“About the articles …”

“Look, write whatever you want, I really don’t care.”

As he walked outside, his muttering loitered behind him like the putting of a small outboard engine: “No shame in my game.”

He passed Spencer’s car, knelt down, and retrieved his gun from the hollow of the rear bumper. Suspecting a police presence, he’d stashed the pistol before the debate when no one was looking. He slid the automatic, now as much of an accessory to Winston as his belt, into his pocket
and walked west. He was going to lie down on the grass of Central Park’s Great Lawn, soak in the last of the summer sun, and read his sumo book.

During the walk he didn’t ruminate on the previous two hours like an ordinary politician would have. Though he felt good about his performance, he didn’t care whether it appeased his supporters or moved the swing vote to his side. He had said what he had to say, nothing more. It simply felt good to be out of the auditorium, well away from the posturing civil servants and concerned public.

Winston’s legs and spirits were light, and they quickly carried him to Eighty-sixth Street and Park Avenue, the southern hinterlands of the Eighth District. Long gentrified by the private university that owned most of the land in this section of the city, the vista was of wine and specialty shops, and luxury condominiums named after Native American tribes: the Iroquois, the Dakota, the Oneida, the Pequot. Like a child hesitant to jump into an unheated pool, Winston toed the curb, afraid to step into the street.
Fuck, I have to piss. I shouldn’t have drank all that water
. He knew there was no sense in going to a nearby restaurant to use the bathroom. He’d only be rebuffed under the guise of not being a patron. Unable to hold his bladder any longer, he urinated on the walls of a dormitory, not even bothering to tuck into one of the facade’s crannies. He took a deep breath, and after a few seconds he began sidestepping his way along the base of the building. As he moved right, dripping wet letters spelled out, “Vote Winston Foshay—King!”

T
heir skins burned pimiento red, white people soaking up more than their share of the sun filled the Great Lawn from the far soft-ball fields to the turtle pond. The air smelled of Brie, grapes, and Australian white wines. Normally, Winston would’ve avoided a mob of white folks as if it were, well, a mob of white folks. But this time, the iron lance of King Wladyslaw II’s statue prodding him in the back, he plunged into the throng, settling between the tartan blankets of two Upper East Side preppy families. After checking their immediate surroundings, ensuring that nothing valuable was within Winston’s reach, the blond family smiled and politely offered him a plate of wafers and Roquefort and a clear plastic cup of wine. Winston’s refusal was his churlish “Hey, yo!” to the scruffy merchant selling cans of beer out of a Styrofoam cooler he carted along in a red toy wagon.

Lying there on his back, beer can in hand, Tuffy swore he could feel
the earth moving, its rotation gluing him to this patch of grass. He opened his sumo book to a page at random and shaded his face with it.

Two unheralded yet important components of a wrestler’s training are his diet and sleeping habits. The post-practice meal is rice and hearty helpings of chanko-nabe, a tasty miso-based stew of meat, fish, vegetables and noodles. After lunch it’s straight to the futon for a metabolism-slowing afternoon nap
.