by George Cain
While waiting for the subway, resolved never to see her again. Bought a News and turned to sports section, BREY PREP NIPS FIELDSTONE, GEORGE CAIN STARS, SETS SCORING RECORD. Turning to the back page, stared at a picture of a neat smiling Negro boy. Unrecognizing myself till I read the caption and saw my name. Smiling, a posed picture taken in dress clothes for the yearbook at the beginning of the term. It was me. Train came, crowded. Folded the paper and sat looking round, my image at every turn, everyone reading the same paper. How many papers did they make? A hundred thousand, a million, how many saw the counterfeit image? Then wondering what’s wrong with them, couldn’t they see it was me, Georgie Cain, and I assumed the picture’s expression. Maybe I wasn’t real, maybe they weren’t real, but I was real, look there, my picture. But they were blind to me. Jumping from the seat, pulled the paper out and screamed at them, “Look it’s me you’re looking at! I’m real, can’t you see me?”
They looked and turned away when our eyes met. Couldn’t they see or hear me? Wanted to snatch their papers, all million of them and cut the picture out. As I exited, heard a little boy talking, “Mom that man said that was him in the picture.”
“No son, just someone that looks like him.”
The train left the station, stood watching it leave, pulled the paper out and burned it.
Woke early the next day, everyone was in church, they no longer made me go. The events of the night before plagued me and I hurried out to find Nandy. She’d come from church dressed in Sunday. Took her arm, happy to be close, guilt and care gone at the sight of her. She was quiet and strained. Sitting doe, the sad eyes.
“What’s wrong baby?”
She didn’t answer right away, gathering strength to utter the thought. “I’ve got to stop seeing you.”
She spoke slowly, tear-choked. Waited for the words to affect me. There was nothing at first. So alien the thought. Me without her, not seeing her or loving her had never crossed my mind. Ice was my heart and I wanted to scream and stop hurting.
“Who doesn’t want you to? Tell me. Who?” Wanting names, objects for the hate in me. “Your mother?”
She nodded. Felt myself losing control, seeing myself without her. Suspected her mother’s disapproval ever since the private school. Nandy was the oldest child and she and her mother were close, in nothing had Nandy ever disobeyed her. My hate became anger—wanted her to hurt like I was hurting, wanted her to struggle it out painfully—and returned it to her untouched, undiminished. “What do you want to do?”
Watched her turning it in her mind. Trembling lips and sniffles the only sign of struggle. A shudder passed through her and I knew she’d decided. Wanted to erase the conversation from mind, begin again and find some compromise that allowed me to see her. Wanted to tell her, let’s take some time to think about it, anything, a few days guised in indecision, but don’t leave.
“Whatever you want me to.”
Her feeling was mature and sensitive, she’d come from under the parental yoke to submit and mingle her life with mine. The words we spoke were as binding as any contract, obligating and making me responsible for her. We made love that day and my thing for her was all consuming, giving me new ambition and desire. She was reason for my existence. A week later her mother had her in South Carolina.
Alone, without her, sank into myself and let go. There was no longer any reason for anything since I’d done everything for her, just didn’t care.
George Cain, George Cain. Everyone knew and called my name. Joan called the house dozens of times, Bennet had given her my number. I was not in and refused to answer till one day my father got tired of it.
“Look, this girl calls you every day, at least have the decency to call her and say you don’t want to be bothered. Son you’ve got two years of school left, then college. Your mother and I have worked hard to make you ready to put you where you’re at. About Nandy, she’s a good girl and everything, but what if something were to happen, I know she’s a nice girl but accidents . . . Not saying she’s a chippy or out to snag you. But you’d be a prize with all your possibilities and these things do happen and your mother and I didn’t sacrifice for that. You can have that any time, there are a million girls out there who’d love to go out with you. You’re young yet, knock yourself out, there’ll be plenty of time for love.”
Remained silent through the tirade, a coward, didn’t deserve Nandy. Stayed in my room for days sulking, avoiding friends and family. She wrote me, she understood all. Told of my father’s speech, she agreed that it was best.
So many things worked me. My life was spent gratifying other people, all my efforts were for them.
Was spending a week with Bennet, his parents were in Europe somewhere and I was keeping him company. So casual and unconcerned about their people, he and all the kids were. Began to think my concern was the result of low breeding. Everyone else seemed obliged only to themselves, while I was striving for Brey Prep that had given me a scholarship, my mother, father, brothers, people, for the sacrifices and faith they’d placed in me. Everyone but me had a piece of George Cain. Was no longer me, but a composite of all their needs and desires.
“Did you dig your picture in the paper man? You’re a celebrity man, big time. You split from the party with Joan, she’s something else, her people got money. Gave her your number, hope you don’t mind. She says you ain’t never in. Why don’t you call her now? I’ve got a chick coming over later and we can party.”
“Hello Joan? Cain.”
“Oh yes, the celebrity, how are you today? I’m sorry George, don’t want to be a bitch with you. I love you, how are you. Been calling you all week and they keep saying you’re not in, so happy to hear you. What are you doing now? Why don’t you come over. See you in an hour.” The phone clicked.
“What’d she say?”
“Invited me over.”
“Dig, why don’t you make it and I’ll catch you later. Got some business to take care of.”
He left me under a street lamp and I headed to her full of desire and expecting fulfillment.
THE PHONE RANG AT DINNER ONE NIGHT, my mother answered and called my father from the table. They told me to watch the kids and left. Keith sensing something cried himself to sleep. They returned late with Auntie Flo, haggard from their vigil. The building had burned again and Nana was in the hospital. Couldn’t believe, wouldn’t, my birthplace was gone. That place, a scene for much of my life gone. An image was before me, the dark halls, forty-watt bulbs, dumbwaiter and people. The picture was before my eyes, in my head and no longer real. Began crying and they thought for Nana, but it was for the past gone in smoke that I cried. It was late. The family had regained its composure. Nana was going to be all right and we were all going to live together again, when the boy came with the telegram of death. My father called me into his room.
“George, Nana is dead.”
Shut out the words, not believing.
“Yes son, she passed this evening.”
I froze, couldn’t cry, scream or anything. Tried to think of death, till that moment never having known it. Believing childishly the world was dependent on consciousness. But Nana had gone and the world was still here. What was this death, a willful rejection of life. She’d grown weary, been here long enough. Only the women had time for grief. Next day my father and I were at the ruins for salvage and a list of destroyed articles for the insurance people.
The building was a charred shell but such a moneymaker they’d rebuild it, soaked and smelling burnt. Closets were open and the contents strewn all over. Walls and doors ripped and gashed by axes, drawers scattered, everything of value gone. Pop found the family photo album soaked and laid it in the window to dry. I found the huge foil ball he’d collected when a child. Heard someone moving in the hall. There were three of them. The hall statues had come to life. Looked into their six red eyes and saw the sacks on their backs and remembered Nana’s warnings. Rogues and scavengers she’d called them.
“What do you w
ant?”
“Same thing you do sonny.”
Knew they were combing the ruins for valuables.
“You’re too late, everything’s gone.”
“What’s that you got in your hand?”
“None of your business.”
“Fuck you.”
He came close to take it from me, his two partners smiled wetly, licking lips. Felt myself fill with murderous rage at God and man. The ball busted his head open, blood jumped everywhere. He pinned my arms and smothered under his liquor breath, I bit into his face and spat out blood. He screamed and we tumbled down a flight of stairs knocking against the wall and banister. Pounded his head with the ball, he kicked and rolled like a snake. They pulled me off and rescued him, dragging him into a burnt out apartment for first aid. Screamed and shouted like crazy, my father came, saw the blood, them disappearing and me raving mad. Frightened by my eyes and expression took me to a doctor. Lay in bed long weeks sedated and recovering. Never saw Nana in bier or put in the ground.
All was over when I returned to the world, spent and exhausted. Nana was gone and there was no reason to ever come back here, cut off from the source. Grew to loathe and fear Harlem, like some pit or horror escaped, into which I never wanted to set foot again.
WHAT DROVE ME TO HARLEM two years later? Riding a bus through it, but never getting off, was a favorite thing that summer. Watched the people through the glass, like observing an ant colony, felt their heat pressing on the bus, their noise rolling in waves over my ears. Traveled there high on wine and hash. Would see and recognize landmarks from childhood whose secret places I knew. In one of my stupors the song of their voices called me and I got off. Walked among them, feeling their press, presence, their blood flowing in me, me in them, felt welcome, the prodigal returned after a long absence. Walked the endless pavements gathering strength.
Was sixteen, six-three and mustached, looking like a man. Was on one of these walks that I met Jose, hadn’t seen each other since the Y. He was sixteen too, but the eyes and face were old, jaded. The clothes he wore were not of his age, belonging to an older generation. Pointy shoes, long-collar shirt, pleated baggy pants, expensive and beyond the price and taste of a child. Baggy pants bop, hustler.
“Come on with me Georgie, someplace we can talk.”
Walked with him through the crowded streets. He knew everybody, waving and rapping with the young foxes and old folks. Kids called his name and he passed out nickels, smiling, stopping to say a word here or there. Went to a bar, the first I’d been in, and he ordered drinks. The other patrons hailed him, he waved back. Looking around, saw they were older but similarly dressed, like a uniform of some trade or profession I didn’t know.
“Hey Jose who’s that with you?”
“Remember the ballplayer was showing you cats in the paper all winter. The one I told you I grew up with. Cain, this is him.”
“How you been Jose?”
With a gesture, indicated his clothes and displayed rings on his fingers.
“Right after we quit the Y, get into some trouble, ran away from it and been here ever since. Running digits, selling a little dope, got an old lady. Hustling, that’s all, just hustling. Been keeping track of you in the paper, always knew you’d make it.”
“Ever see Robert or Bushy?”
“Yeah, they’re all fucked up.”
“Where are they? Like to see them.”
We left and he led me to a condemned building. Down a dark cellar and through a door guided by smells of alcohol and stink of bodies. A bunch of people huddled on a raggedy mattress on the ground. He roused two of them and signaled to follow and we escaped into the air.
“Bushy? Robert? You remember Georgie?” He spoke to them as if recalling them from far away. Both shook from their need and stared hard at me, but nothing showed in the vacant eyes. He stopped at the wine shop, bought a bottle of Gypsy Rose and gave it to them. They stood around shuffling and grateful like pets, animals. Tragic figures, comrades of youth, already dead. Their lifeless eyes avoided me, impatient to be gone about their self-destruction. We got up and left them to their killing.
That summer, beginning and ending in Harlem, place of birth. A time recalled in brightness, full of discovery. Made daily excursions to the sector, reacquainting myself with its ways and people. Saw Robert and Bushy, always haggard and gaunt, sinking before my eyes. Wanted to talk with them, find out, but they never spoke. Jose and I got tight, we’d meet and hang out in the bar. Sometimes I’d sit up and rap with Stacy, an oldtimer. He’d been a player, one of the successful few, owned the bar and other real estate. Their dress, baggy pants bop, was the style all the young niggers aspired to. Peculiar to them was a culture, language and code. From Stacy I learned the strange words and heard the glorified romances of its heroes and heroines. Boxcar Shorty, Thousand Dollar Red, hardhearted men, run a whore till her feet sharp as deer hooves. Marguerita, Du Fontaine, whores who took a trick for all he had and brought it home to daddy, and the police who extorted, busted and slept with them. Was awed by these people. Fooled by the cheap glamour not knowing it was all show. A game of survival.
Came in off the hot streets and Stacy called me over.
“Hey slim. Man, you make an ass out of Sporting Life, nothing to do but sit around and look slick. Been playing any ball lately? How you going to be in shape when the season starts? You going to college? College costs a lot of scratch, you got to get a scholarship man. Know your people ain’t got that kind of money. But that shouldn’t be no big thing good as you play, unless you fuck up, keep hanging out here. Look around you man. You don’t see no doctors, lawyers, teachers, ballplayers, college grads. Look at them good, all dressed in nice expensive clothes. Should all be familiar to you long as you been coming here. Ain’t none of em got more’n two outfits to wear. One on their backs and one in the cleaner, everything else in the shop. They got cardboard in their shoes and wash their drawers every other night in the facebowl in their rooms. Clothes look good on thin men, but these cats ain’t models, they that way cause they hungry. You know what they sit around here waiting for all day and night? The big sting that’ll never come. That’s what they’re laying for. Sitting around talking about that big money, their old ladies out there turning nickel tricks. You done heard me talk about this game, but how strong a motherfucker got to be to take money from a bitch? Dig em sometime when they high, one of them unconscious moments and they look like bitches. They got to glorify this game cause everybody knows where it’s at. It ain’t shit.
“You got eyes for this thing, hustling, but it ain’t nothing but degradation. You got it made Georgie, don’t fuck with this thing. Why do I tell you this? You were born here so was I, Jose and all the rest and we’ll never get out of here, but you’re different man, you’re out there. Why you came back I’ll never know, but you got to make it. Not just for yourself, but for your family, friends, all of us here that ain’t never going to make it. How many generations come and gone, how much sacrifice to make one like you? Your life ain’t your own boy. Don’t seem right do it? You and your kind are the lambs of the sacrifice, when enough of you get out of this place, we’ll all get out. The time wasn’t right for your father, or me but now’s the time and you can’t hesitate. You got to be clean, and pure so you’ll be strong for what’s out there. Why else would your people have had you, only the hope of you redeeming them, us, from this. For us to bring children into the world without hope or future is sin. This is the only reason for you being man, but you got to be strong, too many are weak and come back, need this, like Jose. There are enough of us here George. We can’t do no better, go away, stay away.”
WAS COLD OUT and a strange moon hung in the sky. Rain fell in gray windblown sheets. Wet to the bone and cold. Saw the Gunsmoke ahead, good place to be that night, high and drunk. Noise, rocking and festive spilled into the streets, hot breath clouded the windows telling of the good time inside. Was Saturday night. Came in cold, wet, waved to Stacy tending bar.
Jose hadn’t showed yet so sat up in the corner waiting. He came in blowing cold out and waving to everybody. He’d cracked on me before to get high with him on stuff but I’d always nixed it. Afraid of its power. Maybe it was the funny moon that night, have never seen another like it since, but I was swayed, got down with him.
Went out the back way, through the yards. Howling dogs and cats sent startled beady-eyed rats scurrying over our feet. Like the streets, yards full of garbage and stink, tripping on every snatching thing. Till we came to the door he pushed in. Led up the stairs, pulling a package out of the old unused dumbwaiter shaft and ducked into a room. Checked the hall and locked the door and pushed a chair against it. Looked out the window and pulled the shade.
“Man, you sure you still wanna do this thing? I’m sorry I asked you now.”
“Yeah man, I done come all the way up here now.”
“You know what you doing now George? Don’t want you going round telling people no shit. I gave you your first shot of dope, like I tied you up, twisted your arm or something.”
We’d come to this point before and I’d always back out at the last minute. Had watched him hit himself many times and wondered what he was feeling.
“Dig man, I know what I’m doing, get on with it.”
He draws up and the needle strikes my arm like a live thing to suck my blood. He squeezes the bulb shooting heroin on a dizzying flight. Moving in the vein a rush of air bubbles pass under the armpit. For an instant all is still and I see clearly, through God’s eyes. Then it’s upon me, bursting from every pore. Full with it, swoon at the impact. Suffocating, heart and lungs in a tightening vise, gasping, body demanding blood and air. Squeezing again the blood full dropper. Running red hemo, raging in me like a Niagara fed river, red, taxing flexible carriers, storm fed, wild running thing, threatening dikes and levees. My knees buckle and dizziness rocks me. Then calm, terribly sudden and infinite, aware only of self, shut off from objects and distractions. Nausea again. The torrent has not ceased, only run deeper till it found an outlet, spewing from my mouth and splashing into the tub with all its former vigor till there’s nothing in me. It comes over me warm and substantial. Prying open a lid, watch Jose clean the equipment. Sit thinking nothing, just glad to be, nodding and scratching. Scratching my legs and crotch like a louse-filled beggar. Scratching seems the most gratifying thing in the world.