Exile Blues

by Douglas Gary Freeman

  Little Preston would go into a giggling fit.

  “No, Daddy, I meant the horn. I really like it.”

  “Oh,” a slightly dejected Preston would reply, with Grandma Denie saying under her breath, “Hmph, that baby boy ain’t nobody’s fool,” and Mattie giggling into her hands.

  “That’s Prez playing his tenor saxophone, son. He’s the best. That’s why they call him ‘Prez.’ He’s the president of all the saxophone players.”

  19

  Washington, D.C., Fall 1958

  Preston Coleman Downs Jr. entered seventh grade at Eliot Junior High School that September as a transferee. It was the first time that he and his little brother went to schools in different parts of town. Though it felt odd, it was only proper. Gussie was still a kid. But Prez felt he was now a grown man, practically, and he had a reputation to look after.

  He was surrounded by a new group of friends, his own crew; tall, skinny Sticks; big, armadillo-like Tons; big, doughy Dee Cee, and his virtual twin Brennie-Man.

  On the first day of school, Prez strolled up Eliot’s big, wide concrete steps accompanied by his buddies. They had established a reputation as the tough bunch over the summer, so being with them carried a certain panache. As a bunch of girls approached, it was reasonable to think they just wanted to hang. But Lorraine Lorton jumped in front of Prez and let fly the meanest left hook he’d ever seen. Prez responded by ducking under Lorraine’s left, spinning her around and pinning her in a bear hug from behind.

  “Ow, man! Get that booty, Prez!”

  “Shit, man! Your first day here and you humpin’ up on some prime bootay!”

  “Oh, man. Nobody, but nobody, has ever gotten next to that, Prez!”

  “Yeah, yeah! Get that booty, man!”

  It wasn’t just the guys in his crew who were egging him on. And it wasn’t just guys, either.

  “You get your damned hands off me, you lowlife son of a bitch! You let me go right now or I’ll kick your ass! You think you so bad! You ain’t shit! Git your goddamn hands off me! You hear? Lemme go!”

  Lorraine was screaming at the top of her lungs as she squirmed, and wiggled, and kicked backward with the heels of her shoes.

  “Calm down! I’ll let you go. Just calm down. You swung at me, remember. You started this. What’s this all about anyway? Stop it, girl! Stop it and I’ll let you go.”

  Only Prez and Lorraine saw absolutely nothing sexual in what was taking place between them.

  “Okay. Okay, I’m going to let you go now. But don’t try to hit me again, okay?”

  “Just take your fucking hands offa me, you shitface!”

  Jesus, thought Prez, where did a girl get a mouth like that?

  Prez quickly loosened his grip and pushed her away, shoving her into the arms of the group of girls with whom she had been standing. They caught her, and held onto her, because she spun her tightly coiled body around and, like a cobra, was ready to strike again.

  “If she’s your friend,” Prez said, speaking to the group of girls, “you better hold her there. She don’t need to be jumping up in my face anymore. You understand?”

  From the group of girls came:

  “Oh, man, you ain’t so bad!”

  “Who the hell you think you are?”

  “Maybe we should let her go so she can kick your ass!”

  “Maybe we should all just kick your little black ass!”

  From somewhere else in the larger crowd sounded the alarm, “Hey, Moses comin’!”

  Principal J. J. Moses came bounding through the door of the office and plowed his way down the hall. An ex-defensive lineman with the fabled Green Bay Packers football team, he always looked as though he was ready to get down into a low crouch and lay a massive hit on anything moving. Prez, of course, had never seen him before, didn’t know who he was, but was not averse to giving his undivided attention to any man who was that big.

  “Son, I’ve never seen you here at my school before. And the first time I lay eyes on you, you’re causing trouble! Worse than that, you’re pushing a girl around! I don’t know who you are. I don’t know where you’ve come from. But I can tell you one thing, you won’t be attending class here!”

  A massive, meaty, mighty, hand came down in a flash and before Prez knew it, he was being dragged down the corridor by the back of his shirt collar. The front of his shirt collar was choking him, and two buttons popped off as he was hauled down the hall. His shoes dragged and scuffed along trying to regain his footing.

  “Principal Moses! Principal Moses! Excuse me, Principal Moses. What happened is not his fault. He didn’t start anything. He was just minding his own business.”

  Principal Moses stopped in his tracks just as he was about to push open the door to the office. Surprised that anyone would dare address him at the very height of his anger, he let go of Prez and turned to see who was calling after him. A most mesmerizing girl had come to Prez’s defense.

  “Oh, it’s you, Miss Wilbanks. Ready to stand up for another lost cause, I see.”

  “But, Mr. Moses, it really wasn’t his fault. Someone else started it. All he was doing was trying to keep somebody from hitting him. That’s all. Honest, Principal Moses.”

  “Well. Is that so?” Principal Moses placed his fists on his hips as he looked around to scan the faces of all the students who were gathered around watching these events unfold. A few of them tried to duck away before Principal Moses had a chance to see them. Or, so they thought.

  “Not so fast, Mr. White,” said Principal Moses, shaking his head and giggling to himself that William “Reeves” White, all six feet three of him, would think he could hide behind his schoolmates and escape being questioned.

  “Mr. White, did you see what took place between this young man—whose name I don’t know—” Principal Moses cast an evil leer back at Prez “—and the young lady?”

  “My name’s Preston Coleman Downs, Junior, sir.”

  Principal Moses’ eyebrows raised for an instant. He had not expected to be addressed in such a respectful manner by someone he initially thought to be a common street thug. And he certainly did not expect the boy to be Preston Downs’s son.

  “Well, well, Mr. Preston Coleman Down . . .”

  “Junior, sir.”

  Amid muffled giggling from the crowd of students, Principal Moses cut Prez another evil stare, then continued speaking to all six feet, three inches of William Reeves White, who was still trying to maneuver himself into a position well behind his much shorter schoolmates. “Mr. White, what went on here?”

  “Well, ah, Principal Moses . . .”

  “Speak up, son! I can hardly hear you!”

  This made Reeves flinch. Now there was more giggling, not so muffled.

  “Alright, that’s enough!” cautioned Mr. Moses. “I said speak up, Mr. White.”

  “Ahem, ahem. Well, ahem, Principal Moses, Prez was just walking up the steps and had to duck this wild swing from one of the Mo-Girls.”

  “Prez?” Principal Moses leaned in close to Prez’s face. “Is that your nom de guerre?”

  “Excuse me, sir. I don’t know what that is.”

  Principal Moses’ eyebrows really shot up now. “What have we here? A young street tough who isn’t afraid to admit when he doesn’t know something? Well, well, well.”

  “I’m not a street tough, sir,” replied Prez.

  “Oh? With a name like Prez? And with a reputation that obviously precedes you into my corridors of learning?”

  “What do you mean, sir?” asked Prez, now trying to be half-coy.

  “Do you know this tall gentleman?” asked Principal Moses.

  “No sir,” replied Prez.

  “Well, he certainly seems to know you, Mr. Prez. And what about you, Miss Wilbanks, do you know Mr. Prez here?”

  “Well, no, Principa
l Moses. Not exactly.”

  “What do you mean ‘not exactly?’ Either you know him or you don’t. Or is it that you know of him?”

  “Yes, Principal Moses.”

  “Yes, you know him, or yes, you know of him?” Principal Moses was getting impatient. “Answer me, Debra Wilbanks.”

  “Of him,” said Debra.

  “I see,” said Principal Moses, sensing in Debra a much more than casual interest in Prez. “I’ll tell you what else you know, Miss Wilbanks, especially since your cousin Lorraine is the leader of the Mo-Girls; you know that it was your cousin who took that—how did you characterize it, Mr. White? ‘Wild swing?’ —don’t you?”

  Debra was silent.

  “Miss Wilbanks!” demanded Principal Moses, “it was your cousin, wasn’t it?”

  Debra remained silent.

  “Well, Mr. White, was it Miss Lorraine Lorton, leader of . . . oh, forgive me, how could I forget, ‘president’ of the Mo-Girls who threw that ‘wild swing’?”

  Principal Moses knew he would not get an answer. Nobody ratted on anybody in that school. Not even big chicken Reevie-Boy, who was only fearless on the basketball court. But Principal Moses knew these kids better than they knew themselves, as he liked to boast.

  “Miss Wilbanks, for the last time, it was your cousin, wasn’t it? You come into my office. Now!”

  “Wait!” exclaimed Lorraine. “It was me.” Even though she was so angry at Debra for coming to Prez’s defense, she would not stand by and see her cousin get into trouble for something she had done.

  A sly smile made its way across Principal Moses’ lips.

  “No, this isn’t right!” interjected Prez, stunning Principal Moses and the student crowd.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Downs. What did you say?”

  “I started it, sir.” Principal Moses didn’t know these kids as well as he thought.

  “And how did you do that, Mr. Downs?”

  “I called her ugly.”

  “You what?”

  “No he didn’t,” said Lorraine.

  “Yes, I did, sir. You can let her go now.”

  “Okay, okay. I’ve heard enough. Both of you in my office, now! The rest of you, off to your homerooms, and you’d all better have an A-plus year!”

  20

  Washington, D.C., Spring 1959

  “Wanna dance?”

  It was the girl who had spoken up for him his first day at school last year. Prez had asked around about her. Debra was a grade ahead of him, already thirteen, and was going to high school next year.

  Smokey Robinson and the Miracles were spinning on the platter. Practically everyone in Wellington’s basement was singing, “My mama told me, you better shop around.” Everyone was dancing, and clapping, and laughing and sweating. Wow, Prez thought to himself, a real party. He had heard about these things, but had never been to one. He was the youngest of the crowd, just twelve, but had been accepted into this in-crowd because of his street-fighting and athletic prowess at school.

  “And don’t tell me you don’t know how, either. I’ve seen you at school cuttin’ up with your boys ’n all with that little portable radio of yours. All the girls talk about it. We wonder why we’ve never seen you at any of our parties. Well, here you are now, and I want you to dance with me. C’mon!”

  Just as she pulled him out into the middle of the dance floor, another song began, Anyone Who Had a Heart, by Dionne Warwick.

  Dionne Warwick’s voice was the sweetest he had ever heard. And Debra Wilbanks, the sweetest girl he had ever seen. Perfect.

  He had never slow-danced with a girl. Her cheek snuggled up against his neck and her free hand roaming across his shoulders and around the back of his head made his senses spin.

  “Prez,” said Debra, “It’s nice slow-dancing with you.” James Brown was now singing, “Please, please, please, please . . .” This was the third slow record in a row. The party was falling into a kind of slow-dance groove. Prez peeped around him on the dance floor and saw couples kissing, feeling each other up, and grinding their bodies together.

  Prez’s right arm was around Debra’s waist. He had her hand in his. He made sure his body did not press against hers. His neck was erect to accommodate her bewildering need to keep her face buried there. He realized he was nervous. He wanted to be a cool, calm, and collected gentleman. And certainly not to be stupid and misinterpret Debra’s actions. So, when she kissed him on the neck the first time, he wasn’t sure. But the second time, she actually sucked his neck right up to behind his ear, causing him to have the largest, most painful erection he had ever experienced.

  Debra shifted herself so that she could rub up against him. He was now really nervous. Perspiration dripped from his armpits. After a tug-of-war of sorts, Debra finally pried his hand from her waist and pushed it down to her buttocks. Prez just let his hand lie limp there for a moment then put it back around her waist. Debra stuck her butt out a bit and pulled his hand onto her right buttock and pushed. “Now, leave it there, Prez. Okay?” she whispered. Then she went back to rubbing herself up against him with an abandon that proved illuminating to Prez. He thought that there must be something wonderful and joyful about the way she was feeling. And he was sure, they were now girlfriend and boyfriend.

  Next thing he knew “Louie Louie” was spinning and the basement was again a pounding, writhing, sweating, mass of bodies. Debra was now in the middle of the dance floor dancing with a group of girls. She looked over and blew him a kiss as she wiggled and dipped to the music, which put a yard-wide smile on Prez’s face.

  Prez walked over to his buddies standing around the record player arguing about the song’s lyrics.

  “C’mon, man. Hey, Tons, he’s not sayin’ that, man. C’mon.”

  “Yeah, he is, man,” replied Wellington, “He’s sayin’ ‘fuck,’ man. What else do you do with a girl across the bed?”

  “Don’t be stupid, Tons,” someone else said. “They wouldn’t make no record like that, man.”

  “I’m tellin’ you,” said Wellington, “he sayin’ ‘fuck the girls all across the bed.’”

  They all broke out in raucous laughter to the evil stares of girls within earshot of their conversation.

  Then Wellington started singing at the top of his lungs, “Ah, Louie, Louay . . . y’all check it out now. Here it comes, here comes the good part. Listen up y’all. Fuck the girls all ’cross the bed! Yeah, y’all hear that. I told ya, fuck the girls all ’cross the bed.”

  Wellington hadn’t noticed that the dancing had stopped. He hadn’t noticed that he was practically alone on the dance floor as his party-goers respectfully made their way up the stairs. And how he managed to not notice the enormous shadow of his father standing right behind him would be talked about for weeks after.

  As they solemnly filed out the front door, all Prez and the guys could do was to shake their heads as they listened to the squeals of big Wellington, their beloved “Tons,” getting thrashed by his father.

  21

  Washington, D.C., Summer of “fiddy-nine”

  Prez began hanging out with boys much older than him at a corner on the southeast side of Lincoln Park. School was out. Gussie was with his aunt and his mother was teaching summer school.

  “Lookit! Lookit, I tell you. Dem stupid white men ober at Chevrolet want us to buy their bran’ new shiny nineteen hundred and fiddy-nine Impala cause it’s da—lookit what it says here, heck, I can read.” It was now high noon on what was a sweltering June day and old Preach Chambers was holding court at his usual spot, sitting on the mailbox just in front of Richardson’s Drugstore. “It says right here, ‘Da last and de best of de big Chevies of da decade!’ Now ain’t dat what it says? Lookit! Dey so stupid.”

  Lincoln Park separated the white haves from the Negro have-nots. The US capitol just eleven blocks west could just as well be on the moo
n. But the corner was a gathering point and a vantage point. People like Prez were not welcome west of the park. And their treatment by the police indicated there was a de facto rule that the park itself was off-limits to the black populace of the Lincoln Park area.

  “But I tells you one thing,” continued Preach, “even tho’ dey can’t count, they sho’nuf ain’t stupid to cut the top off’n dat car. ’Cause it gonna be a hot one dis year. Dis summa ’o fiddy-nine gonna be a hot one!”

  Under his soiled, sweat-stained fedora, Preach’s face dripped sweat that gathered at the bottom of his scraggy beard.

  “Hey you! You wid da funny hat on. How old ye be?”

  Under the floppy white canvas hat peered the eyes of nineteen-year-old Alvin Proctor. Everyone was in awe of Alvin. Al was a multi-sport phenomenon who had fielded offers of a football scholarship from Caltech, a basketball scholarship from North Carolina State, and a track scholarship from Bowling Green. But he decided to stay in Washington to be near his mother and younger siblings after his father, a noted and decorated Washington police detective, was found dead with a bullet through his head.

  “Hey, boy! I says, when you born, son? How old is ye?” Preach sat up real tall on the mailbox now, his back straight, neck erect, jawline flexing. “Ain’t you got no manners, boy? Didn’t yo’ daddy teach you to be r’specful o’ yo’ elders? Well, den, boy, what is it? Yo’ age. When you born?”

  “I was born in 1940. I’m nineteen years old.”

  “Whhaaa! . . . Is you really, son?” Preach was dumbfounded that on his very first try, he picked on the right one. He just couldn’t believe it. From his back pocket he pulled his ever-present brown paper bag, uncapped the bottle and threw his head back for a long pull of rotgut wine. “C’mon! You was really born in fordy? Naawww! Ha!”

  Still holding his brown paper bag in one hand and his Washington Star Post newspaper in the other, Preach continued, “Okay, you dere whose daddy taught him real good manners, heh, heh . . . you say you be nineteen now? Okay, now listen bery careful.” Old Preach took another long pull on his wine, wiped his mouth with his hairy old forearm, recapped his bottle, and let out a big “Aahhh” that exposed all of his toothless gums. He put the bag back into his back pocket and squinted down real hard from his perch on top of the mailbox at Al. “When you gonna start yo’ third decade on this earth, sonny-boy? Ha!”