“Just knock that little nigger’s head off, Sarge,” said a tall officer standing behind the sergeant.
Prez looked at the tall officer who made that remark, smiled really wide and said, “No, you do it. If you’re so tough, you do it! If you’re man enough, you do it! Take off your gun and your badge and I challenge you to a fair fight right here, right now.”
Just then a firm hand was planted upon his shoulder. He turned. It was Reverend Josephus Clark, who had presided over Butch’s funeral all those years ago. “Calm down, Preston Junior.”
Another hand was placed on his other shoulder. “It’s alright, Prez. We’re all here. But this is not the way.” It was Chauncey.
An arm went around his waist and squeezed him. “Preston, peace, not violence, will win the day, especially in the face of ignorance.” It was Tala.
“Good morning, Sergeant.” Prez was awfully glad to hear the voice of Master Flowers. “I am Attorney Flowers. I represent a number of prominent and respected civil rights clients, some of whom have sponsored this demonstration against the hateful, racist practices of the Garfinckle’s chain of retail establishments. Of course, that should be of great interest to you and the Washington, D.C. police department. Are you here to serve Garfinckle’s or the citizens of this city? Whatever brings you here, be advised to be careful not to violate the Constitutional rights of these people.”
The sergeant was momentarily dumbfounded before regaining his composure. “You look here, Attorney; or so you say . . .” Flowers handed him a business card. “Oh, you’re that Flowers, the karate expert. Well, well. You listen to me, karate or no, lawyer or no, I am the police and I am the law. And when I say move, you move, and pronto. So, git! You tell these people they have to leave or they will be forcefully removed and anyone who resists will be locked up!”
“No, sir, you are not the law. You are entrusted with the duty to protect the public and property by enforcing the law. City Ordinance 14.0811b prohibits the closure of any pedestrian or vehicular thoroughfare without a notification of such closure being posted at least twenty-four hours before such closure is to take place. The exception, of course, is an emergency situation. But you arrived here before dawn this morning and well prior to the arrival of any of these citizens, so your presence here is not in response to an emergency. May I ask, Sergeant, why are you here? Who called you? And when?”
The sergeant was now flummoxed into silence. Prez turned and looked around. Behind the Reverend Clark was a phalanx of older guys from his and Butch’s old Columbia Heights neighborhood, the original B-Boys. Around Chauncey was a contingent of people from his organization.
“I say we just bash their nigger skulls in and throw ’em in the fuckin’ jailhouse, Sarge. What are we waiting for?” A group of officers rushed towards Master Flowers and Prez, knocking the sergeant to the ground as they did. Suddenly there was a melee of nightsticks, fists, and feet. Instinctively, Prez covered the sergeant, who was prone on the ground and struggling to get up. As Prez helped him up, he felt a sharp stinging blow to the back of his head that made him wince. He touched the point of contact and his hand came away bloody. The sergeant saw and looked around.
“Petersen! Petersen! Stop it! Put that nightstick down! All of you stop it now and fall back into your positions! Now! You okay, son?”
“Yeah,” said Prez.
“You sure? Anybody else would have dropped from a knock like that. You need medical attention?”
“Sergeant! Will your Officer Petersen be reprimanded, or must we sue the force and the city?” said Flowers.
“Look. I’m alright,” said Prez. “We just want to be treated like people. So here we are. You want us to move but we are not going to. We want Garfinckle’s to treat us like people and will not stop the protest until it happens. How would you like it if you and your family couldn’t go somewhere because of the color of your skin?”
Prez looked over and saw Brennie-Man’s brother, angry, shouting profanities at the cops, and thought nothing had changed since the cops murdered Brennie-Man. He turned to face the crowd, took his green bandana from his pocket, and hoisted it high above his head. The surging began to subside. He made eye contact with as many of the guys as he could and the surging ceased. He turned to face the sergeant. He held his hand, palm open, over his head and Wellington gave him the nightstick. He gave it to the sergeant.
He noticed Freddie Snaps and the Serpents were there. They came to the front with him. Debra was there with her cousin Lorraine and the Mo-Girls. They all stood there stoically, not moving, until many hours later when Garfinckle’s doors opened to let those employees who had come to work go home for the evening. They let them by.
He turned to Tala and said, “What a complicated day.”
“What do you mean?”
“They’re burying Medgar Evers today and here we’ve been trying to keep the freedom train on the track. It’s also Juneteenth.”
“I forgot about that.”
“Mourning and celebrating simultaneously is what we seem to be really good at. It’s so late. I gotta get home. It’s my mother’s birthday.”
33
Washington, D.C., Saturday, July 6, 1963
Prez was invited to the annual Greek Letter Fourth of July barbeque held at Rock Creek Park. It was so rare that an incoming freshman was invited that even Tala was impressed. At first, he balked at going, telling her, “they’re just a bunch of square cats running around looking silly and doing silly-ass things.” She convinced him that the experience would be good for him and that he risked offending a lot of guys given that he had received personal invitations.
Chauncey saw Prez enter the grounds and trotted over with another guy.
“Prez! How ya doin’, my man?”
“Hey, Chauncey. How ya doing? Thanks for the invitation.”
“Just doing my part, ya know. This is my older brother, Darnell.” They all exchanged handshakes and shoulder bumps. “He’s big but he’s smarter than he is big. He has to be, he’s Tala’s boyfriend.” Chauncey laughed out loud as Prez pondered leaving. Especially after Darnell quipped, “Yeah, I’d rather sue somebody than punch them.”
Chauncey nudged Prez and pointed at carloads of girls driving by.
“You see right through that clearing?” Chauncey pointed. Prez squinted. “C’mon, Prez, you see the space between those two big trees that lean toward each other? The creek runs between them. Look just past there. See that bridge? Well, on the other side of the bridge is all the bush you’d ever want to see.” He noticed the quizzical look on Prez’s face. “You’re such a kid sometimes, man. You don’t know what I’m talking about. Even Darnell knows and he’s still a virgin! Ha!”
Prez looked at Darnell who said with a stilted voice, “He’s crudely talking about girls.”
“No, no, no,” said Chauncey. “Tell him right. Tell him exactly what bush is.”
“He’s talking about their privates, sir.”
“Oh shit, stop being Shakespeare so we can have a beer.”
“Alright then. Bush, my good fellow, is pussy.” Chauncey and Darnell bent over laughing.
“And we are Bushmen,” said Chauncey. “We like to get all into the bush. And there’s a whole bunch’a bush over there. Sororities are having their picnics too. We all usually end up having one big picnic.”
“Is that all you cats think about?” said Prez.
“What? Pussy? You better believe it. Class struggle, caste struggle . . .” said Chauncey.
“And ass struggle,” said Darnell, as he slapped five with Chauncey.
“Hey, look. Ooowee!” said one of the guys in the group. Girls were walking toward them. “Have you ever seen so much stuff in one place before? Look at ’em.”
A procession of shorts, skimpy tops, and sheer billowing summer dresses moved toward them. There was a round of greetings. “Hey, h
ow y’all doing?” “Great to see you all.” “Wonderful day for our annual get-together, huh?” “When do y’all start pledging?” “We already started. Early bird catches the worm, you know.” “You all parked way over there, huh. How come?” “We like our privacy.” “We like your privates!” “Don’t be nasty.” “Seems to be more sororities here than fraternities.” “That’s ’cause in the world there are more of us than you.”
They danced to Martha and the Vandellas’ Heat Wave, The Harlem Shuffle by Bob and Earl, Two Lovers by Mary Wells, Baby Work Out by Jackie Wilson, and Our Day Will Come by Ruby and the Romantics.
The hours passed and both the day and Darnell exhausted themselves. Tala looked at him snoring and seemed a bit put off.
Prez noticed and went over to her. “May I sit?”
She got up and walked to another tree and sat on the grass. Prez followed, and sat down beside her.
There was something that he couldn’t quite pin down, a bouquet about her. Maybe it was her sweat from her dancing. Perhaps the heat had melded the beer and barbeque with her femaleness and the heady blend was seeping out through her pores. She seemed so preternaturally fresh to him, as if he were meeting her anew. Barbara Lewis’s song on the radio—Hello Stranger—was perfect.
She finished her beer and got up to fetch another. She stood with a group passing around a joint before returning. She sat cross-legged swigging beer and swaying to the music. Her little dress was hiked up way over her knees. “It’s too damn hot.” She lifted the fabric away from her chest and flapped it as she blew air down onto her cleavage. Prez was delighted that she had those golden freckles on her chest. The moist outlines of her nipples invited him to imagine the taste. “Man, aren’t you hot?” she said while flapping the front edge of her dress over her thighs. Prez could see her panties. He was getting woozy imagining being inside her. Then he glanced just above her. There was a tiny spider dangling.
“Don’t move!”
“What? A bug?”
“Yeah,” said Prez as he got up. “Let me get it. Be still.” She let out a little “eek!” and stiffened her body while squeezing her eyes shut. Prez swished it away. “There,” he said. “it’s gone.” She quickly stood.
“Where is it?” she said as she looked all around her feet.
“It’s gone. Don’t worry. Here, sit on this.” He took off his shirt.
Damn, she thought as she sat down, he has a better body than my boyfriend. She wondered why she still thought of him as a kid when he was a full-grown man. Yes, she was older and people would always be judgmental. Salome had already warned her not to “rob the cradle.” And he was her father’s protégé, almost a surrogate son. Her father wouldn’t approve.
Prez was wearing shorts and was aroused. She stared at his crotch, then closed her eyes and put her head back. Prez pulled a few sheets of folded paper from his pocket.
“What is that?”
“A speech by Frederick Douglass called The Meaning of July Fourth for the Negro.”
“Shut up, Prez.” She got up and pressed her forefinger lightly against his lips. “Just shut up. It’s too hot here. Let’s take a walk by the creek. Maybe that will cool things down.”
Just as he bent down to pick up his shirt—splat, splat!
“What was that? It stinks!” said Tala.
Yellow stuff dripped on the grass. They looked up at the branch just above them.
“Looks like eggs,” said Prez.
Prez grabbed Tala and they took cover behind the tree. He pulled her close and they kissed deeply while passionately rubbing their bodies together.
“YOU NIGGERS GIT THE FUCK OUT OF THE PARK!”
Prez peeked around the tree and saw a half-dozen white youths throwing eggs. He bolted off in their direction.
“It’s just fucking eggs, Prez, leave it, man” screamed Chauncey. But other guys from the picnic were also giving chase.
Tala’s boyfriend was awakened by the ruckus. He looked and saw Tala leaning against the tree with her arms crossed tightly about her midsection. She swayed lightly from side to side and gazed trancelike into the distance.
“What happened?” he asked.
“Oh, just go back to sleep,” she said.
*
That evening Prez was invited to Chauncey’s for a party. He was home waiting for Tala to come pick him up. A car horn beeped.
“Hey, Prez!” screamed Gus. “Your ride is here.”
“I’ll be right there.” Prez was just finishing a call with his uncle Cadgie.
He rushed down the steps to his mother’s usual admonition that he was going to break the steps one day if he kept running down them that way.
He shut the door and was very surprised to see Salome there waiting in her car.
“Where’s Tala?”
“She’s not going. Not feeling well. She called and asked me if I would drive you. Hey, don’t look so disappointed. You’re gonna hurt my feelings.” She feigned sobbing sounds and rubbing tears from her eyes. They laughed.
“Can you run me by my uncle’s first? He lives up on Buchanan. Turn around and take South Dakota Avenue.”
“I know where I’m going. You’re the one who’s lost.” He gave her his best one-eyebrow-raised, twisted, pursed-lip look.
“What’s going on between you two, Prez?”
“Whaddaya mean?”
“Prez, don’t try to bullshit me. I’m like your big sister. Remember? And she’s like my sister. What’s happening between my brother and my sister?”
Oh, damn, he thought. Why did she have to put it like that? “Nothing,” he said.
“Tala’s engaged, you know? My goodness, look at you. You are seriously upset.”
“No, I’m not. Just tired.”
“Prez, oh my lord. You cannot be in love with that woman. She is not for you.”
“You’re starting to sound like my mother now.”
“Well, big sisters do that sometimes. I have never seen her more bothered than after the picnic. I asked her what happened. She said her heart was being torn apart. That she was aching for someone that she wasn’t supposed to. That she has her principles.”
They arrived at his uncle’s after a twenty-minute ride with the only dialogue coming from the radio.
“Well, good for Tala, being strong and sticking to her principles,” he said as he got out.
“You must be really bothered to take up a conversation that ended miles ago,” she said as they approached the door.
Prez rang the bell. They could hear the click-clacking of high heels. The door opened and they were greeted by a very tall and glamorous woman.
“You must be Preston Junior. I’m Jemima. Please, come in.”
“Hey, Little Preston.” His uncle came down the steps buttoning up his shirt. “How you doing, kid?” They hugged and hugged some more. “Damn, if you don’t look more like your daddy the older you get. You’re taller now than he was.”
“You should see Gussie, Uncle Cadgie. He’s over six feet tall.”
“Really. That’s from your Grandpa. He was a big man. Remember him at all?” He turned towards Salome. “I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to be rude, but I haven’t seen my nephew in quite a while. Please Preston, introduce us.”
“Uncle Cadgie, this is my dear friend and pretend big sister Salome. Salome, this is my Uncle Cadgie.”
“You’ve already met Jemima,” said Cadgie. She’s my dear friend and pretend wife.”
“Hmph! Well, we wouldn’t have to pretend if he’d just pop the question,” Jemima said, while giving him a playful slap on the back of his head. She hugged Salome and Prez.
“This is a big place you have,” said Salome to Jemima.
“What happened to your hand?” Cadgie asked Prez.
“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about, Uncle Cadgie.
”
“C’mon down to the basement. I’ll put on some Lester Young and you can tell me all about it. Sugar Pie, will you bring down a root beer for Preston? Please.”
“What about you, Uncle Cadgie? What are you going to drink?” asked Prez as they descended the stairs to the basement. “Oh man, what a basement!”
“Yeah, I modeled it after Jimmy MacPhail’s Gold Room, bar and all,” said Cadgie. He disappeared behind the bar and retrieved a tall glass, then went over to a big wooden keg and turned the tap. Beer flowed into the glass with a swishing, gurgling sound and created thick and sudsy foam that spilled over the rim of the glass. Cadgie caught the foam with his forefinger and deposited it into his mouth with a slurping sound. Jemima came down and brought Prez his root beer. She had Salome in tow. Cadgie took a long drink, almost emptying his glass.
“Ahh,” he said. “You won’t find a better beer in all of D.C.. So, what’s happening?”
Prez gave him a look and glanced over in the direction of Jemima and Salome sitting on the sofa talking.
“Say, Sugar Pie, why don’t you take Salome upstairs and show her some baby pictures of Preston and Gussie.”
“Oh, I’d really like that,” said Salome.
Prez frowned, furrowing his brow at his uncle.
“What? I got rid of them, didn’t I? You’re welcome. So, what happened to your hand?”
Prez told him about the egg-throwing incident at the park and the chase.
“I caught up to them and grabbed the closest one I could get my hands on. My boys and I had decided that we wanted to hold ’em and call the police to see what the cops would do. I also thought it would be useful to make an incident out of it, you know, get it in the papers, expose the racism, them calling us niggers. I flipped the guy onto his stomach, straddled his back and put him in a choke hold. I told him if he wanted to give up then tap his hand on the ground. He tapped and I let him turn over. We recognized one another at the same time. I couldn’t believe it. It threw me off guard. It was little Stephen—Shaggie—from our old neighborhood in Southeast. I knew I couldn’t turn him over to the police. But I really needed to ask him, how did we go from being best friends in third grade to him calling me nigger and throwing eggs at us? Before I could ask, he pulled a knife and started swiping at me. He cut my hand and ran off.”
Exile Blues Page 19