The Confession of Copeland Cane

by Keenan Norris

  *

  Come February, the third Rockwood building fell, and I ran away from that reality. At the Mt. SAC Relays, I clocked 47.7 in the 400 and 1:49 in the 800. At Arcadia, I won my 400 race with a 47.5 and finished third in the 800 with a 1:50. The boy didn’t leave me now. He was I and I was him.

  March, the second and third Redwood Homes started going up, and at the Stanford Invitational, I dropped them shits like stones off a cliff, running times that not only won both races but had my name ringing statewide, wherever kids ran races. Just know this: when I say your boy could fly on his feet, I’m not talkin’ yang. I had been thru hella changes, had a whole new chemistry to me, and each time I touched the track, it showed. I showed out. My times were the truth. So if the cops wanna come for me on the dead run, Jacq, them jokers can save they breath, best look into extradition.

  *

  As the outdoor season transpired—now there’s a Ivy League word for your ass, transpired—I received more and more attention for my athletic exploits. The students who had read my articles on race and the po-lice and fell back from me like they was still social distancing and I was the virus now rolled up into my personal space like we was kinfolk. My whole rep and persona changed, Jacq. I learnt how to be popular for the first time for real. It wadn’t like the newsletter, where everybody knew you but only an unknown number less’n half would have your back or even care to speak to you. This was different. People liked me and wanted to get in my vicinity. The boys who wore boat shoes would cross the campus to congratulate me and to tell stupid jokes about how they could outrun me if something was chasing them and how they wanted to kiss me and compare dick size, all that weird white boy shit.

  As I opened up and let myself laugh at how stupid these smart kids could be, new things opened up to me. I learnt from one kid who was headed to Harvard in the fall that the arches and pillars of Pied-montay were an example of classical Roman architecture. I learnt from a girl in the drama class who wrote my name on her tits and flashed me when the teacher wadn’t lookin’ why the peacocks in the campus’s urban garden had such beautiful plumes, what the plumes were for, and how she, being a natural exhibitionist, was akin to a plumed peacock morphed into human female form. So you’re not tryna get with me? I asked her, still thinkin’ about her tits. No, not right now, she said as she held qigong tree pose. Maybe when I enter estrus. Research that.

  And a boy whose father CEO’d for Pixar informed me that the birds-of-paradise that rowed the walkways and tilted toward us, open black pelican mouths sprouting blue and pink flowers, were the only genus of Strelitzia reginae to have been cultivated at a school campus anywhere in North America. Our en-tire overachieving senior class, who loved us some ancient Egypt facts almost as much as we loved geeking out on extracurricular activities and overachieving at shit, kept a running joke all year ’bout our “Hierakonplishments,” which was the kinda silly, nerdy shit that wouldn’t get you nothin’ but sideways looks in Rockwood but that I found myself laughing at and repeating as much as anyone. I loved it cuz it was silly and stupid and smart all at once—just like Pied-montay Prep.

  The teachers who had an interest in sports let me turn in my papers late and leave class early. Principal Kennedy shouted me out in his weekly announcement of achievements. And, best of all, now that I was somebody, I could connect with college student-athletes solo dolo, no intro. The shoes that they received for free and needed flipped, I could now flip to more and more customers: Mr. Guzzo gave the good word go-ahead to some understudy dude, who gave it to Miguel, who passed the approval to me. I didn’t care that he wadn’t tryna speak to me; he could put his blessing on the back of a dirty dollar bill if it meant I could vend at his shoe show pop-ups at SportsZone in Oakland and the Metreon and the Palace in San Francisco.

  The shows revealed a whole ’nother side to the game: these were the people that made sports big business. Hella Douglas Deadriches descended on these shows to window shop, authenticate, barter, talk shit, and buy shoes. These Deadriches were white and black, Chinese and Filipino, Mexican and Puerto Rican; they dressed in everything from Financial District fits, suits, and shit to high-end, on-trend shoes and signatured jerseys and custom-engraved caps. A few was even female. What they all had in common, other’n money, was that they was set on that swoosh and that jump-man image: Jordan suspended in air, one arm extended, his hand cupping the basketball, while his other arm trails behind and his legs fly out at a perfect ninety-degree angle, like Da Vinci’s man in the circle.

  That man Guzzo knew what he was doin’. Freelancers like me had to post off in the back while his vendors set up in all the best spots, the corner booths and whatnot. I only made one sell at the Metreon, two at SportsZone, three or four more at the Palace. But just being up in that mix let me see how much money was moving. Guzzo actually was everything Miguel had promised him to be: a real player.

  After working the shows, the wealthy people of Pied-montay slid off the pedestals I had put them on. As I started to see them walking on the same earth that I was, it made everything easier. I even sold shoes to a teacher or two—ain’t sayin’ no names, y’all don’t need to worry. And back at home, I thought how maybe the changes that was coming wouldn’t be all bad. The new residents would have hella disposable dollars to spend on shoes, as long as my folks and me could afford to live next to them.

  Despite the demolitions and the Redwoods rising up all around the Rock, and the arrival of private po-lice in our neighborhood to hold the line between us and the new residents, my senior year was speeding along lovely: I was running fast, stacking my Hierakonplishments and holding my own on all levels, set to graduate with a diploma that would carry weight out in the world. I was also stacking my side skrilla.

  Rockwood might be coming down all around me—scratch that, it most definitely was doing just that—but I couldn’t stop that. And when winter came to that dying neighborhood where I still lived, a few folks peaced out from a flu that was supposed to be dead its damn self—but I couldn’t do nothin’ about that neither. I confess that I escaped to that dreamlike little city within our big sad city and made my own make-believe within it. But, no lie, I was loving what little was left to me.

  *

  Me and Miguel’s paths tended to cross at our gates. I sold a pair of sneaks here and there to our new neighbors, but Miguel went way harder on the homeland. He made sure to post where he could face the boulevard. Passing cars could see all the shoeboxes full of consignment shoes that he had built like a fortress along the gate railing. He would make eye contact with each driver, his eyes always scanning even if I was out there with him and we was parlaying. If one outta every fifty people who looked his way pulled over and asked about some shoes, it was a good day.

  Of course, he was smart enough not to actually sell the shoes right there on the street. That would be solicitation without a license, the kinda shit they be choke-holding brothers to death in broad daylight for. Instead, he got phone numbers of those who showed interest in the display. Later, he would call them up and transact the deal. The display was just for show. If twelve rolled up and questioned him, he was hard enough to keep his composure: It’s just for show, he would tell them. Ain’t even an advertisement. It’s just me flashin’ on fools, showin’ them what I have.

  Miguel had a quick, daring mind. He had the math on how much a pair of vintage kicks could be sold to a Redwoods resident for and how little a Rockwood tenant would pay for the same joints. It might as well have been the same scale that separated our rent from what the Redwoods was charging on twelve-month leases, numbers that made my little shoe money look like two flat bicycle tires in a city landfill.

  Miguel had all type of stuff down to a science. He even knew the new Redwoods po-lice patrol schedules. Knew when they would come by and harass him down to the minute, no different’n if he was waiting for a bus. When a certain officer joker would roll up in a company patrol car and jump on the intercom, Miguel was already way ahead of the warning
:

  Miguel: Nothin’ good goes down after dark, fellas. Move along.

  Intercom joker: NOTHING GOOD GOES DOWN AFTER DARK, FELLAS! MOVE ALONG!!

  Miguel, still side-mouthing to me: Don’t you boys have girlfriends? Time to stop the circle jerk and go the fuck home. Don’t you have girlfriends? Stop the gay shit and go home.

  Intercom joker: DON’T YOU HAVE GIRLFRIENDS? TIME TO STOP WITH THE ASS GRABBING AND GO HOME.

  Miguel: Get ghost, just get ghost.

  Intercom joker: GET GHOST, NOW!!

  After we would retreat behind the gates, Miguel would shake his head and tell me, “Them dudes is robots, Cope. Punch they code and you can predict how they gon’ react.”

  I wadn’t tryna deal with no po-lice codes, no interactions, reactions, or infractions. I sold in safe places, at least places I considered safe: Pied-montay Ave., the skeleton of the Neiman Marcus store that was being built, the shoe shows. But like the contradiction that I am, I kicked it with Miguel when I would see him in his unsafe spot. When the officer who talked hella shit in his company car came thru in his Oakland PD uniform and Oakland PD Escalade, he just glared at us. Him and his partner. Whether they was suited and booted for the city or the Redwoods, I knew it was some danger there.

  But somethin’ drew me to that spot. Somethin’ drew me to Miguel. Maybe it was the genius of his hustle, maybe it was somethin’ deeper. I cain’t call it. I would see him standing in the shadow of Rockwood and instantly I vibed with that steadfast swag.

  Three-fourths of the Rock was already gone. It was a small four-building rebuild, but it was big to us. It was everything to us. So it was hard to stay safe or to think too much about po-lice who took it too far. It’s po-lice lookin’ to run you down wherever you go in this world, cain’t worry too much about them in your backyard even if your backyard is a boulevard.

  So we posted griot-gang against the gates, two sahabs talkin’ shit about the stingy niggas who wanted to act like we shoe vendors was working Wall Street and the careless muhfuckas who spent money on Jordans like they was printing it theyselves. When it got late and law enforcement ratcheted up the intensity, Miguel would concede the space. I would help him pack up his shit. We would retreat into Rockwood, where now hella apartments sat empty. Folks was beating the bulldozers by leaving a few months ’fore they had to, and I wondered how long it would be ’fore Momma and the old man decided to do the same.

  *

  Me and Miguel found us a vacant with the front door ripped off the hinges, just an open doorway. Inside, we sat amongst the shoeboxes and smoked weed. Miguel always had weed on him. My lungs couldn’t handle the shit; I knew it was terrible for my running. But I smoked with him anyway cuz smoking with your friend is about the only way two boys will let each other dream.

  “I’ve been visioning this since back when we was in the Youth Control, Cope,” he said, speaking on the future. Cuz that’s what we did when we got high. “We’ll have our own shoe show right here in Rockwood. Bring this shit to the hood. Booths out front on the boulevard, tables and display cases, the whole deal.”

  “That’s what’s up.”

  “And we’ll need some music. Real classical Oakland shit: Tony Toni Toné, Too $hort, E-40.”

  “We gon’ have that spot on lock so tight, the po-lice is even gon’ pay respect. Shit, they’ll set up a perimeter to protect us instead of acting like we’re the criminals, chasing us off.”

  “You know it, blood.”

  “And what about advertising? We need our shit on 106.1 and all the other hip-hop and R&B stations.”

  “Rock stations, too. ’Bout to be hella white cats up in the Rock, blood, buying shoes and all kinda half-price new shit. Cope, we’re ’bout to be so paid out this bitch, I’ma make it big and retire my ass into management and ownership. Fittin’ to manage and own things.”

  “I feel you on that, bruh, cuz, for real, though, I don’t give no fucks ’bout no Jordan shoes. I could be sellin’ grits for all I care. It’s not about the product, it’s about the prosperity.”

  “Prosperous as shit. Cope, I want enough money to buy me an island like Marc Benioff and just plant weed all over the muhfucka, be smokin’ 24/7.”

  “Weed is the last thing I’d spend my millions on.”

  “You’re smoking now, nigga.”

  “I’m just keeping you company, lonely nigga.”

  “Well, fuck weed then. You ever had some good-ass whiskey, Cope?”

  “Nah. I never had a glass of whiskey.”

  “Me neither. But it’s the type of thing men of distinction drink, so I’ma buy it and drink it when I’m distinguished.”

  We laughed our damn asses off, laughed at our dreams and our bullshit and at each other. In the Youth Control, we never could let our guard down, least not till we was in for the night in the dark and everything was invisible. But here we could be ourselves, the closest we ever got to just being kids.

  *

  My speed was the perfect disguise for all the deeper things I felt and knew. In my prep school life, I became the black star that the city that Oakland surrounded seemed to want. When I ran, people cheered me and colleges recruited me. Meanwhile, the boy that I had discovered inside of me, radiated and medicated and incarcerated, ran with me, but quietly, invisibly. No one who watched me run could see that other me. It wadn’t like when I first showed up at the school and messed around and wrote my stories. Then, he had been on Front Street. Everyone could see him in my words. He was not new. He had been with me for years, ever since I stared into that stainless steel mirror and seen a boy lookin’ back who was nobody’s child.

  Quitting the newsletter, I took him from y’all, all y’all. On the track, that deep part of me that I call the boy showed up in a way where nobody but me could hear it, where only I could feel what he meant, where only I knew him. Which was all that I wanted. The tension and anticipation ’fore the race forced me inside myself in deep and beautiful ways. The pain that came after the first few seconds of the race, as my body, at my command, fully committed to the pace of the race and the denial of that po-lice siren that screamed at me to drop to my knees and put my palms to the sky—the pain drove me deeper into that hurting boy inside of me, and I looked that part of me in the face where I was completely afraid and still angry and full of confusion. The island was there and my fear of it, the Youth Control was there and my fear of it, you was there and I knew it was somethin’ in me, girl, that when you was here was too afraid of you to know you or to let you know me. I ran into everything that held me prisoner. Below the crowd and the cheering and the nervousness and the arrogance and the peacocking, it was just me, myself, the prison, pure pain, and dark, deep silence. By the backstretch of every race I ran that season, I lost my hearing and my eyes fell closed as boarded windows. My teeth chattered and my whole mouth tasted like burning pennies. The world went dark and the boy screamed inside of me again and again.

  And either I would win or I wouldn’t, but that wadn’t important. After the race, we would stumble off the track and into the infield or under the bleachers and lie down in exhaustion. Our throats stayed raw and tender for hours so it was no point in talkin’ even though everything inside of me was screaming and crying. I’d sit there with all the lactic acid in the world burning inside of me. I’d lie down and close my eyes and wait for the boy to go quiet, which took a while, but it always happened. And then there I was at peace. I don’t know what that means. I don’t know if anything I’m sayin’ means anything to anybody, or if it’s socially just or politically important or whatever. It had nothin’ to do with being black or being a victim or a perpetrator or an athlete or anything you might give a name to and put out on Front Street some type of way. It was just me and everything that hid and showed out inside of me. You cain’t put this in a news article, cain’t write it and have it mean this or that, but maybe it’s what them who read and write the news should know.

  *

  I ran in the devil heat of
Fresno. It was April already. On the backstretch, I looped behind, around, and into the lead, outracing the short Mexican kid who had led from the start. We was fifty meters from the finish line and I had him bodied. The boy screamed inside of me as the wind gusted between our bodies. I took the inside lane, surging ahead. I shut my eyes and tried to tighten and power to the finish line. I heard above the screaming inside of me a huge burst of sound from the people in the stands, like it was a fight up in there or someone had got shot, but as I opened my eyes I realized they was cheering the two of us, but especially the Mexican homie, who had found his own spirit inside of him and had returned from the dead. He surged to my shoulder. He strayed into my lane and we tangled hands and elbows as we ran for the line. He dug an elbow into me and I felt somethin’ sharper than bone and hungry as my loneliest night as he pulled past me for the win.

  It was a great comeback. I bent at the waist and gasped for air. Staring at the heatwaves that floated over the track, I tried to make sense of what had just happened. I hadn’t seen him coming till it was too late. My arms was tying up and my feet was punching holes in the track by then. I had already made my one and only move and couldn’t respond to his kick. The boy, not even lookin’ winded, loped across the lanes and tapped me on my shoulder. I raised up a little and seen him nod at the bleachers. This joker, I thought. I couldn’t hardly move and here dude was, clearly not too tired to talk. I wondered what he wanted that required a mission beneath the bleachers, but I was still too winded to ask. I dapped him up and bent back down and undid the laces on my spikes. Even walking off the track felt like a fantasy.

  Eventually, I hobbled my ass under the bleachers. My competitor was there, and he wadn’t alone. A girl was with him, and the two of them walked into and outta the light and shadow display that the bleacher planks above us created. In the years since I went to the Youth Control, Keisha Manigault, who had been fast since grade school, had taken it to a whole ’nother level, becoming the state’s best girl long sprinter. She gave me a hug, flecks of sweat and her long braided extensions flying into my face.