The last bankbook made me get all nervous again. My education fund.
I picked it up and pulled the book out of the little envelope it was in. That was a good sign, at least it was still in my name.
On the first line of the first page was the original $900 deposit we’d made together on my twelfth birthday. On the second line of the first page was absolutely nothing. A sad story that repeated itself all the way to the end of the book.
$900.
Years of all those hours for $900. That probably worked out to about a penny an hour.
I stood there holding the stupid book.
I thought about what the Sarge had told me once about ideas and language, about how if an idea was clearly thought out and well reasoned the words you needed to express that idea came to you real easy and plain. You didn’t have to do any fumbling around to find words to describe what you were thinking, they just came.
What was happening to me now was a lot like that. I had a problem and the solution to that problem came to me as clear as anything. Everything I needed to do was just there, like I’d been thinking about it for years, not for just the few seconds since, surprise!, I’d seen the nearly empty education fund bankbook.
Just like that I knew everything I had to do.
I could feel all my worries lift off my back. Instead of putting all the Sarge’s folders back in the safety deposit vault I put them in the weekly receipt briefcase along with my education-fund bankbook and the $50,000 that’d been floating around.
The Sarge and Darnell had better be ready, they weren’t the only ones who had four days to plot revenge. If they thought Luther T. Farrell was going to roll over and play dead they had another thought coming.
A great philosopher, whose name escapes me at the moment, once said, “Revenge is a dish best served cold.” And I was about to get seriously chilly on the Sarge and Darnell Dixon.
When six o’clock came I told the Crew, “OK, gentlemen, we’ve got to turn the cartoons off for a minute, you’re going to get a chance to see your favorite health care professional on the news.”
Mr. Foster said, “I wouldn’t get so excited, Luther, finding yourself on the six o’clock news usually isn’t a real positive thing for a young black man.”
“Maybe not, but you might get excited when you see what a genius some people think this young black man is.”
“Luther,” Mr. Foster said, “there’s no way possible for you to be more of a genius in my eyes than you already are.”
Mr. Baker said, “You mean we don’t get to watch Teamo Supremo just ‘cause you’re trying to be a genius?”
I told him, “Don’t worry, Mr. Baker, it should only be a few minutes, it’ll probably be the first story.”
None of them looked too happy.
The newspeople always liked to tease you before they went to the first set of commercials, and the anchorwoman said, “Tragedy strikes on Dayton Street. A happy reunion, maybe? School cuts worse than predicted, and a no-go on that new truck. This is Karen Russell with all the news that matters plus the first in a new series on the positive things some of our local youths have been up to along with Flint’s most accurate, up-to-date weather and sports reports coming up next on TV Twelve News.”
The first story wasn’t me. The reporter said, “Flint is on pace for a record year in homicides as three bodies were discovered in this abandoned North End house … bla, bla, bla.”
The next couple of stories weren’t me either.
After the first bunch of commercials Mr. Baker said, “Where were you? Did we miss you, Mr. Big-Shot Genius?”
“Just hold on, they like to get the bad news out of the way first.”
With this being Flint I should’ve known they’d have about twenty more minutes of bad news to get out of the way, but this was ridiculous. It was already 6:29.
Maybe there was going to be a special report on the science fair, maybe they were going to delay the national news to show the report on me.
When they finally quit showing commercials the main newswoman said, “And finally, in this, our first in a series on the good things Flint teens have been up to, fifteen-year-old Loser T.—”
Oh no! No she didn’t!
She laughed and looked down on her desk. “I’m sorry, that’s fifteen-year-old Luther T. Farrell set an impressive record at Whittier Middle School this afternoon. Our reporter Joyce Morgan was there to record the happy event.”
The woman who’d interviewed me said, “That’s right, Karen, Luther and his fifteen-year-old classmate, Shayla Patrick, tied for first place at the fiftieth-annual Whittier Middle School science fair this afternoon. For Luther this was his third win in a row, and that has never before been done at this south-side Flint school.
“I had the chance to talk to young Mr. Farrell about his accomplishment.”
The TV showed a picture of the auditorium, then a close-up on me.
I couldn’t believe how bad I looked. I kept sticking my tongue out and licking my lips and I was blinking like someone had poured salt in my eyes. When my eyes were opened they were staring right into the camera like I was hypnotized. It also looked like Lucas Sorge had gone and digitally put a bunch more pimples on my face. You could even see me taking giant breaths like I just ran five miles!
Mr. Baker said, “Gee, Luther, that’s just how you look when you know your mom is on her way over!”
I gave him a dirty look.
But maybe when they heard my answers to her questions I’d end up looking a little better. The reporter said, “Luther, I know your project was about the dangers of lead in paint. Great job, how does it feel to get the three-peat?”
I blinked like I was sending out some secret code with my eyes and licked my lips like a thirsty dog going after a bowl of water, then said, “Uh … it feels, like, real good, I guess.”
She said, “So does this mean we have a future great scientist in our midst?”
Lick, lick, lick. Blink, blink, blink. “Uh … I guess so.”
She said, “I imagine you and your parents are going to have a big celebration tonight.”
Blink, blink, blink. Lick, lick, lick. “Uh … uh-huh.”
The camera came back to a live shot of her. She said, “So that’s it. Just one of the positive things that Flint’s teenagers are up to. This is Joyce Morgan at Whittier Middle School.”
The anchorwoman, Karen Russell, said, “Great report, Joyce. And congratulations to those two winners, I apologize for blowing your name, Luther, as we can see you are definitely not a loser.”
Then that ignorant joking weatherman who’s never funny and never right about the weather said, “I think we can forgive you on that one, Karen. After all, ‘Luther’ is how you’d say ‘loser’ if you had a lisp, right?” He tapped his pencil on the desk and gave a sappy grin while the anchor-people and the sports idiot groaned and laughed.
Karen Russell said, “And on that note, it’s time for Peter Jennings and ABC World News Tonight. Thank you once again for joining Flint’s number one …”
The whole crew was looking at me real sympathetic.
I said, “What?”
Mr. Baker hit the remote back to the Cartoon Network. He mumbled, “I can’t believe we missed Teamo Supremo to watch you squirm like a worm in a skillet, Luther. We can see that same kind of performance any day. Only difference is we get to see it live.”
What could I say? I was in a state of shock. They’d cut out all the good questions and my real intelligent answers to make me look like a complete fool.
But why would I expect any different?
There’s this one stale joke that every comic on the Black Comedy Network has a version of and I used to get a real kick out of it. They’d always tell how the local news stations would only interview the ugliest, most ignorant, stupidest sounding, fewest-toothed person they could find in the crowd if the story had to do with black people.
Channel twelve was keeping the tradition alive, and Luther T. Fa
rrell was its latest star.
The next morning I called Sparky.
“City morgue, you stab ‘em, we slab ‘em.”
“Hey, Sparky. It’s me.”
“Baby! You still calling the little people? After I saw you styling and profiling on channel twelve and saw the article about you in the Journal I didn’t think you’d have time for your old boy.”
“You saw the news, huh?”
“Yeah, baby, I blinked and missed ninety percent of the interview but I saw the other half of it real good.”
“And?”
“And what was wrong with your lips? You looked like my cousin Andre looks when he needs to hit a forty.”
“I don’t know. And did you see all the pimples they put on my face?”
“Yeah, I guess that endorsement contract you were gonna get with the Oil of Olay folks is out the window now, huh? But look at it like this, I bet Pizza Hut is gonna be calling soon. I can’t explain it but ever since I saw you on the news I’ve had a strange craving for a large pizza Supreme, heavy on the black olives.”
Oh, someday I’d pay him back for that.
“Listen, Sparky, I’ma need your help. Have you got a good suit?”
“Is that some kind of trick question? You know I do.”
“I’m not talking about that flooding polyester hounds-tooth mess you’ve worn to every dance since sixth grade, either.”
“Oh, that’s cold!”
“Pay attention, I’m trying to take care of you, can you get here in fifteen minutes?”
“I gotta wear my suit? If so we got a problem, it’s, uh, at the cleaners right now.”
“Which means it’s wadded up in a drawer, right?”
“Something like that.”
“Don’t worry about it, we’re going to give that suit to Shayla’s daddy and let him bury it, if you hurry over I’m gonna get you a good suit.”
“On my way, Mr. Three-peat.”
I went into the dayroom and cut off the TV.
“Listen up, general announcement. Who wants to go to the mall for ice cream?”
Four hands shot up.
“OK, go get your going-out clothes on, and get in line.”
I went down to my bedroom. Chester X was in his bed, eyes closed.
“You up, Mr. X?”
His eyes popped open.
“Hello, Luther. Time for a shave?”
“Very funny. Come on, get dressed, we gotta go out.”
I went back upstairs to the kitchen and looked in the Sarge’s secret hiding place where she kept all her keys. She kept them at the back of the cupboard over the fridge, in a six-year-old box of Special K. I guess she figured no one in the world would ever look in a box of Special K, not even when it’s fresh, so this was the perfect hiding place.
By the time I got to the dayroom everyone was ready to roll.
Sparky was at the front door as we headed out to the bus.
He stopped and said, “So what’s this?”
“We’re going to the mall for ice cream.”
“This is what you need me to do, babysit these folks with you? In public?”
“It’s your choice, if you don’t want a suit …”
“A suit from the mall, right? I mean you aren’t planning on detouring me to the Goodwill, are you?”
“A suit from Sleet-Sterling. Designer Exclusives.”
“For real? Designer Exclusives? Oh, snap, you drive a hard bargain, bruh.”
We all got into the bus.
I had to tell Sparky a hundred times as we headed to the mall that I wasn’t going to get him a used suit.
I pulled up to the store’s valet parking and unloaded everybody.
I peeled a fifty off my roll from the Sarge’s safety deposit box and told the valet, “Keep her near the front, would you, we won’t be too long.” I’d always wanted to say something like that!
He turned the fifty over, laughed and said, “You got it, chief.”
“All right, everyone, fall in.” The Crew hooked arms and we paraded through Sleet-Sterling. Sparky hung back a little, trying to act like he wasn’t with us. The way he was following us three aisles over made him look just like the half-slick security guard who was trailing us two aisles over.
When we got to the ice cream shop I pulled my knot out of my pocket and slapped a hundred-dollar bill on the counter. I told the woman, “Double scoops for everyone.”
She didn’t look too happy. She called to the back for help.
Sparky’s eyes bugged when he saw the roll.
He said, “Oh my God, my fantasy has come true! My boy has robbed a bank, lost his mind and is taking me on a spending spree before they send him to the joint!”
He told the woman, “Me first! Butter pecan on the top and bubble gum delight on the bottom! And load that baby till it’s busting at the seams!”
She pulled out a cone and Sparky said, “Hold on there, you don’t understand, darlin’, we’re going all the way. Sugar cones for everybody!”
The Crew broke out in cheers.
Between everyone picking their own flavors and spilling and wiping faces and having to go to the bathroom and washing up we spent an hour in the food court.
I had them hook up again and we headed over to Athlete’s Outpost. Sparky was always a store or two behind us, pretending he didn’t know who we were.
When we got to the sporting goods store Sparky said, “Now, you do remember why I’m here, don’t you? You do remember something about a suit from Designer Exclusives at Sleet-Sterling, right? Not that I wouldn’t take it, but I mean we aren’t talking about a jogging suit, are we?”
“Sparky, you know you’re my boy, and I’m not trying to be funny, but before we get you a suit I thought we should stop here. I’m sick of them calling you Ali when we play ball.”
“What’s wrong with them calling me Ali? They call me that out of respect, after Muhammad Ali, ‘cause I float like a butterfly and”—he pretended he was shooting one of his patented weak jump shots—“Bam! I sting like a bee!”
“Naw, man, it doesn’t have a thing to do with that Ali, it’s got to do with your shoes.”
The only basketball shoes Sparky ever had were his big brother Jerome’s old used shoes, which wasn’t a problem except that Jerome wore a size fourteen and Sparky’s foot was a ten. By the time they got passed to Sparky, Jerome’s old shoes were so big and beat up that it wasn’t too long before they started curling up at the toes.
Sparky said, “They been cracking on my shoes?”
“Like you didn’t know.”
“I swear I didn’t. So why they call me Ali?”
“Have you ever checked out Ali Baba’s shoes? You seen how the toes curl up at the tips?”
Sparky said, “Oh my God. My own people stabbing me in the back. We can’t have that, can we?”
“That’s just what I was thinking.”
“So we’re gonna go in here and get me a pair of size tens?”
“You read my mind, but I was thinking three pairs.”
“I love you, bruh!”
Somehow it didn’t seem fair that only Sparky was going to get new shoes. An hour later the whole Crew was sporting two-hundred-dollar Air Jordans. As we left everybody scuffed their feet on the floor, sounding like the Detroit Pistons tearing down the court on one of their half-fast breaks.
I stopped at the drugstore and picked up two black permanent markers. Then we fast-broke down to Sleet-Sterling.
Sparky said, “Why do I have the feeling we’re not going to be hitting the bargain basement?”
“Because you know it’s only the best for my partner and my crew. We’re headed upstairs to Designer Exclusives.”
Sparky squealed like he’d been hit with a defective lawn mower blade.
As soon as we walked into Men’s Designer Exclusives we were attacked by a snotty little woman who acted like something was stinking around her.
“Uh, may I help you, sir?”
“Yeah
, we need to look at some suits.”
She rolled her eyes and relaxed a little.
“Oh. Well. I’m sure these clothes aren’t what you’re looking for. You probably want Penney’s, it’s at the other end of the mall, or Kmart across the street.”
“Oh. Do you work on commission here?”
“Of course.”
“Good. Is Mr. Brandon in?”
She couldn’t hide her surprise that I knew the manager of the department. Mr. Brandon had moved up from managing Thrifty Living.
“He’s quite busy in the office—”
“Fine, we’ll just browse until he can come out. Gentlemen, find a suit you like.”
She gasped and picked up the phone. I heard her whisper something about a couple of hoodlums and a pack of retards.
The back door opened and Ricardo Brandon came out.
He saw me and smiled. “Mr. Farrell, I wasn’t expecting to see you.” He noticed the Crew rummaging through the suits. “Whoa! You brought everybody. What’s up?”
“They’ve got a party coming up and my mom wants them to be super-sharp. We need some designer suits.”
Ricardo was cool, he didn’t miss a beat. He said, “Come on in the office with me for a second, Mr. Farrell.”
He told the little snot, “If Mr. Farrell’s friends need anything get it for them.”
After he closed the door Ricardo said, “You know since I’m working here now we can’t do the same thing with the clothes that we used to do at Thrifty Living, Luther. If you buy suits and have them altered there’s no way I can take them back.”
I said, “She told me that, but all the big shots and head honchos are going to be at this party and she wants everyone to be beyond perfect. Something to do with her being close to winning the Adult Foster Care Home of the Year Award. So she wanted to throw a little business your way here, hoping that you could give us something off.”
“Designer suits? And she’s paying for them? No refunds next week?”
“That’s right, suits, shirts, shoes, and ties, too. I know it sounds crazy but that’s what she said, she told me to break this off for you, if you can do something about the price.”
Bucking the Sarge Page 18