by Gant, Gene
The dude had seen better times. He was wasted, his face and arms sporting huge gray patches of roughened skin that looked as crusty as scabs. He wore a dirty T-shirt, oversized knee-length shorts, and a pair of sneaks ventilated with several holes. His head was a narrow, uncombed, fuzz-covered oblong.
“Hey, Micah. Hey.” Larry’s eyes were bright but unfocused. Even when he spoke to me, his gaze fell somewhere off to the left of my face. His hands were in constant motion, and he seemed to be giving himself a pat down. Before I could make my excuses and escape, his hands were suddenly on me again, fingers digging into the pockets of my jeans.
“Man, get the hell off me!” I slammed him in the chest with both hands, and he staggered back. Immediately, I grabbed for my wallet, afraid he had lifted it. I was relieved to feel its bulk pressing against my right cheek.
The crazy look in Larry’s eyes didn’t change at all. He caught his balance and came toward me again, one hand outstretched. “I need a match. You got a match, man?”
“Hell no, I don’t have any damn match,” I snarled. Like a lot of dealers, Larry had taken to using his own wares. In my mind, a crackhead was desperate, unpredictable, and dangerous. Not a good combination. Let me say here that I was scared enough to turn tail and run. Instead, I puffed out my chest, balled up my fists, scrunched my face into a raging scowl, and stood my ground. When you’re as puny as I am, survival often hinges on your ability to put up a good front. As a purveyor of bull, no one else was in my league.
Amazingly, my faux bad attitude triggered something in Larry’s pickled brain. He raised his hands in a pacifying gesture. “Okay, Mike. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean you any harm.” He spoke really earnestly to whatever he saw over my left shoulder and even stuck out his hand for a shake.
I dismissed the gesture with another snarl. “Step off, Larry.”
He obeyed, backing slowly away from me. Out of nowhere, panic flashed in his eyes, and he tossed a frantic look over his shoulder, as if he had just remembered some threat that was coming up behind him. He darted across Belz, forcing cars to either swerve or brake dangerously, and he disappeared around the corner of the police substation at the edge of the shopping center.
I stared after him, waiting for my pounding heart to slow. What a waste. Larry could have been a teacher or professor or whatever the hell else a person can become with a math degree. As I recalled, Larry’s father was a truck driver, and his mother was a secretary for the city school system. While hardly rich, they had given their three sons a comfortable upbringing, one a lot more stable than mine had been. How a smart guy from a secure home wound up strung out on dope was beyond me. My heart broke for the dude. He had the aura of homelessness about him, that special air that comes from days of sweat accumulating in the same set of clothes. Apparently, some folk weren’t as tenderhearted toward their addict relatives as I was.
Larry’s intrusion had eaten up my grace period, and I hurried the rest of the way to the bus stop. The northbound 19 came into view only seconds later. Once it reached my stop, I boarded, plunked down the fare, and made a beeline for the rear seat, where I sprawled in an affectation of roughneck cool.
BEALE STREET. It had gone from prominence to near death and back to prominence again, all before I was even born. Some people old enough to remember its jim crow heyday, when it had served as the business and entertainment district for black people in the tristate region, whined that it was now a watered-down mockery. Instead of oozing raw, funky blues from every corner, the modern-day version was more diverse. It even boasted—get ready to faint in sheer horror—an Elvis Presley statue.
On Friday and Saturday nights, the street was cordoned off and turned over to pedestrians, who thronged from one end to the other. The majority of the crowd was often white, many of them tourists ironically drawn by the street’s history. Music blared from the clubs. Beer and mixed drinks were sold on the sidewalks. People danced in the street. The revitalization of Beale was part of a larger effort to resurrect downtown Memphis. Some portions of downtown were still on life support, but Beale was definitely alive and kicking.
I strolled lazily along Beale after rumbling off the 19. Night was settling gently, like drifting snow, the sky slowly deepening into purple and black. Beneath a shifting rainbow haze of neon lights, I floated through the warm scent of frying meats that swirled from the various restaurants.
Cotton’s Lounge was at the corner of Beale and Fourth. A two-story, tan brick affair, the lower floor was a restaurant specializing in southern cuisine—fried chicken, collard greens, mac and cheese, peach cobbler, and the like. It was the kind of food my mom called artery-cloggers. The upper floor was a jazz club that had black-painted walls and strings of lights twinkling across the ceiling. It was probably kept elegant for its adult patrons. But to accommodate the teen crowd, half the tables were stripped bare and moved to one side, clearing a space for dancing. The great thing about teen night at Cotton’s Lounge was that it was open to all teens, gay or straight. The DJ, a twentysomething dude wearing red sweats, was already perched on the club’s little stage when I walked in, his head bobbing to the beat he was pumping. Several couples were bouncing on the dance floor. Roughly half the tables were occupied. In another half hour, the place would be packed.
I set up residence at a table against the back wall, one that gave a great view of the room. I was a funny dancer—funny as in, people laugh at me. Not in a good way, either. So I mostly just watched when I went there. The waitress, a brown-haired, skinny white woman sporting the club uniform of black slacks, white shirt, black bow tie, and black derby, zeroed in on my table right off, and I ordered a Pepsi. It occurred to me that I hadn’t eaten anything since that morning’s bowl of Lucky Charms and, to make sure my body’s nutritional needs were met, I also asked for a bag of potato chips.
There’s a certain excitement that comes with being young and on the prowl. I was young without a doubt, but on the prowl I was not. I’d never been successful hooking up with girls (a sad fact that I’ll whine about in a moment), and my philosophy was something along the lines of, “Expect nothing and ye shall not be disappointed.” My sights that evening were set no higher than a couple of sodas, some cool music, and a safe trip home. Settling back in my chair, I sipped the cola and let my eyes roam, trying to get a feel for the crowd.
It was a mixed bag that night. Judging from all the University of Memphis T-shirts on display, there were a lot of college freshmen in the crowd, black, white, and Hispanic. They must not have had fake IDs. Otherwise, they’d be doing their thing at some club where they could get all the beer they could suck down. There were an even larger number of high schoolers, all of them decked out in colorful fashion. Lots of gay and lesbian couples were dancing too. Also on the scene were a few older people in their thirties, mostly white. They were friends of the club owner and were there to chaperone, making sure there was no groping, no sipping from secret stashes of liquor, no sex grinding on the dance floor, and no drug use. I spotted quite a few of my former classmates in the place, some of whom I was not too eager to mingle with. I slithered down in my seat, hoping they wouldn’t see me.
Movement at the far right side of the room drew my attention. Two fine gals were making their way among the tables in search of seating. They exchanged happy greetings with some of the kids in the crowd as they passed through. I recognized the taller of the two. Her name was Delta Thurmond. She was a track star who’d been featured in the newspaper when she won an athletic scholarship to the University of Arkansas. My head popped up at the sight of her.
You can’t blame me for being smitten with Delta. She had a slender, gorgeous face with high cheekbones, full lips, and dark-brown eyes. I’d be lying through my crooked teeth if I said her curvaceous bod wasn’t the first thing that attracted me to her. But I was also fascinated by her intelligence. The newspaper article pointed out that she had a 4.0 GPA, and her teachers praised her for her self-assurance and independence.
I’d tried coming on to a couple of girls at Cotton’s Lounge a few months earlier. Both girls had laughed at me, and not in a good way. One of them actually patted me on the head before waving me off, as if I were some little kid who’d come to her door in a costume on Halloween for trick or treat. Clearly, Dick hadn’t passed his lady-killing skills on to me.
Delta glanced my way as she passed my outpost, but her eyes registered nothing. She and her friend took a table fairly close by, and for one wild moment, my ego tried to convince me Delta had done that to give me an opening. Then the saner part of my head rose up, and the notion suffered a quick, brutal death.
As the waitress swooped down on her newly arrived customers, I turned away and picked up the bag of chips. My fingers tugged but suddenly seemed too weak to tear the package open. Oh well. I’d lost my appetite anyway.
6
BY NINE thirty, I had managed to down five mugs of cola, and my brain was tingling from the sugar buzz. It was time to go.
The place was now packed and sort of vibrating with a life of its own. In Cotton’s Lounge, eighteen-year-olds were allowed to smoke if they showed ID to club personnel. Cigarette smoke hung in the air like a gauzy curtain, as thick as the voices that thrummed with the music in a jumble of multiple, overlapping conversations. It had been fun sitting there and watching the other kids socialize, but I was starting to feel a little depressed, and the noise was giving me a headache.
As I was about to stand, a girl in a black midi and a loose-fitting, white, cable-knit blouse walked up to my table. “You can have it,” I said, figuring she wanted the table. I pushed my chair back.
“You’re leaving?” She spoke loudly, leaning forward to make her voice heard over the music. “I was coming to keep you company.”
I’d heard that undercover cops sometimes worked the crowd at Cotton’s Lounge, just to make sure there were no drugs or alcohol circulating through the place. This girl looked about seventeen, but she had to be a cop. There was no other reason that she’d be talking to me.
“That’s okay,” I replied. “I’ve got my pops at home. He’s all the company I need.”
“Oh, I don’t think so, guy.” She pulled out a chair and sat, smiling at me. Her face looked so good it made my teeth hurt, like a treat that was way too sweet. She had shoulder-length, dark-brown hair that was tied back in a ponytail. Her large, dark-brown eyes were framed by thick lashes. She was about my height, and she was really sexy.
A sexy cute girl, trying to start up a conversation with me? It had to be a joke or something. I stood up, eyes on the exit sign.
“Okay, be that way.” The girl pouted a little, and then she laughed. “Just so you know, you’re shooting me down in front of my friends.” She gave a nod to her left where, two tables over, four other girls sat whispering to each other while pretending not to study us.
Having been blown out of the water myself on more occasions than I cared to remember, I couldn’t help feeling a twinge of sympathy for her.
Leaning down, bracing my hands against the table to steady myself, I said, “What’s your name, lady?”
“Monica.” A moment later she added, “Isom.”
“Well, Monica… Isom, I’m Micah McGhee.”
“Hey, sit down, Michael.”
For the first time in years, this thing with the name pissed me off. “My-KUH, Monica. My-KUH.”
“Oh. Like the book in the Bible.”
“There ya go.” I smiled, pleased that she had gotten it right. “Whatcha drinking?”
She gave me this nonchalant little shrug. “Coke.”
Straightening, I waved the waitress over. “Bring Ms. Isom here a Coke, please.”
“Sure, sweetie.” The waitress collected my empty cola mugs and headed off to the bar.
I pulled a five from my pocket and dropped it on top of the ten, leaving myself with just the change I carried for bus fare.
Turning again to Monica, I tipped my invisible hat. “You and your friends have a nice evening.”
“Well, this is embarrassing.” Monica addressed herself, a look of disbelief on her face. “I’ve actually been shot down.”
Play the girl’s little game, I told myself, and get it over with. I picked through the napkins that came with my sodas and found one that was only slightly damp. “You got a pen or something?”
Monica looked at me, suspicion suddenly glinting in her eyes. She turned to the table where her friends sat, raised her hand, and made a writing motion in the air. One of the girls, with a sweet smile and slightly plump figure, pulled out a little purse she wore on a strap around her waist. She opened the tiny purse, rooted around in it, and came up with a yellow pencil so short and thin I mistook it for a toothpick. She tossed the pencil to Monica, who handed it to me. I scribbled my name and telephone number on the napkin. Then I slid both napkin and pencil across the table to Monica.
“Those are my real digits,” I said proudly.
“I believe you.” Monica smiled as she folded the napkin into the palm of her hand. “And I will be calling.”
Well, let me rush right home and park my behind by the phone. “Good night, Monica Isom.”
“Be seeing you, Micah McGhee.”
MY TRUSTY bus deposited me safely at the corner of Belz and Third, and I started the walk along Belz toward home. It was after ten, my eyes were heavy with sleep, and I was weaving over the sidewalk as I went. Those drowsy eyes of mine, however, had no trouble spotting the Memphis city police cruiser sneakily nestled in the parking lot as I passed McDonald’s. A cop, blond haired and thick faced, sat in the shadows behind the wheel, staring at me. A chill ran from my head down to my toes like ice water pouring along my nerves.
There are those who pooh-pooh such fear, mouthing self-righteous things like, “Law-abiding citizens have no reason to be afraid of the police.” To which the average poor guy in America would say, “Bullshit!” While I was waiting for the bus after leaving Cotton’s Lounge, a man roared past in a battered pickup truck, the back window of which bore a large emblem of the Confederate flag. It seemed likely to me this man had a rope under his seat, the better to drag persons of a certain color in his vehicle’s wake. Would that assumption have justified me pitching a brick through the man’s windshield? Of course not. And if I had bricked out that windshield, the city of Memphis would have tossed my law-breaking little ass in jail. That is, if I weren’t dragged to glory behind the southern gentleman’s truck.
Cops are subject to the same prejudices and stereotypes as the rest of us. The big difference is that they can, and far too many of them do, use the authority society gives them to act on their bigotry. Far too many of them also get away with it.
Take the cop who stopped me one Saturday afternoon in April. I had been sitting on the curb at a bus stop near the Oak Court Mall, bobbing my head to the music blasting over the headphones of my iPod. Oak Court Mall, like all good shopping venues in the Memphis region, stood in an area that was predominantly white and middle class. I was poor as dirt, and it showed in the shabby jeans and T-shirt I wore. A police cruiser had stopped about twenty feet away from the bus stop, spilling out a tall, muscular white officer who stomped up to me.
He had ordered me to my feet, made me turn off the iPod (for which Mama had sacrificed getting her hair done for three months so she could save up the cash to purchase it for me as a Christmas
present), and put it on the ground. In this raving voice, he’d told me there had been a lot of crime in the area and demanded to know what the hell I was doing there. He must not have read the article the Commercial Appeal had published only a week ago touting the neighborhood around Oak Court as one of the safest in the city. Or maybe he just thought I hadn’t. I was dumb when it came to schoolbooks, but I did read the paper. I liked to keep up with stories about crime—mostly so I could avoid being one of its victims.
The bus I’d been waiting for came and went without me during this little episode. Officer Protect and Serve had patted me down, asked for ID, and then spared time to comment on how ugly I looked in my school ID photo. He had wanted to know if I had a receipt for the iPod. Of course I didn’t, having gotten it as a gift from my mom the year before. He’d snatched the thing up and said he would have to confiscate it.
This man had undoubtedly hoped to provoke me into some rash outburst, thereby giving him an excuse to dropkick my little ass and then charge me with assault for leaving a butt print on his shoe. He was so very disappointed on that score. It was all I could do to keep from passing out right there on the street. My hands were shaking so badly I’d wanted to shove them into my pockets, but I knew such a move on my part, under those circumstances, could get me a bullet in some vital part of my anatomy. My hands had therefore done their shaking in plain sight of the officer.
After ordering me to wait, the cop had taken my ID and iPod to his cruiser, where he ran a check for outstanding warrants. That had made me even more nervous. Two years before, I was cited for driving without a license. A buddy of mine had decided to take a spin in his dad’s truck and invited me along. He’d let me have a try behind the wheel, and that was when another cop happened to stop us. Thankfully, this second cop apparently didn’t dig deep enough to uncover that little episode. Finding no record of murder and mayhem under my name, he had finally come back, returned my property, and told me not to hang around. He had then driven off, leaving me so terrified and humiliated that I put my big head against the lamppost and cried like a newborn.