by J.R. Bowles
CHAPTER 20
“Jamal, why didn't we preach today?” Azid leaned his heavy body on the table across from Jamal.
“Listen, man, this is just between you and me. Don't you go telling the others.” Jamal slumped down in the worn kitchen chair and rested his head against his hand for a moment. “It's starting to happen.” Jamal looked up at his long-time friend.
“What's happening?”
“This is going to sound fucked up, but last night I had a vision. Well, it wasn't exactly a vision it was more like a party line.”
“Party line?”
“I can't tell you what I saw exactly, but I saw the universe—or at least the beginning of it. There were these other people there, and the Messiah, but he's not black like I've been saying. I felt other people there too but I couldn't see them, what they looked like, except one dude. He's a young kid. It was like I knew all of them through him. I want to find this kid.”
“The Messiah's really here?” Azid asked in disbelief.
“Yeah, if he's not the Messiah, then he's something else, and we've got to find him. If we find the kid, we'll find the Messiah and all of them.”
“What do you mean all of them?”
“The Messiah and those connected to him. I can't explain. I don't even understand it myself.” Jamal shrugged his massive shoulders and got up. “I'm going up to the block.”
“Kind of late for that isn't it. Do you want any of the tables or speakers taken?”
“No, nothing; I'm going by myself. I just have this feeling that I need to go.”
Azid watched Jamal through the window as he headed to the subway. He was probably en route to Times Square, what they called “the block.” Jamal was acting so strange. As he watched him walk away he felt compassion for Jamal. Jamal had been through more hardships than he had ever seen. He was from Blacksburg, Virginia—but there weren't many blacks in that burg. Azid chuckled to himself at his own pun. Jamal had fourteen brothers and sisters. He told him he was in school before he ever had his own pair of shoes, and those had been worn-out hand-me-downs. His father had worked two full-time jobs, and his mother had cleaned white folk's homes.
Azid decided to follow Jamal to see what he was up to. If his brother needed help he would be there. Azid stayed back so Jamal wouldn't spot him. Jamal looked like he was lost in thought. He often had that look when he told the story about his first job at the age of ten, cleaning windows and picking up trash for a High's Ice Cream store. Then this white kid that worked there stole some money, and Jamal had been accused of it. The owner of the store had told his father; even his father didn't believe him when he said he didn't take it. Jamal had said his ancestors had similar problems. His great-great-uncle had been hanged in Lynchburg, Virginia, after having been accused of rape. No trial, nothing. Just some white bitch's word. No one ever really knew.
Azid got off the subway at 42nd Street, knowing this would be Jamal's exit also. A young boy was trying to spray paint the side of the subway car. Azid smiled, remembering the times he had done his own art work on the train; but now, with the new galvanized train walls, the graffiti wouldn't last long.
Azid hung back, tenaciously following Jamal, but he didn't head toward the block. He went in a different direction, stopping and standing outside of Mama Leone's restaurant. He seemed to be waiting. Jamal became extremely agitated when a white boy in a truck stopped outside of the restaurant. Jamal just watched as a man and a woman came out of the restaurant and got into the truck. Jamal waved at a taxi. Something must really be wrong―Jamal never used taxis. He said he would never give them money because they were the white man's slaves, most blacks couldn't afford them. But here was Jamal, getting in, and he seemed to be pointing at the truck.