After about a month of hand holding and flirting she finally let me kiss her. Actually, we were standing at the front door saying good-bye like we always did, and she kissed me. On the lips. She had to stand on tiptoes to do it, but she did it. Then she smiled up at me and said, “See you in school.”
I didn’t even look for a ride home that afternoon. I walked all the way. I floated home filled with a happiness I did not believe could have existed in this difficult world. We kissed again the next Sunday, this time on the couch when Cara wasn’t looking. This time it was a grown-up kiss. A movie kiss, and she slid her tiny tongue into my mouth. I thought I might elevate off the couch and slam into the ceiling. She giggled and kissed me again.
The following Sunday it was raining hard. I hitchhiked and was lucky enough to get a ride to within a block of her house. But even in that short block I got drenched before I got onto the front porch and knocked on the door. Aunt Cara opened it and looked at me.
“Afternoon, ma’am,” I said. “Terrible rain today.”
“Shirley’s not here, Clarence,” Cara said. “She’s pregnant.”
The smile was still on my face and didn’t disappear right away. It would take some time for Cara’s words to sink in and take on meaning.
“What?” I said in the meantime.
“I know it wasn’t you, Clarence. You’re a good boy. I’m sorry,” she said.
I called my house to see if my father would pick me up.
“Where are you?” asked my mother. “As if I didn’t know.”
“At Shirley’s,” I said.
I heard my mother cover the phone and speak to my father.
“Clarence wants to know if you’ll come pick him up over in Woodlawn.”
“How’d he get over there?”
“How’d you get over there?” she said to me.
“I hitchhiked,” I said.
“He hitchhiked,” she said to him.
“Tell him to hitchhike back,” said my father.
“Shirley’s pregnant,” I said. “But it’s not my child. I had nothing to do with it.”
My mother hung up.
I walked home in the rain. At least nobody could tell that I was crying.
When I got home my mother took my wet clothes and wrapped me up in a warm blanket. She gave me a mug of tea.
“Shirley’s aunt called me and told me,” she said. “I’m sorry, Clarence.”
But I was inconsolable. It was a wound from which I never recovered.
* * *
It set the tone for all my relationships. I couldn’t really trust anyone. Not completely. I’ve actually never been able to since that day. Turns out the father was another guy on the football team who didn’t even know that I knew Shirley, too. It wasn’t his fault. I don’t know what happened to either of them. I never saw her again.
Norfolk, Virginia, 1960
Clarence
It was like a tiny island in the middle of a shark-infested ocean. We were the only black people in the entire area. Not just the neighborhood—there were no niggers for miles and miles. It was like living in Canada or at the fucking North Pole or some shit like that.
One night in the winter of 1960 my car broke down, so I hitchhiked a ride part of the way home. I got dropped off about a mile from my house. A very long mile. I remember how dark it was. It was one of those moonless nights, and I swear to God it was pitch-black. Couldn’t see your hand in front of your face. About halfway to my house lived these people who had these two dogs. Pit bulls. These motherfuckers hated me. They went nuts every time they saw me.
They were four-legged racists. So when I got near their house I was as quiet as I possibly could be. I walked directly into a garbage can, one of those big tin motherfuckers. It hit the sidewalk, and it sounded like the Fourth of July. The pit bulls went crazy. They started barking and snarling. I could hear them in the darkness. Then I heard their gate swing open. The barking stopped. Pit bulls don’t bark when they’re attacking. They’re all business.
I don’t know if the gate opened accidentally or if it had help. I knew I was in trouble, though. These two had been after me for years, and now they were getting a free shot in the dark. The next thing I remember hearing was their feet on the street. Just that sound of running dogs. The clicking of their claws on the pavement coming straight at me.
I realized that running wasn’t going to do any good, so I took off my belt and started swinging it in the dark. I must’ve caught the lead dog in the head with the buckle ’cause he let out a yelp, which stopped the other one. Scared them both, and they ran back to their yard.
I never walked home again.
In fact, it was shortly after that night that I decided to start traveling. I felt there was something waiting for me there. Something more. I was afraid, but I was determined to find a better life for myself. To get a little something. I knew that if I didn’t take a chance, I wouldn’t have one.
New York City, 1966
Clarence
The first line of this story is similar to the first line of William Goldman’s great novel Control. In show business this is not stealing, it’s homage. —C.C.
If there was one place in this world I never expected trouble, it was Bloomingdale’s. But I encountered weirdness on the third floor that I never forgot.
I had come to the city to buy a new horn. It had taken years to save the money. After many false starts I had finally made the decision to leave Virginia permanently. I was determined to become a professional musician, and this new instrument would take me there. The horn was beautiful. When I picked it up for the first time I actually sighed in relief. It was as if a part of me that had been missing was suddenly restored. For the first time in my life I felt complete. It was waiting for me in its case at Manny’s. I didn’t want to leave it in the car. I figured I’d pick it up in about an hour and head south.
I’d spent the previous night in a cheap motel on the Jersey Shore. The walls in the place were so thin you could tell what your neighbors were saying by reading their lips. Just my luck the couple in the next room was going for the longest fuck record. At first it was funny, even sexy, but it soon got tedious and then outright annoying. Finally I pounded on the wall and said, “Listen, motherfucker, you’ve got two choices—come or go!” After that it got quiet, and I fell asleep and dreamed about my first girlfriend, Shirley.
I drove over the bridge into the city in the morning, listening to the Drifters on the radio. They were singing “Sweets for My Sweet,” and I loved it. I loved Manhattan. I felt at home there. I felt like it was a big treasure box and inside it was everything I’d ever wanted. Not only things but feelings, too. I knew my life would take me here somehow. It was just right.
After I bought the horn I figured I’d spend some time wandering around the city. I loved Grand Central Station, so I went there first and sat in the Grand Concourse and made up stories about the people passing by. From the outside I looked like a big black guy who was probably an athlete and probably dumb. That’s the way most white people saw me. Most black people, too. But there was a world of colors and ideas and music inside my head that seemed limitless. My imagination was racing constantly with fragments of songs and pictures and a torrent of words. The horn was an instant window into my interior life. It was like a magic door in the wall that you could look through into the most beautiful garden in the world.
I had lunch at the counter at the Oyster Bar. I couldn’t afford much. I had clam chowder and a beer. Both were fantastic. I wanted to eat there every day for the rest of my life. I put a package of oyster crackers in my shirt pocket, paid the bill, and reluctantly left.
Later I wandered up Lex to Bloomingdale’s. I’d never been inside the famous store before, but I was on such a high from getting the horn I figured, fuck it, I can’t buy anything in the place, but looking is free.
The store was like stepping into Christmas morning. I’d never been in the middle of such wealth. There had to be millions
and millions of dollars’ worth of stuff in here. I found it unbelievable. It was also filled with upscale white people. I wondered where all these people got enough money to shop in a place like this. The thought was overwhelming. Most of them were older women who all looked rich. Most wore suits with low heels, and some even wore hats. A lot of them smoked those long, elegant-looking cigarettes. They seemed to be creatures from some other universe. Shit, they were creatures from some other universe.
I walked around the store and looked at everything. The first floor smelled better than springtime. It was filled with powders and perfumes and shampoos. After a while I noticed a black guy in gray slacks and a dark blue blazer following me. I was not surprised. I was used to being followed in stores. The fact that I was being followed by the only other black guy in the building made me smile. After a while he seemed to lose interest, and when I made eye contact with him the guy gave me the “what’s up” nod and drifted away.
I was looking at leather jackets on the third floor when I noticed her staring at me. Okay, lots of people stared at me, but not like this. She was sitting in a chair near the elevators. She wasn’t looking around, she wasn’t smoking, and she was hardly moving. What she was doing was staring at me the way a hawk would stare at a rabbit.
She was old—maybe eighty, it was hard to tell—but she was put together. Black suit, white blouse, white hair pulled back. Jesus, she was wearing gloves. White fucking gloves. Who wears gloves inside? She wore little makeup because she had great bones and didn’t need it. She must have been incredibly beautiful when she was young. But now her eyes were framed by wrinkles and had a slightly haunted quality, as if the things they’d seen had wounded them.
I caught her eye a few times but quickly looked away. I’d learned early on that you didn’t stare at white women. But every time I stole a glance she was following me. It was creepy. No, not really creepy; she didn’t look scary or anything. It was just weird. She seemed to be looking through me. Into me.
I headed for the elevator. Fuck this. It was time to get out of here, anyway. Pick up the horn and get back on the road before the traffic got too heavy leaving town. Maybe go down to the Shore again and try to find a band that would let me sit in. There was an incredible music scene emerging down there, and it seemed like a new bar was opening up every day.
“Young man,” she said.
I stopped. I looked over at her.
“Yes?” I said.
For a moment she didn’t do anything. She just kept staring. I was about to just walk away when she stood up. She was tiny, just a little over five feet tall and rail thin. She crossed to me and put a gloved hand on my arm. She never took her eyes off mine. Up close her eyes were very dark, almost black, and her skin was as white as her hair. She practically shimmered.
“You’re going to be a very important man,” she said in a clear voice, which sounded like that of a much younger woman. “A big man,” she said.
Then she smiled slightly, patted my arm, and walked away.
I ate the oyster crackers on the New Jersey Turnpike.
Jamesburg, New Jersey, 1969
Clarence
I walked out of the house, put my horn in the car, climbed in and started the engine. It was another Buick. I thought I’d never get into a Buick again after the accident, but I now saw that event as a blessing. It had been a mystical, deeply profound experience. Yes, it spelled the end of my career in football. My injuries stopped me from trying out for the Browns, but that’s the way it goes. Charlie was more disappointed than I was.
“You had it all son,” Choo-Choo Charlie said. They called him Choo-Choo ’cause on the ball field he’d run you over like a train.
Charlie had gotten me the job at the Jamesburg Reform School. I had been there for almost five years now, working with these boys everybody else had given up on. I loved helping them. Seeing even a little progress gave me joy. Most of these kids were mentally handicapped and never had a chance to begin with. Combine that with ignorance and poverty, and it spelled jail or death. I made them responsible for each other. Turned these separate groups into little families. On field trips I’d say, “If everybody doesn’t get back safely we’ll never be able to do this again, so watch out for each other.”
It was rewarding work. And it had given me time to work on football. I played offensive center and defensive end for a semipro football team in New Jersey. Charlie was my teammate and also my supervisor at the school. We were going to the pros together.
All that changed in 1968 when the accelerator jammed on that dark blue Riviera on the long, tree-lined driveway leading to the crowded square in front of the school. The car shot up to a hundred miles an hour in seconds. A motor mount had snapped, and there was no way to stop the car. I tried the emergency brake but nothing happened. Finally I took my eyes off the road and bent down to physically lift the gas pedal. It was a desperate move and it failed. When I got back up behind the wheel I was inches away from the tree.
There was no pain. No pain at all. I was floating up above my body watching the paramedics work on me. I heard one of them say I was gone. But I was there in this light. All I felt was euphoria. I felt like I should let go, but then I thought, I’m not finished. I’ve got to go back. So I did.
So now I was driving another Buick headed for Asbury Park. There were lots of clubs there and lots of people making music. The place felt alive. It felt like it was the center of the universe. You could be a musician here. That was all I wanted to do.
I had been playing the horn every chance I got for years. It was like a fever that kept rising. My connection with music just kept getting stronger until I couldn’t deny it anymore. About that time I knew that if I couldn’t make a living with my horn, I might as well be dead. It was that kind of passion. It still is.
For reasons I can’t explain even to myself, I turned off at Englishtown. I drove down the street and hit a red light. It was a hot night so I had the windows open. There was a club on the right side of the street and I heard music. Country music. I turned into the parking lot, got my horn, and went inside.
The “band” was a country duo called the Bobs. Bob played guitar, and the other Bob played fiddle. I sat in. It was good. I found a common language with these guys who in other circumstances wouldn’t even speak to me. I stayed for the night and kept playing. I came back the next night, and the night after that, and every night the Bobs played for the next two weeks. Yes, it was shitkicker music, but I didn’t care. I was playing music and that was all that mattered.
The Legend of Puerto Rico, 1970
Here we combined and compressed several true stories into one. —D.R.
I still have the hat. —C.C.
The alarm clock wouldn’t stop ringing.
Clarence rolled over and put the pillow over his head. His head hurt. He remembered drinking last night. He had started early.
The ringing continued.
He moaned, rolled over, and opened his eyes. He was in a hotel room. He didn’t remember walking into it or getting undressed or into this bed at all. He turned quickly to find that he was mercifully alone. The movement made him dizzy. Slowly he turned his head back to locate the fucking clock. There wasn’t any clock in the room. It was the phone ringing. It was on a table across the room. Clarence groaned and pulled himself out of bed. Noting that he was fully dressed, he stumbled across the room and picked up the phone.
“Hello?” he said. His voice was impossibly deep.
“Hi, Clarence,” said a girl’s voice.
“Hi,” he said tentatively. He remembered that he was in Puerto Rico. He’d come down here to hang around, check out the clubs, and smoke some ganja. He did not recognize the girl’s voice.
“It’s Ginger,” she said.
Nothing.
“From last night,” she added, to fill the silence.
Nothing.
“From Danny’s Hideaway?” she said, slight annoyance creeping into her tone.
Cl
arence knew that Danny’s Hideaway was a club in San Juan he’d planned to visit. He had no recollection of going there. He decided to bluff.
“Oh, sure,” he said. “How’re you doing?”
“Great,” she said. “Shall I come over?”
This was a question that raised more questions. Scary questions. Who was this chick? How did she know where he was when he wasn’t sure himself? What if she was a fat pig?
“Uhhhh…” he said.
“Did I wake you?” she asked.
“No,” he said. “I had to get up to answer the phone anyway.”
She laughed. It didn’t sound like a fat-girl laugh, but you could get fooled. “You were so funny last night,” she said.
“I was?” he said.
“God,” she said, “killer funny.”
“Huh,” he said. “What time is it?”
“Noon,” she said. “I just got back from my run.”
Maybe a pig but not fat. She sounded white. Clarence had never dated a white girl. White girls frightened him, which was good ’cause he seemed to frighten them, too.
“Tell you what,” he began. “I’ve got some stuff to do. A couple of things, you know, so why don’t we meet for a drink later?” The idea of having a drink made him feel like puking.
“Cool,” she said. The way she said it made it sound like “Kul.”
“How ’bout back at Danny’s?” he said. “Say eight o’clock?”
“Think they’ll let you back in?” she laughed.
Shit. What had he done?
“I wasn’t that bad, was I?” he asked hopefully.
Big Man Page 2