Uncle Al is my man, but for once I’d like to come home after school, eat dinner, and just chill, without a lecture from him and his crew.
“Spooky, ‘Watermelon Man’ is a song about the African jungle,” Al says to Spooky Johnson, who sports long white dreadlocks with a matching beard.
“What’s up, Uncle Al,” I interrupt. “I worked up an appetite lifting weights. Let me get some of them chips.”
“Boy, whatchu know about potato chips?” says Spooky,
“What kind of question is that?” I ask.
“Do you even know who invented the potato chip, boy?” he asks me. These old dudes be clownin’.
“Spooky, you know Smalls don’t know nothing ’bout his history. Him a big-time football player,” Uncle Al says, handing me the bag of chips.
“‘A man who prides himself on his ancestry is like the potato plant,’” Clyfe recites, speaking as usual in random quotes. Sometimes he’ll jump off with a poem or something that’s dope, and I’ll steal that joint, but mainly he says ish that only make sense to him. “‘The best part of which is underground.’”
Clyfe who always is acting like he’s Confucius, decked out in a neon purple suit and a cream-colored fedora. He looks like Barney, if Barney was a pimp.
Uncle Albert took over the West Charleston Community Facility about three years ago, when the economy crashed. The city couldn’t afford to keep the doors open, so he decided to take his lottery winnings—nobody knows how much he won—and turn it into a social, educational, and employment programming facility for people in the community who got it rough. Actually he doesn’t call it a facility anymore. He calls it a clubhouse. And he renamed it the Library of Progress.
Most folks who come here got bad luck or been laid off from their job. But a few, like Clyfe, just like to hang around a lot, straddling the crazy fence. Spooky used to live in the basement with his sister and her husband, who doesn’t like bathing. I still don’t go down there. I stay on the third floor, in the loft.
The Library of Progress has helped a lot people. The clubhouse doesn’t require health insurance or money. “Just a desire to love and be loved” is what Uncle Al likes to say. I wish they had a desire to clean up after themselves, ’cause I’m sick and tired of scrubbing floors and toilets on weekends. I give Uncle Al his props, though—he’s doing good stuff.
Every evening, the three of these jokers reminisce about the good old days. Back when they were marching and protesting for civil rights. Either Clyfe’s quoting Gandhi or Martin Luther King, or Unc and Spooky are telling me stories about their rallying days at Howard University. I act like I’m listening to them, since I know they just a bunch of old dudes hanging on to their past because the future is creeping ’round the corner.
“Boy,” Spooky lectures, “that there potato chip you just put in your uninformed mouth was invented by George Crum, an African American/Native American chef at a restaurant in Saratoga Springs, New York, in 1853.”
“Oh, snap! Why didn’t you tell me these chips were that old?” I say, laughing and spitting the chip on the concrete.
“Nephew got jokes,” Uncle Al says to his buddies.
“Boy, I know I told you before, but that was one helluva game y’all won. Whipped Bayside like they was runaway slaves,” Spooky says.
“‘Slaves lose everything in their chains, even the desire for escaping from them.’”
“That’s my boy. His mama and them think he’s going to Syracuse like they did, but Smalls is going to Howard, right, Smalls?” Before I can lie, Spooky jumps in.
“Donovan McNabb played at Syracuse. You do kind of remind me a little of McNabb.”
“He doesn’t look nothing like McNabb, Spooky. That boy throws like Manning and runs like Vick,” Uncle Al says.
“But don’t be messing round with them dogs like Vick, boy. End up in jail,” Spooky adds.
“More black boys in jail than in college,” Clyfe says, making sense for the first time in a while. And then he messes it all up. “Kafka said, ‘All knowledge, the totality of all questions and answers, is contained in the dog.’”
“Shut the hell up, Clyfe,” an annoyed Spooky shouts.
“Watch the verbal, Spook,” Uncle Al says, enforcing his no-profanity rule on the clubhouse premises.
“When is the big announcement, boy?” Spooky asks.
“My coach has scheduled it for next week. You coming?”
“As long as you don’t choose Howard. Though I heard their volleyball team is the bomb,” Spooky says, and laughs.
“Hater! Smalls, don’t sleep on Howard. We got decent sports, but when you become a Bison man, you become a real man. I remember this one time a bunch of us from Howard went up to New York for a protest. We were marching over the Brooklyn Bridge, chanting, ‘We’re fired up, can’t take no mo’! We’re fired up, can’t take no mo’!’ When we got to the other side, the police unleashed them dogs on us—” and I know that’s my cue to get ghost, ’cause another one of his long-ass stories is coming, and I got to Skype Mom and Pops, finish my trig homework, then call Kym to see if she’s still mad at me.
Tdiddy Smalls is now single.
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Freddie Callaway, Tami Hill, Belafonte Jones and 27 others like this.
Freddie Callaway Deuces!!!!!!!
9 minutes ago via mobile · Like
Savannah Gadsden :-(
9 minutes ago · Like
Willie Mack Y’all be back together tomorrow. Watch!
9 minutes ago · Like
Freddie Callaway On to the next one. Bwahahahahaha!
9 minutes ago via mobile · Like
Tdiddy Smalls Fo’ sho
8 minutes ago · Like
Tami Hill She won’t right for you anyway. T-Diddy needs a ride or die chick.
8 minutes ago · Like · 4
Leah Rivers I’ll be the new lady in your life. LOL. Call me.
7 minutes ago · Like
Tdiddy Smalls Too late.
7 minutes ago · Like
Freddie Callaway Beyoncé?
7 minutes ago · Like
Tdiddy Smalls Fo’ sho. Plan’s already in action.
7 minutes ago · Like
Freddie Callaway She look more like Rhi Rhi to me.
6 minutes ago · Like
Belafonte Jones Who dat? Claudia?
6 minutes ago · Like
Tdiddy Smalls C’mon, son, no names.
6 minutes ago · Like
Tami Hill She always acting stuck up.
5 minutes ago · Like · 4
Belafonte Jones HATER!!!!
5 minutes ago · Like · 2
Savannah Gadsden T-Diddy, you really know Beyoncé?
4 minutes ago · Like
Freddie Callaway ROTFLMAO
4 minutes ago · Like · 7
Leah Rivers **SMH**
4 minutes ago · Like
Tdiddy Smalls I’m out, y’all.
4 minutes ago · Like
Leah Rivers Congratulations on being Mr. Football, T-Diddy
4 minutes ago · Like · 10
Blu McCants Go Panthers!
3 minutes ago via Friendly for iPad · Like · 2
Tdiddy Smalls @Blu Tell your girl, she’s Bonnie, I’m Clyde.
3 minutes ago · Like · 4
Belafonte Jones BONG BONG!!!
3 minutes ago · Like
Blu McCants I told her and she said you’re corny and she’s tired.
2 minutes ago via Friendly for iPad · Like
Willie Mack You just got canceled, homie. Like a bad sitcom. LOL.
2 minutes ago · Like
Tami Hill Anybody watching The Game? It’s on BET right now. OMG! This show is sooooo good.
1 minute ago · Like
Freddie Callaway Bwahahahahaha!
1 minute ago · Like
Willie Mack T, you cooking good eats for bkfast 2morrow?
1 minute ago · Like
· 4
Tdiddy Smalls @Blu I’m patient.
1 minute ago · Like
Blu McCants Good luck with that!
Less than a minute ago via Friendly for iPad · Like
Tdiddy Smalls C’mon son. T-Diddy don’t need luck. It’s my destiny, child . . . LOL.
Less than a minute ago · Like · 32
Claudia
Tdiddy Smalls wants to be friends.
West Charleston, South Carolina
Blu McCants and 2 others are mutual friends.
“Please don’t tell me you thought I’d fall for that,” I tell him, laughing out loud. “You’ll have to do much better than that, Omar.”
“No, no, you got T-Diddy all wrong. I wasn’t looking where I was going, and I, uh—”
“Where were you going?”
“To Spanish class.”
“That’s back the other way, amigo. You should at least organize your lies. Here’s your picture,” I say, handing him back the tattered black-and-white of him in diapers and no shirt.
“So, whatchu think? Cute, right?”
What I think is: lame. Bush league. Amateur. The most popular, and supposed “coolest,” guy in school is trying to get at me, and the best he can think to do is “accidentally” drop his baby picture at my feet. So random. Did he really think I was going to pick it up, see how cute he was, and confess my undying love and lust for him?
The funny thing is, even if the picture was adorable, which it isn’t—okay, maybe it is, just a little—I still wouldn’t give him any play. Omar Smalls is only interested in droppin’ panties, and I’m not about to become his next victim, no matter how cute he was as a baby. Look at that watermelon head. LOL.
“Yeah, real cute. But why is your head so Brobdingnagian?”
“T-Diddy doesn’t know what that means.”
“I’m not surprised. Maybe T-Diddy should look it up.”
“Maybe T-Diddy will.”
“Stop speaking in third person. Ugghh!”
“Go out with me Friday night, and T-Diddy will.”
“Again, not interested.”
“If you’re still worried about Kym King, we broke up.”
“Yeah, I heard. Still not interested.”
He throws his long arms in the air, not like he’s fed up—which I am—but more like he’s reaching for something.
“Uh, what are you doing?” I ask him.
“Raising my hands to the constellation. The way you look should be a sin, ’cause you my sensation. Claudia, tell me what I got to do to be that guy?”
“First, be original.” Now he’s biting off Kanye. “Second, read. Third, change your whole identity and get a purpose and a plan besides trying to get between as many legs as possible.” He just stares at me with that diamond stud blinging from his ear. What, no comeback? I close my locker and head to the library to drop off a book. Don’t follow me, please.
“Oh, sorry. I didn’t see you,” Eve says, bumping into me and knocking my books on the floor. I know you did that ish on purpose.
“Whatever,” I say, and bend down to get my books.
“Hey, T-Diddy, what’s really good,” she says, giggling. I guess he did follow me. Jeez.
“Keeping it really hood. You know how T-Diddy does it.”
Ugghh! I stand and turn to leave.
“Walk me to class—I got a message for you,” she says, and rolls her eyes at me.
“Yeah, do that,” I say, and head toward the library.
“I got to run, Eve. I’ll holla,” I hear him say. Leave me alone already.
The sign on the library surprises me: LIBRARY CLOSED.
“What the?” I say.
“What’s wrong?” Not-Kanye asks me.
“Read the sign,” I say.
“How is the library closed? That joint is always open,” Omar says.
Duh!
I totally ignore him and make my way to my first class so I can find out what the heck is going on. The bell rings, so I don’t expect him to still follow. Wrong again.
“Mr. W, what’s up with the library being closed?” I ask, walking into class.
“Yeah, Mr. W, what’s the dill, pickle?” Omar asks, laughing.
“I’m afraid the lumpenbourgeoisie is at it again,” Mr. Washington says, as only Mr. Washington can say it. I wonder if he talks like this to Mrs. Washington, at home.
“The lump who and the what?” Omar says, and some of the kids in class laugh.
“Mr. Smalls, shouldn’t you be in your class?”
“Fo’ sho, Mr. W, but I just wanted to make sure Claudia got to class.” I roll my eyes at him. “Seriously, what happened, Mr. W?”
“The school board passed the mayor’s arts funding cut legislation,” he tells us. “Dr. Jackson suspended the drama guild, the poetry club, the choir, and the marching band, and several teachers and staff have been laid off or reduced to part-time, including the librarian.”
“They fired you, Mr. W?” Omar hollers
“Not yet, but the writing’s on the wall. We’re all walking on eggshells,” Mr. Washington answers. “As for the library, it’ll be open on Mondays and Fridays. Ms. Stanley will split her time between two schools.”
“This sucks,” Omar adds, trying and failing at sincerity.
“Preposterous,” I say. “What about those of us who study in there?” I roll my eyes at Omar. “And need to check out books?”
“I was sad because I had no shoes, until I met a man who had no feet. So I said, ‘Got any shoes you’re not using?’” Omar says. I turn around, and he’s got this stupid smile on his face. I hate how his upper lip curls when he smiles.
“Really, a joke?” I say, not looking for an answer and hoping he’ll just leave.
“What? T-Diddy was just trying to lighten the mood. My uncle Al says that it’s better to stop crying to keep—I mean, uh, to laugh to keep from crying, and whatnot.”
Uggghhh!
“It’s still not fair. Or right. They can’t just get rid of our activities and close the library and fire people. We have to do something about this.”
“Oh, snap, I just realized he said they sacked the band. B is going to be pissed. What are y’all gonna do during halftime next season?”
“Is everything always football with you?” I ask, getting more frustrated by the minute. He tries to put his arm around me.
“Get off of me.”
“I was just trying to console you.”
“Console yourself. I bet the money for the new stadium didn’t get cut.”
“It didn’t, but it’s not his fault, Claudia,” Mr. Washington offers. “You want to blame someone, blame our governor. Blame the school board. Blame our whole community for not taking a stand for what matters most. Words, music, and visual melody. Somehow we’ve forgotten the power of art to make us better; better students, better parents, better people.”
“That’s the triple truth, Ruth.” Omar’s even lamer than I thought. “Real talk, Mr. Washington,” Omar adds, looking at me.
“Don’t even act like you know or care about anything but scoring touchdowns. You’re a fraud.”
“Oh, so now I’m a fraud ’cause I play football. That’s ridiculous.”
“You’re ridiculous.” What’s even more ridiculous is that during this whole conversation about the well-being, the frickin’ future of our school, the other kids in the class could care less. They’re in their own little worlds, where the only things that matter are who’s wearing what, who’s doing who, and who’s having a party on Friday.
“Tami,” he says.
“Huh?”
“Tami Hill, she’s throwing this Friday’s party,” he says, pumping his fist at the students echoing him.
“Like I said, immature, shallow, fraud.”
“Whatever, Claudia. Mr. W, this is an atrocity, and we shouldn’t stand for it. Because if we don’t stand for anything, we’ll, um—”
“Fall for anything,” Mr. Washington finishes. �
��Omar, I never knew you were this passionate about the arts.”
“Me either,” I add sarcastically.
“The arts are important,” he offers.
That’s the best you got. Jeez!
“Indeed they are, Mr. Smalls. The arts inspire innovation by leading us to open our minds and think in new ways about our lives.”
“I don’t know about all that, Mr. Washington, but I just think we need to fight back,” he says, winking at me. What a jerk.
Mr. Washington’s phone vibrates, and he glances at it.
“I need to take this call. I think a quiz is in order,” he says to a slew of Boooos. “Mr. Smalls, thanks for stopping by—now off you go, lad,” he adds, walking into the hallway.
“Yeah, be gone, Mr. Small,” I say.
“I think we ought to . . . ,” Omar says, and then pauses, as if he’s trying to figure out what to say next. “Have a protest.”
“A protest? You mean like shutting down the school? Who are you, Usher now, trying to ‘Light It Up’?”
“Hole up, hole up! Cut me some slack, homegirl. I’m being straight up.”
I am so not your homegirl.
“A small protest and whatnot. Real talk, Claudia.”
“It would definitely be a very small protest. Just you and me. If it was a free Rick Ross concert, sure. But a protest. Good luck with that,” I tell him.
“I got a plan,” he counters.
“Omar, I hate to tell you, but nobody cares about the arts funding being cut. The students here are clueless. You’re clueless. Why am I even talking to you?”
“My boys were right, you are a stuck-up bi—”
“Go ahead and say it. Show your true colors like the rest of your thug friends.”
“For somebody who claims to be a writer, you’re the clueless one. I’m just trying to be creative, think outside the box.”
He Said, She Said Page 3