Of course, by the time she finished buying DVDs for my portable player she could have gotten me two iPods. I woke up Christmas morning to two large wrapped presents. One box was the DVD player. The other box was the DVDs. All of my favorite actors and actresses were represented: Eddie Murphy in Boomerang; Denzel in Out of Time and Training Day; Mekhi Phifer in Paid in Full; Jamie Foxx in Collateral; Ray Liotta in Smoking Aces. There were many more, too many to list.
I’ve got the best mama.
Six blocks to go.
I wonder what Benny’s up to. Whether he went straight back to playing with his Xbox after I left. Whether he’s having a heart-to-heart with his father about the hatefulness of his grandmother. Whether they’re conversing about an idealistic world where people are judged by the content of their character and not the color of their skin.
Benny’s been a good friend, I must admit.
But other friends will come.
At least, I hope so.
Finally, the bus station is in sight. The walk over wasn’t so bad after all. The blocks are short, nothing like what you’d find in the city. I can see the kiosk where riders wait to be picked up. Nothing like it exists in Benny’s neighborhood.
The kiosk’s glass is frosted from wear and tear. There’s a schedule posted in flimsy plastic casing attached to the glass. I’m alone at the station. I run my finger over the schedule, find my bus’s arrival time.
I have another twenty minutes to kill.
I have a seat on the bench in the bus kiosk.
Wait. Alone, as usual.
Here comes the bus, finally.
Twenty minutes late.
I stand up, fish in my pocket for coins and move to the curb. The door opens and I step up. The driver is a portly middle-aged black man with a patchy growth of hair on his chin. Hair also grows out of his ears. I look at his left hand as I drop my coins in the slot. No wedding ring. I notice that his gray uniform shirt carries remnants of his lunch. Ketchup and mustard stains. My biggest fear is that I will end up just like him in thirty years. That I’ll be hearing chants of “Poser, Poser, Poser” for the rest of my natural life.
The bus is crowded; the only available seats are way in the back. I move toward one, which is directly across from two girls I’ve seen before at school. I don’t know their names. They’re in the popular crowd. Kenya knows them, though, I’m sure. One is busy bopping her head to the music coming out of her iPod. The other is busy watching me move down the aisle, chewing her gum like it’s going out of style. Ms. Bazooka elbows the other girl in the side and nods her head in my direction as I approach.
I pretend I don’t see them as I drop into a seat directly across the aisle from where they sit. Again I wish I had an iPod I could get lost in. Wish I had brought my Nintendo Game Boy along with me. Even my portable DVD player would be okay. I could plug in my earphones and absorb one of my movies. But I don’t have any diversion. As usual, it’s just me.
My stomach churns with nerves. My hands are sweaty. My mouth is dry. My heart is a drum in my chest. I expect some drama in one, two, three…
“You go to Marcus Garvey, don’t you?”
I keep my posture and head straight ahead.
I did not hear Ms. Bazooka address me.
“Hey,” she half yells between hard chews on her gum.
I can’t hide. I turn in her direction. “Hey,” I say, mimicking how I’ve heard Crash speak to girls. “What’s cracking?”
Ms. Bazooka’s nose wrinkles. “‘What’s cracking?’ That’s pretty lame.”
I try again. “What’s good?”
She says, “Too late,” and iPod giggles. She’s turned her music off. Not a good sign. I’m about to get double-teamed, for certain. This is exactly why I’ve been hesitant to venture outside my home since what I refer to simply as the Incident.
Ms. Bazooka says, “You’re Kenya’s brother.”
It isn’t a question. I nod in answer, though. iPod says, “That’s gotta suck…for Kenya.”
Okay, this is about to get really bad. My only remaining hope is that they didn’t see my fight with Crash. That they’re unaware of the specifics of that situation. That, even though they attend the same high school as me, and talk of the fight is pretty much dominating everyone’s mind, they’re not aware of just how badly my fisticuffs with Crash turned out. That they don’t have MySpace pages and haven’t visited any of the more than two dozen pages that reference my fight with Crash.
Ms. Bazooka says, “Kenya’s gonna be fine. Eric here, too, I see. He’s not wearing a neck brace. That’s a good sign.” She slaps hands with iPod. iPod giggles. I hate her giggle.
So much for hope.
Everyone knows. Girls who never noticed me, and certainly didn’t know my name, now do.
I’m the laughingstock of the entire school.
I say, “Crash is one of my best friends, ladies. I was uncomfortable fighting him.”
Ms. Bazooka says, “With friends like that, who needs enemies?” iPod giggles.
There is no use in talking to them. I turn around in my seat.
“Hey, Eric?”
Don’t look. Don’t look. Don’t look.
“Eric?”
Don’t look. Don’t look. Don’t look.
“Stop playing, boy. I’m talking to you.”
I look. Don’t blame me; blame the sudden bass in her voice.
I manage, “Yes? What is it?”
“‘Yes? What is it?’” Ms. Bazooka mocks. “Damn, boy, you sound white as hell,” she says. “Whiter than that boy that kicked your ass before Crash finished you off.”
I say, “Benny did not kick my ass.”
“Whatever.”
“He didn’t.”
“Did too,” she says.
“Did not.”
“Did too.”
“Did not.” iPod says, “Stop, Chante. This boy will go back and forth with you all day. Lame ass.”
They both burst out laughing. Hysterical, sidesplitting laughter. I have to sit here and endure their teasing. As usual, it is all at my expense. iPod’s giggle is enough to make me want to do her bodily harm. The passengers around us on the bus are all suddenly interested in our little conversation. A woman in front of me, with dog hair all over her clothes, turns without pretense and eyeballs me. A white man with a priest’s collar on the other side of the aisle does the same thing. He looks at me like he wants to sprinkle me with holy water. A woman who looks like a suburban soccer mom can’t keep her eyes off me. I wonder why she isn’t home baking cookies, why she’s even riding the bus. What happened, her minivan is in the shop?
Ms. Bazooka says, “I give you credit.”
Stupidly, I ask, “For?”
“Showing your face in public.”
I turn away from her again. Turn away from her and iPod’s laughter. The bus comes to a stop after some time. A group of people shuffle aboard. They’ll be standing, as the bus is completely filled with seated passengers. I look out the window, my thoughts a million miles away. Why does it have to be this way? Out of all the people I could have been born as, why did I end up who I am and with the life I have? What did I ever do to deserve this? There is no peace anywhere in my life. Could it possibly get any worse?
I hear Ms. Bazooka say, “Oh, snap.” Then she calls to me, “Hey, Eric?”
I ignore her.
“Hey, Eric?”
I’m not paying her any attention.
The boarding passengers move down the aisle. It’s like a mini-stampede. I keep my focus out the window. I don’t need to see these new passengers. They’re just like everyone else. Certainly not fans of mine, certainly no one who would find any value in me.
“Hey, Eric?” Ms. Bazooka calls for a third time.
I wheel on her. “What? What? What?”
She frowns. “Don’t be getting all snappy with me, boy.”
I say, “Would you leave me alone?”
Now she smiles. “I was just gonna warn you, bu
t fine….”
“Warn me of what?”
That hateful smile crosses her face again. “That you’re probably gonna have to give up your seat.”
“You’re crazy.”
“Am I?”
“Yup.”
And then a shadow falls over me. I know the shadow, oddly enough. I swallow a gulp. I don’t even have to look up, but I do. I hear iPod’s giggle and Ms. Bazooka’s laughter in the background. I hear my heartbeat pulsing in my ears, too.
Crash.
Standing over me like the Grim Reaper.
“Hey,” I say in a weak voice.
Crash is without emotion. Face blank, eyes dead like they were the day we fought.
Ms. Bazooka says, “Don’t be rude, Eric…offer Crash your seat.”
I ignore her, ask Crash, “What you been up to?”
He doesn’t respond.
My heart does. It wants out of my chest.
My underarms are a pool all of a sudden.
Is he gonna hit me again?
Should I just get up and let him have my seat?
Why isn’t he saying anything?
What is he thinking?
Will anyone step forward and be a Good Samaritan if Crash suddenly starts pummeling me?
I say, “Crash, I—”
He cuts me off. “Get up.” iPod giggles. Ms. Bazooka cracks up.
I say, “Come on, Crash. This is my seat.”
If I give my seat up, that’s just another sad part of this tale. More fodder for the kids at school. I can’t give the seat up, no matter how dire the consequences. If Crash decides to beat me up for that, so be it.
“Get up,” Crash repeats. His voice is deep, like a grown man’s.
I sigh. I won’t be moved. He will just have to move me. At some point I have to face down Crash’s constant pressure, whatever the outcome, for my own dignity’s sake. It’s all part of my maturation process. My voice will get deeper, I will grow hair on my chest, and I will stand up to Crash and win. Adolescence.
“Get up,” Crash barks.
I can’t form my mouth to speak. But I shake my head defiantly.
Ms. Bazooka says, “Oh, snap.”
I’d like to snap her neck.
Crash takes a hard step toward me.
I close my eyes and prepare for his assault. I hear every one of his steps. One. Two. Three. He’s right on me. I open my eyes, knowing a fist is probably flying toward me.
A fist isn’t, though.
But unfortunately, in the same move of opening my eyes, I’d jumped up, jumped up without knowing what was happening.
I say, “Take the seat. I don’t want to fight. You have it.” iPod giggles. Ms. Bazooka cracks up.
Crash says, “Your stop.”
I look out the window.
It is my stop.
Crash wasn’t bullying me. He was letting me know it was my stop.
Again, I punked out, made myself look beyond foolish. iPod giggles. Ms. Bazooka cracks up.
I move past Crash with my head down.
Exit the bus in the same manner.
I try to sneak into the house without being noticed. Of course that doesn’t happen. Mama’s in the kitchen, all kinds of wonderful smells around her, and yet she sniffs out my presence like a ninja. “Eric? That you?” Her voice is cooler than the underside of a pillow. It has a jazz singer’s strength to it, too. Combine Mama’s rich voice with her regal dark skin, Vivica A. Fox frame, and a smile that’s more soothing than chicken noodle soup, and you have the adult equivalent of cool.
I must be the only person left on the planet, besides Benny, who doesn’t have it.
Despite her calling for me, I try to tiptoe past Mama without answering. I know she’ll be at my bedroom door in seconds, knocking and wondering why I passed by without giving her some sugar, but I’ll just claim ignorance. Tired, Mama. Long day. Didn’t even hear you in the kitchen. Thought you might have been working late. That sort of thing.
“Eric Preston Posey, you better bring your narrow tail in here, now.”
Dayum.
I turn, head back to the kitchen, a Kanye West I-rule-the-world smile on my face. Na-na-na-na what don’t kill me can only make me stronger.
I say, “Yes, Mama?”
She looks at me hard, places her hands covered in large oven mitts on her hips, and frowns. “Don’t you ‘Yes, Mama’ me, Eric. You tried to sneak in.”
“Sneak in? No.”
“Now you’re lying to me.”
“What’s up, Mama?”
“You tell me, Eric.”
I shrug my shoulders. “Nothing. Just got in from Benny’s.”
She glances at the clock, then back at me. “A day early, too.”
I forgot that little glitch.
I say, “Forgot I had some work to do here, for school. We had our fun. Now it’s work time.” I smile for good measure.
Mama cuts her eyes at me. “Dinner will be ready soon. Garlic mashed potatoes. Roasted chicken. Macaroni and cheese. Cabbage with bacon. Honey-topped homemade rolls. Butter pecan ice cream and apple pie for dessert.”
I say, “Okay.”
“That’s every last one of your favorites, Eric. And all I get from you is an ‘okay.’ No, something’s wrong. You’re going to talk to me, too, before you even think about leaving this kitchen.”
I say, “Did you say ‘macaroni and cheese’? I thought you said ‘back up off me and leave.’ Wow! Mac and cheese, that’s great, Mama. Can’t wait to dig in.”
Mama cocks her head, studies me a moment, and then removes her oven mitts. She moves to the stove, adjusts the temperature on the oven. Turns back to me, points at our kitchen table. I know what this means. A powwow. I move to the table, defeated, find myself a seat. Mama does the same.
She says, “I found a beautiful figurine today. A black peasant woman holding a gourd. Carved in stone. Woman who sold it to me says it’s from Norman A. Hughes’s Sankofa collection. She sold it to me for a fair price. I’m giving it to Hollywood for his birthday.”
I know what she’s trying to do. Mama has this thing she does where we sit and discuss the highlight of our day. Most days I have to stretch to find one; today I can’t even do that.
I’m not about to play this game.
I focus on Mama instead. Hollywood is her boyfriend. I’m not sure a grown man named Hollywood would appreciate such a gift, but whatever.
I say, “I’m sure Hollywood will love it. He was talking about Yankees tickets, but the black woman holding a gourd is hard to top.”
Mama says, “Don’t be a smart-ass, Eric.”
“What I say?”
“Your tone. You implied that Hollywood isn’t astute enough to appreciate a gift of cultural significance.”
When you have Mama’s type of cool, you can talk like that and not get ridiculed. If you’re like me, two steps removed from Steve Urkel, and you talk like that, you risk daily doses of wedgies from the school bullies.
I say, “I wasn’t dissing Hollywood. He’s cool. Nahmean?”
After my second confrontation with Crash, I’m starting to think Benny was right. I have to reinvent myself.
Mama frowns at the new me. “Since when have you been talking in that manner, Eric?”
I say, “I talk how I talk.”
“Ebonics does not suit you. Some things just don’t go together. Like that ugly clown rapper with the big clock around his neck and that washed-up blond actress.”
“Flavor Flav and Brigitte Nielsen.”
“Yes, whoever. Well, dear heart, that’s you and Ebonics. Not a good fit.”
Mama’s right, of course. Sad to say, it’s almost more pathetic coming from me than it is from Benny.
I drop my gaze, focus on my shoes. They’re nice. Wallabees. Cool shoes, just not on me, I guess. “Sorry, Mama. I don’t know what I was thinking.”
She doesn’t say anything.
But comes to me.
Fingers on my chin lift my head
.
Our eyes meet. She looks like she did the day Daddy left for good.
It hits me then. She knows. Knows the struggles I’ve been having. I’ve always kept my troubles at school a secret. But Mama, somehow someway, knows.
“I’m a joke, Mama.” My voice catches in my throat. It’s sad to say, but my eyes start to water.
Mama says, “Oh, Eric, baby. Don’t say that. You aren’t.”
I say, “They hate me. Every last one of the kids at school. Boys. Girls. Doesn’t matter. Everybody. They laugh at me all the time. Tease me constantly. I’m the butt of all the jokes.”
Big drops of water fall from my eyes. I hate this. I feel so foolish crying in front of my mother. So worthless. The only thing worse would be if I did this in front of the entire school. Can’t believe I’m falling apart like this. Pull yourself together, Eric.
I can hear them at school: Cry to Mama. Poser, Poser, Poser.
Mama says, “Kids can be hateful. But they don’t hate you, Eric. They don’t understand you. And so they don’t appreciate what they don’t understand. You just have to get them to understand you. To appreciate you for you.” She stops, forces a smile, sniffs out a laugh. “Like how I have to get Hollywood to appreciate a sculpture more than A-Rod and Derek Jeter.”
I say, “Just once…” and my voice catches again. I can’t get the words from my brain to my tongue. Just once, I want to say, I’d like to be accepted.
“Oh hells no. I know I ain’t seeing what I’m seeing.”
Kenya’s voice drifts into the kitchen. I try to wipe my eyes. Too late.
Kenya says, “Eric, I know you ain’t up in here crying like Paris Hilton going to jail.”
Mama says, “Kenya,” then, “Correct grammar, girl. It’s ‘Eric, I know you aren’t in here crying like Paris Hilton going to jail.’”
They share a quick laugh.
At my expense, what else?
I make a move to leave.
Mama says, “Eric, hold it. I’m just trying to lighten the mood. Laughter is the best medicine.”
Kenya adds, “That’s right. If you don’t laugh, you’ll cry. Oh…wait. You cried already. My bad.”
I’m leaving. I make another move.
Mama scolds Kenya, calls me back.
Dirty Jersey Page 6