Eggplant Man
Page 1
For both Leroy and Ruby, life assaults have crushed their original dreams forcing them to aimlessly navigate the New York City streets year after year. The unfamiliar and unforgiving pavement of Harlem was gobbling up their dreams. The survival game was their goal.
EGGPLANT
Man
MARGO DE LEAVER
Copyright © 2017 Margo De Leaver.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Credits: International Societry of Poets Outstanding achievement in Poetry Award 2006
Archway Publishing
1663 Liberty Drive
Bloomington, IN 47403
www.archwaypublishing.com
1 (888) 242-5904
Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.
Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.
Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.
ISBN: 978-1-4808-4163-5 (sc)
ISBN: 978-1-4808-4164-2 (e)
Library of Congress Control Number: 2016920925
Archway Publishing rev. date: 08/18/2018
Contents
Acknowledgements
Comments Page
Chapter 1 Garbage Day
Chapter 2 Naming Day
Chapter 3 Game Changer
Chapter 4 Eggplant Man
Chapter 5 A Good Omen
Chapter 6 Playing The Blues Is Like….
Chapter 7 Primal Loss
Chapter 8 The Abode
Chapter 9 No Escape
Chapter 10 Lured
Chapter 11 Something’s Coming, Something Good
Chapter 12 The Gift Of Music
Chapter 13 Love Is A Strange Thing
Chapter 14 Every Man Needs A Song
Chapter 15 Fear Is Stronger Than Love, N’est-Ce Pas?
Chapter 17 The First Wait
Chapter 18 Night Magic In The Harlem’s Summer
Chapter 19 Restless
Chapter 20 Entanglement … The Web We Weave
Chapter 21 Love’s Aftermath
Chapter 22 Dream Interrupted
Chapter 23 Mama Said There’d Be Days Like This
Chapter 24 Staying Alive
Chapter 25 Remains Of The Day
Chapter 26 Healing Music
Chapter 27 Moving On
Chapter 28 Destiny’s Restoration
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Profound Appreciation and Gratitude to:
My editor, Brenda Roberts, for her selfless and knowledgeable dedication to detail with a loving heart
My deceased parents, Bill and Syl, for their silent eternal support and love
My daughter, Chloe Russell, who always loved me through it all, and encouraged me to keep moving forward, despite any setbacks
My three sisters, Michele Balamani, Cheryl De Leaver, and Donna De Leaver, who were always so supportive of all of my writings and encouraged me to continue writing this book to the finish line
Souleymane Drame, who kept reminding me to work on my story and was so supportive when I needed that boost
Michel Doidic, who consistently reminded me to keeping writing: from the beginning, he read every chapter I sent him, and even put a floating message on my computer screen, reminding me to write another chapter
All of my friends who honored me by taking the time to promptly read my initial rough copy and to get back to me with such support and good wishes (Jennifer Campbell, Gerry Russell, Jelani Russell, Mary Flaherty, Sum-Yee Wang, Michele Doidic, Karen Bailey, Aunty Ag)
A Special Thank You to Everyone who supports me by taking a chance, who purchases and reads this book. I would love to hear from you! margo@margodeleaver.com, website www.margodeleaver.com
To my Mother, Sylvia De Leaver, who remained an avid reader into her nineties and taught me the love of books
To my Father, William De Leaver, who was my hero and always loved me
COMMENTS PAGE
There is a special sweetness that is exclusive to love born in unlikely places. Eggplant man is a no turning back journey into the speck of light that never died in the dark nights of two war torn souls. Congratulations to Margo De Leaver who captured it all, like she was there.
Dr. Michele Balamani Silvera
Psychotherapist, crisis counselor, writer, pastor Upper Marlboro, Maryland
“I’m an enthusiastic fan of Margo De Leaver’s skills, especially in literature. She writes with her guts, and with her heart! Her book made me thrilled. Congratulations, Margo, and please don’t give up!
Michèle Doidic, a French books lover, avid reader, teacher, presently living in Paris, France
“Eggplant Man” captures the struggle of life on the streets and the small victories of human kindness. Hooray to new author Margo De Leaver….”
Mary Flaherty, Women’s Healthcare Advocate, Philanthropist, Dog Lover and rescuer, avid reader and traveler Los Angeles
Eggplant man is an imploding manifestation of an embracing life assault, a realistic portrayal of circumstance visually sustained in an inescapable series of events wherein the characters become one with the reader! As I read the book there were times when I became lost among the characters and I was an active part of the plot as it unfolded. I am the nemesis I am the plot and I am the inference and the conclusion. Well done!
Cheryl De Leaver, Teacher, poet, actor, painter NYC native
“Eggplant man is a creative and exciting adventure that takes you through the lives of two seemingly different characters. It keeps you turning the page while discovering the unique connection that the two main characters share. Great read!”
Chloe Russell Stanford University - Psychology Doctoral Student, teacher, Los Angeles native, yoga instructor, dog lover, beach lover, avid theater goer, crazy about NYC presently living in San Francisco
Through the story of Eggplant Man, Margo De Leaver, shows us that love has no boundaries, no color, no social class, it just works its miracle anywhere it lands. Read on, and your view on the extent of its reach will be enhanced.
Michel Doidic Digital Music Programmer, writer, animator, true scientist, France native presently living in Westlake Village, California
Eggplant Man is an outstanding must read that keeps you captivated until the end!
Gerald Russell Retired Hospital Administrator, Avid Movie and Theater Goer, world traveler, skiing enthusiast, Buffalo, NY native, now residing in Los Angeles
A gripping page-turner about a homeless man’s daily struggles to survive, to find love, and even happiness. A story that is representative of the growing population of the homeless in our society today.
Karen Bailey Naturopath, teacher, avid reader, native New Yorker
“Eggplant man is a creative and exciting adventure that takes you through the lives of two seemingly different characters. It keeps you turning the page while discovering the unique connection that the two main characters share. Complex and interesting character development. Great read!”
Donna O
casio Psychotherapist, animal lover, avid movie goer The Bronx, New York
A raw, intense experience. Vividly descriptive…get ready to be transported!
Jelani Russell Avid reader and movie goer, animal lover Los Angeles native
“Love may be unfathomable, but exploring its depths with Ruby and the Eggplant Man is a journey well worth the taking.” —Brenda C. Roberts
CHAPTER 1
Garbage Day
RUBY
It was August 2005 in Harlem, one of those damp, hot and heavy days that made your skin glisten with sweat and oil. No matter how many showers you took, you felt wet and sticky. It was a bad hair day, making permanents droop, naturals shrink, and nylon panties wedge up and stick to your butt. By noon on this particular Monday, the air was so thick that breathing became a conscious endeavor, like sucking air through cotton.
Ruby constantly mumbled to herself about the items she had salvaged from other people’s trash on her routine afternoon treasure hunts. Today was garbage day, and she had only two hours left to complete her tour. The ominous looking scar on her left cheek hinted at a past she wanted to forget. It changed shapes, contorting her face as she squinted in the beaming sunlight.
She stood just short of five feet but appeared much taller. Her sepia-colored face was dotted with those tiny brown mole intrusions that one hopes never to inherit. Oversized multi-stained khaki pants and a torn white cotton tee shirt were stark contrasts to her meticulously well-groomed hair. Ruby always kept her hair neatly plaited in two symmetrical rows, which gleamed blue-black in the merciless rays of the high noon sun.
Rarely looking directly at anyone or anything, Ruby’s hazel eyes darted nervously from one point to the next, focusing only momentarily on anything that caught her attention.
Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of a familiar figure. He was propped up against the graffiti covered wall of Bubba’s barber shop and shoe shine parlor. Bubba was long gone, and now an Asian owner stood in the doorway. Mr. Wong had been the proprietor for the past six years. He always wore a grimace of dissatisfaction on his face. Perhaps he regretted being in a place so distant from his Taiwan origin.
Ruby’s eyes came to rest upon the half-reclining man. He appeared to be holding up the shop’s wall, rather than vice versa. “Atlas in black”, she thought, “with the weight of the world on his back.” She stared much longer than usual. Something about him was holding her attention.
He wore a tattered three-piece navy suit, exposing his calloused gray knees and elbows. His wine-stained striped tie was loosened at the neck and hung like an albatross noose, weighted and threatening. Ruby was searching to find what it was about this man that was drawing her interest. Perhaps it was his torn, once white, now muddy beige shirt, which revealed a contrasting triangular area of ebony skin at the jugular notch? His matted, wiry hair, was infiltrated with coiled silver and black strands. His mane stood four inches above his scalp like a crown.
“He was king of what,” Ruby mumbled to herself. Then, as if someone had heard her mute query, she heard a whisper, “It’s his skin, Ruby.”
Yes, his captivating skin tone held her, mesmerized her. It shone purple-black in the sunlight. A fine layer of oil rested on its surface and gleamed like polished onyx, ultra-smooth and unblemished.
It reminded Ruby of something she had recently come across in her rummages. She frantically began to re-search the last three garbage cans she had visited. Ruby was disappointed that the first two cans did not reveal the item she quested.
It sat on the bottom of the third can. Ruby was delighted. She picked up the refuse as if it were a valuable gem. The large piece of eggplant skin, purple-black, smooth and shiny, rested in her palm.
Ruby smiled, her deep dimples taking their rightful place on her cheeks. The lower point of the C-shaped scar on her left cheek just touched the top of her left dimple. It rested there, like a scythe threatening to remove the dimple. As she smiled, the scar seemed to soften, perhaps changing its mind to inflict further damage. Ruby continued forward in the direction of the seated man.
CHAPTER 2
Naming Day
Gently holding the vegetable skin in her left hand, Ruby began to walk towards the figure against the wall. Her gait was like that of an ant, carefully checking out the territory in front of her, crossing the sidewalk in staccato movements.
The half-reclining man saw her coming. He rapidly finished off the chocolate bar he was eating and started to sit up. She was only about fifty feet from him now, but she seemed to take a long time to reach her destination.
Not sure of her intentions, he raised himself to a more defiant sitting position. His hair already stood rebelliously on his head, resistant to any idea of lying down. It was like a corona of tall close-fitting coils matted together in unity. The whites of his dark eyes, now bourbon brown, were reminders of his past journeys into liquid abuse. (“…dark eyes, whenever I think of you…I think dark eyes”) The sclera were like dark yellow crescent moons engulfing desolate black irises.
As Ruby got closer, she noticed the man’s high, angular cheekbones and flaring black nostrils. His powerful nares knew a history of past indulgences he could no longer afford.
“Sniffing white snow through quivering black nostrils
Going home but ain’t nobody there
Meeting up with a group of white hostiles
Being identified by the style of your hair”
While waiting for Ruby, the dark man noticed a perfectly smooth, shiny mahogany roach ease out from under the parlor. It was obviously a survivor, confident in its approach. Without hesitation, he formed a hammer-shaped fist and came down mercilessly on his victim; a hot and heavy ending to its life. This was a futile act of retribution on the innocent arthropod. It reminded him of the Selma judge’s mallet that wrongly sentenced him to 15 to years of hard labor. He also was innocent.
“Squashing that roach who thought he got away
Smoking that roach from the other day”
When Ruby reached him, their eyes met for a moment. Almost imperceptibly, he nodded his head indicating it was fine for her to proceed. For the second time that day, she allowed her eyes to focus. Her nystagmus paused as she gave her attention to the interesting person in front of her. Ruby noted his attire. She was curious as to why he was dressed that way. Ruby had glanced at him several times before from a distance, while making her daily garbage runs. He was always sitting in front of the barber shop, but Ruby had not taken much notice of him.
Ruby was unaware that the man had worn that outfit daily, like a uniform, for the past 15 years. After journeying from Alabama, he had finally arrived in New York City, in search of a new beginning. He was dressed in his best attire, in the only suit he owned. He spent months looking for gigs or any work in the City. With one job rejection after another and no place to go, he and his banjo had remained on the streets of Harlem. Odd jobs here and there, and his banjo, kept him alive. He could not bring himself to remove the suit, which had been a gift from his deceased mother. That suit and his banjo were his only connection to what had been.
Ruby read his nod as a silent permit to proceed. Was that kindness, fatigue or sadness she saw in his eyes? It did not matter to Ruby in that moment. There was something she needed to do. Without hesitation, Ruby continued approaching the sitting figure.
When she was about twelve inches away, she knelt in front of him and looked directly into his eyes. She remembered her mother’s words: “When you got somethin’ important to say to someone, Baby, you needs to look them in the eyes, so they knows it’s true.” Her reply to her mother was always the same: “Yes, Ma’Dear.”
The banjo player felt uncomfortable with the closeness of Ruby. The distinct smell of coconut oil, which hung in the humid, damp heat of Harlem’s summer, was dizzying. Then he saw it. How could he have ever missed it? He was captivated by the dan
cing scar protruding from her left cheek. It was in motion, synchronized with Ruby’s facial movements. Only her hazel eyes were still.
His discomfort quickly dissipated as a memory began to emerge. The scar was familiar, and for anyone who lived in Metairie, Louisiana, in the early seventies, the story was unforgettable.
Before Ruby realized what was happening, the man with those dark ebony eyes slowly reached up and began to gently stroke the keloid growth embedded in her cheek. She glanced down at his hand. His broad, ashy fingers, marfanoid in length, had nails the color of brown sugar.
Ruby felt the roughness of a calloused fingertip coursing the length of her C shaped facial member. His touch seemed to discern the secret of her blemish, exposing the memory it held inside. An almost healing warmth emanated from his fingertip. Ruby felt a tingling sensation come alive in the lesion. The scar calmed down and acquiesced to his touch. It promptly halted its gyrations, as if obeying a silent command.
CHAPTER 3
Game Changer
With the rough feeling of the finger on her scar, Ruby thought she smelled cloves and was momentarily distracted. Her mind took her back to a fateful day almost 20 years earlier. It was Christmas Eve. Her husband, Harold, many years her senior, had returned home from work, drunk as usual. Ruby was preparing a ham for Christmas dinner. She had just finished putting the nail-shaped aromatic cloves into the many cross-sections on the fatty surface of the meat.
“They god-damned fired my ass today, little-girl,” said Harold in a burst of rage. “Said I was drunk.” Ruby hated being called little-girl, hated having a drunken husband twice her age, and hated thinking about the inevitable consequences of having an unemployed husband in the poor South.