The Obstacle Course

by JF Freedman

  He shook his head. “Last bus to Ravensburg left. Twenty minutes ago.” He pointed behind me, to the schedule posted on the large board in the middle of the room.

  “I’ve taken that bus a million times!” I yelled in disbelief, “the last bus doesn’t leave till eight!”

  “That’s weekends,” he matter-of-fact informed me. “Weekdays it’s six-thirty.”

  I thought I’d drop dead right there on the floor. “There’s an overnight bus to the Eastern Shore,” he said sympathetically—he could see how lousy I felt. “It could drop you off. It doesn’t leave till midnight, though.”

  First Darlene with Danny, then missing the school bus, now this. I felt like throwing up. Now I’d have to hitchhike home. The way my luck had been running today, if I wasn’t careful I’d get hit by a truck.

  It was raining like a motherfucker. I stood under the awning of a DGS store, watching it come down in buckets. I’d jumped under the awning as soon as I’d spotted shelter, but I was still soaked clear through.

  I was on Florida Avenue. In case you don’t know, Florida Avenue, at least in this area, is one-hundred-percent colored. You could walk for twenty blocks in any direction and you wouldn’t see one white face, except for the people who own the stores. Most of the stores around here are owned by white people, especially the liquor stores.

  I don’t know how I wound up in this neighborhood in the first place. After I got over having missed the Greyhound and realizing there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it, I kind of bummed around, walking the streets, major pissed-off and giving not a shit who knew it, it was like I had this black cloud over my head like that guy in Lil’ Abner, Joe Whateverthefuck.

  What had really pissed me off, like putting the capper on the whole sorry affair, was that when I’d walked out of the Greyhound station I’d jammed my hands in the pockets of my jacket, because it was getting cold. Guess what I found in one of the pockets? The very same accordion photo-book Darlene had given me for my birthday, crammed full of pictures of her. Talk about adding insult to injury! I looked at each picture, feeling sorrier and sorrier for myself, hating her, hating Danny motherfucking Detweiler, hating the whole world. Then slowly and methodically I ripped each picture up into a million tiny pieces and ground them into the sidewalk with my heel.

  After that childish but satisfying act I tried hitchhiking, on different street corners, but I couldn’t get a ride to save my life. It was dark out by now, cold as a witch’s tit already and getting colder, you couldn’t even see me standing on a corner trying to thumb a ride. I shifted from one foot to the other to try and stay warm and keep my circulation going while standing in the gutter, but the traffic was a blur—with all the lights, and pedestrians coming and going, a driver couldn’t even see me to stop if he wanted to, which nobody did. I’ve learned over the years that hitchhiking in the middle of Washington during rush hour is the worst time to try and get a ride. What you have to do is wait until rush hour’s over.

  The only problem with that was, the rain killed that possibility. Nobody stops for you in the rain, especially when you’re as wet as a mongrel dog, and probably smell as bad as one, the rain creating steam as it came off the wool and leather of my jacket.

  And the worst part was, by wandering around and moping and feeling sorry for myself like a crybaby, I’d wound up on Florida fucking Avenue, in the heart of enemy territory. A white kid wearing a Ravensburg High jacket in the middle of Africa. Talk about being fucked up! All the cars around here would be full of colored people. I was really going to get into a car at night with a mess of them. For one thing, everybody knows all colored guys carry straight razors and drink Thunderbird straight out of the bottle. I might be a sorry asshole, standing out in the rain, but like they say, my mama didn’t raise no simpletons. I was not hitchhiking in this neighborhood, plain and simple.

  The rain let up for a minute and I stepped out from under the awning, trying to get my bearings so I’d know how far I’d have to walk until I could start hitching without fear of getting my throat slit.

  Believe it or not, I was right across the street from Griffith Stadium, behind the right-field wall. I’ve been going to Senators games since I was a kid, nine or ten. It’s easy to sneak into Griffith Stadium, it’s a rickety old ballpark and the guards never pay any attention. They probably don’t care, because nobody goes anyway. They are without a doubt the sorriest team in baseball. They’re in last place every year. Not only are the Senators a shitty team, they’re dumb as hell, too. Every time they get a good player, like Irv Noren or Jackie Jensen, they trade him.

  My favorite team is the Brooklyn Dodgers. I know that’s pretty weird, since they’re from New York, and in the National League to boot, but they are. When I was a little kid, just starting to like baseball, Walt Kowalski, an FBI agent who lived on our block, gave me a junior Brooklyn Dodgers uniform. I think he came from Brooklyn originally and got it from a relative. As soon as I put it on, presto, I was a Dodgers fan for life. My first favorite player was Jackie Robinson. I liked Roy Campanella and Gil Hodges, too. Now my favorite’s Willie Mays, although I also like Mickey Mantle a lot as well. About the only good player Washington has ever had on their team for more than a couple years was Mickey Vernon. I like him good enough, I just like the other guys more.

  Speaking of Mickey Mantle, a few years ago I saw him hit the longest home run in the history of baseball. It was a Senators game, of course. He hit it off Chuck Stobbs, and it went clear over the left-field fence, just nicking the big scoreboard there that sits on top of the bleachers. It’s the only home run ever hit over the left-field bleachers. The reason I saw it happen was that it was Patrol Boys day, when every safety-patrol boy in the D.C. area gets into the game for free. I was in fifth grade then, and I was probably the shittiest patrol boy in the history of Ravensburg Elementary School. I never paid any attention if cars were coming or not when there were kids crossing the street. Usually me and Howie Klinger, who was my patrol partner that year, would both stand on the same side of the street, Defense Highway, which is the most dangerous street in the whole county. We’d be sneaking a weed or playing hits and cracks, never paying attention. It’s a miracle a kid wasn’t killed crossing that road. In fact, about a week after that Senators game, Howie and me were kicked off patrol, because some parent snitched on us.

  What’s strange, when I think about it, is that almost all my favorite ballplayers are colored guys. It’s kind of liking Chuck Berry or Fats Domino more than Elvis and Buddy Holly. But they are, I don’t know why.

  Being outside Griffith Stadium wasn’t helping me now, though. The Senators were on the road this week, the old stadium a dark hulk looming over me. If there had been a game I might’ve snuck in and watched. Then I might’ve been able to grab a ride home with someone. Like they say, if wishes were dollars, I’d be a millionaire, and if a frog had wings, he wouldn’t bump his ass on the ground all the time, either.

  It started raining again. The only place on the block that was open was this raunchy-looking bar & grill across the street, down under an old brownstone at basement level. Twenty or thirty years ago this was probably a real nice neighborhood, all these big old brownstone houses sitting side by side. Now it was all trashy little apartments for coloreds. I figured there wasn’t much point in going in, because I’m underage and they’d have to kick me out like they did that time at the Dixie, but beggars can’t be choosers and I was cold and wet and tired of standing outside with my thumb up my ass. Maybe things were different in colored bars in the District, maybe they let kids in. And if they did kick me out, big deal, you never know till you try, that’s my motto.

  It was as dark as a tomb in there, the light so low I thought maybe nobody would see me if I stayed close to the door, in the shadows. The place was one long, narrow, low-ceilinged room, with a bar that ran the length of most of one side while the other side was red fake-leather booths. Over in one corner was a jukebox, playing jazz music. I don’t know anything
about that kind of music, I’ve only heard it a couple times. It’s neat music, a different beat than rock ’n’ roll, music that sounds pretty hard to dance to—more for listening. Some Negro woman who sounded like she’d smoked a million cigarettes was singing about how her man was always treating her like shit but she stuck with him anyway because he was her man. My mom would’ve liked that song, what it was about. The story of her life.

  I stood there in the shadows, checking things out. It was nice and warm—just being out of the cold and rain was a plus. There were maybe a dozen people in here besides the bartender. Some were sitting in the booths, the rest at the bar, mostly men, a few women, all of them drinking boilermakers, shots and beer. Hard drinkers, people serious about their whiskey.

  A couple of people in one of the booths were eating fried chicken and biscuits. It smelled good—rich and heavy. My mouth started watering, as hungry as I was by now, since my normal dinnertime had come and gone hours ago. I had money; maybe they’d serve me some food if I could muster up the nerve to ask.

  At the near end of the bar, closest to where I was standing, two women were sitting together. Both were smoking cigarettes, sipping their drinks, and nodding their heads in time to the music. They were dressed in flashy dresses and high-heeled toeless shoes, although even from where I stood in the dark, observing them, I could tell their wardrobes were cheap jobs that wouldn’t hold up; the satin fake, the imitation-fur coats folded on the empty barstool next to them nappy and matted, all of it discount-store quality. The women had a lot of makeup on, and their hair was slicked down and covered with some kind of shiny pomade you see in ads for colored-women’s hair, Dixie Peach, or something like it. Major conks on both their heads, like Chuck Berry’s, except theirs was women’s hair, longer, shiny hair reflecting blue light that came from behind the back bar. They looked pretty old to me, almost as old as my mother.

  “This rain is a stone bitch,” one of them complained to the air.

  “A bitch,” the other one answered.

  “Gonna cost me some serious money,” said number one.

  “Serious money,” came from her friend, like she was the first one’s echo.

  “And I got rent due,” said the first one. She raised one finger towards the bartender, and he started fixing her a fresh drink. She was drinking a martini from a cocktail glass, I could tell by the clear color of it and the fact it had an olive in it, not a shot and a chaser like the others were having. She was classier than the others somehow. It was hard to tell, the room being so dark, but she looked prettier than her friend, sexier, although both were fairly sexy, in a lowdown kind of way.

  The bartender placed the drink in front of her and she sucked the olive off the toothpick, her dark red tongue curling around it. It was a sexy move; I could tell she was one of those women who are naturally sexy from the time they’re born, everything they do has a sexy ring to it, even eating an olive out of a martini glass.

  She closed her eyes as she took a sip from her drink, then lit a cigarette from a pack that was sitting on the bar between them, and inhaled half the length in one drag.

  I couldn’t keep from staring at her.

  She must have felt my presence, because suddenly she turned and looked in my direction. I froze, trying to fade deeper into the darkness, but she’d spotted me. She nudged her companion, who looked over, her eyes opening wide with surprise.

  “Hey there, boy,” the one I’d been staring at sang out, in this deep, soft whiskey-voice, a voice like the woman’s on the jukebox, “what’re you doing in here?”

  I didn’t answer, pretending like she hadn’t actually seen me and was talking to someone else. The bartender, who had looked up at the sound of her voice, spotted me as well.

  “What the fuck,” he said, mostly to himself, like he wasn’t believing what he was seeing. “What the fuck you doing in here?” he called over to me. He could see I was white but he couldn’t see my face clear enough to tell how old I was.

  I licked my lips and shrugged, but I didn’t say anything.

  The woman stared at me through the haze of her cigarette smoke.

  “Hey, you, come over here, where I can see you,” she commanded.

  Slowly, reluctantly, I pushed off from the wall and nervously shuffled towards her.

  “Oh, shit,” the bartender moaned, “it’s a goddamn kid. A white underage kid. Do me a favor, kid,” he said, “get the fuck out of here and do it fast.”

  “Hold your goddamn horses,” the woman told him. “I want to get a look at this boy.”

  “So I can get my store shut down?” the bartender asked her. “No thank you, I take enough chances serving black kids whiskey. Get his paddy ass out of here.”

  What he meant when he said “black kids” was that in Washington you can drink beer and wine when you’re eighteen, but you’ve got to be twenty-one to drink the hard stuff. Everyone I know who’s older, like my sister’s friends, start when they’re sixteen; the girls change their driver’s licenses and the boys cop an older buddy’s draft card. I know my sister does, I’ve heard her brag about drinking in this bar or that, pulling the wool over some bartender’s eyes. Like any bartender gives a shit, all he wants is to be able to tell a cop he saw ID, in case he ever gets busted.

  The woman stared at my face, ignoring the bartender. I stared right back at her. She was pretty, for a colored woman. Not that I don’t think colored women aren’t pretty or anything, it’s just that they have a different look from white ones.

  “Are you deaf or something?” the bartender asked me.

  He was a big sonofabitch and built like a lumberjack. One thing I didn’t want was trouble with him. I turned and started to leave.

  “Ease up, Deuce,” the woman told him, flashing him a smile, “it’s raining out there. How’d you like to be standing out in that slop getting your ass all wet?”

  “Ain’t none of my never-mind if his honky ass gets wet,” the bartender shot back at her.

  She exhaled her smoke in his face. “What’re you, prejudice or something? You got something against white people?” She turned and smiled at me. I was liking her immediately—besides being sexy, she was friendly to me, and anybody that was friendly to me I had to like, especially now.

  Other people in the bar were watching us, though, and that was making me nervous. If one of the men in here took it in his head to beat up on me there wouldn’t be a damn thing I could do about it.

  But no one seemed inclined to, I realized as I stood there near the woman. Everyone was sitting with their drinks, watching me with baleful expressions, like I was an animal in a cage at the zoo. They weren’t welcoming me with open arms—you could cut the hostility with a knife it was so thick—but they didn’t have blood-kill in their eyes, either. I thought about what would happen if things were reversed, if it was a colored kid walked in the Dixie by accident when it was raining. They’d be carrying out what was left of him in a matchbox, more’n likely.

  “Fuck yes, I’m prejudice,” the bartender answered her. “They don’t want me drinking they water, I don’t want ’em drinking mine.”

  She ignored him and turned back to me.

  “Hey, boy.”

  “Yes, ma’am?” That sounded weird, calling her “ma’am,” seeing’s how she was colored, but I felt insecure, and she was a grown woman.

  “What you doing ’round here? You lost?”

  “Yes,” I said. “I mean no, I know where I am.” What I meant was, I knew where I was, but it wasn’t where I wanted to be. But I didn’t feel like explaining all that to her.

  “So how’d you wind up in this neighborhood?”

  “I was over at the Smithsonian with my class on a field trip,” I explained, “and they took off and I got left.” Taking a risk, I moved closer to her. “Can I borrow one of your smokes?” I asked, pointing to the pack on the bar.

  “You old enough?” she said, sort of kidding me.

  “I smoke all the time,” I boasted, “I’v
e been smoking since third grade.”

  She smiled at that and pushed the pack over to me. I fired one up and took a deep drag. The bartender leaned over towards me. He really was a big motherfucker, he could’ve squeezed my head like a grape. “Let me give you a piece of advice, white boy,” he said in this low but very threatening voice, emphasizing the word “white.” “Walk your ass over to New York Avenue, set it down on a bus seat, and go back to wherever the hell you come from.”

  “I can’t,” I told him honestly, “the last bus already left, otherwise I’d be on it.”

  When she heard that the woman got in the barman’s face. “It don’t make a bit of difference what color he is, even a blind man can see this boy is hungry. Now make yourself useful and fetch him a bowl of that stew you’ve got on the stove out back.”

  “I can pay,” I kicked in hopefully, quickly, “I’ve got money.”

  The woman stopped nagging on him. She turned and gave me a sharp look. “How much?”

  “Five bucks.” Actually I had ten, but something told me not to tell her the whole amount.

  “Five dollars?” she asked me. “You really carrying five dollars on you, boy?”

  “Ruby, you ain’t gonna,” her friend said.

  “Money’s money,” Ruby said to the other woman. She turned back to me. “Lemme see it.”

  I took my wallet out of my pocket and pulled out five singles, making sure she didn’t see the five-dollar bill I had next to them.

  “Boy tells the truth,” she said.

  “This is bullshit,” the bartender said. “You want him fed, you feed him.” He turned away. “I ain’t feeding no white kid.”

  “Maybe I just will,” she told him to his back.

  “He’s a juvenile, you fool,” her friend warned her. “Don’t go asking for trouble, you got enough already.”

  “I got rent due and it’s raining out, that’s my trouble,” Ruby told her. She grabbed her purse and jacket off the barstool next to her. “He walked in here and copped a butt off me. He’s old enough.”