Fate: Five Stories- II. Skin

In the early months of my arrival in New York in the late 60s, I learned that a college friend, Parker, whom I hadn’t seen in a few years, a conga drummer in a jazz group, was playing at a club up in Harlem. Still in my delusional stage as a writer collecting life experiences, I wanted to see him and was curious about Harlem, having read and liked James Baldwin’s short story, “Sonny’s Blues,” which takes place in Harlem.

Acquaintances at my SRO hotel – typesetters and proofers who worked the night shifts at one or the other of the city’s two daily newspapers – warned me not to go up to Harlem alone, a white boy – this from one of the black typesetters. They also warned me not to bring much money, as I could depend on getting robbed. Not a problem as I was down to $50 again, all but $10 of which I hid in a vent in my bathroom. Naively, I believed my assumed identity as a writer and my gift of gab would shield me like Teflon. Besides, my friend Parker was African-American, and he would look after me at the club. Right?

Dressed in my best casuals – a worsted-wool jacket from a thrift shop over a white tuxedo shirt and blue jeans, but without the Jim Bowie strap-on sheath that would become haute de rigueur later in my New York incarnation – I hopped on the IRT number 4 at 28^th, headed uptown. On the way, as we shuttled from one station to the next, I watched the sprinkling of white passengers thin the closer to my destination, 125^th, we came. By 116^th St., I was the only person not of color.

Glancing around, I found hostility everywhere. Single professional women, Jerry-Curl-straightened-hair coifed and lacquered, dressed for the office in pant suits and starched ruffle shirts, sent poison darts my way, as though to say: I may have to put up with your shit downtown, but now you’re on my turf, so watch yourself, Jack. Mothers with small children running up and down the aisles corralled them and hissed sit! Tired working men in grease-stained overalls strafed me and turned away, disgusted, as though dismissing me as a crazy white dude and a fool.

Across the aisle, hanging loose-jointed from overhead straps, swaying coolly with the motion of the train, a pair of gang members in their early teens regarded me, malice flaring from gimlet-cracked eyes. Chunk gold neck chains hung down over sweat suits; red Nike Blazer high top sneaks graced their feet like royal slippers. Cocked baseball caps over red bandanas completed their signature as Bloods.

I took care not to make eye contact, collecting my impressions in furtive glances that allowed me to note the ragged, scarred ear of one, as though it had been gnawed in a dog fight. The other boy was noticeable for his regular Caucasian features framed by arched brows, which I suspected he’d taken much flack for, before coming into his savagery. Not one to judge – I’d spent many evenings in Roxbury at my friend Parker’s with his family – still, with the tension mounting, I began to feel my predicament, though I had yet to sense any immediate danger.

I got up to get a closer look at the mounted IRT map and confirm that my stop was next when the well-groomed, young man sitting beside the map, who’d been watching me carefully, whispered from the side of his mouth, like a ventriloquist.

“They’re going to jump you when you get off.” He darted his eyes toward the two hanging from the overhead straps, now pointedly looking at me. I nodded imperceptibly.

“Where’re you headed?” he asked.

“Supper Club on Lenox and 124th,” I whispered, examining the map to cover our conversation. I’d decided that this earnest young man – hair close-cropped with a part on one side made with a barber’s electric clipper, dressed like a divinity student in a plain black suit, carrying a worn leather briefcase, the dye rubbed gray like abraded skin – was someone I had to trust, given the situation.

The train was slowing. It was time to make a decision. If I stayed on board, the Bloods would likely hang back too. Then what? It’s one thing to throw a haymaker in a barroom brawl on a college campus in the boondocks. This was different. The odds were not good. I began to regret my brashness.

“Ginny’s Supper Club? That what you talkin’ about?” hissed the earnest young man. I glanced his way. He stared straight ahead. I nodded again. The train was stopping. Meanwhile, the Bloods tensed but hung back, ready to pounce.

“Walk, don’t run, to the end of the station and take the west exit to 125^th,” whispered the young man. “Wait for the doors to close – almost – then go!”

He got up and walked to another exit, as though this was his stop, acting as if we’d not spoken. The train braked to a jerky halt. I sat down in the young man’s vacated seat, close to the sliding exit doors. The Bloods crossed the aisle, ready to move on me if I went for the door. On a glance from the young man, just as the doors were closing, I hurled myself through, barely making it. Suddenly, I felt a hand grab my shoulder. I tore free, adrenalin pumping.

As I began walking briskly toward the exit, I glanced sideways at the train, which had begun pulling out of the station. The Bloods kept pace with me, running along inside the car, pounding the glass and cursing. Finally the train picked up speed, whisking them away. I wanted to thank my guardian angel, but when I looked around for him he was gone.

***

Out on the street it was dark. A light drizzle was falling. Friday night in Harlem. The streets were practically deserted, it being, apparently, too early to party. The personified gray breath of the city came in waves, in and out, up, down the cavernous avenues. Occasionally, lonely silhouettes swept past, ghost-like, head-butting the rain and wind sweeping off the East River. I thought of turning back, going back to the hotel, but picturing Parker’s joy at seeing me, a familiar face in Harlem, kept me going. It couldn’t be far. I turned up my collar and looked around.

On a poorly-lighted street map mounted on the station’s ramparts, I located the supper club on Lenox, between Martin Luther King Jr. Blvd. and 124^th. I was disoriented. At the corner, a lonely mercury vapor lamp beckoned, its orange suffusion turning the wet streets pixilated pink. I made my way to the corner of 125^th, but couldn’t figure out which way was south. The street signs were shot up, their signifying letters mottled like Swiss cheese.

“Best idea would be for you to head back downtown, where you come from, friend,” said someone, the voice mild. I recognized it as belonging to the young man, the one on the subway, my savior. As he emerged from the shadows, I faced him warily, still not sure about him, trying to read his intentions.

“Who are you?” I asked. “Why are you helping me?”

“Brothers under the skin, aren’t we?”

“You’re a minister, then?”

“In a manner of speaking, yes. I’m a student of human nature, and if that makes me a minister, then, yes, yes sir, I am.”

I studied his face, the bold African features highlighted in bronze by the street lamp. Earnest and forthright. Could I be wrong?

In the short time I’d been in the city, the impression I’d gleaned of New Yorkers was less than complimentary. It was a rapacious culture I’d quickly discovered, with everybody holding their hand out for more. New Yorkers were rough, arrogant, demanding, impatient, and ruthless. Weakness was punished; force rewarded. Anything of value would be snatched in a moment of inattention. Hotel clerks smiled reassuringly at guests’ complaints about the lack of a safe in the rooms, only to send an accomplice up with a pass key to rob the unsuspecting as soon as the occupants went out. A seemingly innocent offer to give directions on the street invariably led to a demand for a fee. No one could be trusted. Everyone was on the con.

Why should this young man be any different? Could it be that I’d stumbled on a Good Samaritan? If so, it would be a first.

“Here to see a friend – he’s playing at Ginny’s.”

“A brother?”

I nodded yes. He studied me for a long moment. I felt as though I was the one being assessed for honesty, decency, trust. Finally, he smiled.

“Then I will accompany you, sir, if you don’t mind.”

“How old are you?”

“Eighteen. How old are you?”

“Twenty-two, so don’t call me sir.”

He nodded.

“I’ve only got $10. You can have $5. I need the rest for carfare home, and a drink at the club.” I glanced at him, checking to see if money was on his agenda.

“Don’t want your money.”

We studied each other.

“You got a name, friend?”

He was called Zeke. Short for Ezekial. From my university course on the bible as literature, I knew that Ezekiel meant God strengthen.

As we set off in the direction he indicated with a head nod, I told him mine. Zeke and Tobias. It sounded vaguely biblical. We walked along without talking, comfortable with this odd pairing and occasion. I hoped it wouldn’t end tragically, like most of the Bible. But I was willing to risk it, for the sake of my education.

***
(Read part III next week)

by EH Davis