Ain't Gonna Be the Same Fool Twice (18 page)

Artemis rose up and yawned. She was ready to move on.

“So-so, mostly clerical stuff. They still expect you to type.”

“I'm going to send you some money for this call.”

“Thanks, Grandma.”

“Jean, can't you type?”

“Yeah, twenty-five words a minute.”

“Maybe you should brush up, take a course.”

“I don't want to. They don't expect male college graduates to be able to type.”

“Chile, it's a man's world.”

“Well, I'm working to change that.”

“You need to be working at something that pays.”

“I talked to a counselor at the Women's Career Center and she said that most women who take clerical jobs never move up. Often they've even trained the men who are their supervisors. It's a trick bag that I refuse to step into.”

“Well, remember, pride goeth before a fall.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“It means you can get as hungry as the next person, so it's no point in you acting like you're rich and white. Chile, you know you weren't born with a silver spoon in your mouth.”

“Grandma, I know that, but I also know that my purpose here is not to survive.”

“Your purpose where?”

“My purpose on this planet. My purpose is to grow.”

“Grow? You're twenty-one years of age; you're already grown. I swear you sound as nutty as that roommate of yours. You sure she's not beginning to rub off on you?”

I sighed. It was unfair to make Grandma pay for me to raise her consciousness level, long-distance.

Maybe I had been too hard on Jawea, I thought as I held the pottery mug she'd just given me.

“Thanks, Jawea, this is beautiful. But my birthday isn't until September.”

“Stevie, I'm not into birthdays. I was just working on this and it reminded me of your energy.”

I ran my hands over the rough tan bottom and the smooth jade-colored glaze dripping over the sides. I didn't know what Jawea meant, but I was crazy about this mug, so I had no inclination to challenge her.

“Well, I love it, thanks,” I said. The telephone rang in the hallway, and Jawea ran off to answer it.

I was drinking a cup of tea in my new mug when Jawea returned to the kitchen.

She appeared agitated, her mouth was pretty poked out for a white person.

“My mother just pushes all of my fucking buttons,” Jawea groaned.

“I understand. I have a mother who doesn't know when to quit sometimes, too.”

“She's picking me up in about an hour. My sister's got a bad cold, so it's just going to be me and Donna this afternoon.”

“You call your mother Donna?”

“Yeah, that's her name.”

“I guess I would feel funny calling my mother Evelyn, unless I was joking or something.”

“So, what
do
you call your mother?”

“Mama.”

“Mama,” Jawea repeated. “It sounds so warm and cozy and earthy. I could never call Donna ‘Mama.' It wouldn't fit. She's just not a ‘Mama.'” Jawea ran her thumb over the old oak kitchen table and stared out at the view of Bernal Heights.

“I never had a Mama,” she continued. “Donna and I have always been more like friends. Sometimes I wonder what it would've been like if I had.”

“You'd be a different person. Just like I'd be a different person if I'd been raised by Donna.”

“Yeah. Too bad my sister's sick. Tricia's this straight housewife on the Peninsula, but at least she would've been somewhat of a buffer.”

“What are you two planning to do today?”

“We're going to the beach, and we'll probably have dinner at this Mexican restaraunt in Tiburon.”

“Where's Tiburon?”

“Over in Marin. Sort of like Sausalito, but minus some of the tourists.”

“I liked Sausalito. Sharlinda and Today and I took the ferry over there.”

“Want to come with us?”

“You sure you don't want your mother all to yourself?”

“Positive.”

I filled the old teakettle with water. “What about her? You don't think your mother will mind if I come along?”

“Donna will be totally psyched.”

I swallowed. “It won't matter that I'm black?” After all, I'd heard of white people in Chicago who wouldn't even allow a black person in their house.

“Are you for real? Donna will think it's far fucking out that you're black. She'll be able to brag to all of her friends in Big Sur about having a black friend, now.”

I sat back down at the table. “I don't want to be a novelty. I just thought it would be a good chance to see another part of the Bay Area.”

“Look, Stevie, don't worry; my mother is really harmless to the outside world. Plus, it's a beautiful day and the beaches over in Marin County are spectacular. The Mexican restaurant that we're going to has far-out food, dynamite margaritas, a great view. And Donna will insist on paying for everything.”

“OK, Jawea, you talked me into it,” I said as the kettle whistle blew.

Donna's blue eyes sparkled, complementing her purple batik shirt, and her long red hair made her look like a folksinger instead of a grown person's mother. When Jawea told her I was coming along, she'd smiled, showing her perfect teeth. As we headed toward her car I tried to imagine my mother in drawstring pants and Indian-style sandals.

Jawea and her mother were able to agree on at least one thing: I should ride in the front seat of the Saab. I figured that they would probably be embarrassed to have a black person in back, looking like I was riding Jim Crow or something.

“Stevie, I couldn't help noticing how regal you are,” Donna said, tossing her head back, but keeping her eyes on the road.

“Regal?” I asked, a little surprised.

“Yes, you carry yourself like an African queen.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I've never been to Africa.”

“Donna has, and of course she'll never let anyone forget it,” Jawea mumbled from the backseat.

“African women are some of the most beautiful women in the world. Are you familiar with the Maasai?”

“No, I don't believe so.”

“Well, they are just absolutely stunning. You look like you could be one of them.”

“Thank you.” I ignored Jawea's grumbling. I was happy to alter my self-image from “down-and-out job seeker” to “absolutely stunning.”

“Seeing you reminds me of how much I miss Africa,” Donna sighed.

“Oh fuck, this is too much,” Jawea moaned. If I'd ever said that to my mother, I'd be dead. But Donna continued to drive across the Golden Gate Bridge as if nothing had happened.

Growing up in Chicago, I'd associated beaches with crowds of people, burning sand, and hot sun. And for the most part, I'd avoided them. But this beach was pleasant rather than oppressive. The temperature was only up in the seventies and there was actually a nice breeze. I liked that the sun wasn't beating down on you like you were in the cotton fields. And, of course, looking at the Pacific Ocean was a mind-blowing experience.

Donna and I had stripped down to our bathing suits. Hers was black and mine was purple. Jawea had just plain stripped.

“Jawea, you're naked,” I blurted out, unable to contain my shock.

Jawea just smiled with her chubby, flat-chested self. It wasn't like I hadn't occasionally seen her naked before. But it was one thing in your own home, another out in public!

I looked to Donna for support, but to my surprise she seemed as unfazed as the rest of the people on the almost deserted stretch of beach.

“It feels great,” Jawea said, stretching herself out like a cat. “My body never gets enough sun in San Francisco.”

“Aren't you afraid that you might get arrested?”

“The ranger might give me a warning, at worst a citation. It's like a parking ticket.”

I still couldn't get over Jawea, but mostly I couldn't get over Donna. What kind of a mother was she? Mama would threaten a murder/suicide if I pulled a stunt like this. As far as I was concerned, Jawea had it made. So what if her mother tried too hard, said dumb things. Of course she could get on your nerves. But it didn't take an Einstein to figure out that Jawea had her mother wrapped around her little finger.

“I know someone who has a birthday next week,” Donna said in a singsong voice as we strolled along the beach.

“Who could that be?” Jawea groaned.

“You. What do you want for your birthday?”

“What day is your birthday on?” I asked, concerned that I couldn't afford to give Jawea anything after she'd given me the mug.

“I don't want anything for my birthday, OK?”

“Judy, you must want something. Come on, give me a hint.”

“Don't call me fucking Judy!”

“I'm sorry, honey, I forgot.”

“And I don't want any shit from you or anybody else. I am a child of the universe. I have everything that I need.”

“I know, but are you sure that you don't want some new clothes, or maybe a bicycle?”

“I don't need clothes, I got some great stuff out of the free box last month. My bike just needs new tires and it will be fine.”

“Would you rather just have money?”

“I don't want your goddamn money!” Jawea shouted so that half the people on the beach could hear her. This outburst aroused more stares than her nakedness.

It was all that I could do to keep from saying, I'll take your money. I wondered if I was too old to be adopted.

“Would you prefer to go out to dinner or a play? We've got to do
something
to celebrate your twenty-fifth birthday, dear.”

Jawea shook her fists. She reminded me of a two-year-old throwing a tantrum. “I don't want anything! I don't want to go anywhere! Can't you get that through your thick skull?”

Instead of slapping Jawea, Donna sighed and nodded. “I just want the day to unfold,” Jawea explained. “I just want to experience it for whatever it's meant to be, naturally. Anything else would feel like a burden,” she insisted, shrugging her shoulders.

“Miss, I'm going to have to ask you to replace your clothing.”

We stared at the tall, curly blond ranger who seemed to have come out of nowhere all of a sudden.

My last contact with law enforcement had been just after Christmas in Chicago. Linda and Melody, two old friends from the Southside, and I had just left a blues club on North Halsted Street, when we saw a flashing light. Melody was driving. Unlike the ranger, the officer hadn't been polite. He'd snarled that Melody hadn't stopped long enough at a stop sign. To our surprise, he informed us that there was a warrant out for her arrest due to outstanding parking tickets, and carted her off to jail. Linda and I were frantic. Neither of us had a driver's license, so we were stuck at a police station, way over on the North Side, at three in the morning in subzero weather. We didn't know who to call at that ungodly hour. Before we could coordinate a plan, the police, who are sworn to serve and protect, gave us a choice between a holding cell and the cold, deserted streets.

“Ms., not Miss,” Jawea corrected the ranger.

“Mizz, will you please replace your clothing.”

“Did someone complain?” Donna wanted to know.

“No, ma'am, but someone might. This is not a clothing-optional beach.”

“Well, it should be,” Jawea insisted.

“That's not up to me. I'm just doing my job. And you're in violation of code 106472.”

“It's dangerous when someone says he's just doing his job. It smacks of fascism,” Donna interrupted.

“Look, he's even wearing a brown shirt,” Jawea pointed out.

The ranger's face turned red. “I'm just warning you, if you don't comply, you could be cited.” He sighed and walked away.

I remembered that night in the Chicago police station. A young black man leaving the jail had shouted, “Suck my dick!” To Linda's and my horror, several burly white policeman had rushed toward the man, pushing him into a corner and beating him, ignoring our pleas. We felt completely helpless. Then they finally called for an ambulance. I'd never forgotten how powerless I felt witnessing that.

“Isn't my daughter beautiful?” Donna asked, interrupting my thoughts. I saw the pride in her eyes and nodded. I watched her admire Jawea, dancing like a schoolgirl, showing her flat white butt to the world. Nothing that Jawea ever did would reflect upon an entire race of people. She was an individual. She was white.

It struck me that I'd never been inside a nice Mexican restaurant before. It was not only spacious but almost downright plush. Of course, the only Mexicans were the waiters. The weekday crowd was up-to-date white folks. After all, this was Marin. Our outside table allowed Jawea and I to face the ferryboat dock.

Jawea had been right about the food. My chicken breast was broiled to perfection in a wonderful brown sauce; the black beans were spicy; the corn tortillas, warm and fresh; and the margaritas made you want to slap the judge.

“Did Jawea ever mention to you that I was actually at the March on Washington?”

“Wow, that must've really been something! I'd never met anyone who was actually there.”

“It must have slipped my mind,” Jawea answered sarcastically.

“I watched it on TV. I was only nine, but I'll never forget it as long as I live.”

“It was a defining moment in my life,” Donna said solemnly.

I sipped my strawberry margarita, but my mind was back in 1963.

“I knew Dr. King,” Donna continued.

I turned toward Donna with interest. “You knew Dr. King?”

“Yeah, we had him over for dinner all the time,” Jawea cut in, rolling her eyes.

Donna cleared her throat. “Well, we weren't really friends. I mean I spoke with him once.”

“Oh,” I said, somewhat disappointed.