Manchild in the Promised Land (65 page)

“Look, nigger, you ain't in no position to be gettin' so fuckin' philosophical right now. Do you understand the predicament you're in? Pimp, you can get seven to ten years for armed robbery, man.”

He said, “Yeah, they might do it. Shit, it's not that bad.”

“Look, man, I'm gonna put up bail for you and get you out.”

“No, don't do it, Sonny. Save your money. You know why I pulled that sting?”

“Stuff, man?”

“That's right, Sonny. I had to get me some stuff.”

“You really did it? I was hopin' that you didn't do it.”

“Yeah, I did it, man. I just had to have some money, and I knew if I started askin' anybody for some money, like you or Mama or Carole or Margie, they would've started gettin' worried. They would've known that I was back on stuff, and they would've started worryin' about it. I didn't want to put them through anything, man. I didn't want to put anybody through anything.”

“Yeah, well, you really puttin' us through some shit now.”

He said, “I didn't expect it to go this way. I'm sorry. I don't want you to spend any money on me to try and get me out on bail. I'm just gonna walk with this. I'm gon face up to it. If I go to court and the bench man throws a dime on me, I'll walk with that too, Sonny. Shit, this is New York. I'll make parole in three years.”

I said, “Pimp, the thing is not the parole. You know why I'm spendin' so much money on you, nigger? I wanted to keep you out of jail. I wanted to keep you out of jail before you got a sheet on you.”

“Yeah, I understood that, Sonny, and I appreciated it, but this is my life. I've never really gotten into the street life. Nothin' has ever happened to me—until now.”

I said, “Yeah, too much is happenin' to you now. You're wasted.”

He said, “That's okay, Sonny. It's my life. I don't think you ever realized that it's my life, to waste, to do whatever I want.”

“Yeah, Pimp, it looks like you wasted it now. I hope that's what you wanted to do.”

He said, “Yeah. Did you see Ellen?”

“No, man. I didn't sec anybody.”

“She's pregnant, Sonny.”

I said, “Yeah, man, that's a beautiful fuckin' situation you're in. Your girl's pregnant, and you're facing an armed robbery bid. Damn. That's just about beautiful.”

“Damn, Sonny, I'm surprised at you. You're gettin' to be a worrier in your old age. All the shit you been through and you're all up in the sky like this. I mean, all up on the ceiling, man, over a little thing like this.”

“I don't know, Pimp. Shit, I guess I shouldn't worry about it if you're taking it so lightly, huh?”

“Yeah man. Fuck it, Sonny. Whichever way it comes, man.… You heard about the nigger woman and the white woman?”

“Yeah, I heard a lot of things about both of them, but I don't know which thing you're referring to.”

“You know the thing about when the white woman brings a male child into the world, she can look at him, smile, and say, ‘Son, someday, you may be President.' Sonny, they tell me that he's got one chance in eighty million that he'll be President.”

“Yeah, Pimp, that's about right.”

“But even if he misses it, Sonny, there's a good chance that he won't be too far from President.”

I said, “Uh-huh.”

He said, “When a nigger woman brings a male child in the world, she looks at him, shakes her head, and says, ‘Oh, my son, forgive me for what I've done.'”

“Damn, Pimp, you sure seem to be not too worried about it.”

“The way I look at it, Sonny, it's too late for worryin' now.”

“Yeah, well, maybe you've got a point there.”

“Like you always say, Sonny,
c'est la vie,
man. That's the way it went. I guess we all couldn't make it.”

“No, Pimp, I guess we couldn't.”

I was pissed off, but this just wasn't a time for scolding him.

I saw Pimp a few more times after that. I suppose it didn't go too bad with him. I felt that something had been gained in all of it, that he'd gotten something. I liked, most of all, the way he took it: “This is my bed; I made it myself, and I'll lie in it.”

Most people said Pimp was lucky. I guess he was. He only got one to five years. Mama said that Pimp was better off. He couldn't use any drugs up there, and now she knew where he was. In a funny sort of way, maybe he was better off, and maybe everybody was better off.

I made up my mind that I was going to go to school. I didn't know where or what school or what I was going to study, but I knew that I had to go to school somewhere, and it couldn't be in New York.

I tried talking to Tony. Tony had gotten his diploma. He'd graduated from Washington Irving Evening High too. I don't know what happened to him, but he started dabbling. Tony became more and more frustrated. He tried working, but he said he just couldn't get along with these white folks who were running the world. He would quit one job right after another, mess around uptown, and start dabbling more and more and more. He never got hooked. He was a sort of now-and-then drug user. When he was feeling bad or something was bothering him, he would start using drugs. If nothing was bothering him, he just wouldn't use drugs.

I told Tony I was going to try to get ready to go to school in February. Tony said, “Yeah, Sonny, that's damn nice, man.”

I told him I could cut him into some people who would aid him in
going to school if he wanted to go. He said he'd like to meet them. Anytime I wanted to cut him into them, he'd be ready. I didn't live near Tony any more. He was still living in the Village, and I was living up on Ninetieth Street.

I told him to meet me uptown the next Friday night. I was going to take him to meet Reverend James. I'd told him a lot about Reverend James, and he had said, “Man, he sounds like a powerful cat. I'd like to meet him.”

I had been working a heavy tour at the post office, ten to twelve hours a night. I came home that Thursday at about three o'clock in the morning. I'd put in some overtime. When I got in the house, I was real tired. As soon as I hit the bed, the phone rang. Mama was on the other end.

I said, “Hi, Mama. How you doin'?” I got kind of leery, her calling me up so early in the morning. I started joking with her. I said, “Little girl, aren't you ashamed of yourself, bein' up so early in the mornin'? Aren't you sleepy?”

She said, “Boy, I been tryin' to get you all night.”

“Well, I work, Mama, you know that.”

“Oh, I thought you got off twelve o'clock.”

“I'm puttin' in some overtime.”

She said, “Oh, well, that's good. Sonny Boy …” She stammered and stuttered, “Oh … uh …” She paused.

I said, “What, Mama?”

She just blurted it out, as if she had to spit it out as fast as she could because she didn't know how else to say it. She said, “Sonny Boy, Tony is dead.”

It hit me just like a bullet. I was stunned. I just couldn't say anything for a long time. I think Mama knew the effect it would have on me, because she didn't say anything. The phone was dead for a long time.

I said, “Mama …”

“Uh-huh?”

“Did you see him dead?”

“Sonny Boy, everybody on Eighth Avenue knows he's dead. I was over sittin' with his mother tonight, tryin' to get her to relax. The poor woman's almost out of her mind.”

“Mama, I'll be uptown.… I'll be uptown.”

They had the lights on when I got there. Carole and Margie were
there. They were all talking about Tony being dead. I just couldn't believe this. I sat there for a long time, and they kept saying it over and over.

Somebody said, “Yeah, he's dead.”

And Carole would say, “I guess he is.”

I said, “Mama, where? How did they find him? How do you know he's dead? How did he die? Damn, Mama, Tony was only twenty-three or twenty-four.”

Mama said, “Well, Sonny Boy, they found him in the backyard.”

I said, “They found him in the backyard how?”

“Dead.”

“An O.D., Mama?”

She said, “Yeah, I guess so. He died from that dope.”

“I don't believe that, Mama, not Tony, because Tony knew what he was doin'. He wouldn't have gotten strung out. He knew how to dabble in drugs. I don't believe he died from any O.D.”

Then Carole said, “They say he had a lot of bruises on his face, like somebody'd been hittin' him with somethin' or somebody'd kicked him.”

I said, “No, not Tony …” I just sat there thinking about it, thinking about wanting to take Tony down to see Reverend James this very evening, thinking about all we'd come through together, and thinking about all the dreams that Tony had had.

Everybody stayed silent, as though they were respecting my thoughts. I got up and said, not to anyone in particular, just to all of them, anybody who happened to be there, “You know, nobody should be so surprised now, because Tony was dyin' for a long time.”

Mama said, “What you mean he was dyin' for a long time?”

“Mama, some people look like they're in the best of health. When they start dying, it takes them years and years. I once knew a Japanese guy. He use to work with me. He told me that, in Japan, they don't believe that people die of old age or a natural death. They believe that that they just get tired-a livin', Mama. When they start feelin' useless, they just close their eyes. I think Tony was beginnin' to feel as though he wasn't doin' anything, Mama, and he was kind of closin' his eyes for a long time. You know, tryin' to fight that useless feelin'. I don't think he died all of a sudden. Young people don't die that easy, Mama.”

I
HAVEN'T
lived in New York for nearly four years now, but from time to time I still go back to Harlem to see if the streets are the same, to see if I recognize any of the faces of the junkies along Eighth Avenue, to see if I can recognize any of the slang terms that they're using. It seems as though the changes now are even faster than before.

Sometimes I walk along the street and look at the luxury apartment houses they are building in Harlem and wonder who lives there, what kind of people.

I recall once having met an elderly white man who said he had lived in Harlem around the turn of the century. He told me that he remembered Harlem when the Alhambra Theatre, on 126th Street, was a vaudeville theater. I thought that was really something, because the Alhambra Theatre was far from being a vaudeville theater in my lifetime. My strongest memory of the Alhambra Theatre was standing outside pouring some buttermilk down Danny once when he had taken an O.D. I could never imagine it having once been a vaudeville theater. Then, there are so many things about Harlem that I could never imagine.

I could never imagine the Black Muslims starting riots on 125th Street, but they tell me that they've done it. I could never imagine Alley Bush being in jail accused of murder, but they tell me that he's there.

There are so many things about Harlem that have changed, and they don't seem possible for Harlem. I suppose no one who has ever lived in a Harlem of the world could ever imagine that it could change so drastically and yet maintain so much of its old misery.

Not too long ago, some junkies broke into my folks' house and stabbed my mother. I panicked. When I heard about it, it seemed as though I just forgot everything else in the world. All I knew was that something had to be done about it. Exactly what, I didn't know.

I remember walking the streets, night after night, for nearly two weeks. All night long, I just walked the streets and looked in dope dens
and other places where junkies hung out. I remember meeting Rock, who was usually in jail, down on 129th Street. It was surprising to see him so changed, so clean and still so young looking and talking the way he was talking. I told him that I was looking for a junkie named Skippy.

Rock said, “Yeah, I heard about it, Sonny. Just about everybody's heard about it, but, man, I didn't know it was you and your moms.”

“Yeah, Rock, I wish it wasn't.”

“Yeah, well, Sonny, I hope you're not ready to do anything crazy, man.”

“Crazy like what, Rock?”

“Well, you know, Sonny, I've been out on these streets about nine months, man. The one thing I've noticed is that Harlem's changed. Man, it's changed a hell of a lot.”

“How do you mean that, Rock?”

“You remember when we were comin' up, man, if a cat fucked with you, you could get your piece and go looking for him. And if he heard that you were lookin' for him, he'd get his piece and start looking for you too.”

“Yeah, Rock, I remember.”

“Well, man, the shit ain't like that no more, Sonny. It's just not the way it was when we were comin' up.”

I looked at him, and I said, “Yeah, I sort of had that feeling.” I knew that Rock was going to offer some advice and that I was going to listen. Rock was street-wise. He knew about hurting people and even about killing people. I wasn't sure that that was what I wanted to do, but at the same time, I wasn't sure that it wasn't what I wanted to do. So I listened to him.

Rock went on. He said, “Yeah, if a cat hears you're gunnin' for him now, man, these niggers'll run to the police. You know?”

I said, “Yeah.”

“Sonny, if you've got anything on you, baby, your best bet would be to get rid of it in a hurry, because, for one thing, just about everybody in Harlem knows you're lookin' for the nigger.”

“Yeah, that's probably true, Rock.”

“And another thing, Sonny. You ain't got no business on these streets gunnin' for somebody, huntin' somebody down. Look here, why don't you just let me find him?”

“Rock, you know better than that.”