The Chief (3 page)

P
ROFESSOR
M
ARKS WAVED
the four chapters I had faxed him. “Witherspoon does Hemingway.”

“You liked it?”

“Hated it.” He threw my pages across his little office. They hit the wall and cascaded to the floor like a waterfall. Paperfall?

I sucked air. It was like taking an uppercut to the cup from Iron Pete.

“You're writing dead white male.”

I mumbled, “At least I got one out of three.”

“Sit down, Mr. Witherspoon. Grab yourself. We need to talk.”

I dropped into a broken old armchair. I made fists but put them between my thighs. I couldn't decide if I wanted to throw him through the window or cry. I could do both.

“Mr. Witherspoon, what you wrote was not the voice of a nineteen-year-old urban Black male.”

I wanted to say, “How you know, home-boy?” but I couldn't get anything up past the Styrofoam cookie in my throat.

“The information in your story is excellent. It reeks with the credibility…”

“I was there!”

“…of journalism. This is not a course in journalism. You are applying for an independent study for creative writing. Creative writing! This is destructive writing. Who is Sonny Bear?”

“He's a nineteen-year-old half-Moscondaga, half-white…”

“Stop right there. I can read the sports pages. I can rent the Rocky movies. Why should we care about him? Why are you with him? What does it all mean? I need more from you. I hope you've got more to give.”

The phone rang. He gave me a meaningful glance that was supposed to nail me to the chair, and he picked up the phone. “Bob Marks…Hey, Theron, how are ya?…Now that's good news…. What are the numbers?…”

He got into a heavy-duty money discussion and I checked him out. Medium-sized white guy, close to my father's age, mid-fifties,
balding, pot belly, wearing zipper jeans, no-name scuffy sneakers, and a blue work shirt. Drab cool. I knew he'd written some novels and screenplays but I couldn't remember any of them. There was some reason he came here to be writer-in-residence but I had forgotten it. Maybe he was dying or a plagiarist or just losing it. Dying would be okay. I hated him very much.

He hung up the phone. “My agent. Sorry. Okay. Why should I care about Sonny Bear?”

“He's an interesting character struggling to find his identity, to find the world he belongs in.”

“So what? I've heard that before. From Native-American writers who tell it better.” He peered at me over his half glasses. “What do you, an African American raised in the postliterate hip-hop era, have to say about this?”

I took a deep breath. Trying to get permission for a semester of independent study was harder than trying to get into college in the first place. Grown-ups hate to set you free. I had to give them samples of my writing and beg two deans and three professors. I thought I had it nailed. I felt it all crumbling around me.

I sucked it up, then threw my best punch. “I
hope, Professor Marks, you're not saying that because I'm Black I can only write about the Black
thang.”

He honked at me, that nose laugh some whites have. I hate it. “Don't try to mau-mau me, Witherspoon, I'm no Ivy League tenure hack hanging in for his pension. I'm a pro writer, a wordslinger between books and marriages, and I'm here to goose up the program and then ride into the sunset before anyone can shoot back.”

What a pompous jerk. But all I said was, “My project has already been approved.”

“By someone who is no longer with the university. I don't think this is a proper independent-study project. Or maybe you're not doing it right. Either way it doesn't work for me. It's got no heart, no grit. You love Sonny Bear? You believe in his quest? It reads like you're just along for the ride.

“Does boxing stink? Who's this guy in a wheelchair? I don't get a sense of Jake. This foxy TV producer, Robin Bell—sounds like a phony name to me. Does she make you jealous? Do you think she'll get between you and Sonny?”

“What's that got to do with the story?”

“That is the story. Otherwise, who cares, another guy wants to be heavyweight champ, so what? I want to be heavyweight champ, we all do, but most of us quit. He will too, probably. So will you. I liked when you thought about your book before you thought about Sonny. That was real.”

The phone rang again. I thought about just walking out. It was green outside his window. I'd never been here in the summer before. It was hot in his office. Small office for a tiny talent. Books everywhere. Some had his name on them.
Queen Bea. The Runaround. Bronze Cannon Wrecks.
Never heard of any of them. Pudgy little opponent writer, had to get a college job because his books don't sell.

He finished his phone call. “If you want to borrow any of them, feel free.”

“Thanks. I'll wait for the TV movie.”

He smiled. Yellow teeth. “Now that's good, that's grit. Sarcasm works. Okay. First thing, you keep dropping these Indian tidbits along the way. What's the 'little death'? Who are the 'Running Braves'? What's 'the Hawk' mean?”

“I thought I'd deal with that later. Those were teasers.”

“Foreshadowing. Okay. But they better pay off big-time. Now, let's talk style. First person is okay, I can live with that if it makes you comfortable, but then you've got to be more of a character yourself. Since you're filtering the action through your soul, we better know who you are. And if you're just playing writer, if you don't really care and you're not willing to let it hang out, it's going to show.

“Second major point, the present tense. It doesn't work. False immediacy, like you're writing one of those I'm-so-tough sports columns. You got to dig in, Witherspoon. Work harder. Maybe I'll sign your papers, but I want to see a few more chapters. Before I make a decision.”

I
JUMPED ON THE FIRST
train back to New York. I was so pissed I was talking to myself out loud. This Professor Marks is a third-rater, an opponent who can't write the big one. He knows I've got a chance to be a contender so he's getting in my way. He doesn't want me to make it. And he's going to judge me.

Whoever I am. A postliterate rapper?

The little pink-faced conductor gave me his icy blue glare. No trouble on my train, boy. Who does he think I am, the president of the Crips? Professor thinks I'm not Black enough, the conductor thinks I'm too Black. I slipped on my ghetto stare and eyeballed him right back. It worked, even though my little round glasses slid down my nose.

I kept my hard face on until New Haven, when a posse of gang-banger wanna-bes pimp-rolled on and the conductor hid in another car. They looked at my clothes and my
book bag, and one of them said, “Hungry?” and another said, “Fo' Oreos,” but then they spied some honeys and forgot about me for the rest of the trip. I tried to read a book of experimental short stories that were written like movie treatments, but I couldn't concentrate. I kept thinking of things I should have said to Professor Marks. The friendliest was Drop dead.

New York City was hot and it stank, but I caught an air-conditioned subway car, and the ride uptown was icy sweet.

I stopped off at Donatelli's Gym on 125th Street in Harlem, my second home in the city. Just walking up those dark, narrow, twisting stairs calmed me down. The smell of sweat and liniment, the late-afternoon sun through the dusty windows, the bells, the scuffling footsteps of shadowboxers and the tom-tom slap of the speed bag cleared Marks out of my head.

Henry Johnson, who owns the gym, was working with a stiff who called himself the Punching Postman. I climbed up on the apron next to Henry, a formal man who always wears a white shirt and a tie. He's a good guy, one of Alfred's oldest friends. Henry has always let
Sonny train for free, doesn't even make him do chores around the gym anymore.

“Sonny around?” I asked him.

“They went back to the Reservation. He didn't even take his equipment. Said I could clean out his locker and give it to some other kid.”

“You didn't do that?”

He shook his head but kept his eyes on the fighters sparring. “I seen this before.”

“And what happened?”

He shrugged. “Sometimes they come back and sometimes they don't.”

“You didn't try to talk to him?”

“No point. He's got to decide for himself. If he wants it bad enough, he'll come back.”

“Cold.”

He looked at me. “Got to be realistic in these situations, Martin. He's not getting anywhere. Money's not coming in. You got a fresh thought?”

“What about Robin Bell's scam?”

“Who?”

“The TV producer. About going to Vegas and challenging Hubbard.”

“I heard that crazy talk.”

“It worked for Ali.”

“He already had big bread behind him. We're just small fry.”

The Postman started getting hit, and Henry climbed into the ring to show him a move, which was a waste of time.

On the way out, I visited Rocky, the humansized punching bag that hung from the ceiling by a thick chain. The dummy's canvas skin was divided into squares from forehead to waist, each marked with a number. The chin was 1, the right eye 7…left eye 8, the nose 3…middle of the belly 17. You get the idea.

I felt nostalgic about old Rocky. Three years ago, while I was in high school, my dad made me work out at the gym. I hated it. I felt out of place, and I was lousy at jumping rope and hitting the speed bag. I hated being there because I knew my dad, who once was a light heavyweight contender, thought I was a fat wimp wasting his life writing poems and short stories. I hated it even more when Henry paired me off with this wild-looking half-Indian kid Alfred had dumped on Henry after the kid got out of jail. We didn't get along at all. Each of us was supposed to take turns calling out the numbers
while the other one hit Rocky. I did it in a flat monotone to show him I didn't care. And he wasn't trying too hard either.

And then one day, while we were at the bag, I heard a voice say, “Got to concentrate, Sonny. When a Running Brave chops wood, he thinks about the tree and the axe, not the fire he's gonna make.”

It was Jake Stump, down from the Res to check on his grandnephew. He told Sonny to think about what he was hitting before he hit it, that a jaw was hard, a belly was soft. Then Jake whirled on me and fired a bony finger into my face. He said, “When you call a number, you gotta think, Why? Number nine, eye, so he can't see what's coming next. Number twenty-five, arm, deaden his muscle so he can't hit you so hard.” Then he walked away.

After that, everything changed between Sonny and me, between me and my dad and even me and the world.

I took a few sentimental swings at Rocky. One thing hadn't changed. My best shot hardly budged the bag, and the pain in my knuckles shot up to my shoulder.

T
HE SUBWAY HOME
was as hot and stinky and crowded as the streets. The apartment felt the same way. I guess I was depressed.

My kid sister, Denise, said, “Jake called.”

I started for the phone, but she stopped me. “He said he'll call back. I don't think he wants Sonny to know he's talking to you.”

Mom said, “It doesn't sound good.”

“Sonny told Henry to clean out his locker and give his stuff away.”

“Got to do something,” said Denise.

“We offered some money,” said Mom, “but we don't have enough to finance another year of this.”

“It's not just money,” I said. “Sonny's down. No publicity, no decent fights. He used the word futile.”

Dad came in—you could hear his footsteps out in the hall. He's a super heavyweight now. I started to tell him about Sonny but he waved it
away. “What did your professor say?”

“Maybe that can wait for dinner,” said Mom. She'll let you tell your story your own way.

Not Dad. “I like my news on an empty stomach. Well?”

“He wants some rewrites.”

Dad nodded. “Well, writing is rewriting. You know that.” Push comes to shove. Mom and Dad will always side with teachers against students, being teachers.

“It's not that—he wants something different. This white guy is telling me the book isn't Black enough.”

Denise rolled her eyes and said, “Well, shut ma-uh mouth, if that cracker want some low-down niggerish licorish we'll…”

“Stop that,” snapped Mom.

“Martin is a writer,” said Denise. “He has to find his own voice. In his own time. In his own way.”

Sometimes I can almost understand why most other people like that girl.

“Martin is a college student,” said Dad. “He has to get his degree. Then he can go looking for his voice.”

“You just don't get it,” I said. “Some Hymie writer…”

“I don't want to hear that…” said Mom.

“…who can't get his own stuff published…”

“…garbage in my house….”

“…wants me to write some jigaboo rap fantasy.”

WHAP! My dad's big hand shivered the table. “Stop this, Martin, right now. Some reality therapy. You are a student. Your job is to finish college. Then you can…”

“Maybe there's better uses for my tuition money.”

That slowed the action. It's a sore point. My mother's mother, who owned a beauty products company, left me the money for college. It was in my name for tax purposes. I could get at it for anything I wanted, but I never have.

No telling where the conversation would have gone this time if the phone hadn't rung. Saved by the bell. Hey, Professor Marks, this is a boxing book, after all.

It was Jake. He wanted me to come up to the Res. Sonny was getting ready to leave.