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We use to watch the big cars roll west on 47th Street, Lord's sun shinin off black paint jobs, brighter than it shined against skin. We'd follow um for blocks-Southpark down to where the strip met Indiana Avenue at least. But they didn't never stop, not for us, not even for the red lights. Just rolled on through, afraid we'd jump on the fenders and take the joyride west, I suppose. Didn't want no ride, though, least I didn't. Alls I wanted was for the rich men hidin behind them car windows to show they faces, to nod. Gimme my respect-that was all I wanted.
The ol souls walkin the strip, they was the ones who told us why the big cars never stopped. Said them limousines had somewhere to be, business to tend, folk to bury. So I'd ask the darkest, drunkest of all-ask if we knew them cars wasn't never gonna stop, how come we kept followin west on the strip?
Ol 47th Street Black'd laugh, like I was a stupid young'un whose soul hadn't been lost long enough. When his chuckles was done, his voice'd creak from under his straw hat, like Grandma Rose's devil'd possessed him, talkin bout, "If this's all the Lord's gave us to do with life, what's wrong in followin big cars, boy? We know ain't none of um gonna stop, we just hope to catch up one day."
Then I'd laugh, cause that ol soul was the stupid one. Me, I didn't hope for no ride, just for that rich man to gimme my respect.
* * *
Mookie and me met way back, around '57. I remember comin out to the street-we lived in what they called West Kenwood back then, on 45th Street-and seein a little colored boy hittin balls up against folks' houses. I think he'd cracked one of Grandma's windows and I'd gone to check on things, to stop "all that heathen poundin," like how the ol lady called it. Minute I set eyes on Mookie out on the block, though, I couldn't do nothin but watch them baseballs getting crushed. Cat swung with a lead pipe, all by himself in the middle of our street. Coulda stopped him if I'd wanted-Mookie wasn't nothin but a bit bigger than me back then-but that sweet swing and the float it brung had me locked. Wasn't how the balls beat up the frame sidings or knocked over lawn decorations or shook up the fences. Mookie just made them fly so high-fifty, one hundred feet in the air and on down 45th Street. He was only a boy, eight or nine years ol himself, just a boy givin no thought to how far his balls popped or what they tore up, not studdin a thing but his swing.
"What you doin?" Took five minutes to get that outta my mouth.
"What?"
"Said what you doin? My grandma told me to look on the street and find out what the racket is."
"Ain't no racket. Playin ball."
"By yourself?"
"Naw."
"Who you playin with, then? Don't see nobody else out here. Mus be playin by yourself, and you just don't wanna say it."
"Playin with the Lord."
"Huh?"
"Ain't nobody else out here to catch or pitch to me, so I'm playin with the Lord."
Woulda got his tail whupped black to green if Grandma'd heard that kinda trash comin off his lips-so I knew right from the jump, the boy didn't have no good home trainin. He tossed his second-to-last ball above his head and slammed it to 45th Place.
"Jesus bringin them balls back for you to keep playin?"
"Don't know. He ain't yet." Mookie got to throwin his last ball in the air and lettin it bounce gainst the street. "You wanna pitch to me?"
Mookie rolled the last ball out where he wanted me to stand, and I followed into the street. After he'd whacked it away, I ran the neighborhood, collectin balls he'd already knocked about. We was best boys from then on.
Mookie first became the man in high school. Between 39th and 47th Streets at least, he was the man. Playin football-gave up swingin at balls for throwin um long and far-was what done it for him, tossin touchdown passes for Wendell Phillips High School, winnin games and standin as they hero and all. A dark-skinned, wavy-headed star, that was Mookie those last two years of school. That was when the young gals really started throwin themselves at him, when he was tossin them touchdown passes. Hell, if anybody shoulda believed in a pot of gold promised a colored boy, then it was him, specially after seein his snapshot on the Defender sports page them times. I didn't play no football, framed too tiny. Wasn't nothin I coulda done out on the field that size. No hidin in Mookie's shadow out there-nigga was too busy gettin worshiped. So I sat in the stands, cheerin for him just like another one of them silly gals.
But that was over, Mookie bein a football star and all, by the end of junior year. Colleges didn't want him as no quarterback, wasn't ready for a colored to be winnin games. Wanted him to be takin handoffs, tacklin, gettin tackled to the ground where he belonged. Proud young cat like Mookie didn't wanna hear that shit, so when he came to understand didn't nobody outside the Forties blocks want him for no touchdown-throwin hero, he stopped goin to school altogether. Took to runnin the streets, stealin baseballs outta the Salvation Army store, shootin craps, and smokin squares. No more Phillips High touchdown throwin for my man Mookie, just livin life as one of Grandma Rose's godless street hoods instead.
That was what I saw him doin from the classroom window-shootin dice across the lot, down there free in the March sun-the day I decided to drop outta school and roll with Mookie for good. Ol Mister Manley stood behind his desk up front, usin his wood stick to point at words that meant not a goddamn thing, scribbled one under the other on the blackboard. My blink slowed to the heavy fade that came on whenever Manley got to dronin his gray sermons and jabbin at the wall with his stick. I looked down on Pershing Road not cause I peeked Mookie's shadow out the corner of my eye or heard craps crackin off a wall then-just runnin from the man, like every other day. That was how come the muthafucka'd put me in the front of the classroom first off, so he could keep that ol stare fixed on me, make sure I wouldn't get away with sleepin through lessons. His fault for sittin me close to the peephole so freedom'd keep my eyelids open no matter his hum.
Down there, Mookie crouched to his knees at the middle of a circle of dropouts from the Low End, dark dice (couldn't tell for sure up high, but maybe they was red) leavin outta his hand smooth, rollin and bouncin against the concrete without losin they pop, then dancin that jumpin bean dance off to Phillips High's brick. Dice hopped high on that ground, too, like concrete was too hot for restin (but it was cold that day-saw ice clouds breathed from Mookie's mouth) and craps shot fast down the line, though he'd barely shook before lettin go; and when they landed against the school, brick chips bounced off the walls big as the craps that made um.
Those Low End cats stood tall over Mookie's squat, but they was still covered in the shadow brung by my man as they gawked his roll. Shock on they faces, cause lookin down to concrete they'd found a shootin star high above. I swore they cheered like the girls in the football stands, too. Couldn't do nothin to stop themselves, even as they dropped more dimes into Mookie's winnin pile.
Seein them free on Pershing Road, I had to go to the toilet. Mister Manley took questions from the class behind me, usin the stick to point at brown hands raised here and there about the room, happy palms makin no more sense than the words scribbled in fronta me. Good, happy goddamn palms. I didn't have a clue of the lesson's subject till I felt that pee throbbin in my crotch, pressin against my balls and thighs all of a sudden. "Heroes," the history teacher'd hummed. And the words on his blackboard came to eye as my right leg tapped a jig under the desktop: Patrick Henry, the wall read, George Washington, Ben Franklin, Daniel Boone, Abraham Lincoln, General John Pershing, under American history's great figures.
"Who recalls the seven shared traits of these great figures from our history?" Manley said. "From yesterday's reading. Somebody remember one? Ah, Deborah-"
The palm his wood stick fixed on dropped, and the big-toothed girl with the mini-beehive sat up straight as a pole before answering, "Strength."
"Good, Deborah-strength. Another from someone else . . ."
I raised my right hand. The words didn't make no sense to me-heard talkin, couldn't make no logic outta it-but squirts stung inside my skin, beggin to trickle into my drawers. Didn't move from my seat, though, no matter my knees shakin and palm wavin high. Always raise your hand, wait to be excused from somebody else's table, boy, Grandma'd always said. I heard her under Manley's hum, too, learnin that to me over and over till her lesson wasn't no different than the classroom's hero tales.
And the ol man saw me wavin, more frantic than happy like the rest-shit, I was right in fronta the bastard. I caught them gray eyes rollin on me for less than a second before his stick pointed to the back of the room. "Someone else . . . Wilfred?"
"Patriotism," the Puerto Rican boy said.
"Good," said Manley before pointing past me again. "Someone else with another-"
My left leg tapped, faster than the right, fought off a drip.
"Honesty."
The beehive girl giggled.
"Morality."
Mookie stood from the circle, and the Low End fools patted him on the back and shoulders, gave him due dap for hustling they change before the next roller grabbed hot dice from the wall.
"Selflessness."
Just one squirt into my drawers, and I felt better-for a second, better. Legs went still, and as Mookie stepped outta the circle, I breathed. Could follow Grandma's words and stay put in that place just then, and learn. Manley's hu...
