Gumbo: A Celebration of African American Writing Part 83

"Yeah, but you're the professional." Tank smiled at me.

"Not then I wasn't," I said. I snapped Tank just as he turned his high beams on Blanche.

"Roxie, I never sent a card or anything, but I was sorry to hear about Dennis pa.s.sing," Edwin said it in that soft voice of his. His awkward sincerity was soothing, not the hard slap I'd been afraid I'd feel when I first heard Dennis' name out loud. These had been my best friends when Dennis and I met. Our occupation of McMillan Hall provided the chance for Dennis's first professional breakthrough. The pictures he'd taken in those three days doc.u.mented a serious leap in the significance of Black student activism and in the relationship between us. These were the friends who'd nurtured both events. I looked at Edwin directly, not through the camera lens and smiled. I was afraid to try to say thanks out loud. It doesn't look good for folks from Chicago to cry.

"Those shots he took when y'all were locked up inside McMillan Hall were kickin' it!" Tank said.

"I still have that one he sent me, I'm sleeping under that desk, remember?" Blanche said wistfully.

I nodded and slipped back behind the camera appreciative that they felt good about Dennis. At the same time I tried to fight the feeling that Dennis was the celebrity and I was just the girl who married him. I used to really identify with Yoko Ono when she hooked up with John Lennon and the other Beatle boys got set on ragging her. Fortunately I was never going to try singing rock and roll.

"I don't suppose you got a sympathy card from CL?" Blanche said slyly after a moment.

"No, I don't suppose I did."

"Oh, don't look so grim, girl. I was just teasing. After 30 years who cares about Charles Leonard?"

"Charles Leonard would be first on that list," I said. Blanche almost fell out of her chair laughing. The sound of it made my anxiety ease up. I'd been so busy remembering the things about Blanche that got on my nerves I'd forgotten how many laughs we always had together.

"I don't know why you sisters were so hard on CL," Edwin said.

"You don't know what?" Blanche's voice raised only slightly, but small strands of hair threatened to explode from her do. I returned to my camera. I'd done my battling just getting myself past him in the lobby, I wasn't about to break down CL to these guys.

"He had his nose stuck in the air a little but, d.a.m.n, he was always down with us," Tank tried to keep the conversation light.

"Charles 'CL' Leonard made Mike Tyson look like the Image Award winner at the NAACP."

"Aw, come on . . . let's . . ." Edwin was startled by the anger in Blanche's voice.

"Let's what? Okay, how 'bout let's each of you tell me how many times you slapped your girlfriends upside their heads?"

The guys were silent and I was too, except for the click of my shutter. Despite the statistics, it was impossible for me to conjure up a picture of either Tank or Edwin doing something like that.

"Okay," Blanche said letting up. "But I didn't see none of you rushing in to school that brother on keeping his hands in his pockets."

"That was all rumors, Blanche," Edwin said.

"Maybe to you all, if you didn't want to see the facts."

Tank looked disturbed and, for once, had no words of defense.

'Go girl!' I was thinking but I figured we didn't need to have this conversation in the hotel bar. "You know folks, CL's actually here. I saw him earlier. So, uh . . ."

We each looked up at the door as if our parents might catch us swearing. Then we returned to our champagne, everyone in an uneasy silence. I sipped from my gla.s.s remembering CL's girlfriend after me, a freshman. She'd arrived at a BIPs meeting more than once with more makeup on than was required for cranking out a newsletter. The guys never noticed and I know I never said anything. I guess n.o.body wanted to see what was really up. Fortunately for CL, he and I weren't dating long enough for me to find out.

"So, do you have an archive, your own, I mean?" Edwin asked, carefully guiding us back to comfortable ground.

"Oh yeah! We . . . I've got every demo ever staged, that was our specialty for a while." I chewed the inside of my lip, wondering when I'd be comfortable with the singularity of the word. Even though there had been time enough for me to be used to being on my own I'd been resisting it way too long. I might as well start here and now. "I have a major collection I'm thinking of donating to some HBC sometime."

"Right on!" Tank said raising his gla.s.s of champagne.

"You should do a book," Edwin said, his eyes twinkling with enthusiasm.

At that moment I wondered if it were possible that some of my friends back home in Chicago had somehow gotten in touch with the BIPs and bribed them to read their lines. One or another of them was always driving me crazy with ideas of photo books I should do: Black Male Professionals, Black Women Professionals, Young Black Athletes, Old Black Athletes. I could never figure out where the h.e.l.l people got these ideas.

"Yeah! A book on us. It's just the right time." Suddenly Blanche was a publishing consultant.

"Blanche got something, Roxie. Listen to the woman." Edwin sat up in his chair as if he were seeing the cover right then and there.

Whenever the idea of my doing a book came up I felt a ripple of fear pulse through my body as if a police siren was wailing outside my door. I knew I should do it. Time was pa.s.sing and who better to doc.u.ment the awakening of the 1960s than a photographer? And now, before our eyesight gets so bad we can't see the pictures. I took some deep breaths trying to keep the ripple from turning into a tidal wave.

"Hey, I saw that spread you did on Curtis at his marketing company a couple of years ago. In Ebony, right?" Tank leapt in for the save.

"Didn't he look great?"

"So that's what he's up to?" Edwin asked.

"Public relations. In Connecticut," Blanche answered. "We did a job with him a couple of years ago! Is he coming?"

"Maybe. He e-mailed me a month or so back." I was happy to have a new topic.

"I can't believe he's still around." Edwin said with a tightness in his voice that was puzzling. I wondered what's that all about, then I got it.

"Of course, he's still around," I said. "Curtis is just gay, not terminal."

"I know, I know . . . but that last year was hard on him. Then AIDS and everything."

"Let's be clear, the year wasn't hard on Curtis, it was CL and Jackson Wright that were hard on him." Blanche was in rare form, reminding me of another reason I couldn't stand my ex and Mr. Afro House.

"Yeah, that was the only thing they could ever agree on," Tank said glumly.

"Egotistical s.h.i.ts," I said with a shudder.

"I don't know what the big deal was," Edwin said. "Long as Curtis kept his johnson in his pants around me, what'd I care?"

"I don't think most folks felt that casual about him, Edwin," I said flashing on the disaster our last BIPs party had turned into, at least for Curtis. When his folks came to graduation he told them that the black eye and cracked rib were from a car accident.

"And just because Curtis is gay doesn't mean he's got to die with HIV." I tried to keep my voice level but memory was making it hard. After four years of sister this and As Salaam Alaik.u.m that, I was still livid at how shallow brotherhood could be. I a.s.sumed Edwin would have a deeper perspective, working in film and all.

"Well, like I said, I'm just glad to hear he's . . . you know . . . doing okay." Edwin's discomfort hung around him bigger than his jacket.

"You know what's her name," Blanched waggled her hand in the air trying to pull down a name. ". . . what's her name? You know, she got the one part in "West Side Story" they bothered to give to somebody colored. Uh . . . uh . . . you know . . . really tall, hazel eyes? She was on our floor, but down the other end."

"Always wore that huge green shawl!" The image began to resolve in my head. "She used to bring a big box of chocolate chip cookies back from break!"

"Yeah!" Tanks deep voice boomed. Food would be the thing to jog his memory.

"She's gay, too," Blanche said as she took a sip of her champagne.

"You're kidding?" Shock rang in Edwin's voice.

"Uh huh. I ran into her at a conference. She works in advertising too; more television than print. It was an industry thing, in Denver a while back. She was there, with her significant other. Good looking girl, from St. Croix I think."

I was surprised Blanche was so casual but clearly she was not having the problem with it Edwin was. He just kept asking her if she was kidding.

"I'm telling you I met the woman!" Blanche reiterated impatiently. "She's a nurse or something."

"d.a.m.n!" Edwin said.

"Don't be a drip, Edwin." Blanche was clearly getting to the end of her tolerance. As I watched her through the lens the set in the lines of her face wiped out all of the giggle and squiggle. I could see where Blanche was maybe deeper than her affect suggested.

"No point getting tense." Tank poured more champagne in Edwin's gla.s.s. "I did a program a year or so back, just for the locals, you know. Atlanta has quite a gay community," Tank continued shyly. "If statistics are right we're due to have at least 7 more gay people show this weekend, my brother."

Edwin slugged the champagne down like that would make everything clearer.

Well, we were certainly striking out with the contemporary issues. I know men can't talk about s.e.x unless they're in the middle of having it but Edwin was about to blow our high. I figured I'd take the lull in conversation as a cue to make my exit. I searched in my bag for money to put on the table.

Then Tank looked up and did his best imitation of an Isaac Hayes riff. All talking stopped. "Ooh Miss Hot b.u.t.tered Soul herself!!!"

"That's Ms. Hot b.u.t.tered Soul," Sheila Mills Baldwin said as she grabbed a chair from one of the other tables, moving across the room like the Black campus queen she'd been. Sheila was tall and slender, one of those people who always looked elegant, even in the days of combat fatigues. Her lilac silk pants suit complimented her smooth dark skin; a close ring of curls had replaced the intricate weave of braided rows. The hands that had sown together our red black and green banner were now manicured to perfection. The smile lines at the corners of her eyes only gave her character. She looked like not a day had pa.s.sed, or at least no more than a week.

My honest response was pure joy and then I felt bad that our friendship had lapsed. Hadn't friendship been at the heart of all the work we'd done? Did I let it go too easily?

I snapped a picture of Sheila just as she eased into the circle we'd formed and tossed her large matching lilac leather Coach bag onto the floor. Her smile was luminous as the voices of the other's swirled around her in greeting. Her perfume mixed with Blanche's and Tanks after shave, filling the air around me so I couldn't think. Tank and Blanche disentangled themselves from embracing Sheila while Edwin held her chair for her.

I stood, put my Leica back in my bag and was uncertain which direction to turn. Through a lens it's easy to put everything into focus. It only took a slight turn of the wrist and the picture was clear and clean. Too bad real life wasn't so easy. When she sat down Sheila fixed me with an impa.s.sive stare that dared me to leave.

Yeah, this was going to be one long weekend. s.h.i.t!.

Fear of Floating.

BY BRYAN GIBSON.

"Conversation enriches the understanding, but solitude is the school of genius. . . ."

-EDWARD GIBBON, The Decline and Fall of The Roman Empire.

I will say to you this: Melancholy, that wretched cousin to Sorrow, is, without a doubt, a parasite of the soul that devours its host until spirit and body are inspired to divide. For those of you who consider this hyperbole, I would argue that you have never truly known blue, gray, or black-colors of the river through which flows despair . . . And since this condition (your ignorance) means that you are among a privileged few, I shall, despite envy, so that you might at once become familiar with the sentiments I profess, bring to you this adventure, in which is contained the horrors of the spectrum.

FEAR OF FLOATING.

(VARIATIONS ON A THEME BY CERVANTES).

To whom this may concern (specifically, to the good and fair people of Promenade management): In this complex I have lived twenty-one years; I am, therefore, especially knowledgeable concerning the history of this dwelling, more so than yourselves, who have worked here for way less than half that time. Needless to say, I am aware of the recent tumult our establishment has suffered, for I, too, have endured its fall.

As I am mostly confined to my apartment (due to a debilitating illness), I seldom venture beyond the security of my front door; however, on one such occasion, having exited the first-level entranceway, I was accosted by three youths who, I believe, also live in this complex (and as a result of Section-8*1)-youths who, because of their previous environment no doubt, still find it necessary to behave like the inhabitants of a zoo, the place from which they were rescued by our wretched benefactors, the city.

Understand: I am not writing to bemoan my molestation, but to proclaim-both for myself and for my fellow cooperators (men and women who lead exemplary lives, and have done so without interruption)-that further desecration of our homes must not, and will not, go unpunished; for if it does, if the usurpers are continued to be allowed here, then, like Rome before us, which foolishly permitted to sully their regions the barbarian Goths, our dwelling, as did the empire, will most certainly perish. And so to prevent this, I have gathered here a few suggestions which should, if followed strictly, aid in the dismissal of the pillaging few: (1) Our enemies: Unlike most, I believe, absolutely, in Swift's contention that man is an unreasonable brute who sometimes, on occasion, behaves reasonably. From this we must conclude there is but one way to deal with our foes: to treat them not as thinkers (higher man) but as actors (lower man), who know nothing of discretion, modesty, or subtlety-for all these require thought, which, as you know, they can perform only on occasion. A speedy justice must be exacted; families of the villains expelled; and announcements-many announcements-discharged to responsible officials, warning them that the Promenade is not a haven for the haplessly low, nor a shelter for the neglected multiudes, by this I mean, savages, who, because of ill birth, have risen no further than the lowest rungs of life.

(2) Our allies: Living here for many years I have come to know my neighbors; though personal contact has been scarce (due to my condition), I have, nevertheless, learned that most are industrious employees, diligent pupils, loving parents, and caring friends; and, because of this, I no doubt believe they would gladly sacrifice a few dollars to maintain our tranquillity. This suggests the obvious: Rally the legions, secure the boundaries, display the purple (and the pride therefrom), and at once move against the uncivilized, who will know, and for all time, the Promenade is not a place for them.

(3) Our benefactors: Being that we are here and they are not, it shouldn't be too difficult to understand their apathy regarding our decay; for our triumph or fall affects them not in the least. And so we alone must wield the sword, inflict the wound, shed the blood; for if we delay, or, even worse, fail to act at all, then I fear the Promenade will be lost to the vulgar and the plain, as occurred on the final days of a once great empire.

Sincerely,

A Concerned Citizen.

This was the epistle sent to the uninformed, by a man who feared that he would someday fly away.

Imagine your life this way: Each day, and so each month and year, alone, afraid, consumed by a thought-that Gravity, a phantom whose cause is to maintain the heavens (and the creatures within), was a monster, lurking perpetually, and preparing for your doom!*2-And though this life may seem a ridiculous one, and remote, you should know that not too long before this day lived a man whose curse it was to live it. His name was *****, and as was revealed in his letter, he suffered an illness which kept him mostly from the world.

In his pockets he carried stones; on his wrists and ankles the heaviest weights; and against his skin layers of dense fabric that, while indoors, kept him safe from the sky and stratosphere; for he was terrified of gravity, that it would one day disappear, pushing him above the clouds, into s.p.a.ce, and towards the fires of a star. How he came to be this way no one knows, and I, the author, can only dabble in conjecture, so my opinion will stay where it belongs, in a dark and quiet place.

To continue then: In his home he stayed; and in that s.p.a.ce was born a child named Loneliness, whom he spoke to often, but never for as long as he would have liked. While isolated he read and studied, and in the shadows he listened to Chopin, whose genius moved him to record these words: Let us talk of Chopin-specifically, Sonata No. 3, in B minor: There are very few artists who endeavor to achieve the impossible, and in this magnificent work the master does just that; for here, within precise and immaculate keystrokes, Chopin does something I once thought unattainable: he actually makes beauty . . . palatable.

One day, when courage had come to move him so, *****, for reasons of necessity, escaped his home to be amongst his fellow men, who, though free of his psychosis, were still just as disturbed; for not moments from the doorway, just seconds from the home, ***** was hara.s.sed and beaten; and though in his pockets were the weapons of hard stones, he dared not touch them, for of floating.

Soon after this a.s.sault was written the letter previously disclosed, which contained both genius and contempt, but left anonymous the penman's name; but few who read it were unclear of the work's composer: for many had seen his mugging, and had quickly spread the news of its having occurred, and to everyone but the authorities, who would have done their best to do nothing, I'm sure. Be that as it may, having read *****'s epistle, many were so moved by his sapience, so impressed by his profundity, that, shortly after its publication, knowing who he was and where he lived (for such is the ability of gossips)-I say, shortly after this, envelopes began to appear beneath *****'s door, cluttering the foyer, containing requests for the inhabitant's wisdom.

At first he left them to gather dust, feeling no need ot entertain his attackers, whom he mistakenly believed were responsible for the parcels; but eventually, overtime, curiosity provoked him to open one, then all of the correspondence; and though some were unintelligible pros written by lowborn scoundrels-neighbors who hadn't liked being called savages-most were concise, well-written appeals for prudence that was uniquely his own. And so, moved that he had touched so many, and elated that his ac.u.men could aid his fellow man, ***** acquiesced, and responded to his neighbors. Of the letters he chose these, which most concerned him: Dear Sir- I am seventeen, nearing my eighteenth year, and am with child. I am desperate for your words. I do not want to kill my baby, but I do not want to kill my future either (for all will be lost if the child is born). My question to you is this: Being that I am only in my third week of pregnancy, and since the thing inside me as yet resembles a boy or girl, or anything close to these, if I choose to abort, would it in fact be killing? For so early is my condition can whatever is inside me truly, and accurately, be called human?

Most sincerely,

A Troubled Soul

And to this he answered: To Troubled Soul- Your concerns are dear, and your circ.u.mstance dire; but do not transform concern into sophistry. The question you are asking is a simple one: When is a baby a baby?-and I shall respond in this way (for doing so will guarantee your understanding me): When making a cake, one, usually, follows a recipe containing a list of ingredients-flour, sugar, vanilla, eggs, etc.-and none of these, before they are combined, can be said to be a cake, only a maniac would dispute this. Moreover, all of these components, and whatever else it requires to make a cake, if gathered together, side by side, but remain unmixed, are nothing but parts, parts which may, possibly, become a greater whole-nothing more. However, when these ingredients are combined-either sufficiently or haphazardly-even in this primordial, gelatinous state (for how else does one describe batter), I say, what you will have is cake; for no other purpose are these ingredients combined, for no other utility would they serve; and indeed, no matter how you choose to bake it, when or where, trapped in tin foil or dispersed in a m.u.f.fin pan-what you will have, once put into the oven and baked, I repeat, what you will have is cake-maybe malformed, possibly burnt and crispy, but, nevertheless, cake. And what makes reality even more potent than my a.n.a.logy is this: one could argue (and their are some who will, I'm sure) that only in the oven does baking begin, and it is ultimately through this process that a cake is truly born. And, for reasons of amus.e.m.e.nt, let us say I agree with this (and do so alacritously, because in their argument is found the greatest truth): Would you not, then, concede that our baby, our cake-whether he be angel or devil food, lightly sweetened or saccharine laced-begins baking as soon as sperm punctures egg?*3 and that in his mother is found the most glorous oven ever designed by Nature?