Vignettes: Part One
1. John January is screaching like a baby rabbit, but what he's saying is, "Foul, muthafucka! That's a muthafuckin foul you big nigga bitch!" He's speaking to my friend, Ross, who is at least a foot and a half taller than him. He's sort of shot putting the basketball straight down, into the blacktop. "If that's a foul, I'm the goddamned Queen of England." Ross (or Dion) is not riled. He slinks along a slow, indolent arch that leaves his massive back turned to John. He says, for emphasis, "I'm the fucking Queen." January flips his wig and flies like a mantis at Ross. He lands on Ross' shoulders, tries to take possession of his head, fails, and gets thrown like a droplet of sweat. He splashes up, though, and hammers a path back at Ross, who faces him now. January says, "You high-yella muthafuckin nigga muthafucka!" They stare each other down, shoulders together, turning, almost waltzing. January's forehead has a huge swath of pink torn away at the hairline; the pink patch in the deep, deep walnut black of his skin is pale, and appears to be pulsing in the sun, wonting for blood. I watch, not feeling particularly sorry for John. Ross asks John how he can call him high-yellow and a nigger all in the same sentence. "Nigga, I'll make you my bitch!" is John's reply. The bell rings and all the thoroughly-conditioned kids line up near the gymnasium door, turning to watch the scuffle. John repeats his catchphrase several times. They waltz. Just before our third grade teacher egresses, spotting Ross and John embroiled, the small man covered in blood and sweat, Ross pushes January, sending him backwards and onto his tailbone. He says, "You're the little nigger, John." He makes sure to pronounce the r sound.
2. It's 9 a.m. I walk into the living room, my parents trailing me. Bauba is crying on a chair. Six inches from his sneaker is the blood stain, which has been absorbed by the half-shag carpeting and is browning. It spreads three to four feet from the sofa. I walk past him, not knowing what to say. He looks up at me as I pass and shakes his head meekly, his eyes glistening and leaking. In my mind, he tries to say I'm sorry but it doesn't come out. Lamine is standing in the hallway, waiting to speak to me, and he apologizes profusely, very together, very hearty. I tell him I have experience with this sort of thing, that I'll be okay, and ask how he is doing. He says, "I'm okay, mon, I'm just, you know -- I'm so sorry to you." I'm not sure how to take that. He says it, I think, because my parents are here, and becasue they look ill. It's Bauba I'm concerned about, suffering publicly in the livingroom, above a massive blood stain, his head burried in his hands crying. I saw such a particular kind of grief in his face, the kind composed of disgust and disbelief that imbues everything with hateful defeat. The apartment reeks of death, and I see my father begin to wince; meanwhile, my mother focuses herself and begins bagging up the things in my room, a rarely-visited compartment of disarray. I watch Bauba drip tears onto his shoes from a crooked kitchen chair. The sun is above the building tops now, laying vivid yellow lines along the sickly walls. I look at the couch, its cushions peeled away and pocked with bullets, sections of it missing entirely. Bauba gets up and walks toward me, apologizing, but his words slip out like wet noodle and he can't seem to keep his head from tottering like a blown flower. He is weakened, beaten, astonished, and I try to console him, but he can't really hear me; his eyes drip as he thanks me for driving his father to the airport. There is distended conversation between two men, of which I am one, who are little more than open wounds, and so unable to help each other out of tenderness. I am the sterner of the two, but what that means I'm not sure. Bauba trips on the chair, leaving, looking at me and saying, "You know what kind of people we are."
2. It's 9 a.m. I walk into the living room, my parents trailing me. Bauba is crying on a chair. Six inches from his sneaker is the blood stain, which has been absorbed by the half-shag carpeting and is browning. It spreads three to four feet from the sofa. I walk past him, not knowing what to say. He looks up at me as I pass and shakes his head meekly, his eyes glistening and leaking. In my mind, he tries to say I'm sorry but it doesn't come out. Lamine is standing in the hallway, waiting to speak to me, and he apologizes profusely, very together, very hearty. I tell him I have experience with this sort of thing, that I'll be okay, and ask how he is doing. He says, "I'm okay, mon, I'm just, you know -- I'm so sorry to you." I'm not sure how to take that. He says it, I think, because my parents are here, and becasue they look ill. It's Bauba I'm concerned about, suffering publicly in the livingroom, above a massive blood stain, his head burried in his hands crying. I saw such a particular kind of grief in his face, the kind composed of disgust and disbelief that imbues everything with hateful defeat. The apartment reeks of death, and I see my father begin to wince; meanwhile, my mother focuses herself and begins bagging up the things in my room, a rarely-visited compartment of disarray. I watch Bauba drip tears onto his shoes from a crooked kitchen chair. The sun is above the building tops now, laying vivid yellow lines along the sickly walls. I look at the couch, its cushions peeled away and pocked with bullets, sections of it missing entirely. Bauba gets up and walks toward me, apologizing, but his words slip out like wet noodle and he can't seem to keep his head from tottering like a blown flower. He is weakened, beaten, astonished, and I try to console him, but he can't really hear me; his eyes drip as he thanks me for driving his father to the airport. There is distended conversation between two men, of which I am one, who are little more than open wounds, and so unable to help each other out of tenderness. I am the sterner of the two, but what that means I'm not sure. Bauba trips on the chair, leaving, looking at me and saying, "You know what kind of people we are."