Ain’t Gonna Be the Same Fool Twice
A Novel
for my friend, sue holper
my catalyst for change
PRAISE FOR THE NOVELS OF APRIL SINCLAIR
Coffee Will Make You Black
“A funny, fresh novel about growing up African-American in 1960s Chicago … Sinclair writes like Terry McMillan’s kid sister.” —Entertainment Weekly
“Whether she’s dealing with a subject as monumental as the civil rights movement or as intimate as Stevie’s first sexual encounters, Sinclair never fails to make you laugh and never sacrifices the narrative to make a point.… What is clear is that Stevie is a wonderful character whose bold curiosity and witty self-confidence—through Sinclair’s straight-talking words—make her easy to love.” —Los Angeles Times
“Heartwarming … Memorable … Told with earnestness and humor … A coming-of-age story with a twist.” —Chicago Tribune
Ain’t Gonna Be the Same Fool Twice
“Hard to resist … The freshness of Sinclair’s voice makes both the familiar and the unfamiliar an adventure worth smiling about.” —The Miami Herald
“This tale has verve and readability.” —The New Yorker
“A hoot … High-spirited and entertaining … A disarmingly upbeat novel about race and sexual preference.” —San Francisco Chronicle
I Left My Back Door Open
“A Bridget Jones’s Diary for black women … Readers will respond to this novel’s honesty, to its colloquial humor, and to its exacting exploration of Daphne’s relationship woes.” —The New York Times Book Review
“Any sister who has felt unlucky in love will identify with Sinclair’s smoothly written tale.” —Essence
“Snappy, entertaining.” —The Washington Post Book World
“Sinclair’s jazzy new novel is her best yet. Her syncopated rhythms and her cool, bluesy tones make her Ella Fitzgerald’s literary rival.” —E. Lynn Harris
summer 1971 to spring 1975
summer 1975
fall/winter 1975
1
“You meet the same peoples over and over again in life,” Grandma warned from the doorway.
I didn’t give her my full attention. I was too busy cramming wool sweaters into a suitcase full of jeans. Despite my sweaty, well-toasted skin, I knew I’d need warm clothes in a month or so.
“They names and they faces might be different. But they will be the same peoples,” Grandma insisted. Her words hung in the humid Chicago air like the smell of chitterlings cooking on a stove. She pulled a paper towel from her apron pocket and wiped the sweat off her fudge-colored forehead. Grandma wore one of those serious aprons that you had to stick your arms through. There was nothing prim and proper about her.
I was the first person in my whole family to go away to college, and I was excited. But I knew that “book learning” wasn’t everything. Grandma says experience is the best teacher. And she is no one to take lightly.
Mama joined Grandma in the doorway. The two of them could barlely fit. They were both big women. Neither of them were fat, just big in the way grown women are supposed to be, according to Grandma. She’d often say, “Chile, don’t nobody want a bone but a dog.” But I was content with my slim figure. Thin was in, especially in white America, where I was headed. After all, Twiggy was the model of the hour. And besides, I certainly wasn’t anywhere near that skinny. I did have titties and booty to speak of.
There sure were a lot of memories in this bedroom. The walls had been yellow, pink, and finally blue, my favorite color. I shook my head at the now worn-out-looking white bedroom furniture that had looked so magnificent the Saturday afternoon they carried it home in my uncle’s truck. Mama and Daddy bought it used from a house sale in Lake Forest, a rich northern suburb. I’d thought I’d died and gone to heaven. Aunt Sheila took one look at the gleaming white furniture and declared that we’d arrived.
I gazed at my bed. The quilt that Grandma made me years ago was almost in tatters now. I’d bought a brand-new, lime-green corduroy bedspread with some of the money I’d made this summer helping Grandma at her chicken stand.
Mama looked sad, like she hated seeing her only daughter go. You’d never know by her puppy dog expression that Mama had swung a mean switch in her day. She’d also done a lot of preaching over the years. And I’d been the mainstay of her congregation. My two younger brothers could never be held hostage long enough to listen to her sermons. Boys were “outside children,” they “liked to go,” as Mama would say. I wondered if David and Kevin would finally have to help her out in the house. She might make them wash a few dishes, but that would probably be about it.
“Well, Mama, you won’t have me to kick around anymore,” I teased.
“Just don’t let some man make a fool out of you and you’ll be all right.” She sighed. Her smooth pecan complexion only showed wrinkles when she frowned.
I didn’t have a boyfriend right now. I’d gone to the senior prom with a dude from the school band who’d asked me at the last minute. I’d barely known the shy, husky trumpet player drew breath until he’d mumbled, “Stevie, will you go with me to the prom?” They call me Stevie at school. My family calls me Jean. My name is actually Jean Stevenson. I’d swallowed and answered, “Yeah, I’ll go with you.” Paul was shy and quiet, but kind of cute. At least he wouldn’t expect me to put out, I figured.
Our date had been pleasant enough. I even had fond memories of resting my head on Paul’s shoulder as we slow-danced to the prom’s theme song, “We’ve Only Just Begun.” It was a white tune by the Carpenters; and our class of 1971 was all-black, except for a couple of Puerto Ricans and a Chinese girl. Some people had complained about the honky theme, but the prom committee prevailed. Only three other white songs were played during the prom, Carole King’s “It’s Too Late” (which everybody agreed was hot, white girl or no white girl); Bread’s “I’d Like to Make It with You”; and Bob Dylan’s “Lay, Lady, Lay.” Of course no dudes could complain about the last two.
Paul and I had gone to the Indiana Dunes for the senior class picnic the day after the prom. And Paul had been a perfect gentleman, lightly brushing my lips only when he’d said goodbye. It would give me a sweet feeling, just thinking about it. Something might have come of our connection if we’d had more time to get to know each other. But we didn’t; Paul’s draft number was pulled. He jumped up and joined the navy and shipped out right after graduation. Paul figured if he was in the navy, he’d have a better chance of staying out of Vietnam.
“Jean,” Grandma said, interrupting my thoughts. “We’re expecting great things outta you.”
I chuckled as I stuffed underwear in the inside pocket of the large suitcase. “Grandma, I’m just going away to a state university, so don’t y’all expect me to come back a Rhodes scholar.”
“I know you’ll do us proud,” Grandma said, dabbing her eyes.
Suddenly, I felt a lump in my throat. I was sad to be leaving everything familiar, even Mama.
“You just keep your head in your books,” Mama admonished. “And don’t let men distract you. Men are nothing to get excited about, remember that.” It was obvious that Daddy no longer excited Mama. The two of them reminded me more of business partners than lovers. She often passed Daddy like a vegetarian walking by a steak house. I wondered if the earth had ever moved.
“I don’t know what you talking about.” Grandma winked. “Men are too something to get excited about! Jean, if you can’t be good, be careful.”
Mama folded her arms. “You oughta be ashamed of yourself, talking like that at your age!”
“You the one who should be shamed,” Grandma insisted, stepping into the bedroom and swinging her full hips.
“Chile, there might be snow on the chimney,” she laughed, pointing to her Afro. “But, there’s sho’ nuff fire down below!” She snapped her fingers and did a boogaloo step.
“Get it, Grandma!” I laughed, clapping my hands.
“Poppa must be turning in his grave,” Mama sighed.
Grandma rubbed her nose. “My left nostril is itching. Some man is talking about coming to see about me right now. And if he cain’t cut the mustard, he kin least lick the jar!” Grandma rushed out of the room.
Mama shook her permed head in horror.
Grandma said her good-byes in Chicago. She shoved a twenty-dollar bill in my hand and then we hugged for the longest time.
As soon as my brothers, my parents, and I were out of Chicago good, we saw corn for days. I don’t mean that literally; it was only a four-hour drive. But I don’t care if I ever see another cornfield again, no matter how much I like eating it.
I’ve been assigned to a coed building, modern twin towers with twenty floors. Mama says she would’ve preferred for me to be in an all-girl’s dorm. Daddy agrees with her, like he usually does on matters involving us kids. I don’t know why Mama’s tripping. We’re on two different sides of the building. We even have different elevators.
It got a little emotional in the parking lot for us and plenty of other families. Everybody hugged me, Mama, Daddy, tall, lanky David—who will be a junior on Southside High’s basketball team—and cute, chubby Kevin, who I can’t believe will be a freshie this fall.
There wasn’t a dry eye among us, including my father’s narrow dark eyes. He’s due for a dye job, I thought, noticing the gray around his temples. But Daddy still looked strong and athletic in his bowling shirt.
Grandma says white people are born actors. So, I’m not sure how my roommate and her family really felt when they discovered that I was black. I’d moved into the room first. My family was long gone by the time Barbara, her parents, big brother, and little sister trooped in with her stuff. Everybody was cordial; none of them tripped out like they’d seen Godzilla or anything. But who knows how they really felt?
Anyway, thank goodness, my roommate seems like the sweet type. Maybe because she’s so homely. She probably figures she has to be extra nice. I hate to be cold, but the girl’s face is hurting. Barbara is tall and skinny, downright gawky. She’s got long, stringy, brown hair and pinched features. I don’t have to worry about any latent homosexual tendencies being aroused by the sight of her, that’s for damn sure.
I know that I can be attracted to a girl. I got a crush on the school nurse back in high school. Nurse Horn said it was normal for adolescents to develop same-sex crushes. But it still bothered me that good-looking girls turned my head.
Barbara is from a small town—Quincy, Illinois. She goes to bed at nine o’clock and plays a lot of Barry Manilow and even some classical. I’m thankful that she plays it real low. I try to be considerate, too. I don’t blast my Motown sounds unless she isn’t here. I made up a riddle. Why do white people go to bed so early? The answer is, because they’re “tired.” If you don’t get it, that means you’re “tired” too.
Today, I finally found the ivy. I’d always pictured a college having old, stately, brick buildings with ivy hanging from them. But I’ve only seen one place like that on this campus. The newer buildings outnumber the older ones, about two to one.
I like most of my classes. Only one of my teachers seems racist. Not anything overt, just a feeling I get. But that’s nothing new. I can’t trip on it. I have to keep my eyes on the prize, like Daddy says.
In class, my answers better be right. I feel like I have to represent my race. If I look dumb, we all look dumb. It’s a burden. Sometimes I envy the white students, who can just blend in.
It’s a trip suddenly to be surrounded by wall-to-wall white folks. And it’s really strange living in the same room with one. It’s a mindblower to look over at a pink face sleeping in the bed across from me. I keep waiting for the girl to go home, but then I remember she lives here.
In the cafeteria, when I sit with white girls from my floor, I cut my chicken with a knife. And I surely don’t suck on the bones. I pretty much avoid watermelon altogether.
In the second week of September, I made my first trip into town. The place reminded me of that song “I Wanna Holler, But the Town’s Too Small.” There are no signal lights or busy intersections. But there is a statue in front of the courthouse of some dude on a horse. Every small town probably has one, I thought.
I was sitting on the bench waiting for the campus bus. I’d just finished buying a flashlight and some tampons. The weather was perfect, about seventy-five degrees and very little humidity, for a change. Suddenly, I heard somebody shouting “Nigger!” Then I felt wet spit on my arm. I looked up as a truckload of men passed by, leaving a cloud of gravel dust. It all happened so fast, I was stunned.
I felt anger, fear, and humiliation all rolled into one. The white people walking by and the campus bus pulling up to the curb became a blur. Since I couldn’t kill the assholes in the truck, I simply wanted to disappear. Somehow, I gathered my composure and boarded the bus. And, I was able to stare out of the window at the postage-stamp-size town just like anybody else.
But tears ran freely down my face when I told Mama on the phone what had happened. She said in a calm but concerned voice, “Baby, I’m sorry that happened to you, but you will just have to tough it out. Lord knows, we as a people have come through slavery, survived the KKK, and the dogs being set on us in Birmingham. And you will just have to survive getting a college education in rural Illinois; so long as they’re giving you a four-year scholarship. It’s too bad, but that’s just the way it is.” Mama paused. “Sometimes, your soul looks back and wonders how you got over.”
I’m thankful for the camaraderie I feel with the other 500 or so black students on this campus of 20,000. Most black folks speak to one another, whether we know each other or not. The few who don’t are scorned as “Uncle Toms” by the rest of us.
I met a sistah named Sharlinda in the dorm bathroom. She had Noxzema all over her face. We nodded and introduced ourselves before I brushed my teeth. Then Sharlinda said that it was hard getting used to not seeing roaches running every which way when you turned on a light.
I could’ve turned my nose up and acted insulted. Just because I’m black doesn’t automatically mean I’m acquainted with roaches, does it? But despite Mama’s vigilant efforts, we keep us a few roaches in residence. Not to mention occasional mice and a rat every blue moon.
So, instead of copping an attitude, I laughed and said, “Girl, I know what you mean.”
Sharlinda confided that she’d never slept between two sheets before in her life. She said it had taken her a whole week to figure out what the second sheet was for. I laughed and told her I could relate.
It seemed like by the time I’d rinsed the toothpaste out of my mouth, Sharlinda and I had become fast friends.
Sharlinda is cute and “healthy,” not a size eight like me. She’s light skinned with sharp features and curly hair that you could barely call a ’fro. You might think she was born to purple until she opened her mouth. Sharlinda talks like a stone sistah. She can butcher the king’s English with the best of them. She was probably raised on a boot and a shoe.
Sharlinda grew up on the West Side of Chicago. I came up on the Southside. She says the West Side is the baddest side of town. I don’t disagree with her.
I’m a journalism major. Sharlinda’s major is undeclared. She’s in the “Reach Out” program. Mama would say that they had to reach way out to let Sharlinda into somebody’s college.
Mama seldom likes my friends, and I know she wouldn’t approve of Sharlinda. She prefers seddity people and I don’t. I like it that Sharlinda is funny and down-to-earth. I’m often drawn to people like her. Mama would say that’s my downfall.
Anyway, it’s nice having a friend to hang out with. Especially since I don’t have a boyfriend yet. The competition for brothas is a little stiff because more than half of the black students are female. A few of the dudes have been checking me out, especially a handsome, clean-cut type named Myron. But so far nothing has materialized, just a couple of smiles and one long, lingering look in the campus bookstore. Maybe I’ll give Myron some play soon. Blood seems nice, I just hope he isn’t too square for me.
Yesterday, Sharlinda and I went shopping in town. I was nervous, but at least I wasn’t alone. Besides, I knew I had to conquer my fear. There were almost no other black people in sight. We felt like aliens until we found this cool store run by hippies. Sharlinda bought a black light and a reefer pipe. That’s how I know she smokes dope. I’ve still never even tried it. But I’m ready to.
I bought two posters for my room, one of a woman with a big rainbow Afro and another of a peace sign.
Speaking of peace, I marched in my first demonstration against the war last night. A few dudes even burned their draft cards. That’s when the campus police ordered us to disperse. When we didn’t disband fast enough, they sprayed us with tear gas. I hated that shit. My eyes and throat were burning all the way back to my dorm.
There was a long-haired photographer taking pictures at the demonstration. I told Sharlinda that I might end up in Life magazine. She said, I’d be more likely to wind up in a CIA file. That worried me a little. But Sharlinda said, “Don’t trip. You’re small potatoes, ain’t like you’re Bobby Seale or somebody.”
Tonight, my roommate and I were interrupted from our studying by a big commotion outside. We stuck our heads out the window into the warm Indian-summer night to find out what the deal was. I thought it might be another antiwar demonstration.
But to my surprise, what I saw was as traditional as the Fourth of July. I’d heard about panty raids but I never thought I would actually witness one in 1971.
Girls were sliding the window screens open and panties were raining down on white boys’ heads. They sniffed them like they were fresh-baked rolls.
They talk about us being wild, I thought. I swear, white folks are something else.
“I have half a mind to throw my funky drawers down there,” I said aloud. I forgot I was talking to square-ass Barbara.
“Let’s do it!” She smiled wickedly.
I was as surprised as if a nun had invited me to an orgy.
“Who knows? This may be the last panty raid. It’s the end of an era.” Barbara sighed. “This will at least give us something to tell our grandchildren.”
“Yeah, we won’t be able to say we were at Woodstock, but we can say we were in a panty raid.”
“Well, it beats swallowing goldfish or stuffing yourself inside a phone booth.”
“OK, let’s go for it then.” Barbara and I reached under our long nightshirts and pulled off our drawers.
We giggled as our panties, still warm from our body heat, were quickly snatched up.
2
Sharlinda and I were sitting up in the room of this girl named Today, waiting for her to come back from town. Today had gone to the Prairie Star Diner to apply for a job as a cashier. Last week we started this tradition of playing gin rummy and ordering out for pepperoni pizza on Thursday nights. None of us had Friday morning classes.
Sharlinda had gotten Today’s roommate, Becky, who was working down at the desk, to let us inside the room. Becky and Today got along well enough to coordinate their room. They had matching red corduroy bedspreads and each had a stack of beer cans over her desk.
Today was more Sharlinda’s friend than mine. They were both Kappa Kittens, little sisters of the black fraternity Kappa Alpha Psi.
“Damn, Today know it’s Thursday night.” Sharlinda dumped several albums on the bedspread.
“Maybe they’re showing her how to use the cash register. You know it’s Spaghetti Night at the Prairie Star Diner. The joint is probably jumping. They might have had to put her to work right on the spot.”
“Whatever,” Sharlinda muttered. She put Marvin Gaye’s dynamite album on the box.
I shuffled the cards for Solitaire. Sharlinda stuck the other albums back in their stand.
“Girl, I didn’t tell you I saw you over by the Union this morning,” I said.
“How come you ain’t say nothing?” Sharlinda opened the beige, vinyl-covered bolster over Today’s bed. She pulled out a bottle of Boone’s Farm and some paper cups.
“Sharlinda!” I raised my eyebrows.
“Today won’t mind. You don’t understand. We’re both Kittens.”
I decided not to trip. Sharlinda knew Today better than I did. Maybe she would understand. And hadn’t Grandma always said, “People would rather buy you a drink than a sandwich?”
“Anyway, girl, you were making tracks so fast. I didn’t want to yell out and sound all ignorant. You weren’t late for a nine o’clock. Why were you booking like that?”
“I was rushing to get to my math class.” Sharlinda handed me a paper cup full of wine. “We had a test today, girl.”
It wasn’t like Sharlinda to be racing to get to a class. A party yes, but not a class, and certainly not to take a test. I sipped my wine.
“Why were you breaking your neck to take a test?”
“I wasn’t rushing to take a test, fool.”
“Wait a minute.” I demanded my propers. “You see a fool, you knock her down!”
“OK, sorry. Anyway, I was trying to get a good seat by this white girl whose paper I could cheat off of.”
“Did you succeed?”
Sharlinda stretched her hand out for me to give her five.
“I had a bird’s-eye view.”
I slapped Sharlinda’s hand. “You think you passed?”
“Sho, if she passed, I passed.”
“The girl know you were cheating off of her?”
“She’d have to be a new kind of fool not to have known.”
I picked up a card. “What if she’d gotten pissed off and covered up her paper? Then you’d ’a looked like a fool.”
Sharlinda leaned back against the bolster. “Look, the chick was cool. I cheated off of her once before and made a B. She knew what time it was. Miss Ann was hipped to what was happening.”
“The instructor still could’ve caught you, girl.”
Sharlinda gulped her wine. “Yeah, but he didn’t, did he? Coulda-woulda-shoulda don’t cut it, do it?”
I pointed toward the bedspread. “You spilled some wine.” I was being careful sitting at the desk. I was raised not to sit on somebody’s bed without being invited.
“The bedspread is red and the wine is red.” Sharlinda rubbed the liquid into the corduroy fabric. “So, it ain’t no biggie.”
I glanced at the poster on Becky’s wall advertising a Grateful Dead concert. “I’d rather study, myself. For one thing, I wouldn’t want to give a white person the satisfaction of thinking that the only way I could get over was to cheat off of them.” I looked back at my cards. “They probably think we’re all dumb anyway. You just confirm their suspicions.”
Sharlinda pushed up the sleeves of her school sweatshirt and folded her arms. It was a sure sign that she was getting pissed.
“Well, I would rather give them the satisfaction of helping some poor dumbass nigga get over, than my black ass not being able to pledge Delta next year. I have to bring my grade point up to a two point five.”
The door swung open and Today dragged in, huffing and puffing. She threw her heavy coat on the bed. Today was tall and striking with a vanilla-bean-colored complexion. She seemed neither surprised nor happy to see us. And she didn’t appear fazed that we were drinking her wine.
“Well?” I asked searching Today’s high-cheekboned face.
“Well, what?” she replied, changing out of her skirt and blouse.
“Did you get the job?”
“Yeah, did you get the gig?” Sharlinda asked.
“What y’all talking about?” Today asked, running her fingers through her short Afro.
“You know, the cashier job at the Prairie Star Diner,” I answered in disbelief.
“What makes y’all think the Prairie Star Diner was hiring?”
“Today, the HELP WANTED sign was in the window just as big as day. No pun intended.”
“Yeah, and you told me that you were on your way to town to apply,” Sharlinda reminded her.
Today pulled on her T-shirt and zipped up her jeans. She glanced up at her poster of President Nixon sitting on the toilet.
“Ooh, that sign. ‘Gertrude, didn’t I tell you to take that sign out of the window, two days ago?’ ‘Oh, Ruth, I forgot.’” Today mimicked the white townies. “‘Why, the new girl starts Monday. Nice girl, too, from one of the Quad cities.’”
“Yeah, sure,” I groaned.
“Yeah, like fun,” Sharlinda rolled her eyes.
“But wait.” Today held up her hand. “Y’all haven’t heard the killer.”
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Pour me a taste while I tell you what the real killer is.”
Sharlinda handed Today some wine and freshened our drinks.
“Honey, the real killer is, I had Becky call the diner from the desk a few minutes ago.”
“No, you didn’t, girl!” Sharlinda said.
“Girl, yes I did, too. And wait til you hear the stone killer.”
“What’s that?” I wanted to know. “The stone killer is the woman at the diner told Becky to come on down. The cashier job was still open.”
“No she didn’t!” Sharlinda shouted.
“Yes she did!” Today sipped her wine like it was a really good year, steada some cheap stuff.
“Umph, umph, umph,” I shook my head.
“Well, then, Aunt Jemima, what took you so long?” Sharlinda teased.
“I’m gonna let that slide. Anyway I hit every store on the square to see if anybody was even thinking about hiring. I mean I pounded the hell out of the pavement, and ended up missing the last bus. I had to walk from town.”
“You couldn’t hitch a ride?” Sharlinda asked.
“I don’t like to hitch by myself.”
I nodded, I felt the same way. “Any luck, anywhere?”
“Not really. I made the mistake of going into Tumbleweed Liquors. And the guy behind the counter patted my butt as he handed me the application!”
“Did you give him a piece of your mind?” I asked, fuming.
“Did you go upside his head with one of them whiskey bottles?” Sharlinda hollered.
“No, but I read his behind from A to Z. And then he had the nerve to tell me that he was only a red-blooded American responding to a negress in heat!”
“A negress in heat!” Sharlinda screamed angrily.
“Check the calendar—is this man really saying ‘negress’ in 1971?” I marveled.
“Girl, if I hadn’t seen the courthouse and the jailhouse out of the corner of my eye, I would’ve done serious damage to him. But then I would’ve just been another nigga behind bars. I didn’t want to add to the country’s black jail population.”
“You need to go to the NAACP,” I suggested. “I think the closest branch is in Peoria.”
“Wow, Stevie, the NAACP, in Peoria, Illinois.” Sharlinda rolled her eyes. “They will really scare somebody.”
“Well, we should get people to boycott the Prairie Star Diner, then.”
“This town is almost a hundred percent white. Our business is just a drop in their damn bucket.” Today poured herself some more wine. “What do they care? They don’t want us in the Prairie Star Diner, no way.”
“They’d care if enough white students and professors joined in with us. If the newspaper supported us, we could make a difference then.”
“Stevie, these white students ain’t gonna get bent out of shape behind this. They done put civil rights on the back burner, chile. All they care about is smoking reefer, women’s lib, and staying out of Vietnam.”
Today nodded in agreement. I wish I had me a joint,” she sighed. “Anybody got any weed?”
“Not me.” I shrugged. When have you ever had any weed? I asked myself. I had yet to buy my first nickel bag. I was on a tight budget. Mama sent me spending money every week. But it barely covered the laundry, snacks, and the quarter movies they showed at the Student Union.
The real deal was, I’d only smoked dope a few times with Sharlinda. The truth be told, she’d taught me how to inhale. I liked it. It made me laugh. It made me horny. Unfortunately, it made me hungry. And I was almost a size ten now.
“I ain’t got so much as a roach, and all my connections went to Chicago for the weekend already.” Sharlinda sighed.
“Plus, my money is funny and my change is strange. Unless y’all want to forget about the pizza.”
“No, I’m starving, after walking damn near two miles. Pour me another taste, girl.”
“I’ll pour all of us another taste.” Sharlinda held up the half-empty bottle. “Let’s kill this bad boy.”
Today got up and turned the album over. “Let’s order the doggone pizza—see if the line’s free.”
I was the closest to the phone. “I know the number by heart.”
“Hello, hello.” I didn’t hear a dial tone. I wasn’t surprised that someone was on the line, because we all had party lines. But I couldn’t understand why nobody was talking. I just heard breathing.
“Hello. How come you’re not saying anything?” There was no reply.
“They’re not talking; just breathing.”
“I’m sick of their shit!” Today shouted.
“You know who it is?” I asked.
“Damn straight. It’s this hoogie down at the end of the hallway. They call themselves having an argument by just breathing on the phone, lately.”
Hoogie was a word for white people, like honky and peckawood. Although hoogie usually referred to middle-class-white folks. I’d only heard it used by black students here on the Illinois prairie.
Sharlinda frowned. “This is some really tired-ass shit.”
I decided to talk some sense into these people tying up the line.
“I need to use the phone. Please give up the line if you’re not gonna talk.” Now, who could resist that request. I’d been polite but firm. I listened for an apology or a click, but there was no response. I stared at the receiver in disbelief.
“This is beyond ridiculous!” Sharlinda yelled. “This is rodiculous!”
I hung up the phone.
“You should’ve slammed that mothafucka down!” Sharlinda shouted.
“Have you complained to your R. A.?” I asked.
“Yeah, and it hasn’t done shit. I’ve had it up to here with these hoogies! Do you hear me? They’ve gotten on my last nerve. They think they own the whole damn world. The only one I can stand right now is Becky.”
“Stevie, girl, you too nice; trying to reason with them and shit. ‘Please give up the line if you’re not gonna talk.’” Sharlinda mimicked. “You let these hoogies run all over you.”
I gulped my wine. “Nobody runs over me.”
“Yes they do, too. You can’t even make a simple-ass phone call.”
“Well, let’s see if you have any better luck.”
“OK.” Sharlinda grabbed the receiver. “Hang the mothafucka up, if you ain’t gonna talk. Goddamnit! You know this is a goddamn party line, shit!” Sharlinda yelled, leaving the receiver dangling from the wall.
“Well, if that don’t work, nothing will,” Today sighed.
I listened for a dial tone. “Sharlinda, looks like they’re still breathing. You wanna go downstairs and call from the desk?”
“Hell no! I don’t want to go downstairs and call from the goddamn desk! I have a constitutional right to use the mothafuckin’ phone!”
“A constitutional right?” I laughed. “The telephone hadn’t even been invented when the Constitution was written.”
Sharlinda folded her arms and twisted her neck.
“The Constitution guarantees me the right to freedom of speech, goddamnit! These hoogies are interfering with my right to speak. And I’m going to fight for my goddamn rights. Now, can I get a witness?”
Today waved her hand like they do in church.
“I think you might be stretching the Constitution a little bit far, myself,” I said.
“Stevie, there you go, acting like a Libra. Well, you can’t always see both sides,” Sharlinda insisted. “Not if you’ve got soul.”
“I’ve got plenty of soul, Ms. Leo,” I shot back at Sharlinda. I picked up the phone. If I were lucky, I’d get a dial tone. And at least, I would appear tough. But instead, I heard the breathing again. “Now look, I’m gonna give y’all two minutes to get off this phone or else your ass is gonna be grass!”
I turned toward Sharlinda and Today, cradling the receiver in my hand. “How do you like me now?”
“Did you hear her? My girl went ‘Chicago’ on ’em. She got hipped to her constitutional rights, honey.” Sharlinda and Today gave each other five.
“Sho did!” Today agreed. “She told ’em their ass is gonna be grass!”
“You see, Stevie might act all educated, but you better not fuck with her. They done made her show her color now. She’s still a sistah from the Southside,” Sharlinda bragged.
I prayed for a dial tone. I hoped that my mouth hadn’t written a check that my behind couldn’t cash.
Today grabbed the receiver. “Ain’t this a blip! They still breathing.”
“Stevie, you said they ass was gonna be grass,” Sharlinda reminded me. “It’s been two minutes and I still ain’t heard no dial tone.”
“OK!” I shouted into the phone. “You’ve left me no other choice. Now, your ass is grass!” I slammed down the phone.
“She’s in Room Five Thirty-two,” Today said calmly.
Sharlinda slapped my back, excitedly. “If you gon’ kick some ass, let’s go kick some ass!”
For some reason, I lacked Sharlinda’s enthusiasm. “What about her boyfriend? What if he runs over here?”
“Fuck her boyfriend. We got boyfriends too,” Sharlinda insisted. I knew that she was braiding Kenny’s hair, but he hadn’t asked her to go with him yet. And as for me, yeah, I’d gone to the quarter movie with Myron twice and he’d even paid. But we were technically still in the talking stage. He was at least three movies away from getting over. Maybe one, if he produced a joint. I didn’t know Today’s business. She seemed to be in love with anybody tall, dark, and Greek.
“Plus, we got the whole Kappa line,” Today interrupted my thoughts.
Maybe so, but none of these people were here now. I gulped down the rest of my wine for strength. I crushed the waxy paper cup in my hand.
“OK, I’m ready.” I stood up and headed for Room 532 with Sharlinda and Today at my heels.
My fist was raised to knock on the girl’s door.
“What you fixin’ to knock for?” Sharlinda groaned. “Would you invite somebody to come in your room who said they were gonna kick your ass? Just open the goddamn door!”
I dropped my hand and turned my head. “I just can’t run up in the girl’s room. It might be illegal or something.”
“Yeah, this is a legal ass kicking,” Today answered sarcastically.
“What if the door is locked?” I asked hopefully.
“Well, we can’t stand here all night wondering. Let’s get this show on the road!” Sharlinda reached in front of me and tried the doorknob. To my horror, the door swung open easily.
A stocky white girl stood planted with her back to us, holding the telephone. She was wearing a long denim work shirt and her head was wrapped up in a towel.
“That’s right, it’s all my fault! You had nothing to do with it!” she shouted in a French accent. “Everything is all my fucking fault!” Suddenly, the white girl turned and faced us. “Pardon me, but I’m utilizing the phone. What do you want here?”
We continued to stand in the doorway, but no one spoke.
The girl turned her attention back to the phone. “Matthew, you’re nothing but a male chauvinist pig!” She slammed down the receiver.
I couldn’t help but appreciate the way “chauvinist” had rolled off of her tongue. But this was no time to admire her French accent.
“Well, I guess she told him,” Today whispered.
I shuddered to myself. Maybe this girl was tough. Perhaps she’d descended from peasant stock.
“You have no right barging into my room like this!”
Sharlinda nudged me. “She’s got the nerve to jump bad, now.”
I found my voice. “You had no right to tie up the phone like that. You know it’s a party line.”
“Look, I really don’t have time for this shit.”
“We don’t have time for your shit, bitch!” Sharlinda shouted.
“You’ve been pulling that breathing routine for over two weeks now.” Today sighed. “You need to quit.”
“Look, I’m off the phone now. So, will you just go.” She waved her arms like she was shooing away pigeons.
“Naw, Mademoiselle, we ain’t going nowhere!” Sharlinda insisted.
“We’re not?” I gulped.
“No, it’s too late for her to grip.” No, it’s not, I wanted to protest. Let her beg, so we can leave.
“She should’ve gotten off the phone when homegirl first asked her to,” Sharlinda continued. “Now, the shit done got funky.”
Let’s not get technical, I thought. “She’s off the phone now,” I argued. “Let’s just order the damn pizza.”
Today ignored me. “Didn’t you hear her say your ass is grass?” Then she elbowed me. “Right, Stevie?”
“My ass is grass? Does that mean the three of you plan to attack me now?”
“Oh, no, just her,” Sharlinda pointed.
“Don’t worry, it’s gonna be a fair fight,” Today promised.
“This is crazy. Look, I’m not in the mood. So, please remove yourselves from my doorway at once.”
I stood frozen.
“Oh, she’s really selling woof tickets now,” Sharlinda nudged me. “Your shit ain’t shaky, is it, homegirl?”
“You can whup a hoogie,” Today chimed in.
I appreciated her vote of confidence. But what if this white girl descended from a long line of grape stompers? People who’d just as soon stomp your ass as make wine. And what if she freaked out and called security and I was arrested? I might even lose my scholarship.
The girl walked toward us. I glanced into her killer blue eyes. It was obvious that she meant business. I sized her up as we faced off. We were about the same height, but she was quite a bit stockier. My stomach began to churn. My mouth felt dry. It would be just my luck for her to be a P.E. major, I thought.
Why wasn’t this white girl acting scared? I’d never planned to hit her, just scare her. Why didn’t she just grovel and get it over with? Did Sharlinda and Today expect me to just grab her and start hitting her? It had been years since I’d been in a knockdown drag-out fight. The situation suddenly seemed absurd. It would’ve almost been funny if I didn’t feel my stomach tightening into knots.
The girl stared me down. “Move, so that I can close my door.”
“Tell her to make you,” Sharlinda snarled.
Miss Ann should be trembling, begging for mercy, pleading for us to accept her apology. Didn’t she have sense enough to be afraid of three black girls with Afros? Didn’t a person’s color mean anything anymore? What planet was she from?
The girl reached for the doorknob. It felt like every hair on the back of my neck was standing up and saluting. It’s funny how certain situations make you aware that you even have hair on the back of your neck.
“Tell her to make you!” Sharlinda repeated.
“Make me,” I whined.
“No, make yourself!” The girl tossed her head back, the way white girls do. Her towel began to unravel.
“You came here to kick my ass. So, if you’re going to kick my ass, then go ahead and kick it, if you think you can. Otherwise, move so I can close my door.” The girl tossed her head again and the towel finally fell to the floor revealing shoulder-length black hair.
I stood glued to my spot. How could I back down without losing face? The girl picked up the towel and threw it on one of the beds. She sighed and reached for the doornob again. Did she dare try to move the door against me?
“Hey.” Sharlinda held her hand up as Miss Ann reached around me. “Wait just one mothafuckin’ minute. Don’t I know you?” she asked.
“Yes, certainly,” the girl shot back. She reached for her glasses on the dresser. I felt myself breathe again.
“You’re in my math class!” Sharlinda exclaimed. “I didn’t recognize you without your glasses.”
I relaxed considerably and moved aside so Sharlinda and the girl had plenty of room to inspect each other.
“So, she’s in your math class. What’s that got to do with the price of neck bones?” Today wanted to know. “What does that make y’all, long-lost cousins?”
“This chick was kind enough to let me copy off of her paper this morning,” Sharlinda smiled, lounging against the dresser.
Now the girl was blushing.
“You cheated off of her?”
I was pleased that Sharlinda’s dishonesty had paid off. Otherwise I would’ve had to hurt Miss Ann.
“If it hadn’t been for her,” Sharlinda said smiling, “I don’t know how I would’ve got over.”
“Well,” the girl replied. “I’m not so sure I did very well on the test.”
“Hey, don’t sweat it. Last time we got a B.”
“I recall we did, didn’t we?”
“In class, we go by last names, but my first name is Sharlinda.”
“I’m Celeste.”
“Celeste, this here is Stevie, the one who was gonna kick yo’ ass. Her real name is Jean Stevenson, but everybody calls her Stevie.” Celeste and I nodded. “And this is Today, she’s got a twin sister back home in Maywood, named Tamara. Dig up, they were born a few minutes apart. But one was born one day and the other was born the next. That’s how come they’re Today and Tamara.
“Anyway, we just wanted to order a pizza and I guess one thing led to another. I just had no idea it was you.”
Celeste made a sheepish face. “Well, I know I haven’t been appropriate about the phone.”
That’s an understatement, I thought.
“But things have been alarming between me and my boyfriend lately.”
“I know how that can be,” Sharlinda nodded. I rolled my eyes. All of a sudden now, she’s Miss Congeniality.
“Hey, you don’t mind if I check your phone line to see if it’s free, do ya?” Today asked politely. “You know at night the lines stay jammed. We still have to order our pizza.”
“Sure, go ahead, help yourself. The phone book’s right there.”
A passerby shouted “Hi, Celeste” from the hallway. The girl noticed us and did a double take. I figured Celeste had earned several “cool points.” People would be saying she had joined some militant black organization with French connections.
“Why don’t all of you have a seat, make yourselves comfortable?”
I looked up at the turquoise fishnet decorating the opposite wall. Today leaned back against one of the bolsters.
“The line’s free,” she announced happily.
“You don’t need the phone book.” I rattled off the number.
Today held up some Zig Zag papers that had been lying on top of the bolster.
“Celeste, you don’t happen to have any weed?” she asked sweetly.
Celeste shrugged from the opposite bed. “Just homegrown.”
“Hey, beggars can’t be choosers,” Sharlinda said, sitting down next to Celeste.
“I can get into some homegrown,” Today agreed.
“Hey, it’s cool with me,” I said, nonchalantly. “Can’t always be Mexican or Jamaican or Colombian.” I shrugged, impressed with my own hipness.
Life was now beautiful. The black light was on, magnifying every little speck of dust. We were digging the Woodstock album. Celeste was rolling a couple of joints. And the door was closed with a towel stuffed under it. This was more of a ritual, just part of being cool. We weren’t really worried about getting busted.
Today called down to the desk and told Becky to have the pizza guy ring Celeste’s room when he came. I was groovin’ on the psychedelic poster of Jimi Hendrix while he played on the box. Then a poster of Angela Davis over one of the desks caught my eye. Maybe Celeste’s roommate was a sister we hadn’t heard of, I thought. “Is that your roommate’s poster?” I pointed.
“It’s mine,” Celeste answered casually, licking the ends of the freshly rolled joint.
“Angela Davis, right on.” Today nodded approvingly.
Celeste passed Sharlinda the joint. “You sho’ know how to roll. I likes ’em fat.”
“Yeah, California style.” Today smiled. “None of those skinny New York joints.”
“My joints always come out like that. I wasn’t even trying to roll them any special way.”
“New York stuff be thin, they stingy with they pizza crust, they reefer, and the city still on the verge of bankruptcy.” Sharlinda sighed.
She exhaled and passed the joint to me. I sucked in the weed and tried not to cough. I took it in sucking air, the way Sharlinda had taught me. I blew out the smoke big time.
“Celeste, don’t you want a toke?” I asked, proud of my drug vocabulary.
To my surprise, she shook her head. “I’m taking a holiday from it for a while.”
I handed the joint to Today. “For me, this is just what the doctor ordered. Let me lay my burdens down.”
“This is some good shit for homegrown. Celeste, you sure you don’t want none?”
“Yeah, I’m cool.”
Sharlinda hit the joint. “I’ve already got a little bit of a buzz, y’all.”
I took another hit and felt it go to my head. Why didn’t Celeste want to get high? It was awfully strange. What if she’s a narc? She could be undercover. What if that wasn’t a black light? What if it was really a hidden camera? What if we were being photographed? We didn’t know where she was coming from. We didn’t know this girl from Lassie.
“There’s really a mellow vibe in here, now.” Sharlinda smiled, her eyes shining.
“Thanks,” Celeste said as she turned the album over.
Sharlinda pointed to the box. “I digs that album.”
“Yeah, I’m digging it too,” Today added. “Thanks for hipping us to it.”
“Celeste, what’s your major?” You’re not in law enforcement, are you? I thought.
“I’m an art major.” She pointed to a small sculpture of a naked woman on the desk.
“That’s beautiful,” I breathed.
“Do you do men?” Sharlinda wanted to know.
“Yeah,” Today echoed.
She and Sharlinda laughed and gave each other five.
Celeste shook her head. “Actually, I find the female form more beautiful.”
“Well, to each his own, said the woman who kissed the cow,” Sharlinda said, shaking her head.
I found Celeste’s answer intriguing. I remembered I used to sneak and look at my father’s Playboy magazines as a child. It wasn’t that the half-naked women were so tantalizing, but it was the only nudity available. Except for this boy named Leroy who used to show us his dick on the way to school in the second grade. But there was always a crowd around him, so you couldn’t get a really good look.
Sharlinda asked Today to give her a shotgun. Today turned the joint backward inside her mouth. She held it between her teeth and blew smoke out through the other end into Sharlinda’s mouth. I wanted to learn how to do that.
“Celeste, did it bother you to have Sharlinda cheating off of you?” I asked.
Celeste looked surprised, and Sharlinda choked on her inhale.
“Stevie can’t help herself. She’s a journalism major.” Sharlinda rolled her eyes. “She interviews everybody.”