Preacher Man (continued)
I went with my mom to see Lonnie in the hospital the day before I had to go back to school, and I gave him my last $40, because I knew he was broke and was going to need money for a meal when he got out. When I got on the Amtrak the next morning, I figured someone else would be getting off at my stop to go back to campus, and I could catch a ride with him/her. It was a stupid ass plan, but it was all my broke ass had. 14 hours later, I was alone on a side street late at night, with no idea of my next move. I stood for a long time thinking, coming up with nothing, asking God to send me some kind of minor miracle.
fukk that shyt God, you owe me that much. After a while I started walking with my two bags, and in 15 minutes I was near the on-ramp for the highway. A Volvo slowed as it was approaching the ramp and the driver rolled down his window. He was an old white guy.
You okay? I’m a student. I lost my wallet. I’m trying to get to the university. He looked me over and I could tell he was weighing the risks. Finally he said
I’m heading that way… I’ll give you a ride.
When I plopped down in his backseat I felt exhausted. The dimensions of the world felt loose as a dreamscape. I had never hitchhiked in my life, but I was too worn out to give a fukk about whether it was a bad idea to get in a car with a stranger. He had the radio on one of those AM talk stations, and I drifted off into my thoughts while a monotone voice delivered the news of the day. I was thinking about Rome, Mitch, my uncle Lonnie; life, death, God. Around 20 minutes later we pulled off the highway and onto a road, and a car going in the opposite direction passed us with its brights on; when the sudden burst of light poured into the Volvo I could see myself in the rearview mirror, and I had tears streaming down my face. The dude driving the car saw it too, and he turned the radio off – it was an oddly respectful gesture, like he was giving me some peace or something. The car was suddenly so silent that it seemed overtaken by a mournful hush, and I started bawling.
I hadn’t cried when I heard Cory on my answering machine, or at Rome’s funeral, but I guess I finally cracked. I cried in that backseat because I'd chased an abstract basketball dream to a strange land that had ended up being a spiritual and social wilderness; I cried because the world had tracked me down to show me its worst, and I knew that somehow I was going to have to find a way to keep trudging along; I cried because I knew I was going to drop out of college and go back to New York City as another sad statistic; I cried because Rome's mother, a weary, round-faced woman who had to bury her oldest son and then go back to raising 3 others, had such tenderness in her eyes when she handed me Rome’s smurf; I cried because I saw my childhood Superman crumpled up like a paper ball in a low rent crackhouse, with blood leaking out of him; I cried because for the first time since Lonnie taught me to hit a curve, I had lost the ability to believe in what I couldn't see.
Most of all I cried because so many black men in America died young or saw their hearts and souls age prematurely, and I finally understood how Stevie Wonder knew all that weariness when he sang that one song; I cried because historically it seemed just about all black music - shyt...
black life, period - was about finding a way to distill a tiny bit of happiness from unspeakable misery.
That’s Mitch’s story, Rome’s story, Lonnie’s story, my story. That’s the story of the beginning of the end of my time at that university. There’s no neat bow to tie on it, because that’s not how life works. Right now, after typing all this out, I have the feeling of being 3 places at once: in my bed, feeling the chill of early morning through the window; in the back of Bessie the thirdhand Cadillac, laughing with my little cousins while we ride to Queens; in the backseat of that kind stranger's Volvo, bawling my eyes out.
One of the thoughts I’m left with is whether emptiness is more about what we lost or what we never had? Whether the tragedy is that there never will be a “place in the sun" like Stevie sang about, or that maybe there used to be and we didn’t realize we were there until it was gone – until, as Outkast put it, fat titties turned to teardrops and fat ass turned to flab.
I’m wondering whether I should even post this shyt, because it’s all factual, and it’s so deeply personal. fukk it, I’ll post it in a minute. Right now I’m looking out the window and imagining what my place in the sun would look like. There would be potato salad and oxtails wrapped in tinfoil, smelling good as hell; Blue Ballys with the outfit to match for all my nikkas; a big ass smurf in the middle of town square hitting the Heisman pose; Rome in his sun-kissed lowrider truck with the rims shimmering, the sounds of Diamond D’s first album spreading out in all directions from his crisp ass stereo system; Lonnie looking strong and healthy and handsome, teaching everyone how to see the curveballs life throws at us so we never strike out; people who couldn’t walk would be dancing, and people who stuttered would be singing, and our flaws really would make us shine; there would even be Mitch flashing that dumb ass Tony The Tiger smile of his, saying
dere it is, daddeh... and Shantel would be pointing at everyone and everything like
You see them? You see them? They always stay beautiful.