| Flash Back |
| by Henry Otis Clarke |
Friday nights are busy and this one's no exception. Tonight I serve tables at my own place,
inconspicuous. My hands are full of beer pitchers and Buffalo wings as I take them to the
sports enthusiasts in the east corner of the bar. I refuse to dress like my partner Mike behind
the bar: white buttoned shirt, black bow tie, black trousers. I sport a black cotton pocket Tee
tucked into a pair of Levi's 501 jeans. It suits me better and I can move with ease if I need to
bounce troublemakers. TVs glare at the patrons from several places as they check out the
Knicks game. The juke box pumps loud to add life to the joint. Jimi Hendrix is walkin' through
the clouds with his little wing. A couple snuggles on the other side of the bar, softly teasing
each other. I'm not in a joking mood.
Young toughs huddle round a table of beer mugs and shot glasses in the center. The
nanites enhance my hearing, picking out their voices from the crowd. Eddie Odiarre, a square-
jawed Italian with a brown buzz cut and blue eyes, talks politics. I don't like what I hear.
"Ain't no way this city's gonna' put up with a nigger mayor for another term. What the hell
got him elected in the first place?"
A rat-faced kid with black hair says, "Yeah right, Eddie. Probably affirmative action or
something."
The others snicker. Eddie's inebriation gives him boldness.
"Citizens better do something quick," he continues, "or rap will replace the National Anthem!"
"And our girlfriends will have to wear dots on their heads and pray to Mecca."
This bit of ignorance comes from a red haired fellow whose freckles cause him to look like a
teenager.
Another guy places his middle finger in the center of his forehead and chimes, "And the
rockets' red glare."
They get a kick out of this as I take the orders from Mike and cross back to the couple. I
tune them out. These kids mouth off their frustrations in the darkness of my pub. They can say
what they want as long as they leave my customers alone. Live and let live... 'til idiots don't let
you. They don't concern me. Right now a different type of person has my attention.
I pretend not to notice her as the tiny bell over the back entrance sounds above the noise of
clinking glasses, sliding beer mugs, occasional cheers and Eddie's racist bitching. Pretend that
my own heart, nanites and all, doesn't dance the Lambada in her presence. I notice her alright,
just as, five minutes ago, I stood serving, sensing the murmur of her Mazda RX-7 as it eased
into the rear parking. I heard her cut off the motor and grab a pair of four-inch heels from the
back seat, slipping them into them. The little buddies within sensed her confident steps
through the back entrance and into the bar room, and before I saw her, before I heard the bell
above the door, I knew where she stood.
The scent of Diana's perfume cuts the smog of tobacco and stale beer, sending me higher
than the weed I smoked as a kid in Alabama. She pauses to survey the crowd, looking for an
empty stool. Looking for me. She makes her appearance sometimes midweek, sometimes on a
Friday or Saturday, for the last eight weeks. Always alone, always ready to talk. We've come to
know each other. She likes to stay 'til closing, watching me clean up and telling me about her
life outside the states.
She unwraps her hair, gives it a shake, letting the tresses fall about her round face. She
undoes her black winter coat, revealing a business outfit that makes men to want to do
business. Her cascading hair clashes nicely against the hunter-green blazer. The fabric of her
form-fitting jacket and matching dress highlight every curve and contour as she moves. Her
athletic calves peek through the slit in the back as she walks. The male patrons in the bar
watch her with appreciation. Eddie and the boys gaze and whistle as she passes. She ignores
them.
Gliding over to the bar she perches upon a barstool at the center and positions herself so I
can't miss her. Mike places her usual Fuzzy Navel and she greets him, lifting the drink to her
lips for a taste test. Diana turns in my direction and appraises me, her eyes flaring into electric
blue saucers as they pour over my body, reaching my amber stare.
"Hi, Sam," she says, her lips framing a smile.
"Hey."
I nod and look away as I pass. I turn in another order and move behind the bar. Mike leans
against the counter with his left arm and wipes the graying locks from his forehead, his gaze
reproachful as I head for the john in the back.
"Break time,” I say, avoiding his eyes.
"You ought a give others a break, too, pal," he says.
I ignore his comment.
Diana calls him. "Mike, can I ask you a question?"
"Sure thing, Di. What's up?"
"What's wrong with Sam? I mean--" She sighs, collecting her thoughts. “Why doesn't he talk
to me anymore?"
Mike smiles sympathetically. "Sammy's had unpleasant bits and pieces come up lately, Di.
He'll be alright. Just give him time, ok?" He changes the subject. "Hey, why don't I dig up some
wings with that drink of yours? On the house, huh?"
“That's okay, Mike." She sounds hurt. “I'll be leaving soon--I have to handle some extra
business tomorrow and should turn in early. Thanks anyway."
Mike sighs and gives a fatherly pat on her hand. "Ok, doll. Hang in there."
"Thanks, Mikey." Diana says, and nurses her drink.
The jukebox starts up Kansas' Dust in the Wind. The groups surrounding the televisions
cheer as The Knicks score.
My reflection flickers in the bathroom mirror beneath faulty fluorescent lighting. I see a black
guy who looks forty but is well past ninety. Would she believe it? I know I could talk to her,
explain my past, but I don't trust her. Decades stretch to the time I dated girls her age, and I
never dated a white girl. Time was when they would hang me just for looking in her direction.
It's funny how attitudes have changed. She might even be perfect for me, but I just can't let her
inside. Others have screwed me too many times, in too many ways, and I'm so damned tired.
The victim of two cover-ups, I mistrust others. The Tuskegee experiments left four hundred
black men with syphilis, and I was number 376 courtesy of good ol' US Gov. They cured me of
'bad blood' through experimentation; removing the syphilis and replacing it with living alien
organisms acquired from Roswell. They say it won't kill me. Hmph! I don't even know if that's
true--I've been lied to by everybody except Mike. All I know for sure is that tiny creatures exist
inside my body, speaking to me, learning from me, making me unique.
Lost in the past while leaning against the bathroom door, I muse about those who have
betrayed me, about the government still searching for me. Life's been one big tricky piece of
crap for me. I'm too old for bullshit anymore, like the kind of bullshit I sense happening at that
very moment in my pub. I hear Eddie making a move on her. His heavy motorcycle boots clomp
her way, approaching her left, probably her blind side.
"Hey, Diana. Long time no see. Whatcha been up to?"
It figures; they know each other. I imagine her turning, smiling, giving him the same look she
gave me moments earlier. She will confirm my suspicions, affirm the knowledge that nothing's
changed, that white women play the same head game and then you're the next “strange fruit
hangin' from the poplar tree.” But her voice is cool. The nanites tune into her biorhythms,
telling me that she's not crazy about meeting this old acquaintance.
"Oh. Hi, Eddie. Since when have you been coming here?"
The fabric of his jacket crinkles as he turns, leaning his back against the bar counter,
playing Mr. Smooth.
"Oh, I don't know. I guess ever since I heard you were back stateside and haven't even
given your old boyfriend a look-up. But you didn't answer my question."
I hear him move closer as I exit the bathroom, edging along the wall to the doorway.
Listening, watching. Mr. Buzz-cut faces her now, leaning on the counter like he owns it,
grinning.
"Nothing really, Eddie," she says, "just working hard, paying bills and, right now, waiting for
a friend."
Eddie's eyebrows raise, his grin widens.
"Friend? Where's she at? Does she need a boyfriend? Pete is free."
He gestures at his table of goons.
Diana's posture is stiff, polite but distant. She's not smiling.
"He's in the back and I doubt if he goes that way."
Eddie smiles at her joke, but he's not buying it.
"C'mon, Di. I didn't see you come in here with anyone and besides--” He moves closer,
lowers his voice. "I haven't seen you in so long. Why don't we ditch our company and get
reacquainted, huh?"
At his table, the boys snicker and poke each other, watching.
She waves him off like a rancid smell.
"No thanks, Eddie. For Christ's sake, that was years ago! I'm different now. We're different."
The boys laugh. This interests me, too. Eddie rises up, looking dejected.
"Ain't nothin' wrong with gettin' reacquainted, is it? What's the matter, Di? I remember when
you couldn't get enough of the ol' Italian Stallion. What happened? You give up sex or just too
good for me?"
Snickers rise in volume from his buddies as David Bowie softly whines about putting on red
shoes.
"No, Eddie. I just grew up." Diana looks at him with contempt. "Evidently you haven't. I said I
had company." She holds up her hand. "You'd better back off before he comes out.'
Now one of my customers is troubled. That bugs me enough to step out. The nanites
prepare for battle. Mike is pulling a tap down at the other end of the bar. I raise my brows
slightly as I pass. He responds with a quick nod. I move past the counter to her side just as Mr.
Personality says, "He must be taking one helluva shit cause he's not out here ye--"
"What's happening, Di?" I glare at Eddie. "You having trouble?"
Diana looks at me as if she knew I would come out all along, then the surprise. She puts
her arms around my waist and lays her head on my shoulder like we're an item.
"No, babe. Now that you're here all's fine."
She leans up, turns my face to hers. Kisses me.
Eddie pales, mouth agape, turns red. I blush, too, but from shock. And excitement. All my
senses focus in on the texture of her skin against mine, the taste of her lipstick, the subtle
scent of female hormones detected by the nanites that permeate my body. Desire, a rush of
flames that course through my veins, mingles with the chill of fear that this is wrong. She pulls
back, her eyes screaming that she means it, that she's wanted to kiss me for a long time.
Eddie's friends gasp.
“Melanzana?" Eddie is astonished. “You're dating a freaking eggplant?"
Melanzana is Eggplant in Italian. It's also Italian for nigger. Before I reach for his thick neck,
Diana says, "God, Eddie, just leave us alone, ok?"
He shakes his head with a disgusted laugh.
"I don't get this. You with a damn nigger! Did ya' screw him yet?"
Diana's right hand blazes across his face, leaving red finger marks. The bar becomes silent,
except for the announcer on ESPN and Bowie's fading voice. The jukebox whirs as it readies
another tune.
"That's enough!" I push her behind me. "You need to leave. Now you can do this the simple
way or the hard way… but you're leaving."
Eddies boys stand, ready to rumble. They move closer as Mike edges toward us. Eddie
draws up to his full height.
"Oh, big muscle bound eggplant wants to try me, huh? Listen boy, I don't waste my time on
niggers. I just kill 'em."
"Boy?"
My fists clench.
Just then Mike moves between us, smiling from behind the bar. "Ay amici, tu parle Italiano?"
Eddie looks at him, his face a mask of anger.
"Yeah, so what?"
Mike says something else in Italian and Eddie glances down at the front of the counter
where my partner stands. The color drains from his face. He turns to his boys.
"C'mon, let's get the hell out of here."
They turn and gather their jackets and head for the front door. Eddie leaves last. When he
reaches the door he turns to face us. He glares at me. The jukebox begins a song by Depeche
Mode.
"This ain't over, nigger-boy. I'll be seeing ya soon. And you… ” He looks at Diana still
standing close to me, squeezing my hand. "I owe you a love tap."
He backs away like a bank robber exiting my bar. I hear them grumbling as they pull off in
his car. I turn to my customers, their eyes still waiting for action, perhaps blood.
"It's over, folks. Sorry for the disturbance."
Slowly they return to whatever they were doing. Diana is still holding my hand. I like how it
feels.
"You okay?"
"Yeah," she says. "Just mad as hell at that… that asshole, that's all. Jeez! I can't believe I
used to date that guy!"
"I guess we're all entitled to mistakes, doll."
I release her hand and turn to Mike.
"What the hell did you say to him?"
Mike gives a dry half-smile and says, "I just told him something to compel him to leave
quietly, that's all."
"And what was that?"
Mike raises the shortened Winchester from behind the bar.
"I told him that I had a twelve-gauge sawed-off shotgun set to blow his nuts off if he didn't
get the hell out."
I chuckle, shaking my head.
"Man, you a bad dude, you know that?"
"Yeah, I'm one bad shut-your-mouth."
He laughs and Diana chuckles with us. Her laugh is like crystal. Her brow furrows.
The Knicks score another point. We laugh and Diana leans against me. I feel her soft yet
firm body pressed against mine. Her perfume surrounds me like clouds of heaven. She's not
going anywhere. She wants something between us. I want it too. But I'm not sure what's real
and what's just show. And Eddie ain't done with me yet.
In the distance I hear the sound of a souped up '87 El Camino SS screaming down
Springfield Boulevard toward Horace Harding. I hear ACDC blaring from custom speakers
calling for dirty deeds done dirt cheap. I hear the hoops and hollers of white boys on the
warpath. Eddie Odiarre's voice is loudest.
Perhaps I'll still find my chance to bust two or three heads.
Eddie's bent on keeping his petty white pride burning by intimidating those who are different
from him. I'm different alright--he doesn't know just how different. His boys are in the black car's
flatbed. It fishtails around the corner onto Springfield and I see three of Eddie's buddies seated
inside. I smell gasoline. I'm too old to be scared of these pups. I've been through too much to
run off and hide. Springfield Boulevard is a block away and they're coming up fast. I start
walking in their direction. As they pass the corner of Two-Twenty-Fourth Street the car jumps
the curb onto the sidewalk and screeches sideways in front of me.
"Ay, Eggplant!" Eddie's voice is a roar.
His boys in the flatbed raise big steel buckets before I realize what's up. The little buddies
inside me surge adrenaline, strengthen muscle tissue, preparing for the fight to come. Warm
liquid soaks me, stings my eyes, burning my mouth and nose. It runs down the collar of my
jacket, plastering the black T-shirt and jeans to my body. The tiny creatures within race to
suppress the pain. I'm blind and reaching for the first punk I can catch. Their whooping and
hollering confuses me. I don't sense the attack like I usually do as the heavy piece of metal
strikes my head. I fall to my knees, still swinging. I try to stand and another pail hits my chin,
sending me backward. They're staying way beyond my reach. I hear the car door open and
Eddie's heavy boots grate the concrete. I jump to my feet, sightless and pissed to hell. I hear
the scratch of a match.
One his boys sings out in a false baritone. "And the rockets red glare!"
"Fried Eggplant!" Eddie chuckles and I feel and hear the whoosh of ignition.
And then the heat. I'm burning. We're burning! The I/We scream from a dual existence,
ripping the night over the sound of fire, over the animal jeers of bestial thugs. Panic takes over
and I try to run, blind and burning, screaming through a seared throat, trying to beat the flames
from me. My ears crackle and sizzle. I smell the sick sweet stench of my own smoldering body.
Where the hell am I? Which way am I headed? I'm confused. I'm scared shitless.
Two pops from behind. Two punches in my back. Rods of fire pierce through me and I
collapse. I can't feel my legs. And I still burn, my hands flailing in panic as the flames consume
me. I hear Eddie and his gang jump back into the car and speed away as Eddie screams a
curse in Italian that sounds like "a fan cooler eggplant." Then, "... stick to your own kind!"
The blood from the gunshot wounds puddles around me, sizzling and bubbling. It puts out
the flames on my groping hands. I hear a siren in the distance. It'll be too late when they arrive.
I've stopped struggling, letting the flames have their meal. As I give in, Billie Holiday's voice
sings mockingly in my head. 'Strange fruit hanging from the poplar tree.' I pass out.
inconspicuous. My hands are full of beer pitchers and Buffalo wings as I take them to the
sports enthusiasts in the east corner of the bar. I refuse to dress like my partner Mike behind
the bar: white buttoned shirt, black bow tie, black trousers. I sport a black cotton pocket Tee
tucked into a pair of Levi's 501 jeans. It suits me better and I can move with ease if I need to
bounce troublemakers. TVs glare at the patrons from several places as they check out the
Knicks game. The juke box pumps loud to add life to the joint. Jimi Hendrix is walkin' through
the clouds with his little wing. A couple snuggles on the other side of the bar, softly teasing
each other. I'm not in a joking mood.
Young toughs huddle round a table of beer mugs and shot glasses in the center. The
nanites enhance my hearing, picking out their voices from the crowd. Eddie Odiarre, a square-
jawed Italian with a brown buzz cut and blue eyes, talks politics. I don't like what I hear.
"Ain't no way this city's gonna' put up with a nigger mayor for another term. What the hell
got him elected in the first place?"
A rat-faced kid with black hair says, "Yeah right, Eddie. Probably affirmative action or
something."
The others snicker. Eddie's inebriation gives him boldness.
"Citizens better do something quick," he continues, "or rap will replace the National Anthem!"
"And our girlfriends will have to wear dots on their heads and pray to Mecca."
This bit of ignorance comes from a red haired fellow whose freckles cause him to look like a
teenager.
Another guy places his middle finger in the center of his forehead and chimes, "And the
rockets' red glare."
They get a kick out of this as I take the orders from Mike and cross back to the couple. I
tune them out. These kids mouth off their frustrations in the darkness of my pub. They can say
what they want as long as they leave my customers alone. Live and let live... 'til idiots don't let
you. They don't concern me. Right now a different type of person has my attention.
I pretend not to notice her as the tiny bell over the back entrance sounds above the noise of
clinking glasses, sliding beer mugs, occasional cheers and Eddie's racist bitching. Pretend that
my own heart, nanites and all, doesn't dance the Lambada in her presence. I notice her alright,
just as, five minutes ago, I stood serving, sensing the murmur of her Mazda RX-7 as it eased
into the rear parking. I heard her cut off the motor and grab a pair of four-inch heels from the
back seat, slipping them into them. The little buddies within sensed her confident steps
through the back entrance and into the bar room, and before I saw her, before I heard the bell
above the door, I knew where she stood.
The scent of Diana's perfume cuts the smog of tobacco and stale beer, sending me higher
than the weed I smoked as a kid in Alabama. She pauses to survey the crowd, looking for an
empty stool. Looking for me. She makes her appearance sometimes midweek, sometimes on a
Friday or Saturday, for the last eight weeks. Always alone, always ready to talk. We've come to
know each other. She likes to stay 'til closing, watching me clean up and telling me about her
life outside the states.
She unwraps her hair, gives it a shake, letting the tresses fall about her round face. She
undoes her black winter coat, revealing a business outfit that makes men to want to do
business. Her cascading hair clashes nicely against the hunter-green blazer. The fabric of her
form-fitting jacket and matching dress highlight every curve and contour as she moves. Her
athletic calves peek through the slit in the back as she walks. The male patrons in the bar
watch her with appreciation. Eddie and the boys gaze and whistle as she passes. She ignores
them.
Gliding over to the bar she perches upon a barstool at the center and positions herself so I
can't miss her. Mike places her usual Fuzzy Navel and she greets him, lifting the drink to her
lips for a taste test. Diana turns in my direction and appraises me, her eyes flaring into electric
blue saucers as they pour over my body, reaching my amber stare.
"Hi, Sam," she says, her lips framing a smile.
"Hey."
I nod and look away as I pass. I turn in another order and move behind the bar. Mike leans
against the counter with his left arm and wipes the graying locks from his forehead, his gaze
reproachful as I head for the john in the back.
"Break time,” I say, avoiding his eyes.
"You ought a give others a break, too, pal," he says.
I ignore his comment.
Diana calls him. "Mike, can I ask you a question?"
"Sure thing, Di. What's up?"
"What's wrong with Sam? I mean--" She sighs, collecting her thoughts. “Why doesn't he talk
to me anymore?"
Mike smiles sympathetically. "Sammy's had unpleasant bits and pieces come up lately, Di.
He'll be alright. Just give him time, ok?" He changes the subject. "Hey, why don't I dig up some
wings with that drink of yours? On the house, huh?"
“That's okay, Mike." She sounds hurt. “I'll be leaving soon--I have to handle some extra
business tomorrow and should turn in early. Thanks anyway."
Mike sighs and gives a fatherly pat on her hand. "Ok, doll. Hang in there."
"Thanks, Mikey." Diana says, and nurses her drink.
The jukebox starts up Kansas' Dust in the Wind. The groups surrounding the televisions
cheer as The Knicks score.
My reflection flickers in the bathroom mirror beneath faulty fluorescent lighting. I see a black
guy who looks forty but is well past ninety. Would she believe it? I know I could talk to her,
explain my past, but I don't trust her. Decades stretch to the time I dated girls her age, and I
never dated a white girl. Time was when they would hang me just for looking in her direction.
It's funny how attitudes have changed. She might even be perfect for me, but I just can't let her
inside. Others have screwed me too many times, in too many ways, and I'm so damned tired.
The victim of two cover-ups, I mistrust others. The Tuskegee experiments left four hundred
black men with syphilis, and I was number 376 courtesy of good ol' US Gov. They cured me of
'bad blood' through experimentation; removing the syphilis and replacing it with living alien
organisms acquired from Roswell. They say it won't kill me. Hmph! I don't even know if that's
true--I've been lied to by everybody except Mike. All I know for sure is that tiny creatures exist
inside my body, speaking to me, learning from me, making me unique.
Lost in the past while leaning against the bathroom door, I muse about those who have
betrayed me, about the government still searching for me. Life's been one big tricky piece of
crap for me. I'm too old for bullshit anymore, like the kind of bullshit I sense happening at that
very moment in my pub. I hear Eddie making a move on her. His heavy motorcycle boots clomp
her way, approaching her left, probably her blind side.
"Hey, Diana. Long time no see. Whatcha been up to?"
It figures; they know each other. I imagine her turning, smiling, giving him the same look she
gave me moments earlier. She will confirm my suspicions, affirm the knowledge that nothing's
changed, that white women play the same head game and then you're the next “strange fruit
hangin' from the poplar tree.” But her voice is cool. The nanites tune into her biorhythms,
telling me that she's not crazy about meeting this old acquaintance.
"Oh. Hi, Eddie. Since when have you been coming here?"
The fabric of his jacket crinkles as he turns, leaning his back against the bar counter,
playing Mr. Smooth.
"Oh, I don't know. I guess ever since I heard you were back stateside and haven't even
given your old boyfriend a look-up. But you didn't answer my question."
I hear him move closer as I exit the bathroom, edging along the wall to the doorway.
Listening, watching. Mr. Buzz-cut faces her now, leaning on the counter like he owns it,
grinning.
"Nothing really, Eddie," she says, "just working hard, paying bills and, right now, waiting for
a friend."
Eddie's eyebrows raise, his grin widens.
"Friend? Where's she at? Does she need a boyfriend? Pete is free."
He gestures at his table of goons.
Diana's posture is stiff, polite but distant. She's not smiling.
"He's in the back and I doubt if he goes that way."
Eddie smiles at her joke, but he's not buying it.
"C'mon, Di. I didn't see you come in here with anyone and besides--” He moves closer,
lowers his voice. "I haven't seen you in so long. Why don't we ditch our company and get
reacquainted, huh?"
At his table, the boys snicker and poke each other, watching.
She waves him off like a rancid smell.
"No thanks, Eddie. For Christ's sake, that was years ago! I'm different now. We're different."
The boys laugh. This interests me, too. Eddie rises up, looking dejected.
"Ain't nothin' wrong with gettin' reacquainted, is it? What's the matter, Di? I remember when
you couldn't get enough of the ol' Italian Stallion. What happened? You give up sex or just too
good for me?"
Snickers rise in volume from his buddies as David Bowie softly whines about putting on red
shoes.
"No, Eddie. I just grew up." Diana looks at him with contempt. "Evidently you haven't. I said I
had company." She holds up her hand. "You'd better back off before he comes out.'
Now one of my customers is troubled. That bugs me enough to step out. The nanites
prepare for battle. Mike is pulling a tap down at the other end of the bar. I raise my brows
slightly as I pass. He responds with a quick nod. I move past the counter to her side just as Mr.
Personality says, "He must be taking one helluva shit cause he's not out here ye--"
"What's happening, Di?" I glare at Eddie. "You having trouble?"
Diana looks at me as if she knew I would come out all along, then the surprise. She puts
her arms around my waist and lays her head on my shoulder like we're an item.
"No, babe. Now that you're here all's fine."
She leans up, turns my face to hers. Kisses me.
Eddie pales, mouth agape, turns red. I blush, too, but from shock. And excitement. All my
senses focus in on the texture of her skin against mine, the taste of her lipstick, the subtle
scent of female hormones detected by the nanites that permeate my body. Desire, a rush of
flames that course through my veins, mingles with the chill of fear that this is wrong. She pulls
back, her eyes screaming that she means it, that she's wanted to kiss me for a long time.
Eddie's friends gasp.
“Melanzana?" Eddie is astonished. “You're dating a freaking eggplant?"
Melanzana is Eggplant in Italian. It's also Italian for nigger. Before I reach for his thick neck,
Diana says, "God, Eddie, just leave us alone, ok?"
He shakes his head with a disgusted laugh.
"I don't get this. You with a damn nigger! Did ya' screw him yet?"
Diana's right hand blazes across his face, leaving red finger marks. The bar becomes silent,
except for the announcer on ESPN and Bowie's fading voice. The jukebox whirs as it readies
another tune.
"That's enough!" I push her behind me. "You need to leave. Now you can do this the simple
way or the hard way… but you're leaving."
Eddies boys stand, ready to rumble. They move closer as Mike edges toward us. Eddie
draws up to his full height.
"Oh, big muscle bound eggplant wants to try me, huh? Listen boy, I don't waste my time on
niggers. I just kill 'em."
"Boy?"
My fists clench.
Just then Mike moves between us, smiling from behind the bar. "Ay amici, tu parle Italiano?"
Eddie looks at him, his face a mask of anger.
"Yeah, so what?"
Mike says something else in Italian and Eddie glances down at the front of the counter
where my partner stands. The color drains from his face. He turns to his boys.
"C'mon, let's get the hell out of here."
They turn and gather their jackets and head for the front door. Eddie leaves last. When he
reaches the door he turns to face us. He glares at me. The jukebox begins a song by Depeche
Mode.
"This ain't over, nigger-boy. I'll be seeing ya soon. And you… ” He looks at Diana still
standing close to me, squeezing my hand. "I owe you a love tap."
He backs away like a bank robber exiting my bar. I hear them grumbling as they pull off in
his car. I turn to my customers, their eyes still waiting for action, perhaps blood.
"It's over, folks. Sorry for the disturbance."
Slowly they return to whatever they were doing. Diana is still holding my hand. I like how it
feels.
"You okay?"
"Yeah," she says. "Just mad as hell at that… that asshole, that's all. Jeez! I can't believe I
used to date that guy!"
"I guess we're all entitled to mistakes, doll."
I release her hand and turn to Mike.
"What the hell did you say to him?"
Mike gives a dry half-smile and says, "I just told him something to compel him to leave
quietly, that's all."
"And what was that?"
Mike raises the shortened Winchester from behind the bar.
"I told him that I had a twelve-gauge sawed-off shotgun set to blow his nuts off if he didn't
get the hell out."
I chuckle, shaking my head.
"Man, you a bad dude, you know that?"
"Yeah, I'm one bad shut-your-mouth."
He laughs and Diana chuckles with us. Her laugh is like crystal. Her brow furrows.
The Knicks score another point. We laugh and Diana leans against me. I feel her soft yet
firm body pressed against mine. Her perfume surrounds me like clouds of heaven. She's not
going anywhere. She wants something between us. I want it too. But I'm not sure what's real
and what's just show. And Eddie ain't done with me yet.
In the distance I hear the sound of a souped up '87 El Camino SS screaming down
Springfield Boulevard toward Horace Harding. I hear ACDC blaring from custom speakers
calling for dirty deeds done dirt cheap. I hear the hoops and hollers of white boys on the
warpath. Eddie Odiarre's voice is loudest.
Perhaps I'll still find my chance to bust two or three heads.
Eddie's bent on keeping his petty white pride burning by intimidating those who are different
from him. I'm different alright--he doesn't know just how different. His boys are in the black car's
flatbed. It fishtails around the corner onto Springfield and I see three of Eddie's buddies seated
inside. I smell gasoline. I'm too old to be scared of these pups. I've been through too much to
run off and hide. Springfield Boulevard is a block away and they're coming up fast. I start
walking in their direction. As they pass the corner of Two-Twenty-Fourth Street the car jumps
the curb onto the sidewalk and screeches sideways in front of me.
"Ay, Eggplant!" Eddie's voice is a roar.
His boys in the flatbed raise big steel buckets before I realize what's up. The little buddies
inside me surge adrenaline, strengthen muscle tissue, preparing for the fight to come. Warm
liquid soaks me, stings my eyes, burning my mouth and nose. It runs down the collar of my
jacket, plastering the black T-shirt and jeans to my body. The tiny creatures within race to
suppress the pain. I'm blind and reaching for the first punk I can catch. Their whooping and
hollering confuses me. I don't sense the attack like I usually do as the heavy piece of metal
strikes my head. I fall to my knees, still swinging. I try to stand and another pail hits my chin,
sending me backward. They're staying way beyond my reach. I hear the car door open and
Eddie's heavy boots grate the concrete. I jump to my feet, sightless and pissed to hell. I hear
the scratch of a match.
One his boys sings out in a false baritone. "And the rockets red glare!"
"Fried Eggplant!" Eddie chuckles and I feel and hear the whoosh of ignition.
And then the heat. I'm burning. We're burning! The I/We scream from a dual existence,
ripping the night over the sound of fire, over the animal jeers of bestial thugs. Panic takes over
and I try to run, blind and burning, screaming through a seared throat, trying to beat the flames
from me. My ears crackle and sizzle. I smell the sick sweet stench of my own smoldering body.
Where the hell am I? Which way am I headed? I'm confused. I'm scared shitless.
Two pops from behind. Two punches in my back. Rods of fire pierce through me and I
collapse. I can't feel my legs. And I still burn, my hands flailing in panic as the flames consume
me. I hear Eddie and his gang jump back into the car and speed away as Eddie screams a
curse in Italian that sounds like "a fan cooler eggplant." Then, "... stick to your own kind!"
The blood from the gunshot wounds puddles around me, sizzling and bubbling. It puts out
the flames on my groping hands. I hear a siren in the distance. It'll be too late when they arrive.
I've stopped struggling, letting the flames have their meal. As I give in, Billie Holiday's voice
sings mockingly in my head. 'Strange fruit hanging from the poplar tree.' I pass out.
II
Horace Harding expressway is as insomniac
as the Big Apple. At two a.m. the artery of the
city pulses with headlights, taillights, red and
white; cells on wheels, carrying late-night
citizens or crap or just plain human shit.
Stepping out of the bar and closing up shop, I
hear each vehicle pass. Two wheels, four, six,
eighteen. Each one is distinct in my ears;
automatic or manual, gas-powered or diesel,
foreign or domestic.
I lock the dark oak door and step back to
pull the roll gate down with its chain pulley
system. It's been one helluva day, as Mike
would say. One of those days that I should've
busted a head or two just 'cause I felt like it.
Horace Harding expressway is as insomniac
as the Big Apple. At two a.m. the artery of the
city pulses with headlights, taillights, red and
white; cells on wheels, carrying late-night
citizens or crap or just plain human shit.
Stepping out of the bar and closing up shop, I
hear each vehicle pass. Two wheels, four, six,
eighteen. Each one is distinct in my ears;
automatic or manual, gas-powered or diesel,
foreign or domestic.
I lock the dark oak door and step back to
pull the roll gate down with its chain pulley
system. It's been one helluva day, as Mike
would say. One of those days that I should've
busted a head or two just 'cause I felt like it.
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