A fight, a fight
A black and a white
If the black don’t win
We all jump in…
A dollop of sweat drips off the tip of my nose. It’s so large and so heavy I swear I hear it as it thuds against the pavement. And that’s saying something, because the pounding of my heart fills my eardrums like the bass line from a Timbaland song. I have my hands balled in a fist and up by my chin, in my boxing stance, my weight evenly distributed on the balls of my feet.
I’m ready to do some serious damage.
Across from me, Benny Sedgwick has his hands similarly fisted, but he holds them carelessly down at his sides. His greasy, unkempt hair keeps falling into his eyes, and he keeps swinging his head to clear it away and concentrate his focus on me. Benny’s cheeks are beet red, his ocean-blue eyes wide as a big city highway. Acne dots his chin, his cheeks and forehead. The same hateful kids that tease me, they have a name for him as well: Pizza Face.
Benny and I have been friends for as long as I can remember. We’ve been one another’s ally, one another’s support system. A bonding of the uncool, I guess you could say. I just know he’s wondering why I want to leave my knuckle prints tattooed on his face over all that acne. He’s got to be wondering why I would want to hurt him.
I have to wonder myself.
“Come on, Poser,” a too-deep-for-high-school voice calls from over my shoulder, “drop this fool-ass white boy so we can bounce.”
Wonder no more.
That’s Crash. His mother named him Percival Marques Johnson at birth, but if you want to know how he picked up the nickname Crash, then make the mistake of calling him by his “government name.” I’ve seen Crash turn men into blubbering boys and boys into groaning girls for calling him Percival. Even most of the teachers at our high school are down with the program. Crash is feared by just about everyone. He’s the only boy in our school with a tattoo. Quod me nutrit me destruit—“What nourishes me also destroys me.” It’s inked on his stomach. Drawn in among the ripples of his six-pack abs. It was there at the beginning of this school year, something Crash picked up over summer recess. I’m not even sure he knows what that Latin phrase means. I’d never say that to Crash, though. He’d destroy me if I did.
Benny, mindful of the heavy pull Crash has over me, attempts to talk me down off the ledge. “I was just fooling with Kenya,” Benny whines. “Eric, you know that. Come on. Why are you taking this so serious?”
“Nah, nah, kill that noise,” Crash says from behind me. “This white boy told your sister—a fine young Black Queen—to back that thing up. He disrespected the black woman, Poser. And not just any ol’ bird, either. Your sister, B. I know you ain’t takin’ that, my dude.”
I was in the lunchroom when it all happened. Kenya didn’t appear too bothered by Benny’s remark, to tell you the truth. In fact, she put her hands on her knees and morphed into the girl in Juelz Santana’s “Clockwork” video. Sad to say, but my sister shook that behind like clockwork.
Not exactly the move of a disrespected Black Queen.
Crash says, “Enough of this. Bust this kid up, Poser. Bust him up.”
Crash’s voice has gotten even deeper. He’s serious. Very serious.
I know Kenya’s my sister. And her honor definitely means something to me. But Benny didn’t mean anything by his remark, I’m certain of that. I want to explain all of this to Crash, but there is no explaining anything to him when his mind is set on something. He speaks, people listen. Period. End of story. A point that is not open for negotiation. Those who have tried to negotiate with Crash before have learned quickly, and usually painfully, the error of such a move. I don’t want to be in that number.
“See, I’m about to get agitated,” Crash says. “You ain’t moving fast enough, Poser.”
I grind my jaws then and manufacture the evilest look I can on my face. Hearing Crash use a big word like agitated lets me know just how pressing this situation is. I gotta drop this fool-ass white boy for sure. I try to think of some hard hip-hop, the toughest rap song going. Young Jeezy, Lil’ Wayne and Birdman, somebody like that. Mood music. I need a sound track to help me drop fool-ass white boy Benny.
I look deeper at Benny. His hands are still down at his sides. At least he has the sense to admit he doesn’t know what to do with his fists. I’ve got mine up as if I’m about to get my Floyd Mayweather or Oscar de la Hoya on.
“Eric Posey the Poser,” Crash chides.
Poser? He’s probably right.
Crash moves toward me, pushes one of his baseball-mitt-sized hands against my shoulder blades. That move edges me forward. His voice has a sharp corner to it as he says, “Kick this white boy’s ass or I’m gonna kick yours. You understand?”
I look at Benny apologetically. Hope he understands. He seems as if he does. He raises his hands finally, both of them touching, giving him the appearance of praying. I step forward, some of Young Jeezy’s hard thug music ringing in my head, and plant the best right hand I’ve ever thrown—okay, the only right hand I’ve ever thrown—deep into Benny’s soft gut. Benny folds over immediately. I’m in church with my mother at that moment. “Victory Is Mine,” that gospel song, replacing the Jeezy in my head. But then Benny hurtles forward suddenly, catches me seriously off guard, grabs my knees, and pushes me tumbling backward. We wrestle around on the ground. He’s slippery, hard to grip, but I get some kind of hold on him. It’s not a good hold. And unfortunately he’s got one on me, too. I can hear Crash singing that stupid song in the background as I struggle to beat up Benny: “A fight, a fight, A black and a white. If the black don’t win, We all jump in….”
Crash says, “Aiight, Poser. Chill. Quigley is heading this way.”
Benny lets his grip on me go. I do the same with him. Both of us jump up and brush off, doing our best to avoid being dealt the swift hand of discipline from Mr. Quigley, the school’s chief hall aide. Detention would mean no surfing the Internet or MySpace for Benny or me, plus the added indignity of a beating from one of my mama’s switches, in my case. Neither one of us wants that. I particularly wouldn’t want to deal with Mama. Just the thought of her discipline makes me want to cry big crocodile tears.
Benny and I take off in separate directions, spared for the time being.
Crash is beside me, walking calm, with a bop I’ve practiced in front of my mirror but can’t seem to get right. The girls love how Crash moves. They don’t love how I move. They don’t love how I dress. They don’t find me cool unless midterms or finals are coming up. Then I’m the tutor king, overlooking how utterly dumb some of these girls are because they smell good and their Apple Bottoms fit so snug.
Crash’s long stride matches my half run.
I ask, hopeful, “I kicked his ass, Crash?”
“If the black don’t win, we all jump in,” he replies. He shakes his head and looks at me with eyes painted with pity. I’m used to that look.
“He picked Poser up and body-slammed him,” Crash announces to the assembly in the locker room. I’m at the eye of the storm, at the center of my peers as they surround me. They all look alike. Timbs, throwback jerseys, bald heads or cornrows. I look like some form of Kanye West or Pharrell: cardigan sweater, khaki pants, suede Wallabees. I still get no play. Kenya’s best friend, Lark Edwards, she’s summed it up on more than one occasion: “You’re trying, Eric, I give you that. I mean, you’re really trying.” At least she sounds sincere when she says it.
Trying, that’s the key word. Close but no cigar. A cliché, I know. I hate clichés, but that one fits me. I’m just missing that element that comes so naturally to most of the other boys. That element that can’t be bottled, can’t be manufactured. Cool. It gives them confidence. And I’m missing cool in the worst way.
I keep my eyes focused on my suede Wallabees.
I can’t look any of the cool boys surrounding me in the eyes.
“He did get in one weak jab, though,” Crash says on my behalf.
I look up as those words are spoken and wait. Hopeful that my one swing will draw me some kind of reprieve, that I’ll get some level of respect from everyone instead of the usual pity or taunts.
“A jab,” someone says. “Benny don’t weigh but a buck five and all this lame got off was a jab?”
My shoulders slump at ease; these guys will never grant me a reprieve. Never. My gaze falls back on my Wallabees.
Crash says, “You know the deal with this dude. Eric Posey the Poser.”
I retrieve my backpack from the bench in front of my locker, prepared to make another of my many tail-between-the-legs exits. I’m almost beyond the circle of cool boys when Crash pulls me back by the shoulder and wrenches the backpack from my hands.
“Give me that. What you got in here you always guarding so hard, Poser?” he says, reaching his hands into my bag and pulling out a black-and-white composition book.
“M-my Book of Rhymes,” I say, upset at myself for stuttering and being so slow of hand.
“Book of Rhymes…” Crash studies the book. “My dude, you are straight-up obsessed with those fake rap cats, always talking about some phony rapper. What, you a closet MC now, Poser?”
I reach for the book. Crash holds it above his head and well out of my reach. Even on my tiptoes I fall inches short of getting my hands on it again. I’m a high school sophomore, just five-seven. Looking for a growth spurt, like someone looking for love with Tila Tequila.
“Let me see what you spittin’,” Crash says.
“Give it back, Crash.” My voice is barely a whisper. I know it. I hate that about myself.
“‘Seen my lady home las’ night, Jump back, honey, jump back,’” Crash reads from my book. “‘Hel’ huh hand an’ squeeze it tight, Jump back, honey, Jump back.’” Crash looks up at me, perplexed. “What’s this, Poser?”
I hang my head in shame. “Paul Laurence Dunbar…it’s poetry.”
The others snicker. Wannabe Paul Wall grills blind me. Crash shakes his head and tsks at me. “Thought you said it was rhymes, Poser? Real rhymes.”
I say, “Rappers are our modern-day poets. Look at Talib Kweli, Common, Nas—”
Crash puts his hand up to halt me. “I ain’t trying to get no Hip-hop 101 lesson, Poser. Aiight? So shut up.”
I shut up briefly.
Then a thought gnaws at me and I say, “I’m just pointing out the correlation between rap and poetry.”
Crash looks around the room at everyone, says, “Did this nigga just say ‘correlation’?”
One of the others pipes up. Kid in a LeBron James jersey. I couldn’t tell you his name. “Poser has a point, Crash.” Everyone looks at him, like he’s the real LeBron James, a human highlight film replayed over and over on ESPN. He’s one of the cool boys. That’s how it is with them, they command attention. I want to be one of them so bad it hurts. Hurts like a bad tooth. “Check this,” the faux King James says. And the room quiets to hear what he has to offer. I’ve learned not to be overly hopeful. I’m sure this isn’t going where I’d like it to. Still, I wait. Maybe this one time…
“Instead of Tupac Shakur,” King James continues, “we can call your boy…Two Packs of Sugar.”
They all burst out laughing. Even Crash, who rarely cracks a smile, has one on his face. I bite my lip. Death, taxes and me being picked on—the only certain things in life.
Crash looks at me, says, “Nigga, you disappoint me.”
I clear my throat. For once I’m going to fight for my dignity. “A Tribe Called Quest tried to say nigga was a term of endearment on the Midnight Marauders album…but I don’t like the word, Crash. So don’t call me that.”
Crash places my composition book back in my bag nicely but then hurls the fifteen-pound JanSport backpack at me. I’m not prepared for that hammer throw. The bag plunks against my chest and knocks the wind from me for a second. I almost topple over but somehow keep my balance, stay on my feet. More laughter comes from the others in the locker room. It fills our space like music.
Crash says, “Nigga, get on up out of here before there be a correlation between my foot and your ass.”
I leave without another word or complaint to a chant of “Poser, Poser, Poser.”
Mr. Atkins scribbles his indecipherable handwriting across the chalkboard, taps the board with the chalk when he’s finished, and turns to face the class. Benny’s sitting one row to my left. We haven’t spoken a word since our aborted fight. Crash is directly in front of me, sound asleep, snoring lightly. He does this through most of his classes. Even the really difficult ones, like trigonometry, where paying attention is vital. Sleeps them away. Yet, somehow, he always is granted a passing grade. I can’t think of many teachers willing to sign off an F on Crash. I shudder to think how little Crash will know when he graduates, how unprepared he will be for the real world. But that’s not my boat to row.
Mr. Atkins, however, is one teacher brave enough to give Crash the grade he actually deserves, even if it is a failing one.
Crash had better watch himself.
“Shakespeare wrote sonnets of fourteen lines,” Mr. Atkins says from the front of the classroom. “The rhyme scheme is ABAB, CDCD, EFEF, GG…so the first line rhymes with the third, second with the fourth, and the last two lines rhyme with each other.”
Mr. Atkins starts a slow stroll down the center aisle. I tap Crash’s shoulder to try and jar him, but he shrugs me off and continues his head-back slumber. Atkins reaches Crash’s desk and slams his hand down hard on the surface. It echoes like a gunshot. Crash is unmoved. He sleeps through similar sounds every night at home. His projects are beset by the things that turn boys into men way too fast: guns and sex. Gangs and pimps and prostitutes. The intersection of which often ends with gunshots. Mr. Atkins fires a second shot. Crash slowly rises, wipes at his eyes and blinks from the harshness of the overhead track lights. There is no sense of urgency in him.
“Shakespeare’s sonnets were written in iambic pentameter,” Atkins says. “Would you know what that is, Percival?”
“Each line has ten syllables and every second syllable is stressed,” I call out in an attempt to save Crash. He and Mr. Atkins are like fire and ice. Mr. Atkins and Officer Gerard, who mans the metal detector when we enter the building in the morning, are the only adults I can think of brave enough to call Crash by his given name. I give Mr. Atkins mucho credit, because Officer Gerard has a gun on his hip.
Mr. Atkins frowns. “I figure you know, Eric. I wanted Percival to get one.” He sighs and looks off at some faraway spot. “Just one this semester and I’d—I’d buy the entire class pizza.” Mr. Atkins smiles and looks at a weary Crash. “I don’t think I’m in any danger of having to pay up on that bet, though. Am I, Percival?”
Crash’s jaw muscles tense. He balls his hands into fists but wisely keeps them obscured under his desk. A few brave souls in the back of the class snicker and laugh. I feel bad for Crash. I would shield him from this humiliation if I could. I know what it’s like to have laughter directed at you. It isn’t a good feeling.
Mr. Atkins says, “Stay awake, Percival. Next time you shut your eyes, I’m shutting you out of this class. I’ll remind you this class is a requirement for graduation.” Atkins turns on his heels at that and starts walking back toward the front of the room. “Can anyone name a famous poet?”
Crash turns to me, spit flying from his mouth. “Give me a name, Poser. I want to shut this dude up once and for all. He stays on my back. I need to get him up off me.”
“What?”
“Give me a name,” Crash says, his mouth foaming, spit flying. A drop of indignity lands on my nose. “Name of a poet, you stupid lame.”
Stupid lame?
I think back to the teasing session in the locker room, all the times Crash hasn’t returned my friendship, all the times he’s broken me down instead of building me up. The tide must change. “E. Lynn Harris,” I tell him.
“E. Lynn Harris?” Crash asks, making sure.
“Yeah,” I say, sealing the deal.
Crash turns back to the front. “Hey yo, Mr. Atkins?”
Atkins wheels around. Surprise is all over his face. I don’t believe Crash has ever spoken up in class before. “Yes,” Mr. Atkins says, eyeing Crash.
Crash sticks his chest out. I drop my head and close my eyes. “I have a poet for you,” Crash announces.
I open my eyes to see how this plays out.
Atkins furrows his brow. “Do you, now? Will wonders never cease? I guess you like pizza. Go ahead, Percival.”
“E. Lynn Harris,” Crash says.
I can feel my stomach drop.
Atkins smiles. Time ticks by. The smile widens with each passing second. He’s pleased. “You enjoy E. Lynn, Percival?”
“Read all of his stuff,” Crash says. “Most of it I’ve read more than once.”
I check my crotch to make sure I didn’t wet myself.
“Really now, more than once, is that right? Well, I can’t say that E. Lynn qualifies as a poet,” Atkins says, “but he’s a very good writer. I’m surprised to hear that you enjoy his work, Percival.”
“Why’s that?” Crash says, loaded to bear. “I can read. I ain’t stupid.”
“Of course not,” Atkins agrees. “It’s just that E. Lynn Harris writes novels, and his main characters are usually gay black men in relationships. I didn’t think that would appeal to a tough guy like you. I guess you’re more tolerant and open than I would have ever given you credit for. Wonders never cease.”
Those brave souls in the back snicker again. Crash’s shoulders heave. I start thinking about my life six feet underground. You don’t humiliate Crash and live to tell about it.
“So unfortunately, no pizza,” Atkins says, “but nice try. At least you contributed for once.” Atkins then moves to the far corner of the classroom. “Anyone else want to try? A famous poet. And no one better say Zane.”
Laughter from the class.
Crash turns to me, his nostrils flare, his teeth looking jagged as a werewolf’s, as if they could cut through the toughest of hides. “That’s your ass, Poser. After school. I’m fiddin’ to mess a nigga up.”
My gaze is on Crash’s teeth.
I wonder just how tough my hide is.
I can see Crash waiting for me out in front of the school. He has on an Elgin Baylor throwback jersey. Elgin Baylor was a star on those old Los Angeles Lakers teams, the dynasty that included Jerry West and Wilt Chamberlain. He was Michael Jordan before Michael Jordan. The jersey is sleeveless, accentuating Crash’s arms. They look like they were chiseled from granite. He resembles Reggie Bush. My arms, in contrast, look like they were slopped together with Play-Doh. As much as I hate to admit it, I strongly resemble Steve Urkel.
Crash paces back and forth like a wild animal on the hunt, pounding his fist into his hand, working himself up for what will be a one-sided fight. I’d rather walk barefoot on hot coals with a weight around my neck than go out there.
I don’t see Mr. Quigley or any other hall aide in sight, but plenty of students are lined up on either side of the walkway. Looks like the dance-off on Soul Train. Seeing all of the students, I realize this could be my moment. Facing Crash without fear, regardless of the outcome, is bound to gain me respect and maybe some notoriety. I can picture it, can hear their words of admiration. “See the kid with the dent in his forehead? He stood toe-to-toe with Crash.” I’d lose some motor skills but gain respect. That’s more than a fair trade.
I step outside. The sun is blazing dead on. Crash has his eyes fixed on some commotion within the crowd of students. The commotion quickly dies down. Crash killed it with a simple look, not wanting anything to take away from his fight with me. He has an intimidating gaze, so hard it makes everything else weak. So much for me facing Crash without fear. I squint, pretending I’m looking into the sun when in actuality I’m attempting to ward off tears. I’d rather walk barefoot on the sun with a weight around my neck than go deal with Crash.
Crash sees me, stops pacing, smiles, and beckons for me to come forward with a nod of his head.
I start moving toward him on legs that have turned to water. My heartbeat is in my ears again, same as the day I fought Benny. The bass line to an even louder and more rambunctious song by Timbaland reverberates in my head. This is fitting, because I’m sure Crash will have me hitting high notes like Justin Timberlake once he gets down to business. Or, probably more fitting, Nelly Furtado.
I stop about ten feet short of Crash. It dawns on me that ten feet of separation is not enough. Ten miles wouldn’t be enough to keep Crash from getting back at someone who wronged him. I swallow my fear in a gulp.
He says, “Poser.”
“Crash,” I manage to reply.
“Hate to have to do you like this, my dude. But you pulled my card.”
“Violence never solves anything. It’s just a nasty cycle, one that affects our people more than others. We can enact a change, right now, you and me. Black-on-black violence, how sad is that, Crash?”
Crash smiles, says, “Nice speech, but we already got a mayor, my dude.”
I want to say something tough. Brace yourself, fool. Raise up, then, homie. But instead, in a girl-like voice, that Nelly Furtado tone I spoke of, I say, “Please don’t do this.”
Crash isn’t swayed. He says, “Enough talking,” and starts taking steps toward me. I swear the sidewalk cracks beneath his feet as he approaches me.
I close my eyes. And pray. I’m a bit rusty. I get Now I lay me down to sleep… and then draw a blank.
Crash is within three feet of me. I drown out the snickers from some of the students, the outright laughter from others, the shouts of those calling me a lame and worse. Focus, like Kobe Bryant said he does when he’s playing basketball on the road and the opposing fans are trying their best to get under his skin, throw off his game. The heckling has no effect on him. No fan ever blocked his jump shot. I get in the same kind of zone, a Kobe zone, with my eyes still shut tight. The snickers, the laughter, the insults, bounce right off me.
But my zone is interrupted when a distinctive voice calls out, “Stop!” and a hand touches my shoulder. I jump from my skin like some exotic snake.
“Relax, Eric,” from the same voice.
I open my eyes. Benny is standing at my right shoulder, his hands balled into fists. He must have learned from the throw-down with me. His hands are up this time. He appears ready for a fight. Most importantly, he’s right by my side. Despite my betrayal, we’re a united front. Benny is the kind of friend I’ve always wished Crash was to me.
Crash pauses and looks from me to Benny, shakes his head. He doesn’t even bother to smile.
I say, “Crash, let’s just let this go before it gets ugly.”
I feel more confident with Benny here.
Crash sings, “Ebony and ivory, live together…”
I say, “You sing more than Ja Rule, Crash.”
I’m feeling my Wheaties.
Crash isn’t fazed. “It’s gonna take more than you two lames to slow me.”
I look at Benny. His Adam’s apple is bobbing in his throat. He manages to smile, leans in to me and whispers, “I got his legs. You go for his body.”
I turn to Crash and home in on the number twenty-two of his Elgin Baylor jersey.
Benny takes off in a run, surprising me with that unexpected move, some kind of Indian war chant rising from his lungs. I have no choice, so I take off, too. My mouth is too dry to scream, though. The fear lodged in my throat wouldn’t let any sound pass anyway. I push aside that fear and focus on Crash’s body. Benny has his legs. I have his body. Simple enough. Success is achieved by preparation.
Maybe we should have prepared more.
Benny dives low.
Even I can see the move will fail.
It’s too telegraphed, executed too slowly.
Crash sidesteps Benny with ease. Benny dives into the sidewalk as if it’s a pool, lands without a splash. The Indian war drum is silenced, I realize, as Benny rolls over on the sidewalk and rests there like he’s testing mattresses at Sleepy’s. Benny’s groans are louder than the laughter of the students gathered to witness this massacre.
It’s just me and Crash, one on one. Again.
I think of the Karate Kid, Rocky, even Hoosiers. In the movies, the underdog is apt to beat the favorite. In real life, the underdog wets his pants and gets punched in the face and gut.
I know.
Both happen to me.
I picked today of all days to wear khakis, light tan khakis.
Crash is on me, pummeling me with punches. My arms don’t work. My legs don’t work. I can’t seem to punch back. I can’t get my legs to move, can’t run for cover. My Kobe focus is gone, because I can hear the laughter, the snickers and the “Damn, Poser pissed his pants” coming from the crowd of students. I ball myself up as best I can, drop to the ground and take my punishment from Crash.
This is rock bottom. So many times in the past I’ve thought I was at the deepest part of the well. So many times I thought it couldn’t get any worse for me. I was wrong. This is finally rock bottom. They will never forget the dark wet stain on my pants. They will never forget I offered no resistance, no fight whatsoever.
Crash’s fist bites into my ear, leaves it burning, stinging, enflamed with pain. Down the road, he’ll tell me he held back, he didn’t hit me with all his might. And I will accept that. I will accept his lopsided friendship. I’m that desperate.
Crash stops suddenly.
I wait a few ticks and then look up at him.
His breathing is heavy, eyes look so haunted.
Crash starts to say something but doesn’t. I manage to get to my feet, move over by where Benny is crumpled on the sidewalk. I offer him my hand, help him up. He pats my back. Our friendship is resurrected. I look over to Crash. He is still standing in the same place, still breathing heavily, eyes still haunted.
I don’t hate him. Believe it or not, I actually feel sorry for him. Something is missing in his life. Just like something is missing in mine. In that way, if in no other, we are brothers, we are bonded, we are the same. That gives me some comfort.
Crash continues to watch me. He says nothing.
I have so much I’d like to say to him, but I don’t say anything, either.
I have wounds to lick. I move away, off to lick them.
The students who witnessed the massacre part like the Red Sea, let me through. Their laughter and mocking words don’t even bother me. I’m used to it, even if this is worse than most days. I can handle this. Alone, I know, but that’s the breaks.
Rock bottom is a lonely place, for sure.