Day 5.5 at the White Horse. Andre and Hakeem sit in a ratty common room populated with down-and-outs, over-the-hill hookers, dirty suburban stoners, and a smooth Indonesian dude who runs some sort of shady operation out of the hotel.
Hakeem looks around. “Why can’t we talk in your room like last time?”
“Because that room is not healthy. And these people have their own stuff going on, so they’re not thinking about us.”
Hakeem gives the colorful cast another once-over, appearing uncomfortable with the idea of an open-air session. “Okay, so here’s how I’d like to approach your treatment. I’d like to work through the accident first—”
Andre tenses.
“Did you notice that?” Hakeem asks.
“Notice what?”
“It’s almost like you flinched when I mentioned the accident.”
“Didn’t notice,” Andre says, now diffident.
“But that’s fine,” Hakeem assures him. “See? We’re already on the road to recovery.”
Andre feels like a stranger at his own therapy session, poked around by Hakeem’s prodding about things he can’t see.
“Here’s what’s happening, Dre. The trauma of losing your parents has you in an emotional holding pattern. Like a boxer waiting for the next blow, you brace yourself at the mere mention of the accident as if you expect the pain to blindside you like a rabbit punch. That’s why we need to work through the accident first. Because the trauma you experienced created a fearful, somewhat intractable personality that wasn’t able to easily cope with the difficult circumstances that came later in your life.”
Andre extends his hand. “You just nailed my story, Keem. Really.” Hakeem shakes it, but Andre sustains his grasp and looks him in the eye. “I really appreciate you doing this. And as soon as I get another gig, I’ll be able to take care of your pockets again.”
Andre’s cell phone buzzes. The display says NYC MTA.
“Speaking of gigs, let me take this. Hello?”
“Andre, Mr. Chin from the MTA.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Chin. How are you?”
“I’m fine. Look, I was so impressed with your honesty that I felt I needed to call you to personally tell you that we won’t be considering your application for the bus operator position.”
“Oh.” Andre sinks his head into his hand. “Is there any advice you can give me that would make my candidacy successful in the future?”
“Sure . . . Lie.”
Andre waits to see if this is another of Chin’s zingers.
“Okay, that’s all, Andre.”
“Thanks for your time, Mr. Chin. And please keep me in mind for future openings.”
Cast down, Andre looks up.
“Bad news?” Hakeem asks.
“Story of my life. Bad News Bolden. That name pretty much sums up my world. Bad news becomes me.”
Hakeem slides his rusted folding chair close to the flimsy card table. “Consider our session officially over. Now I can talk to you like we’re just ’boys. Is that cool?”
“Go ahead.”
“A wise man once said that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope.”
“Since when did spouting masochism make one wise?” Andre asks. “And the sacraments of a bitter existence? Who deemed that a vaunted prize?” Andre scribbles the thought in his notebook and recites aloud the rest of what gluts his mind. “Nihilistic philosophy only births more pain. It’s fruitless to espouse folly, repackage it as wisdom, and spew it in a wise man’s name.” Andre pencils that in too.
“That was off the top?” Hakeem asks.
“The gift has been known to rear its head when things get ugly.”
“Check out this verse,” Hakeem says. “‘Every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of the heavenly lights, who does not change like shifting shadows.’”
“That’s you?” Andre asks.
“No, that’s from a brother named James the Just.”
“James the Just. Hot name,” Andre says. “‘Father of the heavenly lights.’ Sounds like some old New Age ish.”
“Actually, it’s from the Bible.”
Andre smirks. “The Bible? Your name is Hakeem Shabazz and you rock a Sunni-Muslim-inspired Philly beard.”
“This beard is Coptic, fam.”
“Coptic?”
“Means Egyptian. The Coptic faith started in Africa ten years after the crucifixion.”
“The crucifixion of who? Jesus?”
“Yeah.”
“So you’re a Christian?”
“Orthodox. Night and day from the stuff you see practiced in America.”
“What’s the difference?”
Hakeem rubs his Coptic-style beard and considers. “Protestantism is from Europe and didn’t show up until the sixteenth century. Coptic originated in Africa early in the first century, so culturally it’s a no-brainer which one is more relevant to me as a person of African descent.”
“So Hakeem Shabazz is a Coptic name?”
“Actually, no,” Hakeem replies. “My mother and father were in the Nation of Islam when they met, but they converted two years before I was born.”
“Converted from the Nation of Islam to Christianity?”
“It’s more common than you think. My dad was from down South so he was raised Protestant. This was back in the sixties. But when he moved up here to go to medical school, he was attracted to the social justice and message of empowerment that was coming out of the Nation at the time. So he joined and changed his name from Arthur Howard to Na’im Shabazz.”
“But what led him to convert back?”
“According to him, Islam made him disciplined but couldn’t stop him from sinning.”
Through his window, Andre watches the jagged outline of buildings transform into indefinable black figurations as the sun sets on his last day at the White Horse.
All at once, shimmering, silver light splashes through the window and dances crosswise above the sill. Andre is gripped with a euphoric fear that enchants his every sense. He angles his head abruptly to discover the source of the light.
The moon.
Andre is two quarks from being crushed. All the God talk has caused his heart to lust for the fantastical—indisputable evidence that would, once for all, put his doubts to rest.
But what if I am alone in a godless universe with no meaning other than what I ascribe to it?
Something about that doesn’t make sense, and it’s powerfully unsettling at the same time.
Andre’s old friend despair hikes up the back of his neck, scampers across the surface of his bald head, filters through his eyelashes, and complicates his ability to see.
Andre drops on the bed and dials Sandra.
“Hey, Dre. Everything alright?”
“No.”
“What’s wrong?”
“I’m really not getting life right now. I just don’t understand it.”
“You’re not thinking of doing anything crazy, are you?”
“No, nothing like that.”
His phone beeps. “Hold on, that’s Rock. Hello?”
“My brother.”
“What’s going on, man?”
“Heading over to the Realness. I can shoot through and scoop you if you want to roll.”
“Well . . . okay, why not? You know where the White Horse is?”
“You forget who you talking to?”
“Right,” Andre says, smiling. He clicks back over. “Hey, I have to meet Rock downstairs.”