Chapter 60

At dinner the following evening, tray of food in hand, Lizard strolled right past Abraham. Stopping at the table of colored boys, he asked the lead one, Joe Brown, “Can I eat with you?”

The lanky, square-jawed guitar player side-eyed him. “Here?”

Lizard nodded.

“You want to sit with us?”

“Yeah.”

Joe glanced over at Abraham, who was sneering at him. Joe grinned and shoved the boy next to him. “Sure, sit on down,” he said, loud enough for the entire dining hall to hear.

Over creamed corn, green beans, and mystery meat, they talked baseball, girls, and music. Afterward, Lizard followed them out to the yard, happy to be close to the music, to experience it under his skin.

The next day, Lizard joined Joe and his friends for lunch; the day after that he invited himself to their table for breakfast. After a week, he completely abandoned Abraham and his clique, choosing to not only take his meals with the Negroes, but spend his free time with them too.

* * *

“You ever play before?” Joe held out his instrument. He didn’t allow just anyone to touch his guitar, to touch Sweetness—so named because she was long, brown, and sweet to the touch.

Lizard eyed it hesitantly.

“I see the way you look at her, I know you want to. So go on,” Joe pressed.

Lizard took the guitar and cradled it in his arms like a newborn. “I studied the violin,” he offered timidly as he raked his fingers over the strings.

“Violin?” Joe coughed, thrusting his pinky finger out and tipping an imaginary teacup to his lips. “Looka here, lemme show you how to play a real man’s instrument.”

Within days, Lizard was picking as if he’d been playing for years.

“Hey, you doing real good,” Joe commented proudly. “Maybe you got some black in you.”

“Could be,” another member of the group chimed, pointing, “look at his hair. More nigger naps than a little bit.”

Lizard ran his hands over his crown of tightly coiled curls. “Yeah, my mother hates it, she says I got hair like wool.”

Joe plunged his hands into Lizard’s crown of hair. “Yep, it feels just like mine.”

Maybe he did have some black in him, Lizard mused. The idea thrilled him.

* * *

Of course, his choice to associate with the colored boys made him unpopular with inmates as well as guards. He was labeled a traitor and nigger lover.

Abraham told Lizard that race mixing was a sin of the highest caliber, right up there with adultery and murder.

The guards expressed their disdain for Lizard by tossing his room. Someone took a dump in his shoes; another person soaked his bed in urine.

It was a rough time, but Lizard was thick-skinned, resilient, even good-humored about the situation. Instead of cracking skulls, he channeled his frustration into music, penning a song about his woes, which he called “Reform School Blues.”

He shared it with his new friends. It was the corniest thing any of them had every heard and they told him so.