Angry Black White Boy (9 page)

“Damn, Moves. You look like death eating a sandwich, dog.” Commuters honked and Nique craned his torso out of the tollbooth, checking to see if any of the cars belonged to drug customers. They did not, and he ignored them.

Macon slumped forward, forehead resting on the wheel, rubbing his temples with two fingers to the dome. “I feel like a bullshit-ass Raskolnikov,” he said in the slow, textured tone reserved for times when he felt wickedly removed, smoother and older and hipper than his interlocutor or else half-dead. The voice hinted at a Southern drawl; Nique suspected Macon had cribbed it from some PBS jazz documentary.

“Just comparing your life to classic literature doesn’t make your life classic literature,” Nique informed him. “Fuck happened?”

Macon steeled Nique with a confidential stare, exhaled elaborately, then changed his mind and shrugged and parried. “White people are really losing their minds over this cab thing, huh?”

“Man, they love it. They’re having a field day. You been listening to the radio? They did a whole hour on it earlier. Interviewed all these outraged white people talking about hate crimes and ‘We entrust these people with our lives,’ playing the victim role like they been practicing for years and shit. Then they talked to a couple of black folks who were like, ‘Hey, cabs are finally stopping for us ’cause everybody white’s afraid to take ’em.’ ”

“Huh.” Macon mulled that over and warmed into a grin.

“This is my favorite,” said Nique. “There’s this group that’s boycotting the cab companies until they find the criminal, right? And dude, they organized a fuckin’ carpool for crackers to get to work. It’s like the Montgomery bus boycott on acid. I love this shit.” He laughed. “You must be in high demand out here, huh? White cabbie in this city right now? You the man.”

“Not me,” said Macon, shifting into drive. “I can’t even get arrested in this town.” He peeled off, whipped back to Manhattan as fast as he could and trolled the streets, face flushed red, desperate to make things right before he considered the consequences and lost his nerve.

It didn’t take long to find a fare. “Boy, am I glad to see you,” chortled the square-headed meatbag businessman, tucking the folds of his raincoat around himself and smiling as if he’d just told an inside joke. Blue suit, white shirt, red tie. Fucking presidential. Macon grunted, drove half a block, slammed the gearshift into park and hit the locks and spun. It was the middle of the day, middle of the avenue, middle of Midtown, the light green up ahead. Cars swerved and honked around him, and Macon thrust his head into the space in the partition and eyeballed his startled customer. The future drained away like water spiraling out of a bathtub, and Macon watched it disappear. Prison flashed through his mind, cinematic: a lengthy sentence, weight-room brawls, gradual wisdom, comradely strolls around the yard with Morgan Freeman. None of it mattered; no fate-specter was going to spook Macon. Life was only now, this single instant and the necessity of shouldering the weight.

“What color am I?” he demanded.

The man shrunk back against the seat, maximizing what space lay between them.

“Look at me. What color am I?”

“Y-you’re white,” he stammered.

Macon opened the glove compartment, grabbed the gun, and poked the first inch of the barrel through the partition. He rested his chin on the hammer.

“Now what color am I?”

The man blanched.

“It’s not a trick question!” Macon screamed. “Take a good look. What fucking color am I?”

“White.” The syllable leaked from him, a weak gust of terror.

“Jesus. Thank you. I thought I was going insane here. Now give me your wallet and that lovely tie, asshole, and get the fuck out of my cab.” He gestured with the gun. “Hurry. Before you forget what I look like.”

BOOK II

TRAITOR

I pounded my fist into my glove as Anson stepped into the box for
his leadoff at-bat. The crowd chanted his name, and he tipped his
cap with practiced grace. Arty Sullivan, our rookie pitcher,
fingered the rosin bag and patted down the pitcher’s mound with his
toe, trying to compose himself. It was only his second start of the
season, and here was the game’s most feared hitter and the ugliest
crowd he’d ever seen. I crouched into a fielder’s stance, bouncing
on my toes, grateful that with Anson at the plate, the crowd seemed
to have forgotten me.

“Ban the nigger!” came the cry from behind third. I flinched, almostturned, and clenched my fist atop my knee. “Ban the nigger!”
It spread through the stands, bouncing like an echo from third
base to the bleachers and the seats behind the plate. Anson swung
at the first pitch and hit a line drive foul down the first-base line,
hard enough to energize the crowd and rattle Arty even more.
Where was the kid’s head at? He was ignoring an unwritten rule of
baseball. I walked from third to hold a conference at the mound.

“They throw at my head and you give him something to hit?
Whose side are you on? You knock him on his ass right now, you
understand?”

The next pitch was down the middle and Anson poked it
through the infield for a single. Sullivan refused to meet my furious
stare. Cap lingered at the bag, replenishing his chaw and chatting
with Red Donner. Chatting! I surveyed the baseball diamond and
realized with a pang of fear that these men wearing my uniformwere not on my team. How could Donner exchange first
baseman/base runner pleasantries with this man, the darling of the
Klan? How could Sullivan refuse to retaliate on my behalf?

With this new clarity of vision came clarity of hearing; the
jumble of noise began to shake and settle, and I realized I’d been
foolish in wishing to pull voices from the din. I could hear them now,
each one, and it was worse. Folks were having a good old time in
here today.

“Time’s up, nigger!”

“Swing that bat like you gon’ swing from a tree!”

“This game ain’t for your kind, Fleet Walker!”

“No slave labor in the infield!”

“We’ll be waitin’ for you, Moses!”

“Ban the nigger!”

The Stockings’ two-hitter bounced into a double play. Sullivan
walked the third batter and whiffed the cleanup man and I tucked
my mitt under my arm and my head into my chest and jogged back
to the dugout. I tried to look unruffled, to move neither too fast
nor too slow. Eight more innings of this. Three more at-bats, at
least. Then what? A team bus ride? Another game tomorrow?

I walked to the far corner of the dugout and hunkered down
alone. There were seven hitters ahead of me but I grabbed my bat
anyway, held it between my legs and rested my chin on the flat
bottom of the handle. Red followed me and sat down by my side.

“I know you saw me talking to Anson, Fleet,” he said, leaning
in. “I told him he’s a
chickens hit son of a bitch, and that if he was
half the man you are, he’d spend less time complaining to the
owners and more worrying about why he can’t hit a lick off colored
pitchers.”

I looked at Red and forced a smile. “Thanks.”

“I also told him that if they try to bean you again, I’ll slice him
to ribbons. Be the only ballplayer ever slid into first base.”

It wasn’t until the fourth inning that I returned to the plate. I
came up with a man on first and one out. The pitcher looked over
at Anson; Cap nodded his head and I knew to duck before the pitch
even left the hurler’s hand. I moved too soon, though, crouched
into a ball and gave the fellow an easy target. The pitch caught me
in the arm. It wasn’t thrown very hard; the pitcher had to sacrifice
some speed because he changed the placement of the ball so late in
his delivery.

I stood, triumphant:
That didn’t even hurt, you bastard.
Dusted
myself off, saluted the pitcher with two fingers to my cap, and listenedto the crowd go apoplectic with rage.

Anson was waiting for me. “You better get used to this,” he
said. “Every pitcher in this league gon’ throw at your head, boy.
I noticed your man Sullivan ain’t been too quick to throw back,
neither, has he? Why you s’pose that is, Mr. Moses Fleetwood
Walker?”

“Maybe he’s better than that,” I said.

Cap threw back his head and laughed. The fans followed suit,
as if they were in on the joke, and for a moment the entire stadium
went rancid with the sound. At the plate, Joe Wagner took a secondcalled strike. Anson shook his head and opened his eyes wide,
affecting rueful bemusement. “Maybe he’s better’n that. Yep, that’s
prob’ly it, all right. Good thing you don’t take it personal. You
know, Fleet, I’m not just havin’ Hoss knock you down to make a
fool of you. I wanted to get you to first so’s me and you could have
a chance to talk. I don’t understand you, Fleet. Every other nigger
in the league knows he’s not wanted and he leaves. You mean to
tell me you’re even stupid for a nigger?”

I adjusted my cap and got into a base runner’s stance: knees
bent, arms outstretched, poised on the balls of my feet. “Maybe
you’re afraid to pitch to me,” I said without taking my eyes off the
field.

“I’m not the one who should be scared,” Anson replied.

Wagner dribbled a grounder back to the mound and Hoss
threw to third and put out the lead runner. I got a good jump and
beat the relay to second standing. “We’ll talk later,” Anson called.

“Don’t listen to him,” said the second baseman. He stood close
behind the bag to hold me, prevent me from taking too much of a
lead. “Don’t listen to any of them. Just hang in there.” I turned
and stared at him. Hoss threw strike two down the middle. “I’m
from Queens,” the kid went on. “I used to cut school to watch you
fellows take batting practice, shag flies, anything. This is my first
year up from semi-pro, and you know what?” He glanced around
and almost winced. “I don’t want to be a ballplayer no more.”

“Well, I do,” I said. “Too bad you and I can’t change places.”

The inning ended with a fly-out to right field, and the game continuedscoreless into the bottom of the eighth inning. I had handledonly two balls the entire game, fielding each one cleanly and
throwing my man out to thunderous tumult. Heaven forbid I
made an error. Their heads might have exploded. In the seventh,
Hoss had brushed me back twice before finally hitting me in the
shin, the most painful ball so far. I’d been thrown out at second on
the next play, a lazy broken-bat roller to third that I would have
beaten if I wasn’t hobbling. Anson had been quiet at first base.
“You look like you’ve got a lot on your mind, Moses,” was all he’d
said. “I’ma be quiet so’s you can try to think.”

Hoss Rawlings was the Stockings’ first batter in the eighth.
Desota called for time and walked out to the mound, beckoning
the infield in to conference. “You listen to me, Sullivan,” he said.
“This son of a bitch has hit Walker three times now. If you won’t
throw back, I’ll call in someone who will, you got that?” Sullivan
nodded into his glove; I gazed off into the stands, grateful but embarrassed. Whatever happened, I knew I’d never speak to Sullivan
again.

The pitch was tight and inside, a fastball, and Hoss twisted to
avoid it and got plunked on the elbow of his pitching arm. He fell
to the ground and that was it for him. Anson sent in a pinch runner,
some overzealous rookie who took a long lead and got picked
off on the second pitch. The next batter grounded out to short,
and then it was the top of the ninth and I was at the plate.

The new pitcher was Randy Garrett. He’d been a Giant for two
seasons. He and I had never spoken much, but we’d gotten along
fine. Garrett was a quiet guy, a farm boy still adjusting to life on
the road, but not stupid, not a rube. He knew enough to shut up,
to listen to the vets and try to learn the game instead of running
around whooping and hollering with excitement like a lot of these
hayseed kids did when they got out on the road.

I watched him throw a final warm up and stepped in. Garrett
nodded once. Was he responding to the catcher’s sign or greeting
me? What sign would he need if he was under orders to go for the
head? I tightened my grip on the bat, optimistic enough to expect
the first real pitch of the day. It came in low and outside, far from
a strike but not a brush back, either. Anson called time and ran to
the mound. Garrett towered over his manager, rubbing the ball between his hands and furrowing his brow. He glanced up at me,
looked down at Anson, nodded, slipped his hand back in his glove,
and dropped his gangly arms. Anson barked some curt last order
and marched back to first base.

I steeled myself, ready for whatever might come down the pike.
It was a fastball on the outside corner, and I thanked God in
heaven and walloped the hell out of it. The crack of bat to ball
hushed the crowd; the stadium watched in silence as the white blur
soared past the outstretched glove of the leaping shortstop, still on
the rise. The centerfielder turned his back to the plate and sprinted
to the wall, but there was nothing he could do. The ball cleared the
fence, dropped into the empty section of bleachers marked
For Coloreds Only,
and rattled around under the seats, loud against
the stunned silence of several thousand fans.