In the Light of You Read online

But this is what Sherry never told Richard about that day:

  Sherry followed Jack Curry out of class like she did most days, staying far behind. I couldn’t help it, he was like a human car crash. It was impossible to not watch. Usually he’d be in the midst of some ideological death match with someone or other, but this particular day was pretty quiet. At first.

  She took her spot on a bench to eat lunch by herself, watching Curry meet up with his friends under a tree off the main lawn. She didn’t know them then, but they were Sarabjit Singh, some girl from the Rape Crisis Center named Marissa, and Lin Cho—who was very pregnant at the time—and her fiancé Dave Yoshimoto. (You may know of Dave Yoshimoto’s sister Katsumi who used to sing for the Baton Rouge sludge metal band Stigmata Dog. She called herself “Pearl Harbor.” Perhaps she still does. They were in a horrible accident on Interstate 71 a couple of years ago and most of the band was killed.)

  It was a beautiful September day. People were studying, hanging out, grubbing on caf’ slop. Jocks tossed the old pigskin around. Hippies hackey-sacked. All the little stereotypes frolicked in the sun to and fro; it was an idyllic college scene.

  That was the first day that Sherry really noticed Niani Shange. She’d seen her around, as it was hard to see Jack Curry and not see her. They were practically joined at the soul. They lived off campus together in a house nestled back from the road. Niani was something of a star around campus, a champion for all sorts of left-leaning issues. Certainly nothing Sherry wanted anything to do with.

  It wasn’t difficult to see why people were drawn to her, though: a born performer if ever one lived. She had perfected the art of manipulating her voice for any sized crowd. And I don’t care who you are or think you are, there was no denying that she was a stunning sight: incredibly dark, her eyes practically glowed against the deep black of her face. If a barefoot girl in ripped jeans and a T-shirt could look regal, Sherry said, Niani Shange did. Like a true African queen. She was radiant, and otherworldly gorgeous, and Sherry hated her fucking guts. She hated the respect Niani commanded. She hated the attention Niani received. And for good measure she hated her because Richard would hate her. She and her friends were the perfect poster children for the multicultural agenda. I’m on to your game, girlie-girl. I’m on to you. Or so Sherry thought. Sherry had no idea at the time of the devastation Niani would bring. You could say that I underestimated her. And … I suppose, you could blame me for everything that happened.

  Watching Jack and Niani together Sherry was struck by how little they actually talked to one another. Their relationship seemed almost telepathic. Or even mutually parasitic.

  The afternoon’s serenity was broken when a young black man came running across the main lawn, screaming, “Niani! Jack! Awwww hell! This is NOT good!”

  The Black Student Union was in shambles. “Run Nigger Run!” was painted on the walls, along with a few song lyrics with which we had recently become familiar. Of course, Sherry said, my first thought was Richard. Richard was my first thought often in those days, but that was the first time that it wasn’t accompanied by unmentionable naughtiness.

  Although no one seems sure of the timeline now, it seemed like mere minutes before police were on the scene. Two black men were led away in handcuffs, screaming about injustice, and Jack Curry narrowly avoided getting arrested (or clubbed) himself before Niani grabbed him and pulled him back from the advancing officers. It did seem a tiny bit odd that no one opened, or even noticed, the Black Student Union office until one-thirty in the afternoon. But Sherry could not give it much thought before she was distracted by the two angry mobs—one white and one black—that had squared off on the center green. No violence—yet. Just a lot of vicious words, and tension so thick it was hard to breathe. The crowd outside of the two mobs watched in anticipation. Sherry stood in that crowd. Along the sides of the buildings, anyone who was neither white nor black kept a smart and safe distance.

  Jack Curry and Niani ran through the spectators, splitting a path to the center of it all. Someone pushed Niani and she fell to the ground. A black guy and a white guy instantly started throwing punches at one another and it looked as though a full-scale riot was inevitable. Within seconds Curry smashed both guys in the face and they crumpled to the ground, bloody and unconscious. Everyone gasped and stepped away from Jack Curry as if he were a rabid pit-bull. Once again, for a mob, wise thinking.

  “Jack! Stop!” Niani screamed, struggling to stand. Sarabjit, Marissa, Dave, and Lin ran to Niani’s aid and helped her up. She threw herself immediately into the middle of the closing divide between the black and white crowds.

  “Stop!” she yelled at everyone. “You’ve all got to stop this now!” She continued, ignoring whatever rebuke was coming her way. “I don’t know who did that in the center today! And you know what?” Loud grumbling from the mass of people. “I don’t care! I don’t give a FUCK. It doesn’t matter who it was. Whoever they are, y’all sure are making ‘em happy! This is exactly what THEY want you to do.” A few people shouted, but others quickly shouted them down. She went on, “They played a wack-ass cut, and y’all are dancing to it.”

  Corny, Sherry thought. But the handful of scattered laughs was enough to shave off a bit of tension. She knows what she’s doing I guess.

  Niani pointed at a group of Asians all huddled together. “Shit,” she said. “If I had known this is what it took to get the Japanese and the Cambodians cuddling, I’d have painted ‘white power’ up in this bitch my freshman year.” Lots of people laughed at that and Sherry instantly thought about what was written on her boots, for once grateful for her inherent invisibility. “Please,” Niani said. “We gotta be better than this. Please.”

  In what has to be a gold-star moment in the history of bad timing, just as things were actually starting to calm, city and county police officers came stomping up the hill in full armor toward the grassy field. Niani screamed, “Everybody please! Run! Hurry! Get back to your classes! Get back to your dorms!” Upon seeing the police, people scattered every which way, knocking each other down in the process. Absolute chaos. Niani stepped toward the encroaching policemen, her palms stretched out toward them.

  “No need. No need for that. Everything’s peaceful here.”

  And they … retreated. They listened to her.

  There were no beatings, no more arrests.

  Hmm. Well, Sherry thought, no denyin’ it. That’s impressive.

  But any respect that I may have had for that girl just then vanished the moment I saw her later on behind the Fine Arts building … sucking face with some alterna-slut.

  “You wanna go somewhere?” Niani cooed at the girl, who nodded like a simp, and they wandered off together hand in hand.

  Freaks, Sherry thought. Fucking gross. She was sickened. And confused, for she had assumed that Niani Shange and Jack Curry were together together. And if they’re not … then what was the deal? It was none of her business.

  But she had to find out.

  7.

  “MIKAL, change the fuckin’ channel, will ya?”

  Like a little kid who can’t stop picking at a scabbed-up knee, Richard was compelled beyond his will to watch any television program about the “rising scourge of hate crimes in America.” He would curse and yell at the TV, holler on and on about the “liberal media” and how “we’re being misrepresented.”

  But the thing is … we really weren’t. I’ll be the first to bitch about the mainstream American media, how they’re all bought and paid-for, and how they only represent one sanitized point of view. And sure, when they’re dealing with the issue of racial “extremism” in America, they can’t resist trotting out some toothless flapjack named Buford in a white dress and pointy hat who manages to pull his dick out of his retarded twelve-year-old sister long enough to explain how slavery is justified by the Bible and how whites are the only true humans because we’re the only race who can blush. But on the occasion that they deal with Skins, they pretty much nail it. Perhaps they focu
s too much on the violence and destruction and don’t dedicate adequate time to the endless hours spent watching cartoons and pro-wrestling, but all in all it’s pretty close.

  On this particular night, this particular pixelated Buford was in rare form, and Richard expressed God’s gift to the white man full tilt by having a whole mess of boiling blood in his face.

  “The white race has proved us selves unstoppable!” Buford exclaimed.

  “Goddamn … the fucking Klan,” Richard hissed. “Somebody get me an M16 and I will exterminate them all like the vermin that they are.”

  Meanwhile, the ladies pretty much ignored the whole affair, as they were busy at work on Sherry’s makeover. Reeba and Jennie had cut Sherry’s hair very short with chin length bangs. It was dyed a pronounced maroon with streaks of her natural blond showing through. She did look very hot and I could tell that she wanted Richard to say so. But apart from a smile and a thumbs-ups he never weighed in on the matter. I considered saying something myself, but thought better of it.

  After a commercial break a counterpoint was provided by a very severe Panther wannabe in a black beret, who had apparently not gotten the memo that it was no longer 1974.

  “No, we do not encourage violence,” said Soul Brotha Number One. “No, we do not preach hate. We simply believe that the easiest, quickest, and most logical path towards peace is segregation. We hope to retain the purity of our race, and I would assume whites would like the same for theirs.”

  “Finally,” Richard said. “A man with some basic common sense.”

  “Tap dancing porch monkey,” Phil sneered. “Go back to Africa, spear chucker!”

  Richard chuckled and shook his head. “Settle down, Phil.”

  “O-bee K-bee, Rich-berd,” Phil replied à la Mushmouth. Chuckles all around.

  “Just out of curiosity,” Richard asked, “any of you guys know what became of the Brown Shirts after WWII?” I was about to answer when Richard held up his finger. He looked around at the rest of them. They weren’t even paying attention. “Good. That’s what I thought.” We looked at each other and grinned. I looked over and saw Sherry watching us intently, as if she wanted in on the joke. Don’t you worry your pretty little head, doll face.

  The phone rang. Joe answered it with a “What,” because he’s pure class, you see.

  “Uh huh,” he continued, “Yeah. Hold on. Rich it’s uh … the, uh … Special Olympics.” We all snickered like morons. “Um … they want to know if you’d consider giving them another … er … donation.”

  “Tell them thank you, but I gave all I could last time.”

  “Awww … that’s sweet,” Sherry said, totally oblivious. Anne began to chime in and Richard made a cut motion across his neck.

  “Rich,” Joe said. “They’re … uh … crying.”

  “Hang up, Joey.” He did. “Okay,” Richard continued, “let’s get out of here.” That was the last of that.

  Barreling down the highway in Phil’s behemoth station wagon, we could not have been any more conspicuous had we been shooting a bazooka out the back window. Swerving all over the road, taunting other drivers, openly drinking beer. An older Chinese couple in a Dodge Colt that should have been dragged out back and shot drove steady and cautious as we cut in front of them. We laughed as the old woman pulled out a rosary and began nodding and chanting. Screeching over to the next lane, we jumped behind them, then sped up and hopped in front of them again. Jennie showed them her tits. The old man gave us the finger. Phil pulled back over side by side with them, and Geoff leaned out the window and spat beer at them screaming, “Bonsai!” (which, admittedly, makes no goddamn sense). The beer Geoff spat instantly turned to mist about the highway, but I suppose it was the thought that counted. The couple wisely took the next exit and we headed on downtown.

  Hitting all of our familiar haunts, we tried out a few new joints as well, with varying degrees of success. We ran into trouble for underagedness in a few spots and I thought Richard was going to destroy this one bartender for grabbing me by my collar and tossing me out the door. (Lucky for that guy he grabbed me and not Sherry.) Everywhere we went someone in our crew would make a comment about who they thought we should stomp, but except for a few dirty looks from a couple of SHARPs, it was pretty mellow most of the night. Had we been serious about looking for ruckus there were several black and Chicano clubs within walking distance whose patrons I’m sure would’ve been down for a head rumble, but we just never seemed to make it down that way.

  “Pssst. Mikal,” Sherry whispered in my ear as we entered this dingy Industrial club called Lucretia’s. “If y’all are serious about wanting to lay somebody out, I’d like to nominate that guy.” She indicated a young black fellow at the bar surrounded by white people. We watched homeboy and his Caucasian compatriots do a round of shots, and after he had downed his, he licked a line of salt off the hand of some brunette in a white tank top. “That’s Trey McKinley. He’s in my Economics class and he is a world-class prick. That girl’s name is Melanie, and she’s always hanging on him like he’s Emperor Jones. It’s fucking sickening.”

  “Yep, that’s what we call a ‘number one.’ I wonder if the rest of the boys have seen him yet.”

  To this day I’m not sure who it was who started the number system, but within our crew we always ranked the various stompable offenses one through ten. Number ten escapes me today, but number one was “black man / white woman.” I do remember number seven was “Phish fan.”

  “Jesus, I don’t know if I feel like staying at this joint,” Sherry said. “It’s packed with fuckers from school.”

  I was just about to ask, What did you expect? when I saw a figure exiting the dance floor, slinking toward the bar. Her deep black skin glistened with perspiration that caught the dim lights of the bar just enough to make her shimmer and sparkle. I recognized her … but felt I had never seen her before. Ezekial Johnson’s little sister. Niani Shange. I was so taken with the sight of her for a moment that I hadn’t realized that Sherry had completely vanished from the scene. I wasn’t one to consider rounded African features or pitch-dark ebony skin in any way attractive. Never. Just not my thing. I choked for a moment when Niani yelled, “Come out and dance with me!” but I quickly realized that she was looking right through me. I didn’t exist. And by the time I realized who actually was the intended invitee, I had nowhere to go. Oh fuck. Out of the corner of my right eye I saw his multi-colored arm slide across the bar to grab a drink, not a millimeter of white skin to be seen amidst the tribal twists and smears. A bicycle chain was wrapped around his wrist and held in place by a small padlock. I felt his knotted, natty ropes brush against my jacket. Tied into his hair were what sounded like ball bearings, and they clicked against the bar with a crrritt, crrritt, crrritt. I froze up, silently cursing my shaved head. Cursing my red braces. Regretting just for the moment all the conspicuous advertising of my politics and my gang, for these were images I knew he’d recognize, and it wasn’t beyond or beneath this psychopath to carve that “white power” right off my neck with a broken bottle.

  “Come on, Jack,” Niani persisted. “You never dance with me. Just this once.”

  I’m invisible, I thought. They don’t see me. I’m a phantom. I am bar mist.

  “Be there in a second, Lees,” he sighed. “Scout’s honor.”

  She disappeared into a crowd of friends and he, after chugging his drink, followed behind shortly thereafter. Walking past he jabbed me with his elbow, which I immediately thought was a message, but he grunted, “Sorry,” and went about his way. I am invisible.

  Lees? Lisa. That’s right … her name used to be Lisa. I thought it odd for a moment that he called her by her old Blackchurch name. Odd, because who else in that bar even knew her given name except the two of them and me? And I don’t exist.

  I vaguely heard Joe say, “Can you believe that baboon cunt actually thinks people are looking at her?”

  “Yeah,” I chuckled. “Gruesome.”

 
At no point had it been discussed, but we all knew where we’d be heading after Lucrecia’s. We all simply knew that we would be visiting that section of town most folks called Candyland. Crawling with “number threes.”

  It was coming up on 2:30 AM and most clubs were closing down. We rolled into Candyland just in time to watch the flood of queers spill out into the streets, whooping and singing and prancing about. We pulled into a side alley, shut off the engine, and waited. Some play had just closed at the big theater downtown and many of these people were clearly from that production. Often these folks walked the streets in sizable groups and relocated to after-hours parties at apartment complexes just outside the center of town where parking was relatively safe. Smart. But there were always a few stragglers. First dates and out-of-towners and one-night-stands eager to get to dessert. That’s whom we hunted. That’s just the way it was.

  Sure enough, separating from the mob were two young dandies holding hands and heading right our way. The one was dressed fairly conservative and, after we exited the wagon and trailed them for a couple of blocks, appeared to me to be a foreigner. English wasn’t too strong. Some sort of Eastern European, but I don’t know what exactly. The other was American all the way, loud and lit up like Mardi Gras. He wore a huge green feather boa and you could hear his stiletto high heels click click clicking down the asphalt from two blocks back. He minced and carried on in this excruciatingly affected high-pitched squeal, periodically calling out to friends across the street as they walked by. Like he was advertising his evening score. Showing off the prize he had won. He cuddled against his new friend and kissed him loudly, calling him either “Jezebel” or “Jessie Bear,” I couldn’t tell which. All the while we stalked silently behind.

  After some time it was only them and us, the clamor of downtown somewhere in the distance. Watching the two of them flaunt and advertise I couldn’t help but think about where they might be heading and what they would do once they got there. Would they shower together … work themselves into a lather, as the saying goes. Play stupid little faggot games. The thought of it nauseated me, but I had to dwell on it to get my blood to the right temperature. I had to boil. The more I imagined their costumes and sick little role-playing charades the more I wanted rip their throats out all on my own. Psyching myself up for the justice I was prepared to administer. Will you put his nuts in your mouth, Queen Bee? What about you, Jezebear, do you welcome that cock into your ass? I felt the vomit rising in my throat as my fists clenched and my pace quickened. Perhaps had these two gents not been so drunk or so smitten they would have felt the weight of doom pressing harder and harder at their backs as we marched ever closer. Perhaps they would have run or called a friend or the police. But they didn’t. And by the time they stopped to make out under a streetlamp, it was simply too late.