When Dad's grandma ran out of money, she was forced to move in with Grandpa. Grandpa had rented her house to a hillbilly who stopped taking care of the place, and when Grandpa went to talk him-the man threatened Grandpa with a shotgun. When Dad and Uncle Ronnie found out about it, they went there at night and moved the outhouse back a few feet. They covered the hole with a piece of cardboard and kicked dirt on top of it to make it look like the ground. Then they started a fire behind it and tossed a couple stones at the house to get the man's attention. When the man saw the fire, he ran out and fell into the hole. Dad and Ronnie and a couple of cousins then pissed on the man, telling him that if he didn't move out, they'd kill him next time. I didn't know if they were serious, but Uncle Ronnie said the tenant moved out that very week.
We laughed as much our parents did when Uncle Ronnie repeated that story, but soon they chased us away. We were forced to sit around our own fires and think up our own capers. Sometimes, we laughed so hard at the idea that pulling off the prank wasn't as much fun. We loved it when we could make each other laugh, because in that moment, it meant someone was paying attention. For that fleeting instant, we knew we were loved.
7
Early Induction to an Inverted World
I was given a clean set of underwear, a pair of gray socks, dark green pants with a worn-out waistband, and a pullover shirt that had Wayne County Jail stenciled on back. I got through showering without incident-I didn't know how I thought I'd get an erection when I was so frightened-but then the size of my pants was about three sizes too big, which I wouldn't know until after I was told to walk into the next bullpen buck naked to put them on. When I entered the cell, the other inmates were already dressed and sitting on benches that ran along the sidewalls. I took an empty space on the left and got dressed quickly.
A parade of naked men followed me, each entering the bullpen with bedroll and clothing in hand-their private parts pivoting from side to side. By the time the cell was full, there were two or three dozen of us. Most of them were black, well muscled, in their twenties to early thirties. I felt smaller and skinnier, and paler than ever.
I tried not to be too obvious, but I couldn't help sneaking a look. To my young eyes, everyone's dick seemed enormous. These were grown men, and I couldn't imagine what they'd look like when sporting a boner. I had run out of nails to chew, and my right leg bounced nervously as I tried to distract my attention.
I thought about music and measure and the melody of a metronome. How calming its cadence could be. I thought about the black and white of a piano keyboard, and how I'd always wanted to play. For the first time, I got a glimpse of what it must have been like for a black man, who suddenly found himself in an all-white neighborhood. I thought about old Mayor Hubbard and how it was best not to mention where I was from.
There were three whites in the holding cell, not counting me, and over twenty or thirty blacks. The other whites were older than me, in their early twenties, and one of them looked like a biker. He was big and burly, with curly brown hair and a scraggly beard. He asked for a cigarette, and when I gave him one, he didn't even bother to say thanks. His manner was cold, and his eyes were mean, but when he stepped back from the bars and almost tripped over a black guy, he suddenly looked a lot less threatening.
"Hey! Watch where you're goin', you big ass redneck."
"Hey, fuck you," the biker shot back.
The black guy and two others jumped to their feet.
"Yeah? What are you gonna do about it?"
Two more blacks stood up.
"Yeah, honky. What are you gonna do?"
A flash of fear registered in the biker's eyes.
"Nothing" he said quickly, brandishing a pathetic smile.
The biker was missing teeth, which gave the impression he wasn't so meek, but he didn't stand a chance.
"All right then," the black guy said, slowly backing down. He looked over at one of the others. "Someone's got to teach these woods."
The biker took a seat on the floor, looking more like a defeated fat guy.
The other two whites looked away, disavowing any connection.
Wood was short for peckerwood. It was used like "nigger" or "coon," "porch monkeys" and "spooks"-except peckerwood was a word blacks called whites, along with honky and rednecks, crackers and ghosts. But on that side of the bars, only blacks spoke those words aloud. The jail was located in downtown Detroit, where the whites were highly outnumbered.
It felt like I'd walked inside a photographic negative, where all the values were reversed.
The bullpen was quiet.
An inmate at the back of the cell broke the silence.
"There was this fag in here once," he said. "Called herself Angela Davis."
"I knew her," another said, referring to her as naturally as if she were a woman.
"She sucked off the whole bullpen," he said.
"The whole bullpen," the con next to him said. "No shit?"
"Square business!" He nodded. "Went right around this cell. Must've blown a dozen guys."
"I remember that," another said. "She sucked a mean dick."
"She sure did. And then, when she was done . . ." he paused, holding everyone's attention. "The bitch dropped her drawers and wanted to get tucked!"
The others laughed, and shook their heads, saying things like, "Damn!" or "Shit! Can you believe that? You'd think one dick would be enough."
"Uh, uh." The guy shook his head. "That bitch
