Minetta Lane

Chapter 3: Don’t Go There

Chapter 3

Don’t Go There

BODEE WOKE TO the aroma of bacon and expected to find his mother standing by the stove across from where he slept in their home in Brooklyn. The reality of his situation set in, however, as his grandma prepared his plate—eggs in front, bacon around the edges, and a small piece of bread in the middle. Just like Mama!

“Don’t be so surprised,” Juba said. “Who do you think taught your mother how to cook?”

He pulled on his clothes and sat by the table. “Thanks for breakfast. I want to eat and head out—need to find work.”

“Fine. You should find a job, but I don’t need money. Take your time to find the best one you can. Not planning to charge any grandson of mine no rent.”

Bodee nodded and his smile gave away his tremendous sense of relief. “Thanks. The food looks delicious.” He cleaned his plate with four strokes of his fork.

“You ate those eggs like you got a decent appetite. Why you so scrawny?”

“Not sure. Started to eat a lot when I began playing baseball. I was real fast but didn’t hit with power.” Bodee held up his puny arms and flexed.

“Nothing to make a joke about—being weak won’t help you in this world and pointing it out with jokes don’t make it any better.”

“Yeah, you’re right, but I can’t gain any weight. Almost got on a professional baseball team, though, the Brooklyn Monitors.”

“What happened?”

“It don’t matter, you got any more grub?”

“Sure do, give me a few minutes.”

Bodee caught a glimpse of his baseball shoes and glove, which were peeking out of the top of his bag, and thought back to his tryouts with the Monitors. It was nice they let me play in that last practice game, but I knew I couldn’t play with those guys. No matter now.

Bodee shuffled side to side in the batter’s box and scanned the field—both the first and third basemen were inching toward him. The pitcher is slow on his feet, so I’ll bunt straight ahead this time. The ball came straight down the middle. Perfect! He extended his bat and placed the bunt directly toward the pitcher, who scrambled forward and scooped up the slow dribbler, but rushed his throw. The ball sailed over the head of the first baseman and Bodee safely continued on to second base.

The pitcher turned to Bodee. “Why don’t you swing the bat like a man! You bunt every damn time. We all know you gonna do it. That ain’t all there is in baseball.”

The second baseman walked over. “Don’t worry about him, he’ll be happy enough when the season starts and you make the pitchers on the other teams nervous. Where’d you learn to run like that? You as fast as the wind!”

“Just doing my best. Speed is my thing. Wish I could hit a little better.”

Bodee took a long lead off second base. The pitcher grimaced, stepped off the mound, and called out to the manager, “Listen, boss, I’m just trying to get into shape. I don’t need this skinny kid torturing me while I do it.”

The manager answered, “Stop your belly-aching. This is good practice for you.” He looked at Bodee and smiled.

The pitcher scowled at the manager and then at Bodee. He kicked the dirt and tried to settle down as he began his windup, but he was unsuccessful. The pitch went into the ground and got away from the catcher. Bodee slid into third base.

The manager clapped his hands and stopped the practice for the day. “I’ve seen enough. All you players wait on the other side of the field.” He motioned to Bodee. “Come with me, we got to talk.”

“We have one open spot and it’s between you and Williams. You run as fast as anyone I ever seen, but you don’t hit for s**t. I need a little more power from you. They play you so far in because of the bunting. If you could hit a little bit, they’d need to back up, which would make your bunting even better. You understand?”

“Well, yes, sir, but I never been able to hit so much. I try to connect and hit ground balls because I can beat out the throw.”

“Everyone knows that—you do it every damn time. Once you start hitting the ball into the outfield, you’ll stretch singles into doubles and that’s when you’ll really be valuable to us.”

“Does this mean I’m not valuable now, so I don’t get the last spot?”

“It’s either you or Williams, like I said. He’s a slugger, but he’s getting old and doesn’t have your speed.”

Bodee looked over at his competition. “I remember Williams from when I was a kid coming to see you guys play. I couldn’t ever hit like him. I understand.”

“What the hell is wrong with you, kid? I’m telling you who you going up against and what his weaknesses are, and you’re ready to give up on the last spot? You ain’t got no fight in you?”

“Don’t know about all that, but I can’t hit for power like Williams.”

“Right now, you’re all speed and no power, but until you get some fight in you, that will never change. Come back next year, kid, when you got your head right.” The manager shook Bodee’s hand and then screamed, “Williams, get over here.”

Bodee noticed a small wooden base on the kitchen table with two indentations, one in the shape of a triangle and the other a hexagon, just as Juba finished up at the stove. The wood was a dark brown and the grain was highlighted with layers of stain. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his mama’s unusual necklace—a tube with a short string passing through one of the many small holes at the top. The grain of the wood matched, and it fit on one side—a pepper shaker.

Juba put down his plate and smiled. She reached for the necklace buried under her nightgown and placed her cylinder into the triangular slot on the left. “Yes, that’s right, salt and pepper shakers.”

“Mama said this gave her luck. She used to clutch it in her hands, almost like she praying. Always carried it with her.”

Juba started to cry and took some time to gather herself. “My baby girl still loved me after all of these years and problems.” A broad smile emerged from the tears. “One day Akua had trouble at school when she little and I told her these shakers were magical and whenever she held it in her fist, I would be right there with her to help her and make her strong.”

“The shaker was in her hand when she died.”

Juba’s tears were now in a free fall. “You and I lost so much time. Hold on to the pepper, and I’ll be your salt, just like I was for Akua. Let’s put these plates away and take a walk around the Bend. You need to understand what’s safe and dangerous and we want everyone in the neighborhood to know you attached to me, because this, more than any pepper shaker, will keep you out of trouble.”

The hustle and bustle of the evening retreated to a slow crawl in the morning. The criminal element slept in most days because their work took place late at night.

“Bodee, these houses along here are all whorehouses. Some are connected to the bars, like the one across the street—a place called Tigress. No sign out front, but that the name, trust me. Next door is a mixed bar called, Snake Eyes, where our local Black folk drink with the Irish gangsters, and the w****s from Tigress work the club for customers. Nothing for a twenty-year-old boy. Understand?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Remember, being family to me will protect you if you do the right thing and go about your business, but if you start going into those places, you’re on your own. One more thing—the place at the end of the block is called Slide—also not for you. Slide is a bar for men who like men—do you get what I mean?”

“Yeah. Stay away.”

“We got two places comin’ up, the signs say ‘Restaurant,’ and ‘Barbershop.’ The restaurant ain’t got no stove and the barbershop ain’t got no scissors. Those places do a different kind of business that—”

Bodee interrupted, “That I should stay away from.”

“Smart boy. You catching on!”

“I’m not sure any place is okay for me around here.”

“Not true. You can go where we live and the general store on the corner. I don’t—”

Bodee interrupted his grandmother’s thought as he jerked her away from the front of the “Barbershop” sign. At first, Bodee’s abrupt action confused her, but after she took hold of his hands, she smiled. A moment later, a bucket of dirty water tossed from a third-floor window landed on the exact spot she stood before being pulled away.

A woman poked her head out of the window and called down to the street, “Madame Juba, I’m so sorry. Nothing but my fool of a boy. Apologies.”

Juba waited until they both climbed the back stairs to begin the conversation that was long overdue. “Either you start or I will. One way or the other, makes no difference to me.”

“What you mean?”

“You know what I mean. Why you pull me back the way you did by the barbershop?”

“Not sure. Just did it.”

“That’s all you got to say?”

Bodee pulled at his shirt to loosen the collar. Sweat poured down his brow and he scanned the room for help as if some object in the apartment would give him a question to ask or a new direction to take the conversation. Nothing helped, but she took pity on him. “You’re not ready. Remember what I said yesterday—I’ll only tell when you tell, and I’m not changing my mind. Go out and look for your job—we need a break anyway.”

He dashed down the stairs and out to the street. Finally, he could breathe.