College Boy : A Novel (9781416586500) (13 page)

“Yeah, but it's still thousands of girls up that dip. The ratio is like four girls to one,” Bruce said.

“But you don't learn how to deal with White people up there, man. You just gon' come out and be a minority again. So you might as well get used to it,” Doc argued.

“Aw man, we always talkin' that ‘deal with White people' shit The fact is, we're being separated up here, too,” Troy said, finally. “It ain't like we really involved with them. And when we get out of here, it's still gon' be up for grabs. So you might as well go where you'll feel the most comfortable, which is at a Black college.”

Troy shook his head with a thought. “Damn! Now I wish I would have gon' to a Black college myself.” They all sat quiet for a moment before Troy continued. “Could y'all imagine, at a Black college, that we could see thousands of Blacks graduate? That would be somethin' else,” he imagined. “But up here, we gon' have to search through a thousand White people and say, ‘Yo, there's a black dude, fifth over in the back.'”

They all laughed as Bruce agreed. “Hell yeah, cuz,” he said, still giggling. “You's a funny mug, Troy. I told my girl some of the stuff you told me, and she cracked the hell up in do. You should have heard her, man. I said, yup, that's my boy Troy,” Bruce said. “I told her about the time you and your boys went to another Black neighborhood and got chased back home and shit.”

“Dig, man. I can't even go to other Black neighborhoods in Philly, 'cause they'll try to kick my ass just for being there. And we're all Black,” Troy commented. “But you know what? White people made us like that. 'Cause to tell you the truth, it's easier for a brother to release his anger on another brother instead of a White boy. Matter of fact, a perfect example is when a kid gets a beating from the father, and then gets an attitude with the mother and takes the anger out on her. 'Cause you know your pop'll kick your ass.”

“Hell yeah, cuz. I remember when my pop used to beat my ass, and my mother would sit in her room and watch television. I used to get mad as hell, like, ‘Mooomm, get this nigga off of me!'” Bruce reminisced.

Doc got up to buy a soft drink from the machines in the lobby.

“Oh, sorry,” a White student said to him. Doc had bumped into her on purpose. She didn't seem to know if it was her fault or not.

White people always say “Sorry,” Troy thought to himself, watching.

“Man, I'm tired of moving out their way. I ain't movin' no more. This shit ain't slave days, man,” Doc said, returning with his drink.

“Ay', yo, Doc, you call that ‘pop,' don't you?” Bruce asked, grinning.

“Ay', man, I'm tired of y'all making fun of me,” Doc answered. His high-pitched voice was squeamish, but everyone was used to it.

“Yeah, well y'all stupid down here, man. I mean, something is wrong with y'all in this city,” Bruce said.

They sat and talked for several hours, having nothing to do, nowhere to go. Troy and James had once tried to go to a White fraternity party on Henry Road and were denied admission (even though John, who was a member, had invited them). They had also heard of a Black girl who had gone to a White party. She was told to leave while she was still urinating in a bathroom, displaying her privates to the White students, who laughed. There also had been several arrests of Black students for petty reasons around campus. There was only one Black security officer out of twenty to twenty-five. The Black students called him an Oreo.

James had even gotten arrested for arguing with a clerk at a grocery store, who falsely accused him of stealing. The Asian clerk had never suspected the three White students, who had actually stolen the sodas. James shared his opinion of the store and its owner, which free speech gave him a right to do, only to be taken to the neighborhood precinct for a night.

The situation on campus for Blacks was helpless. And after Troy, Doc, and Bruce broke off, Troy went to hang out with Matthew again. It was a typical weekend. Matthew's roommate was always gone on the weekends, providing the opportunity for the two friends to talk each other to sleep.

 

“Yo, Mat, I was up at the gym and I got mad as hell when my team lost, cuz. You should have seen me shouting,” Troy said with a smirk.

“I know, man. You get too damn emotional about stuff like that. I mean, when I play, I just play for the game. I don't really care if I win,” Matthew said. “Sometimes you ain't gonna win, man. So there's no sense in gettin' all hype about it. That's just goin' to mess your health up.”

Matthew stopped to take a study break, just as he did on every other night when Troy came to hang out.

“Ay', Mat, how come you didn't go anywhere tonight, man?” Troy quizzed. “You don't do shit but study.”

“Because I ain't got no babes, man. They don't really like smart dudes. It's like I'm a big goofball or something,” Matthew answered. They shared a laugh before he continued. “Yeah, it's like I can't really relate to people anymore. It's stupid to feel this way, but I think I'm becoming a loner.”

“Yeah, well as long as you don't fall into hangin' out with the White people, that shit is cool. 'Cause you get a lot done that way,” Troy told him.

Matthew nodded. “You know, umm, Troy … a lot of them White students are racist because they were brought up that way. Like, this other dude was supposed to be my roommate, but his parents got him to look up my number before school started to see if I was Black. And yo, after he heard my voice, his parents got his room assignment changed,” Matthew informed him. “I found out about it. He told me his parents made him do it. 'Cause he's pretty cool, man.”

“Damn, cuz, that's some deep shit right there. His parents put him up to it?” Troy asked in amazement.

“Yeah, and this girl Lucille, her roommate was missing some money, and she called her parents down here to get the cops to lock Lucille up. Then the White babe ended up finding the money in her other jacket,” Matthew said.

“What? How come she called her parents?”

“She was scared that Lucille would beat her up or something. You know how some White people are with us, man, actin' all scared all the time.”

Troy looked into Matthew's face of budding pimples. “Damn, Mat, you starting to get acne. That means that you're stressed out, man.”

Matthew squeezed a pimple and laughed. His waves were starting to fade, too, as if he hadn't brushed them in a while. “Yeah, man, they do say acne comes from being stressed out.”

“The boys around my way say it's from not getting any ass. My boys call 'em ‘want-some bumps.' That means you want sex or something else that you're not getting,” Troy said, snickering.

They went on talking for hours. Troy ended up spending the night again. The brief discussion they had had about acne carried Troy over into another observation while eating breakfast the next morning.

He noticed that, on the average, Black students had more acne than Whites. Many Asians and other ethnic students seemed to have more acne as well. The only Whites who seemed to have it were goofy-looking nerd types. It was an amazing analysis. He felt he was onto something else. Blacks were more stressed out than Whites. He also thought about his friends at home. None of the most popular people had acne, just the ones who were not doing too well on the streets.

 

It was finals week. Troy locked himself into his books for the last exams of his freshman year. He could not study in his room any longer, so he studied at the library. Whenever he attempted to study in his room, he would end up crashing into his bed and day-dreaming. Still, his mind would wander while in the library. He took frequent breaks to relieve himself of the frustration. And for five hours he studied his chemistry.

Troy was worried most about chemistry because he had a D. He needed at least a high B on the final to get a C out of the class. In the rest of his courses, he had straight B's. He was not as concerned about them. Chemistry, however, was in a position to make or break him. He had already done poorly compared to his first term. Nevertheless, Troy was certain that he would not allow chemistry to kill his high G.P.A.

The chemistry test came after two more days of tough, dedicated studying. Troy felt prepared, planning to do extremely well on the final. Actually, he felt as if he could get an A.

The students crowded inside the auditorium. Everyone sat at least a seat apart as instructed. Troy had one pencil, feeling secure. There was no way in hell that he would mess up the chemistry final. The test did not begin on time, so he focused his attention on the White students around him.

“Hey, Tom, are you ready, man?” one student asked his friend.

“Yeah, I'm ready. I even got my lucky shirt on. Every time I wore this shirt, I got at least a B on the exam,” the other said.

“Yeah, well I have my lucky pencil. I made sure I brought it with me, 'cause I need serious help on this damn test,” the other said.

Troy also listened to a couple of females who walked by.

“Oh gosh, Susan. I hope I don't fail. I even called my father last night. And every time I call him before a test, I seem to do all right,” the first girl said.

“Yeah, well my boyfriend and I always have sex right before our exams, to release stress. And it works, too,” the second said as they walked down the aisle. Troy giggled to himself. He thought of how Peter used the Lord's strength the same way the White students seemed to use lucky gimmicks.

The test finally started as Troy's heart rate increased. The exam was five pages, with thirty chemistry questions, half of which were calculations. Troy found few difficulties. Only five questions confused him. He sat in an area enclosed by five White guys who knew one another. They all began to trade answers, making Troy look to change some of his own.

“Hey, Ralph, what's number seventeen?” one whispered.

“It's
d
,” the other said. Back and forth they gave one another answers as Troy captured the four questions that had confused him. He also changed some others answers according to the White students' responses. He left the test feeling happy that he sat where he did.

 

Returning to his room, he felt relieved and finished; a huge burden had been lifted. He had received the answer sheet to check his score. He answered twenty-six out of thirty correctly. The median score of seventeen out of thirty would be a C, so his score on the test would be an A, enough to squeeze a possible B out of the course. He was so happy that he called up Clay, who had had the same test. Troy had already told Matthew and Simon. Simon sat, listening to his radio.

“Ay', Clay, it's me, Troy … Yeah, man, I busted that chemistry final today. Man, you should have seen these White boys, cheatin' their asses off, cuz. What they do is wait for the most important test,
then
they cheat.”

Simon had listened to Troy's comments about White people for the past month, and he was getting fed up with it.

“White boys were cheating in your class, too?” Troy asked, listening to Clay's comments over the telephone. He listened again while Clay told him a long story. Simon waited patiently for Troy to hang up the phone. Once he did, Simon was free to speak his mind.

“You know what, Troy, you're becoming more racist than some White people. All you did for the past couple of months is talk about what White people did and how they act.”

Simon was serious for the first time since he and Troy had been acquainted. However, he spoke up on the wrong subject at the wrong time.

“Ay', man, let me tell you somethin'. You and I have been excellent roommates with very few problems, but I have a reason to be racist, if you wanna call it that,” Troy told him. “White people don't have no reason to be racist. We didn't do shit to them! They kicked our asses for hundreds of years, man! And here you are, a Jew. Your people were killed by the millions. But y'all don't need to be racist! Do you know why, Simon? 'Cause Jews are rich as hell, that's why! So when you go to get a fuckin' job, they'll hire you on the spot, because you're expected to be smart. Yeah, so what, Simon! So what White people talk about the Jews! I've seen all the markings on the bathroom doors about niggers and Jews. The difference is, most of them same White people that talk shit about Jews are doing business with them. But when you're Black, and you come from a ghetto, even your college degree won't save you from their racism. And they don't have a fuckin' reason not to like us! That's the shit I still can't understand, Simon. We bust our asses to get a degree, and White people still see us as Black dummies.
So I gota fuckin' right to be racist!
”

“Yeah, but what's it gonna change? You think you're gonna get a job, being a Black racist? You think they're gonna hire you over a guy who's not?
Hell no
! You'll be just giving them an extra incentive not to hire you,” Simon expressed, with tears in his eyes. “Look, Troy, word to the wise, man, just get your education, get out of college, and then help your people. Being racist will only stop your progress.”

“Yeah, maybe you're right,” Troy said, calming down. “And maybe I'll start my own business. I can't help feeling the way I do around White people. I don't feel comfortable around y'all,” he admitted.

“Where do you plan to get a loan for your business?” Simon asked, as if money came only from Whites.

“I don't know yet. But it'll probably be from from some Black people. I'm not into being bought out. So, I guess I'll just have to wait and see.”

T
HE STREETS OF
W
EST
P
HILADELPHIA WERE NO LONGER THE
same when Troy returned home for the summer break. He used to feel comfortable there. It used to be a beautiful neighborhood years ago. A lack of capital for sanitation and repair caused its ruin.

A few houses were actually kept up, like Troy's. The Potter home seemed to shine like a palace compared to the rest of the row houses. Several other buildings appeared to have not seen paint since they were built, maybe fifty years ago.

Troy remained numb for the first few days of his return. He was awakened by his younger cousins, breaking stuff at six o'clock in the morning. The arguing and screaming inside the house had reacquainted itself with Troy's consciousness. The competition for food, the constant street fights, and the all-out chaos had reawakened.

Troy remembered when he and his friends used to run through old houses, playing tag. He remembered when they would jump off roofs onto a set of old mattresses. His West Philly crew traveled and fought other neighborhood kids in street gangs while they were as young as nine. They engaged in sex in old houses at twelve. They would steal and fight the authority of their elders. It used to be entertaining, just something to do. Now Troy knew better. The chaos of ghetto life was mapped out, planned.

For as long as Troy could remember, there had always been violence. Even within his own home, uncles and aunts battled each other using fists, chairs, brooms, knives. Troy was always afraid, yet he had adapted by numbing his emotions to violence.

The day that Troy was born, his father was beaten by his uncles, denying him permission to see his newborn son. Charlotte loved Steven Williams, Troy's father. However, he cheated on her constantly. They called him Slick. He felt incompetent because of job insecurity, stress, and despair. He would take it out on her with promiscuity. A man's gotta do what a man's gotta do to
feel
like a man, he believed. Charlotte had finally found the strength to leave their relationship, returning to her mother's house. Slick pursued her with his ever-so-frequent pleas for forgiveness.

He was a handsome man, loved by many women. Steve had had several children from his various relationships. Troy's mother, though, was the prettiest of the lot. Slick loved Charlotte so much that he constantly rejected the others, except when he wanted sex. Charlotte would tell him, “I'm not a sex toy, so go fetch your other women for that.” Since Steve was addicted to sex, he did fetch other women, leading to eight children.

Troy had received more love, care, and attention, as compared to his half brothers and half sisters. He was his mother's only child. Because he was such a curious and active son, the attention that he received had him spoiled. Troy was always on top. He had learned to reject compromises.

Scooter had bet him that he would never go to college. Troy decided that he would go to college even if he had to steal the money. No one told him what he could never do.

 

Troy sat in the living room, watching an old black-and-white television. His two tomboyish cousins ran about, playing with three neighbors and making lots of unnecessary noise. Troy's natural response would have been to tell them to leave, but in his state of numbness, it didn't matter.

It had been almost a week since he had left school. He was not up for his friends' depressing news, so he decided to hide out in the house. He had quit the basketball team, and he was sure that he would hear it for that.

Charlotte came down the stairs to find her son sitting by himself. She was delighted to have an opportunity for conversation with him without any interruptions. “Well, Troy, your grades will be here soon,” she commented.

“Yeah, Mom, I know.”

“Aren't you happy with yourself?”

“I guess so.”

“You guess so! What's wrong with you? Is something bothering you?” She sat down beside him on the couch.

Troy exhaled deeply. “Mom, I didn't know that we were all oppressed like this, that's all.”

“What are you talking about now, boy? Black people?”

“Yeah, Mom. I mean, I just grew up. I didn't have any idea of the lopsidedness between Blacks and Whites.”

His mother smiled and patted his shoulder. “Well, if you work hard, you can take us away from here,” she said.

“What about everyone else who's Black and poor?”

“The world ain't fair, Troy. You just have to deal with the cards you're dealt. You'd be surprised how many of these Whites have all kinds of money and are still miserable. Some of them live the most lonely lives, despite their wealth.

“I had read in the paper, three days before you came home, that a young princess killed herself in England when she found that the guy she loved didn't love her. Hell, I was in love with your father, but the hell if I woulda killed myself over him. So you count all the good things that you got goin' for yourself, and just live.”

An elderly women entered their open front door and stared into Troy's face. “Now I know that ain't Troy,” she said with a cracked voice. “I'll be damned! That boy has grown tall and handsome, like his father.”

“Yup, that's my son. He just got back home from college last week,” Charlotte said to her.

“Child, I remember when that boy used to steal everything you left unattended. And he would lie like a politician if you accused him,” the elder woman said, giggling.

“Unh-hunh, well he's up in college now and getting real good grades, too.”

“Yeah, well as long as he ain't stealing nothin'.”

“Naw, he ain't into that no more. He stopped that when he started cutting hair,” Charlotte said. She was starting to get irritated.

“My boy in jail for robbing some liquor store. My other son got arrested last night in a stolen car up in Wynnefield, some damn place,” the elder woman added.

“Well, Troy ain't into that no more,” Charlotte responded with an attitude. “Look, Ms. Helen, my mother ain't here, and we ain't got no more sugar. So if you'll excuse me, I would like to talk to my son in peace.” Charlotte stood up to show her back to the door. Troy found it humorous, cracking a smile.

 

Once they received word that he was back home, Raheem and Scooter dragged Troy outside and headed with him downtown. After seeing his friends, all of Troy's bad feelings seemed to gradually disappear.

“Yo, I thought y'all was gon' get on my nerves about me quitting the team,” he said, smiling.

“Naw, man, 'cause we all knew you would quit after that third game. Y'all was losing by, like, thirty points. The coach might as well had put you in then, 'cause it was no way y'all was gon' come back to win that shit. Especially in the last three minutes,” Scooter said.

“Yeah, man, but you made the team, though,” Raheem added.

“Fuck that team if I can't even get in. Where's Blue and Juice?” Troy asked.

“Oh, we forgot to tell you, cuz. Juice got sent up the Mills,” Scooter answered.

“For what?”

“Well, you know he had a long-ass record already. Then he smacked this dude in the head with a pipe. That was it, then,” Raheem said.

“What the hell he do that for?”

Raheem smiled after viewing Troy's contorted mug. “Oh, I forgot you was in college, where it ain't no violence and shit,” he said with a smirk. “But, umm, Juice was after dude for some money that dude owed him. He had gave the dude three-hundred dollars to get some cocaine, so he could start up his own thing. And cuz suckered ‘im and kept his money.”

Raheem waited for Troy to settle down before continuing. No one bothered to turn their heads to listen to their conversation on the bus. It was all the same news to the Black passengers.

“Troy, man, I told the boy like five times that he could work with me, but he didn't wanna listen. Then I said that I would get a package for 'im. But naw, he had to get in with these big-time dudes. So he got his shit taken. And he's lucky that the cops picked 'im up, too, 'cause dem niggas would have been after 'im. I wasn't about to have no shoot-out when he didn't listen to me in the first place. He is lucky he younger than us, 'cause he would have been more than sent up to the Mills. That nigga would have been in jail.”

“Yeah, well what about Blue?” Troy asked, changing the subject. He had enough with the negative news already.

“Aw man, Blue is in love and shit, with this badass Puerto Rican freak,” Scooter said.

Raheem smiled. “Yeah, but I'on know what she see in him.”

“She got jet black hair?” Troy asked.

“Naw, man. She got like, orange-colored hair. You know how dem Puerto Ricans is. She got, like, light eyes and shit, and a tough-ass body,” Scooter told him.

“He done messed around and got her pregnant, though,” Raheem added. “Matter of fact, dey talking 'bout getting married, Troy, 'cause her parents like that nigga.”

They all laughed as other passengers joined in, listening.

“You know what I mean, cuz?” Raheem asked, continuing. “Blue ain't ugly, he's just darker than the average dark.” They all cracked up again as they neared the last stop, inside Philadelphia's downtown area.

Nothing had changed physically, Troy was simply changing mentally. Everything had transformed into an uncommon element. He no longer saw the shoppers as plain people in places. He saw them as symbols of a dominant White America.

Blacks were carrying shopping bags full of clothing and consumer goods. White men carried briefcases. Blacks wore loud, bright clothing, blue jeans, and sneakers. White people wore suits and dress shoes.

Blacks flowed in and out of malls. Whites flowed in and out of banks and company buildings. Blacks rode the buses. Whites took taxis home or parked in high-priced parking lots. Troy had a pocketful of money and he was ready to buy. Yet suddenly he had lost his purchasing appetite.

He and his friends walked in and out of stores, owned by Asians, Jews, and Italians. They owned shoe stores, jewelry stores, clothing stores, and radio shops. Troy thought it was amazing; all of the items that Blacks purchased the most were being sold by non-Black opportunists.

Raheem and Scooter put money down on gold chains in a Korean jewelry store. They then bought a couple of rap tapes from an Italian-owned record shop. Both the Asians and the Italians had Blacks and Puerto Ricans working for them inside the larger clothing stores. They always find a Black person to do their dirty work, Troy thought.

“Ay', Troy, what's up with you, man? You haven't bought anything or said shit all day,” Scooter mentioned.

“Yeah, man, I know. I'm just lookin' at all these Italian, Jewish, and Asian businesses. I mean, their stores may as well be called Nigga Shops, 'cause we look like the only ones who buy shit from 'em.”

Raheem laughed. “Nigga Shops, hunh? Yup, when you think about it, we are the only ones that buy all kinds of shit from these dagos, chinks, and Jews.”

“Yup, cuz. They got every fuckin' thing,” Scooter added.

Raheem hunched his shoulders. “Yeah, but fuck it, though. Where else we gon' buy the shit from? They got the cheapest prices.”

“Dig, 'cause I done talked these Italian motherfuckers down plenty of times,” Scooter added.

“I know, cuz. They sell their shit like it didn't cost them nothin',” Raheem interjected. “I mean, Troy, that shit is true. But they own all the stores. So what the fuck you want niggas to do?” he asked.

“We gotta own our own stores and shop in 'em,” Troy plainly responded. Raheem looked as though he would respond to him. He decided not to.

They roamed to the Gallery Shopping Mall to eat, passing several Asian street vendors selling cheap watches, bags, hats, and shirts. Troy stopped and picked up a shirt to read aloud.

“Yo, hold up. Check this out,” he said. He lifted the black T-shirt into eye view as the cautious vendor woman watched him. “ ‘Black, and popular by demand,'” he read before smiling. His friends joined him in laughter, not really knowing what was so special about the event.

“Imagine that, Orientals selling us shirts expressing Black pride, while they take our money,” Troy said. “I see why we ‘popular by demand,'” he added. Again Raheem looked to speak, deciding not to. He wanted to tell Troy some things that he had learned, yet he didn't feel it was time yet.

Inside the Gallery, Troy noticed all of the food stands, racially. The Chinese stands had all Chinese employees working for them. The Italians had all Italians working for their pizza shops. Even the Greeks had other Greeks working with them. Blacks, on the otherhand, worked for corporate-owned chain stores, doughnut shops, and hot dog businesses. The janitors and general-duty workers were always Black. Just like in college, Troy thought. He imagined the head of operations, a White man wearing a suit and a tie. He would sit in an office, spinning left and right in a plush leather swivel chair, a large wooden desk in front of him, displaying his name and position.

Troy, Raheem, and Scooter entered another Italian-owned clothing store and were surrounded by attractive Puerto Rican and Black saleswomen.

“Hey, man, can I help chew wit' sometin'?” a dark-haired Puerto Rican asked. Troy watched her approach Scooter. She looked as though she was going to hug him. A Black girl approached to help him and Raheem.

“Ay', what's up? Y'all brothers lookin' for anything in particular? We got some new stuff in the back. The new stuff is out and sellin' fast,” she hinted. Raheem was out of money and Troy didn't even want to look at clothing.

“Naw, cutey, I already spent my paycheck, unless you got some free shit for me,” Raheem said to her. He smiled while checking out her body.

“What about you, handsome?” she asked, staring at Troy. She seemed to ignore Raheem. He had obviously made the wrong comment.