Being held tenderly by black men. There’s a scraping low five from Jayson as I read that line out loud, a gesture of friendship I’ve never quite gotten the hang of. I remain awkward white boy.
In high school, I’d begun a slow journey towards attempted bad-assery. By my senior year my hair had grown long, I was carrying my first butterfly knife (the one another black man not-so tenderly placed in my leg to the bone), and I’d turned down my first gun (a boy at the locker next to me – “A nine for twenty.” “Why twenty?” “Cause it’s hot for thirteen.” – A nine millimeter semi-automatic pistol for twenty dollars. Cheap because it was wanted in thirteen separate shootings – but I digress).
But Physical Education class was still dreaded. P.E. with its dangers to a young white kid in a 97% black school. Towel snappings were the easy days.
My mom works for the Prince George’s Community College, and magically, a gateway was opened: no P.E. my senior year. I got to swim instead.
Swimming was great, and other than occassional water-inspired panic attacks, I had a great time. Unfortunately, I was mixed in with community college class-mates, and was several years younger, and much, much shyer.
Brushing hair swiftly, frantically. Class had run late, and I was eager to be home and away. My ride had no doubt arrived and was waiting outside. I hate to keep people waiting. In the rather undirected ferocity of brushing suddenly the brush caught. The long hairs of which I was so proud had wrapped like tendrils around the brush, interlacing and interlocking. They refused tugging, resisted twisting, and in the end, stuck fast.
What’s a poor boy to do? Unlike girls, we’re not given the training we need to deal with our hair. We’re taught to comb it. Perhaps how to part it. But it is a long road of self-discovery that leads us to hair-brushes, it’s a back-of-the-school bus secret imparted by whisperings of young women … “brush from the bottom, work your way up” “hold the hair tight in one hand, brush with the other” “small sections at a time”.
But I was young then, and unwise in the ways of hair.
Tangled and caught, I faced the horror of stepping out into the world with a hairbrush stuck to my head. I think I may have been near tears, though my pride remembers otherwise.
And so it was that a tattoed black man, heavy set and strong, 6 foot plus, sights me, gestures to me… “I’ve got five sisters” he says. And both of us stand naked in the men’s locker room as he gently untangles, untwists, and unwinds individual hairs from this hairbrush – instrument of imprisonment.
I was really late for my ride.
Anywho –
Our first night in Brooklyn had been tense. The drive in was easy. Surprisingly easy. Heather was driving, and her newfound familiarity with stick shift was further enforced through the stop and go traffic of Sunday night New York. We found parking. Close to the apartment building even.
But parking in New York is, in Beaker’s words “mmmhmm mmhmrmm” (i.e. “Sadly temporary”). We had to move the car some three hours later, at 7am. Jayson assured us that he’d wake us up and help us hunt for a spot… but I was definately in the midst of ‘not sure what I make of Jayson yet’ mode – and set an alarm.
6.30 came. Perhaps 20 seconds after we’d closed our eyes, the alarm was blaring insistantly, raking vicious across our skulls. We stumble out to visit the twilight world, and realize Jayson’s nowehere to be found – and we didn’t have keys to the apartment.
Sooo – Heather (the better parallel parker) goes out to move the car, I (the vaguely conscious) stay indoors to let her back in upon her return. To make a long story short – Heather comes back, all’s good, she says “oh, they’re painting” and I stick my hand fully into the wet paint.
Exhausted and sticky, we return to the apartment, where Jayson just laughs). Working at the laytex paint on my palm, helplessly, I eventually just plan to return to bed. But it won’t come off, and it won’t dry… and it sucks… and I’m tired… and I haven’t slept but 6 hours in the past two days….
And Jayson grabs my hand, soaps it up, and rubs vigorously. My hand turns red under his not-so-tender ministrations, and he rubs it raw with papertowels and hand soap, pushing at the layers that I’d so lavishly laved myself in.
That was my introduction to Jayson Blair.
When I feel like it, mayhaps I’ll tell you about his toilet – and how, no matter how much CRAP the N.Y. Times took from him, I got to deal with his shit.
It’s soo bad, I’m writing exclusively for the grin on Mr. L.L. Pof’s face now. It’s an inspiration.
But soon we’ll move on – and some other thought will strike me, and I’ll momentarily forget adventures in Prospect Park, Jayson’s pendulum accuracy shower, Dickman, the rat dogs of New York, and maybe even the horrid nature of New York’s subway system. Eventually.
