The Obstacle Course (37 page)

After awhile Reverend Williams delivered his sermon and it was powerful, about prodigal sons and living by the golden rule and how all men are brothers, which, he reminded the congregation, was especially important to remember during this holiday season when we celebrate that Jesus Christ died for our sins,
all
of us, he emphasized; I knew he’d thrown those lines in to cover me and Burt being there among them. He just didn’t talk his sermon, either, he sang some of it, he’d be preaching his lungs out and then all of a sudden he’d break out into song for several lines. He had a terrific voice, like that singer from “Ol’ Man River.” It gave me goose bumps listening to him preaching and singing, you almost felt Jesus in the room with us.

As I said, I’ve never had much truck with religion; it’s one of the few areas where me and my old man are in agreement, that old gloom and doom stuff they cram down your throat. Standing in this colored church, though, listening to the preaching and singing and testifying, I didn’t feel doomed. I felt good, like life wasn’t so bad, not if people like this, who one way or the other got the shit kicked out of them every day of their lives, could be happy, even if for just these moments.

“This is great, ain’t it?” I smiled at Burt, nudging him with my elbow, trying to get him to shed that black cloud he was carrying around with him.

“So niggers got rhythm,” he spat at me in a whisper so no one would hear, not buying into any of this, “big fucking deal.”

“Jesus, man,” I implored him, “where’s your sense of fun?”

“You call this fun?” he asked, talking low out the side of his mouth so no one else would hear, not that they could, they were raising the rafters, their singing was so loud. “Being held captive in a nigger church?”

“Looks like fun to me.”

“You’ve always been weird, Roy,” he said, glancing at me sideways, making sure he kept his eye on things, in case one of them got it in his head to jump him with a knife or something, like anyone would do that in a church, “but back home it was funny-weird. Now it’s scary-weird.”

“Hey, fuck you, too,” I told him, moving away slightly.

“They’re niggers, Roy,” he said, his voice flat.

“You’re gonna eat their food, ain’t you?”

“Only ’cause I’m starving and don’t got a choice.”

I shook my head sadly. He hadn’t gotten it, not at all. Not the train jumping, the adventure of almost getting caught, even the getting caught. We’d been gone a week and I was changed forever; I didn’t know how or why, but it was inside me, moving and growing like something alive.

All this experience had been for Burt had been six days of fear and homesickness.

I felt sorry for him. We’d paid a shitload of dues these past six days. You want to get something for your money when you go through that kind of hell, and he hadn’t.

Show time. They sat us smack in the middle of one of the long tables that had been set up down in the basement, our plates filled with more food than either of us, even me, the kid with the hollow leg, could possibly eat. I was in hog heaven—I’d basically forgotten that I was surrounded by a sea of black faces, because I was digging in with both hands, barely chewing a mouthful before shoveling in the next, dipping my bread in the gravy, forking up huge portions of mashed potatoes, pork chop, chicken-fried steak, catfish, two or three other kinds of fish I’d never seen but tasted delicious, vegetables by the dozens, it went on and on.

Burt sat next to me, of course. He’d have sat on my lap if I’d let him. Despite his feelings, he was eating as hard and fast as I was, matching me forkful for forkful. All around us people were talking, laughing, gossiping, passing plates of food back and forth, having a high time.

“You ain’t eaten none of my sweet-potato casserole,” a huge lady said, standing behind me with a big bowl of candied yams in her monstrous arms, “I’m famous for this and you’re passing it by,” then immediately, without waiting for me to tell her I just hadn’t gotten around to it yet (because I couldn’t talk with a mouthful of food, it wouldn’t have been polite), dumping a huge portion of the stuff right on top of everything else on my plate.

“You eat every bite now,” she smiled, showing a whole set of gold false teeth, “it’s guaranteed to grow hair on your chest.” She was laughing her big old head off to beat the band. Everybody around us was laughing with her, people looking at us to see what was so funny. I would’ve laughed, too, except I would have sprayed a mouthful of food all over the room. “You, too,” she commanded Burt, giving him an equal portion.

The women, in general, were being nicer to us than the men were. I could understand that—they were mothers, they had kids. There were boys here Burt’s and my age. Some of these women probably worked for white families and were around white children.

Women are nicer than men generally, anyway. I know my mom would’ve treated a colored kid a lot nicer than my old man would.

“Beats hell out of Ravensburg, don’t it?” I nudged Burt.

He didn’t answer; just grunted and kept on eating, like it was his last meal on earth. After they stuffed him like a Christmas goose they’d cook him up was the way he was imagining it. I wanted to shake him, to say “goddamn, man, it’s only people,” but that would’ve scared him even more, so I left him alone and let the tide of good feeling carry me along.

That was it—I was sitting in this Negro church, surrounded by two hundred colored people, and I was happy. I felt good around these people, like I belonged, as much as I belong anywhere. I could see there were a lot of things about colored people that were good, maybe even better than some things about white people.

And that got me to thinking, pretty deep. I don’t want to be colored, not even for an instant. I wouldn’t wish being a nigger on my worst enemy, not even Danny Detweiler, but I felt comfortable here, in a weird way better than I sometimes do back home, with all the crap going on there. What I realized was, all the bullshit I’d heard all my life about Negroes was just that: bullshit.

Even though it was night there was still some pink in the sky from the factory smokestacks that pump twenty-four hours a day. Everything was finished now—the service, the singing and testifying, the incredible meal, then more singing after the meal, which had been as much fun as any of the other stuff, they sang all those old Negro gospel songs, and then while they were cleaning up the remains of the dinner everybody socialized with everybody else, old folks with kids, men with women, friends greeting friends.

People headed home toting their empty plates, drifting off in groups into the darkness. Reverend Williams stood in the doorway, saying “Praise Jesus” and “God bless” to each of his parishioners as they left.

Then only a few churchwomen were still there, doing the last of the cleanup. I helped out some; I ain’t too proud to sweep a floor or wash some dishes. It seemed the least I could do, after eating that bodacious meal. Burt was antsy, hopping from one foot to the other, wanting to get out of there; he’d had his fill of food and then some, he hadn’t been killed or any of that gruesome stuff he’d imagined, he wanted to be gone, right now.

I hung back. I still wasn’t ready to leave.

Reverend Williams said his last good-nights and walked over to us.

“I trust you young men enjoyed yourselves, spending a few hours in the Lord’s company.”

“Yeah,” I told him enthusiastically, “it was great, the churches we got at home you can’t even scratch yourself even if you’ve got an itch.”

That tickled him. He smiled like I’d cracked a good joke.

“Thanks, it was really nice,” Burt added dutifully. He turned to me. “We got to be going.”

“Naw, there ain’t no hurry.”

“We’ve got to be moving on, Roy, they’ll be expecting us.”

The whimper was strong in his voice again, I could almost hear the tears.

“Who’s expecting us?” I asked him innocent-like. I didn’t want to be this way with him, I knew I shouldn’t be, he was looking to me for protection, and I was fucking him over. I didn’t want to, I really didn’t, but I couldn’t help myself.

Nervously he replied, shooting the reverend a look: “You know, down in Texas and all.”

I scratched my nose—I had come to a decision. “Why don’t you go on ahead?”

He didn’t understand what was happening. Reverend Williams looked at us, from Burt to me and back.

“Go on,” I told Burt, “I’ll catch up with you later.”

I wasn’t leaving. That’s the way it was.

Burt looked like he might cry.

“Go ahead if you’re going,” I told him irritably.

Burt looked at me like he’d never seen me before; then he started down the sidewalk, his head hanging low like he was on his way to the electric chair.

Reverend Williams stood over me. “Shouldn’t you be joining your brother?” he asked with concern. He placed his big hand on my shoulder.

“He’s not my brother.” I had to tell someone the truth, I’d been living in this bullshit too long, I had to get rid of it. “We don’t have a grandmother in Texas, either. I made all that up.”

“I know that,” he said. He did, too, he’d known it from the get-go, I knew it now; I knew everything. “But still,” he continued, “you don’t want to be leaving him.”

“Yes I do, too. All he wants is to go home.”

“You should go home with him,” he instructed me.

“I don’t feel like going home,” I pleaded. “Why can’t I stay here with y’all, just for a few days? Then I’ll go home. They don’t care anyway, I won’t be no trouble to you, I promise.” I was begging as hard as a puppy in a pound but I didn’t care, I didn’t want to leave—I couldn’t, I wasn’t ready.

Reverend Williams regarded me for a minute.

“You can’t stay here any longer, son.”

That was that. We stared at each other in silence for a moment—then he ushered me out the door and closed it firmly behind me.

I slowly walked down the steps. About a block away I saw Burt, waiting for me.

We walked down a residential street like the one we lived on back in Ravensburg; white, working-class, common. It was after midnight. The street was dark, empty, lifeless.

“I’m tired of all this walking,” Burt said. He was tired of everything, all he wanted was to be home, safe in his own bed.

“Yeah,” I answered by rote. I didn’t care anymore.

“Niggers,” he muttered.

“What about ’em?”

He gave me a look, like “you’ve got to ask?”

“What about ’em?” I asked again. “You didn’t like that church service? You didn’t like that food? Shit, I thought it was great,” I went on, getting excited again, remembering it.

“Yeah, you would,” he shot back.

“How could you not’ve liked that?” I didn’t get it, I knew he was tired and scared, but he wasn’t brain-dead.

“I hated it, okay?” He was almost yelling. “I hated being in that church, I hated eating that shitty food, the only reason I did was because I was starving to death and if I hadn’t it would’ve pissed them off and I sure wasn’t about to do that. Nigger food, I feel like barfing it all up, I wouldn’t give a shit if they fed me T-bones from now till Christmas, it would still be nigger food. I hate niggers, you know that, I’ve hated ’em all my life with a passion and I always will.”

“You’re nuts,” I told him.

“Not me, man. Not me.”

I was tired of arguing with him. I was tired of all his bullshit completely. I was flat-out tired.

“Have it your way,” I said.

He spat on the sidewalk and didn’t reply.

There was a big Buick sedan parked at the curb. I walked over to it and tried a door. It was unlocked.

“What’re you doing?” Burt asked in alarm.

“Come on,” I told him, “get in.”

“You’re crazy.”

I climbed in and stretched out on the front seat.

“We’ll be gone as soon as the sun comes up. Get in. I’m giving you the back, it’s roomier.”

He didn’t have a choice; it was my way or the highway, and the highway wasn’t for him. Reluctantly, he climbed into the back seat and stretched out. I fidgeted around for a minute, trying to find a comfortable position. Just before I fell asleep I thought I heard a door opening somewhere, but my fatigue overwhelmed me, and within a minute I was dead to the world.

I came awake with a start.

The front door of the Buick had been yanked open. I looked around, squinting against the morning sun that was shining on my sleep-smooth face. Half a dozen cops were ringing the car. Burt hung behind them, unable to look me in the eye.

“I couldn’t help it, Roy,” he whimpered, pleading for forgiveness, “I’m sorry.”

It was over.

“That’s okay.”

I had no malice towards him. He’d done what he had to do.

T
HE RIDE HOME ON
Trailways took twenty-three hours. Burt’s folks wired us the money. We didn’t say one word to each other the whole trip.

Mr. and Mrs. Kellogg were waiting at the bus station, which is downtown near the cheap bars and girlie shows, where Burt, this sniveling mama’s boy standing next to me, and I would sneak in to look at magazine pictures of big-titted women.

What the fuck, I thought. He’s just a kid, like me. He showed his emotions more is all. Years of bitter lessons had taught me to bottle mine up. That was the only real difference between us.

Mr. and Mrs. Kellogg stood back from the bus ramp, holding hands and looking anxious. Burt started towards them, dragging his ass, afraid to look them in the eye, figuring his old man would take half his ass off for openers, but they didn’t have that angry look in their eyes; they looked real happy and relieved to see him. Mrs. Kellogg was crying, you could tell from clear across the floor. As soon as he saw the tears in his mom’s eyes Burt ran over to them. She snatched him up like he was a baby and gave him a big hug. His old man patted him on the head awkwardly, like he wanted to hug Burt, too, but was embarrassed about doing it in public.

My folks weren’t there. I didn’t figure they’d be.

“We told your mom we’d give you a lift home,” Mrs. Kellogg told me, looking at me with an awkward stare while at the same time wiping her face with a handkerchief, like she didn’t know how she should be with me. They were all teary-eyed, even Mr. Kellogg, who’s normally a pretty tough customer.