Contrasts (2 page)

In taking it, he kept hold of her hand, “You gonna make me stay after school to do that?” he said loud enough for everyone to hear. He looked out at the class then back down at her, “You know what I’m sayin, jus you helpin me to get it up...I mean get catched up,” he said. A couple of the boys laughed and high-fived each other. Ann felt her face grow red and quickly pulled her hand from his. He ambled back to his seat.

He was short and thin, but wiry, street smart, and arrogant. Some of the boys who knew him smiled knowingly at each other. The girls shook their heads and rolled their eyes. Shawna Williamson seated in the middle of the front row caught Ann’s eye and mouthed the words, “He’s mean.” Darnell had folded his arms on his desk and put his head down on them. The dismissal bell rang, but he didn’t move until the others had left. Seated at her desk, Ann called out his name, “Darnell.” He lifted his head to stare at her. She could see that Shawna was right. He was going to be difficult. She smiled at him, “You must have had a late night.” He continued to stare at her, saying nothing. She held up a copy of the book they were using, “If you’ll come up here I’ll write down the title of our text and give you the assignments you’ve missed.” First checking to see that the door was closed, he pushed himself out of his chair and slowly made his way along the aisle until he stood looking down at her. “The book we’re using is World Cultures. I’ll have a copy for you on Monday. We’ve already read chapter one but I’m sure you can get....”

“I bet you got some hot body under them old lady clothes,” he interrupted.

She felt herself blushing again. She looked up at him. A little smile flickered across his lips. “Why you always get all red like that?” He stepped behind her, “You thinkin what I’m thinkin?” Quickly he slid his hands down over her shoulders and cupped her breasts pinching her nipples between his thumbs and index fingers.

She let out a little cry and, jumping up, turned away from him and stepped back. Flustered and feeling tears come to her eyes and her cheeks burning she stammered, “I....I...I’m going to report this. You must be...must be crazy. I...I’ll have you expelled!”

He grinned at her. “Ain’t no witnesses. Your word against mine.”

“You’re disgusting...a...a...disgrace to your race,” she stammered.

“Yeah, you ain’t the first to tell me that.” He licked his lips. “You got a hot mouth. I bet you kiss good.” He reached down to his crotch and squeezed his cock. “I’d like to see you get on your knees and lay a kiss what I got right here.”

Still backing away from him she almost stumbled and caught herself on the edge of her desk. He took a step toward her, “I’d like to see you get naked for me. I’d like to watch you suck me off.” She ran toward the door. He called after her, “Your nipples popped right up.” The sound of his laughter followed her down the hall.

Her attempt to have him expelled was unsuccessful. The principal repeated Darnell’s argument. Without witnesses it would be the boy’s word against hers. The best he could do was suspend him for a short period and try to place him in another class when he returned.

She told Paul about the incident. He promised to call a friend of his who was on the school board, but also felt since no one had seen the boy’s atrocious behavior it would turn out to be an embarrassment for her. In the end they decided to drop it and hope she’d seen the last of Darnell Tyman.

During the two weeks of Darnell Tyman’s suspension the lives of Paul and Ann Gardner would change dramatically. Nothing would ever be the same again for either of them.

Journal Entry

Earlier this evening Ann came home to tell me about a new student who, she said, had verbally insulted her and had physically touched her. After the other students had left, he’d put his hands on her breasts. He said he wanted to see her naked and wanted her to suck his cock. She reported the incident, but the principal thought the best he could do was suspend the student. The boy’s name is Darnell Tyman. He’s black. It seems he has some sort of criminal record. I should be angry and I am. But as she was telling me about the incident, I started to imagine his hands cupping her breasts, and I felt my cock begin to swell. That shouldn’t have happened. I find it disturbing.

Tomorrow night is poker night. I wonder if I should say something about this to the guys. They’re all black. Maybe one of them might know something about this kid. Lately they’ve been complaining about playing at the office. They want to know why we can’t meet at my house like we do at theirs. Since they are holding IOUs of mine for over seventy-five thousand maybe I should think about inviting them.

When I left the garage yesterday two of the drivers I had laid off, Cory Jefferson and Ned Warren, were hanging around the parking lot.

The investments Paul had been making to try to cover the money he had appropriated from his stockholders had gone bad. He was now more than a half million in debt. As he was getting into his car the morning after Ann’s incident, a battered old Honda van stopped in front of the house blocking his driveway. Ray Evans, one of the mechanics he’d laid off, rolled down the window and shook his fist, “Hey Motherfucker, I want you to know I know where the fuck you live!”

At first Paul was startled then felt the anger rising. “Fuck you, Ray!” he yelled and gave him the finger.

“Yeah, we’ll see who gets fucked!” He slammed the van into gear and sped off.

Even before the economic downturn Paul had been ready to fire the two drivers and Ray Evans. None were reliable. He was sure all three were involved in some sort of criminal activity. They were bullies and gutter mouths. He’d been happy to get rid of them. But last evening the ex-drivers, Cory Jefferson and Ned Warren, were hanging out in the company parking lot. Now, this morning’s confrontation with Evans, who was the worst of them, had him worried.

Paul’s trucking company was housed in a large old warehouse on Quincy Street in Brooklyn. He had twenty-six trucks which he leased to various wholesalers. He also provided the drivers. Most of the warehouse was used for repairing the trucks and for parking the newer ones. The others were parked in the fenced lot next to the warehouse.

On the first floor was an office for the chief mechanic, Nelson Suggs, a heavyset black man in his mid fifties. Twenty five years ago he had been sent to prison on a rape charge.

The girl was a white teenager. He was given fifteen years, but served only ten. Paul had not wanted to hire him but his accountant persuaded him to take a chance. Suggs was an excellent mechanic. He kept the other mechanics in line as well as the drivers. Best of all, he didn’t demand a big salary. The second floor of the warehouse was used mostly for storage. Both Paul and John Albertson, his accountant, had large offices that were adjacent to each other, separated by a wall, the top half of which was glass. A single door connected their offices.

When he arrived that morning John waved at him and then joined him in his office. “Two more of our clients went bottom up and three are late paying. The whole country’s going down the shitter,” he said.

Paul shook his head. “I think things are going to get a lot worse. We have to cut more of the drivers, take some trucks off the road and maybe lay off a mechanic.”

“Hate to do that. Lay off guys, I mean.”

“So do I. One of the last ones was blocking my driveway this morning. Ray Evans, the mechanic. He was swearing and shaking his fist at me.”

“Ray’s mean, real mean. You don’t want to mess with him.”

“Yeah, well half the guys we got working here are ex-cons or current thugs. I think they spend half their pay on tattoos and the other half on booze.”

“They’re pissed off about the wages and no health coverage. Most think you take advantage because they got records and have trouble getting jobs.”

“They should have thought of that before they did stuff to get them in trouble with the police.”

John shrugged and started back to his office but turned in the doorway. “Thursday’s your night to host the poker game. Some of the guys say they’re tired of coming to this drafty old warehouse to play. They think you don’t want your neighbors to see a bunch of black guys coming to your house.”

“Jesus, what a morning this has been! Ok, ok, we’ll have it at my place this Thursday.” As soon as he’d said it he was sorry. Ann would be at her Catholic Youth Center, but she’d come home long before the poker party broke up. After her recent experience with the kid in her class, five black guys sitting at her dining room table, smoking and drinking beer was certain to unnerve her. In addition, he’d noticed that every time John came into his office he looked at the photograph of Ann on his desk. For that matter, so did Nelson Suggs, the chief mechanic.

Later in the day, John mentioned that he’d like to bring someone who might throw some business their way. This guy, Gordon Watts, was CEO of a huge import/export company.

John nodded, “This Gordon Watts is he...”

“He’s very rich, very powerful, knows all the right people, and yes, he’s black.”

“I just meant...”

“Yeah, well it looks like it will be six black guys and you. That ok?” There was an edge to his voice.

Paul was quick to answer, “Sure, it’s fine. Like you say this Watts person might be able to send us some business.”

On the Wednesday before the poker game Paul informed Ann that the boys would be playing at their house. She frowned, “Why the change?” She disapproved of gambling but had not objected to Paul’s Thursday poker games because when it was his turn to host, he had them at the warehouse. She knew they drank and smoked and that Paul seemed to lose a lot of money. But Paul looked forward to the weekly game and anyway she spent Thursday evenings at the Catholic Youth Center. But having these men at her house was a different matter. She asked again, “Why can’t you have the game in your office like always?”

Paul smiled at her, “I’m trying to do what you do at the Center, demonstrate that everybody’s equal regardless of religion or political affiliation or skin color.” He put his arms around her, “The guys, all of them African American, have kind of wondered why it was ok for me to go to their houses, but never invite them to mine.”

She stepped back and looked up at him. “Yes, I can see how they might feel...feel that way. They probably think it’s me, think that I’m prejudiced. You’re right, Paul. You should have them here.” She smiled, “I’ll make some snacks and maybe my famous clam dip, but you must promise to get the empty bottles out of here and clean up after they leave. I’d rather not have this place smelling of cigar smoke and stale beer when I eat breakfast in the morning.”

He laughed and hugged her. “I promise to get rid of the bottles, run the dishwasher, open the windows, turn on the fan, and buy a six pack of Airwick.”

“I’ll be home before the game breaks up,” she said.

“That’s fine. I’ll introduce you to anyone you haven’t already met and you can make a quick exit and go to bed.”

She nodded, “OK, but I hope they see that we’re not racists or anything like that and you convince them that it’s better to have these poker games back at your office.”

“That shouldn’t be too hard. They all live closer to the garage. Going there is more convenient for them.”

In addition to Albertson, the accountant, and Suggs, the chief mechanic, the poker players were Trevor Bass, one of the truck drivers, and his brother, Cliff, who worked on the docks. Ike Johnson was a wealthy client who owned a distributorship of women’s clothes and shoes. All Paul knew about the substitute was his name, Gordon Watts, and that he apparently was the CEO of a company that supplied armored vests to the military. He certainly would have connections and could perhaps get them some big contracts. He hated to think about it, but his trucking company was losing money every month. The scams he used to cheat the stock holders were criminal. If the tax guys started poking around he’d lose the company for sure and probably go to jail for awhile. The thing that bothered him most was the fact that Ann’s name was also on all the fraudulent papers. He simply had to find a way to keep the company solvent and to repay the stock holders not to mention the seventy-five thousand he owed his poker playing friends.

Chapter Two

On the Thursday night of the poker game when Ann pulled into the parking lot behind the Catholic Youth Center she opened the door of her car to find Darnell Tyman standing in front of her. She drew back and tried to close the door. He reached out to hold it open.

He stood there a moment staring down at her, his eyes hard, his mouth a narrow slit.

“Wha....what....do you want?” she stammered.

He glared at her, “I don’t give a fuck about that damn school, but I don’t want some fuckin white cunt sayin when I can and can’t go there.”

“You threatened me. You...you...grabbed me.” She began to fumble in her purse for her cell phone.

He leaned into the car, “Callin 911 ain’t a good idea,” he said. She put the purse back. “That’s better,” he nodded. “You gettin smart.” He grinned down at her, “I be back in school Monday. How about you wearin a sexy dress or a short skirt stead of them old lady clothes?” He laughed and walked away.

The regular poker players arrived at Paul and Ann’s house on time. The new man, Gordon Watts, was late. They were sitting down at the dining room table when he rang the bell. Paul opened the door and stepped back. The man was huge, six four at least and probably over three-hundred and fifty pounds, most of it in his expansive belly. He was dressed immaculately, some gold bling but not too much. When they shook hands Paul’s was lost in his. He smiled, “Thank you for inviting me to your lovely home,” he said. It appeared that, although the other men had met him before, only John Albertson knew him well. Before sitting down, Watts looked around nodding in approval, “Your wife keeps a very neat house and has excellent taste,” he said. “I’m looking forward to meeting her.”

Paul was busy getting one of the two larger dining room chairs for the new arrival,

“Ahh, she’s volunteering at the Catholic Youth Center. She’ll be home a little later.”