Manchild in the Promised Land (61 page)

The panic was on two days after Dad had put Pimp out. About three days afterward, Mama got this note from Bellevue Hospital saying that they had her son. It was a relief for everybody.

Mama went down to see Pimp, take him some cigarettes, and find out what it was all about. He had gone into Harlem Hospital's emergency section the night before and attacked a doctor. He started crying, “Give me some shit or kill me.” His habit was down on him, and, like most junkies, he panicked. They gave him some morphine that night, then sent him over to Bellevue, where there's a ward for treating addicts.

Mama said she went down and talked to him. She told me I could go down and see him Sunday. I didn't pay too much attention to what Mama said. Every time Pimp got himself halfway straight, he was always telling her that he was going to kick his habit. Mama started talking that talk about, “I really believe this time that Pimp is ready to do right.”

I looked at her. I was a little annoyed that she could be still so stupid. She just went on. We were sitting in the living room. She said, “Yeah, I really think he's learned his lesson now. They had him in a straitjacket for about six hours after he went into Harlem Hospital. Now he's all right, and I really think he's going to make it. He's quieted down. He don't have that nervous look about him no more. I think if anybody was ever ready to get off that stuff, he's ready.”

I didn't say anything. After a while, Mama paused. I guess she was waiting for some kind of reply or some kind of agreement. I said, “Yeah, Mama, sure he's ready to get off it,” and that was all.

She said, “Yeah, I knew he wasn't gon be no junkie like all the rest of these old crazy junkies out there. I told that boy when he first started messin' with that stuff, I said, ‘Pimp, are you usin' that stuff?' When he started eatin' all that sugar and not eatin' no food and lookin' sleepy all the time, but, Lord, I sure am glad that boy woke up to himself and found his senses and gon stop messin' around with that old dope out there.”

I just got mad, and I couldn't take it any more. Before I realized what was happening, I was shouting at her. “Mama, why don't you stop bein' so damn stupid! You know the nigger ain't gon put it down. He already said that three times. Now how many times somebody got to tear his ass to show you that he's not gon to?”

“Boy, you know you ain't got no faith in your brother. That boy ain't stupid. He can make it. He made up his mind, and I believe he's gon do it now.”

I said, “Do what, Mama?”

She said, “Everybody deserves another chance.”

“Chance, shit, Mama, you know that's bullshit. The nigger done went out here three times and blew. Every time he gets back on the street, he talks that same old shit about doin' it.”

I hadn't realized what I was saying. There I was, ranting and raving. I didn't even know where I was. I was burned up. Here she was, a damn idiot. She'd seen the junkies, and she knew what was going on, but here she was saying, since it was her son, everything was going to be altogether different. I was pissed off at her refusal to see that her son was a junkie. Shit, junkies are junkies, and all junkies talk that shit about kicking their habits.

While I was raving, I heard Dad say, “That's the goddamn truth. That's one nigger who ain't got no sense. He's just a damn fool, and that's all he's gon be is a damn fool. He don't want to do nothin' but get out there and take a whole lot of dope with the rest of them junkies and go around and nod, and be scratchin' all the time, lookin' like he's sleepy. He can't do nothin'; he can't hold no job or nothin'. He ain't comin' back in this house, I don't care how many tears anybody sheds around here, and I don't care who believes what he says. Christ could believe it if he wants to, but I ain't gon believe it. I know damn well he ain't comin' back in this house no more.”

When Dad started ranting, it sort of woke me up to myself and what I was saying. I looked at Mama, and she looked so pitiful. It was as if I'd been beating her and Dad had jumped in and started beating her too. I felt kind of shitty. As a matter of fact, when I heard him, all my anger just left. I wasn't mad at Pimp or Mama any more. I'd just had to get this thing out. I felt that what I had said was more than enough and that Dad was just sort of running it into the ground.

It seemed as though the only way I could stop him was to say, “I don't know, Mama. Maybe you're right. He might be ready now. Everybody wakes up some day. You remember how bad off Danny use to be, Danny Rogers, and he straightened up, and he's still straight, Mama. He's been straight for about a year or more.”

Mama said, “Yeah, and I remember when Danny use to stand right out there on that corner, on 145th Street and Eighth Avenue. He'd be so doped up, looked like he was standin' on his feet sleepin'. Looked like his head would hit the ground and come back up. Pimp ain't never been that bad. He might get doped up and go to sleep, but he ain't never been so bad that he would sit out there on the stoop and just nod and nod half the day and half the night. He ain't never caught those fits like Danny use to have out there, jumpin' up and down in the middle of the street and stoppin' traffic.”

I said, “Yeah, Mama, Pimp ain't never been that bad. Maybe there's a chance of him making it.”

She said, “Yeah, you know, I feel for sure that he's gon make it this time, because that boy has really got his mind made up. He knows all the trouble he's done caused his family, and he says that he's in love with this little girl on 143rd Street. Maybe he'll want to get married or somethin'.”

I just said, “Yeah, Mama. Maybe this time. I'll try and help him too.” I knew that this was what she wanted to hear. I watched her as I said it. She looked hopeful, as if to say, “Everybody's not against me, and everybody's not beatin' on me.” It was as if what Dad said didn't matter.

Dad said, “Yeah, you and your Mama, go on; y'all believe all that bullshit. Hear? And when that boy go out here and get himself killed, it ain't gon be nobody to blame but you and your Mama. Y'all killin' that boy. Y'all killin' that boy by listenin' to all that bullshit he's talkin', and he's been talkin' for so long, instead of tellin' that boy that he's just got to stop messin' with that damn dope, and throwin' him out on his own, and makin' him see that he got to stop messin' with it. Y'all
just keep him around here and keep listenin' to all that bullshit. He ain't no baby no more, you know. I want y'all to know that.”

I didn't say anything. I just kept looking at Mama. I couldn't say anything to Dad, because his argument was too strong. As a matter of fact, it was my argument too. It was just impossible for me to say anything against it. Mama kept looking at me as if she wanted me to tell him he was wrong, but I couldn't do that. I didn't believe he was wrong.

I went down to Bellevue the following Sunday. Pimp said, “Sonny, it's only gonna take me a little while, man, to kick this thing, because it's in my mind now.”

I looked at him, and the cat looked serious. But I wasn't sure whether he was serious but wouldn't be able to do it or whether the seriousness was also an indication of new-found strength. I said, “Pimp, what are you doing? I mean, what do you plan to do? What's in your mind for the future, when you get out of here?”

“Well, Sonny, I want to put some time in school, man, and finish out my high school so I can get that diploma.”

“Yeah, man, that's good.” This was something that I had been telling Pimp for a long time now, to go back to high school and finish up. He only had one more year to go. I felt that he was telling me this now because he knew that this was what I wanted to hear. He was just giving me back all the stuff that I had tried to give him to straighten him up.

He looked at me and said, “Sonny, you don't believe me, huh? You don't think I'm ready to make it? I guess that's natural, man, because you've been in my corner a long time, and I blew, all those times. It's natural for you not to believe me now.”

“Pimp, I'd like to believe you, but I can't do it, baby, I just can't do it any more. But I'll tell you something. I believe you can do it. I think if you want to do it, it doesn't mean a damn thing who doesn't believe you. If you are going to do it, you're going to go on and do it, regardless. It's the same way with your usin' your drugs. Shit, if you're going to do it, man, you just go on and do it. It doesn't mean a fuckin' thing what I say or what anybody else says. Man, when you get out of here, I'll know what you're going to do by what I see.”

He said, “Yeah, Sonny, I'm glad you're takin' it that way, man.”

About five weeks later, Pimp was released from Bellevue. His arm
was clear. He didn't have his spike track any more. He started working.

About a month after he got out, he was still clean. He still had his job, and he started going to evening high school. Things were looking pretty good. He had a nice girl, and they were talking about getting married after he got his diploma and could get a decent job.

Everybody was pleased, especially Mama. Every time I saw her, I'd ask about Pimp, and she would say with pride, “Oh, he's doin' fine,” with that “I told you so” in her voice.

I felt happy for her and happy that my little brother was showing so much strength. He was kicking his habit. He'd been on stuff about eighteen months, and he was kicking it and staying in the neighborhood. I felt that Pimp was out of the woods now. After he'd been going to school for a month and a half, he started talking that college talk. I said, “Wow, that's damn nice! It's wonderful!” When I heard that, I was certain that he was out of the woods.

We didn't hang out in the same crowd. Pimp was younger than I was, and he was still trying to prove a lot of things to himself. Most of the cats I hung out with were older than me. They were guys in their thirties, and I had know them for years and years. Some of them had sort of raised me, in the streets. Pimp wasn't quite ready for this. I knew he had an inferiority complex about being young and not knowing certain things. I suppose that was half the reason he took to drugs.

I'd just see him occasionally. Sometimes, we'd go to a bar together. If I saw him hanging out with cats I knew were weak, who might be using drugs sooner or later, I'd run it down to him. I'd tell him, “Pimp, so-and-so is a dangerous companion.”

Once I did this. I told him about hanging out with a cat on 144th Street. He was a young boy, and I didn't know him from way back. He'd only lived uptown for a couple of years. He was about Pimp's age. I told Pimp about hanging out with him, and Pimp said, “Damn, Sonny, man, this sounds almost as bad as Mama and Dad. They don't say that shit to you. They see you talking to Reno and Danny Rogers, and everybody knows Danny is the main man in drugs, and Reno is gonna be in jail in three months at most, but nobody says anything, man. But they all treat me like a little kid. It's somethin' that keeps fuckin' with me. As a matter of fact, I'm thinking about pullin' out of there, Sonny. I got to get out, because I can't stand that kid thing any more. This hurts me, man. Now you come and run it down to me too.”

I knew Pimp was right, but at the same time I felt that he was just using this as an excuse to get away from what I was telling him. But it was a damn good defense, and I couldn't get through it. I said, “Yeah, Pimp, I'm sorry, man. I guess we all just worry about you too much, man.”

He hit me playfully and said, “Yeah, the baby's grown up, now.”

I just walked, and I didn't mention it to him any more. I felt kind of bad.

I was walking down East Twenty-third Street one day, and I met an old friend, a person who used to be a counselor up at Wiltwyck. He left in 1949. I hadn't seen him in about ten years. He said he was coming from Children's Court, on Twenty-second Street. He was going to lunch, and I was just coming from lunch. I'd had lunch with a girl who worked down there.

He said, “Why don't you join me for a cup of coffee?”

“Sure, Lou.” Lou was always a warm, friendly person.

We went to a small delicatessen and talked. He had lunch, so I did most of the talking. He asked me what I'd been doing. I told him that I wasn't doing anything. I had been working part time. Now I wasn't working at all. I was just collecting unemployment insurance.

He said, “That sounds good,” just jokingly. “What have you been doing schoolwise?”

I said, “I quit school when I was about sixteen. I went back and got a diploma in evening high school. I finished that last year.”

“You have a high-school diploma?”

“Yeah, man, I thought about going to college for a long time. I was just thinking about it, disregarding the fact that it takes money to go.”

“Look, have you ever heard of the Reverend James, at the Metropolitan Community Methodist Church?”

“No, man, I haven't heard too much about any churches.”

Lou said, “Well, we have a council of committees who are interested in sending Harlem students to school.”

“Yeah? It sounds good, but I don't belong to any church. I'm kind of leery about churches, and I'm kind of leery about preachers too.”

“Well, that's only because you haven't met this preacher. You know, Claude, there's a difference between ministers and preachers.”

“Yeah, Lou, so I've heard. One's got a degree, and the other hasn't.”

“There's a little more to it than that. This one is a minister.”

“Lou, anyone who wears a turned-around collar, they make me kind of skeptical.”

“Why?”

“Well, I always thought this was something to distract people from the continual hard-on that these guys always had.”

Lou laughed.

I said, “Yeah, man, I've never met any preachers that didn't have a long cunt collar.”