The Nigger Factory (21 page)

His hand automatically went to the crown of his head when he thought about the Freedom Rides. He had been only a boy of nine traveling with his college-aged brother. Their first stop had been a small cafe just outside of Charleston, South Carolina. As far as they knew no one, not even the members of the press, had known where they were to stop. But there had been a huge reception waiting for them in the cafe -- policeman, rednecks, and Kluxers. Their best move would have been to move on to the next stop, but once they got out of the bus their retreat back into the vehicle was blocked by a stick-swinging, rock-throwing mob. Earl had been kicked to the ground and when his brother had tried to shield his body by crouching over the younger Thomas, a broom handle had crashed into his skull and the last thing Earl remembered was the salty taste of his brother's blood as the red ooze from the gaping wound covered his face.

‘I gotta go to that meetin’,’ Earl decided. ‘I'm damned if I know what I'll say. Maybe I'll just recount my own experiences for them, but I gotta do somethin’.’

‘Earl?’ Someone was calling him and knocking on the closed door to the inner office.

‘C'mon in!’ Earl said.

It was Odds. ‘I wuz on my way over to get a sandwich,’ Earl's sidekick informed him. ‘I wuz wond'rin’ if you wanted somethin’.’

‘I'll go,’ Earl said reaching for his jacket. ‘I need a pack a smokes.’

‘Damn!’ Odds said, ‘you smoke like they ain’ makin’ no mo’ a them things.’

‘Yeah,’ Earl flashed. ‘An’ it's gonna get worse befo’ it gets better.’

Ogden Calhoun was having a meeting all his own. He had literally dictated the names of the young men that he did not want readmitted to Sutton University. His recommendation to the Board of Trustees had merely stated that certain members of the community would not be readmitted because of activities that endangered the lives and property of the Sutton family. The $8,000 damage (not including labor for replacing damaged equipment) and the takeover of the Thursday afternoon meeting were cited in detail as examples of the activities of these students.

The list of names placed on the desk of Charles Hague, Admissions Director, came as no surprise to either Hague or concerned faculty members who drifted into the Admissions office to find out the particulars of Calhoun's decision.

The list read alphabetically:

Ralph Washington Baker

Everett McAllister Cotton

Roy Edward Dean

Frederick L. Jones

Benjamin Raymond King

Kenneth C. Smith

Earl Joseph Thomas

Jonathan Wise

Those who didn't know were informed that Roy Dean was called ‘Lawman’ on Sutton's campus, and that Everett Cotton was really the backfield ace ‘Speedy’ Cotton. Few people had ever heard Earl's private nickname for Ken Smith -- ‘Odds’ -- nor had they heard the term ‘Captain Cool’ from anyone other than Arnold McNeil and a few students. But there was a fretful, worried frown on the face of every faculty member and administrator who saw the list. They had good reason to believe that these eight men would not leave Sutton without a fight.

33

Explosion!

The only member of MJUMBE who was wearing a dashiki for the three o'clock meeting with Sutton parents was Abul Menka. The tall, bushy-headed New Yorker wore a corduroy dashiki with red, green, and black patches symbolizing the three colors of the Black liberation flag. He was sitting alone in the far-left corner of the stage, smoking a cigarette, eyes hidden behind gold-framed sunglasses.

Three members, Ralph Baker, Speedy Cotton, and Fred Jones, were standing huddled in the opposite corner. They wore sports shirts open at the throat and jackets.

Ben King was standing at the base of the stairs that led up to the stage. He wore a pair of blue jeans, a sweat shirt, and a very casual pea jacket with one pocket missing and the collar ripped.

The auditorium was little over a quarter full at three o'clock. Recognizing the twelve-hundred-seat capacity Baker was reluctant to start before so scant a turnout, hoping that there were more people on the way.

In the assembly were women and parents, male students who had remained on campus, and members of the faculty and interested administrators. Earl, from his vantage point between Odds and Lawman, who were leaning against the door in the far rear of the room, estimated a total of maybe one hundred coeds. The interesting thing about their clothing was that few of them were dressed for a normal day's activities. Most of them were wearing traveling clothes.

The gathering stopped its low hum of conversation when Ralph Baker approached the microphone.

‘Excuse me,’ he began a trifle nervously. ‘I am sorry to have added additional stops on people's schedules, but I feel that
too many times things are taken for granted by ‘student leaders’ that would amaze many parents. But this info'mation is never relayed. For this reason the things that have happened here at Sutton this week would seem to be vague an’ mysterious. This meetin’ is to perhaps clarify a few things fo’ parents as to what our strike has been about. Maybe things will then be clearer as to why we are takin’ the stands that we have.

‘We men of MJUMBE are all seniors. We are representatives of what is mosta the time the mos’ stagnant, cautious section of the studen’ body. We see ev'ry possible distraction as a possible delay from graduatin’ on time.

‘Unfortunately there comes a time when the boat mus’ be rocked. In this case President Calhoun is indicatin’ that we were intent on sinkin’ the boat. No one wants ta drown. Especially,’ Baker added with a smile, ‘if you've been on it fo’ three years an’ only have one mo’ to go.

‘We have handed out a copy of our requests and our reasons for askin’ that these changes be made. I read once in a magazine an interview wit’ a former political leader at Howard University who said, ‘It's not enough to hol’ a gun at an administrator's head. You have to pull the trigger.’ At Sutton we didn’ even do that. We called for a studen’ strike to impress our sincerity, our unity. We wanned to show how committed each an’ every studen’ was to these issues.

‘President Calhoun tipped the boat over. Not only did he turn away our demands with only token interest, he sent for the police force that is known in this county to be the most brutal and racist. I know, ‘cause I'm a native of this county. The police came out an’ threatened us wit’ their sticks an’ their curses. They acted jus’ like everyone knew they would act. They acted white.

‘There are several ways of lookin’ at our request for studen's to remain here at Sutton. It can be looked at as a personal plea from the members of MJUMBE since all five of us will prob'bly be expelled. But that's not our primary concern. Our concern is that only three of our deman's will be instituted. We will
only have, as I said, a token response, and our submission to pressure will intimidate those who follow. There will always be studen’ leaders on their han's an’ knees insteada their feet.

‘Fo’ that reason . . .’

Anyone present in the room could have testified to the weight that Baker's words were having. Even though he was reading most of the time from a typed sheet and sounded somewhat stilted, the young man was being effective. But just as he began to draw his suggestions to a close and call for the support that most people felt he most surely would have received, an explosion shook the building.

The explosion came from somewhere behind the building, shaking the auditorium with quick, jerking vibrations. Baker raced to a side window even as the first scream was being drowned by the chaos that was unleashed by the frightened crowd. He reached the door just in time to see a school bus engulfed in a shield of flame; tongues of orange and blue fire lunging skyward from the hull of the vehicle.

The crowd pushed through the exits and toward the streets. The first three men to leave the building had turned the corner in the direction of the blast. They could feel the warmth from the charring and smoking metal, see the melting tires allow the skeleton of the vehicle to collapse around the white-hot wheels.

‘A plastic bomb,’ Odds said surveying the ashes.

‘A son-uva-bitch,’ Earl Thomas declared.

34

MJUMBE Discovery

It was after five thirty. The men of MJUMBE had watched all but a very few members of the Sutton community depart by car or taxi or bus, through the narrow passages between buildings, around the oval of dead and dying flowers, and through the cast-iron arch with its proclamation, SUTTON UNIVERSITY.

The last two hours had seen their last plan destroyed, seared by flames and as easily pushed aside as a puff of the black whorls of smoke that had been carried away by the brisk winds hurtling across campus from the east.

The revelation by Victor Johnson that a unit of National Guardsmen was camped just south of Sutton was another setback. Somehow pieces of information about a unit of soldiers never hit solidly home until the last station wagon, with suitcases of clothes bulging out of the storage space, had disappeared from view.

There had been no discussion about the bomb or the Guard. No one had said a word except to confirm the fact that when the five o'clock bus left it would be time to arm themselves. When the last of two late buses belched a stream of black smoke and accelerated southward the five men each got up slowly and started to take his position. Baker was trying to make a last-minute call to the SGA office when he realized that the telephones had been cut off for the day. He cursed and ripped the phone out of the wall. He figured he owed Calhoun a favor.

‘The barricades up in back?’ Baker asked Cotton.

‘Both door an’ windows,’ Cotton said.

‘Jonesy an’ I decided we'll lay here,’ Abul said, gesturing toward the positions facing the oval near the front door.

‘Need somebody up top,’ Baker said. ‘Ben, you got that scope?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Why don’ we have Ben on the third floor with the scope, you an’ Cotton on the secon’ floor with the two high powers, an’ me an’ Jonesy down here since we don't have much range?’ Abul said to Baker.

Baker nodded and collected his case.

‘Rub Vaseline on yo’ face when you take yo’ positions. It fights mace,’ Abul said. ‘An’ use the handkerchiefs soaked in vinegar to fight the tear gas. It's boun’ to get in here once the windows get broken.’

“Bout that time,’ Baker pointed out.

The five men picked up their arms and ammunition to depart. There was no fanfare or commotion. Jones had a .38 Special Rossi from Brazil. Menka had a Winchester .22 rifle. Baker and Cotton had identical .30–30 rifles with a case of Norma cartridges and
bandoleras
. King had a 30.06 with a huge track scope. He carried two metal boxes of ammunition. When the meeting broke up he sat at the base of the stairs and put his gun together smoothly and turned, almost anxiously, to the front window where three of the four panes had been reinforced with metal strips. He nodded to Fred Jones and departed.

There was no final word from anyone. All five men knew what they had to do. Abul was tempted to shake hands because it seemed that only in the past two days had he really gotten to know them, really gotten to be brothers to them. He couldn't find a way to acknowledge this bond without seemingly confessing that he felt death near them. He remained flawlessly cool, crouching behind a sofa and lighting a cigarette.

Barricades had also been placed in front of the entrance to Carver Hall. Earl, Lawman, and Odds sat in the front office armed with a bottle of rum and two quarts of Coca-Cola.
There were no guns, no sticks, no knives. They had been drinking since the explosive ending to the meeting with the parents. Their eyes were red, their jokes becoming less and less funny and yet receiving larger laughs, and their underarms were soaked with nervous perspiration, but they considered themselves ready.

Ogden Calhoun was on the line to the security office. Reporters had been running all over campus and a television crew complete with camera was staked out in his outer office. They had been waiting for a statement from him for over an hour and he had been waiting for a call from the security guard for almost that long. Miss Felch had been brewing coffee and making small talk since the reporters had flocked to Calhoun's office from the scene of the explosion. There had been a dictated paragraph at three thirty stating that the explosion was only further evidence that the institution had to be closed. There was less than a word for the next two hours.

‘Hello? Jones? This is President Calhoun. I was waiting for . . .’

‘I just got here an’ listed the things you wanted, sir,’ Jones said breathlessly. ‘There are only two occupied buildings. One is the fraternity house and the other is Carver Hall.’

‘I want you to direct the Guard when they come in,’ Calhoun said icily.

‘Yes, sir,’ Jones mumbled. ‘An’ stay wit’ the Guard unit?’

‘Every damn second! I want to know everything that happens in an instant.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Jones agreed. ‘It's ten minutes to . . .’

‘Right,’ Calhoun cut in. ‘Come on over.’

The intercom buzzer went on.

‘It's your wife,’ Miss Felch said.

‘Tell her I'm busy,’ Calhoun snapped.

‘I told her that, sir, but she's insisting.’

‘Then hang the damn phone up an’ call the Guard number. Don't take any more calls. Tell the press I'll make a statement
when the Guard arrives at the front door. Tell them I'll speak then. I know they'll complain about the lighting an’ all, but kick ‘em out of my office an’ bring me a cup of coffee, please.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Miss Felch replied in her monotone. ‘What shall I say to the Guard?’

‘Tell ‘em I said to come on.’

As Miss Felch dialed the numbers that would bring National Guardsmen onto the campus of Sutton University for the first time in the institution's eighty-seven-year history, Abul Menka was making a startling discovery on the third floor of the fraternity house. He had gone up to the top floor to demonstrate the use of the handkerchiefs-soaked-in-vinegar to Ben King. What he discovered was that one of the two metal boxes that he had seen on the first floor did not contain the supposed clip of 30.06 shells, but instead a plastic bomb.

‘What in hell is that for?’ Abul screamed. ‘Oh! I get it! You stupid bastard! You're the one who blew up that goddamn bus! You stupid muthafuckuh! Where's the goddamn timer?’

‘This is for an emergency!’ King declared picking up the bomb in his hands.

‘Like the goddamn bus two minutes befo’ we coulda stayed on this muthafuckuh with fifty parents an’ seventy women. Right?’

‘All right! I won’ set it!’ the huskier man exclaimed, putting the bomb on a table.

‘Set it? You think I give a fuck? What do I care? All I know is that you fucked everythin’ aroun’ today.’

Baker, Cotton, and Jones all seemed to arrive at the third-floor door at that time. They were speechless. Fred Jones started to wipe Vaseline from his face with a towel. He threw down the handkerchief soaked in vinegar and pocketed his .38 Special.

‘Hard bombs to fuck wit’,’ he said softly as he zipped up his peacoat. ‘Them's the kind that blew up them Weathermen in New York. Hard to trus’ somethin’ like that.’

‘Where you goin'?’ King asked him.

‘I'm leavin’, man,’ Jonesy said in his ever-quiet manner.

‘Why? I made a mistake! You never made a mistake? I thought the meetin’ wuz gonna flop! I wanned everybody to know that we meant business. All right! I made a mistake! I couldn’ go out there an’ undo the fuckin’ thing jus’ because the meetin’ wuz goin’ all right . . . I . . . look, I took a chance, man! I made a mistake. All right?’

‘Fuck you!’ Abul sneered. ‘A silly-assed one-man power play! We wuz a team! We wudn’ fuckin’ aroun’. You fucked it all up!’

‘Team? You never been wit’ a fuckin’ team in yo life. Man, you always by yo'self,’ King flashed.

Jonesy walked between the two men and looked questioningly at Baker. Baker nodded and followed him out of the door followed closely by Speedy Cotton and Abul Menka.

‘Chicken out, muthafuckuhs!’ King raged, running halfway down the landing that led to the third floor. ‘You all jus’ scared a them whiteys! Thass all! You can't hand me that too-disappointed-to-fight story.’

The Black giant evidently had known very little about the point to which he had driven Abul Menka. When King pulled up next to him and pointed an accusing finger in Abul's face the man in the gold dashiki turned and landed a right hand flush in the center of King's face. As his victim stumbled backward, Abul leaped at him, landing punishing blows on the heavier man's face and neck. King tumbled into the corner of the landing covering his face with his arms until Baker and Jones subdued Abul from behind.

King was spitting blood. He made a slight move as though he would attack Menka when he regained his balance, but Baker proffered a restraining hand.

‘I wish you would!’ Abul declared, shaking loose and adjusting his sunglasses. ‘I'd love to beat yo’ fuckin’ brains out.’

King turned from the four men and walked back up the stairs. ‘I'm stayin'!’ he shouted as loudly as he could. ‘They'll have to kill this stupid Black bastard while they pry yo’ asses
from between yo’ legs!’ He shook a fist at them from the top of the stairs. ‘Fuck you cats! Fuck you!’

‘That nigger is crazy,’ Abul said to Baker as they went down the stairs.

‘Maybe,’ Baker said collecting his gear. ‘His mama was raped by a white man six or seven years ago. He hate ‘um now. You should see when he git a chance to block one or tackle a whitey. He's a mean muthafuckuh, man. He sees red.’

‘I hear tell some is comin’ fo’ him to tackle,’ Menka said pointedly. ‘They gonna have U.S.A. on their jerseys. He should play a helluva game.’

‘I hope so,’ Baker said.