I’d like to tell you that our attempts at socializing together went well. Maybe some literary journal would publish this story if I lied and said that we got together for a hike and found a sliver of something in common despite being from different sides of the tracks. But that’s not the way life works. That’s not the way it happened.
Ink is wearing an untucked polo shirt and a sun visor, the kind of thing someone would wear playing golf. His friend is tall and skinny, wearing a Malcolm X T-shirt and surprisingly tight-fitting jeans. I watch Josh introduce these kids to our host, Fran, who greets them with smiles and half-hug handshakes. Ink takes out a fat blunt, sparks it up, and passes it to Fran. Ink’s Malcolm X friend leaves the library. I’m wondering where he’s gone. Fran, Ink, and Josh are passing the blunt back and forth without talking, and slowly, the chatter of the party dies down. Everyone’s staring at them or trying really hard not to. I have to help be a host, I think. Josh has the balls to make Ink feel at home, so I should too. I get up, slap him five. I don’t know what to say away from Gilbert Street, so I’m like, Ink, mad kids here wanna buy bud; you’re gonna make some serious cash tonight. He raises one of his eyebrows and gives me a glance that I can’t really read, then places a hand on my shoulder. He says, Ray, no business tonight. Tonight’s about having fun.
And then everyone loosens up for a while, and it looks like, for a bit at least, tonight’s gonna be okay. A group of boys and girls start dancing in a corner of the library, and I wish I could join them. But I just stand beside Ink and keep on smoking. Some white girls go up to Ink and his friend and flirt with them. Josh has his arm dangling over Ink’s shoulder at one point. But then I see something weird out of the corner of my eye. Fran is whispering in Josh’s ear all seriously. Fran’s blue eyes are sharp and angry. Josh is listening intently, and he keeps brushing his brown locks behind his ear. That’s what he does when he’s nervous, which isn’t often, at least that’s what I used to think at the time.
Josh comes over to us and says, Look, Ink, Fran knows about the car. Ink says, What car? Some dumb-ass model car, Josh tells him, then pauses. I can tell he’s trying to choose his words wisely. Josh says, Some dumb-ass model car that’s gone missing. Ink says, Oh, a model car’s missing. What’s it gotta do with me?
My cotton mouth goes from New Mexico to the Sahara desert. I’m waiting for Ink to get belligerent; if Josh were in his position, he would definitely get belligerent. But Ink shouts, in a loud but calm voice, Hey, Franfuck!
Everyone stops talking and stares at Ink. I look over at little James, who’s still on the floor with the TobaccoMaster between the legs of his corduroys, which have been stitched up with paisley hippie patches. We exchange a commiserating glance. I think, James and I, we feel the same thing right now. We’re both afraid of Ink, but we both feel bad for him too. In that moment, I feel closer to James than I have ever felt before.
Ink says, Franfuck — that’s your name, right? You got something to say to me? Fran says, Why don’t we take this outside? Outside? says Ink. You wanna fight me? Fran tells him that he doesn’t want to fight. He just wants to talk. In private. Ink says, I got nothing to talk about with you. Fran looks down, grasps his neck, looks back up. Fran says, Yo, you can’t be disrespecting people like that in their own homes. Says, I know people, people you don’t wanna be messing with.
I’m wondering what the hell Fran is talking about. The toughest kid that this Snobkins son-of-a-Stalie knows is Josh Kagan. Ink looks dead serious. I can practically see the smoke coming out of his ears. I’m sure he’s gonna do something. Charge at Fran. Pull out a knife. A gun. But he just lets out a disgruntled scoff. Shakes his head, takes off his cap. And leaves without saying a word. His tall skinny friend follows behind him. After they leave, I find out Fran’s famous father collects die-cast model cars, and his favorite one, a Rolls-Royce Silver Ghost, has disappeared.
The vibes are horrible at the party now, so me and my posse decide to leave. We get in my Civic, and since we’re in New Haven, we head toward Paulie’s for a couple of quick cheeseburgers to lift our spirits. As we’re driving, Josh, who’s in the backseat, says he feels rough, that he needs a quick bowl to chill out. He grabs James’s Jansport, but James starts bugging out. Says, Yo, pass me my bag, I’ll pack it up for you. But James can’t stop Josh, who’s digging around the bag looking for a lighter. But Josh doesn’t find a lighter. Instead he pulls out a model car, Fran’s father’s pint-size Rolls-Royce. Josh says, Are you fucking kidding me, James? You little fucking rat. James says, Fran’s a fucking prick; he deserved it.
I wish I could write about how Josh explained to James that it was wrong of him to let Ink take the blame, that James was torn up with guilt for the rest of the night. But none of that happened; we just drove in silence. When we got to the Green, which was desolate except for the sleeping drunkards and crazies, Josh rolled down his window and chucked the Silver Ghost onto the sidewalk, in front of one of those ancient churches.
I didn’t want to write in this diary ever again. Writing’s stupid. All it does is make you feel important for a second, when you’re really not. But then that decision came out, about the fat black guy in Staten Island. Eric Garner. And I felt so deeply bad about it. How could I tell my kids — my students, that is, because Jenny and I don’t have any kids — how could I tell my students to dream and hope and try when Eric Garner got murdered and his society said, Too bad you were black, better luck next lifetime.
I broached the subject in my first-period class yesterday, and more than half of them hadn’t even heard of Eric Garner. A few of the girls were aghast, though, and talked about making the world a better place. I smiled and nodded and tried to make them feel that I felt what they were saying. But a voice inside of me wanted to tell them, Girls, don’t even bother trying. One of my kids, Anthony — super smart and always getting into trouble — he says, Teacher, this isn’t anything new. Cops been beating on black folk since the beginning of time.
Now I definitely don’t have a problem with policemen. My neighbor’s a cop and he’s the most helpful guy in the world. Votes Democrat, opposes the NRA, which is the most you can hope for someone in this fucked-up postindustrial world. But Anthony was right. And the first time I learned the truth he was speaking was the last time I ever saw Ink.
The last time we ever saw Ink was during the second week of our senior year, a Friday in September. Since that East Rock party at Franfuck’s house, we’d been down to Gilbert two or three times. Things had definitely cooled with Ink. He still sold to us, still cut us the deal that had been previously arranged. But there were no niceties anymore. No more chitchat about food, music, or girls. It was an unpleasant change, but we got used to it quickly. As we rolled into Dwight that Friday, I didn’t notice anything strange in the air. I didn’t think that the gray van parked at the end of the block in front of a boarded-up Victorian was at all conspicuous. There were a couple kids throwing a football on the sidewalk. A cracked-out prostitute hobbled down the street in high heels, hopefully on her way to a shelter. I was ready for some fun after a boring week of my AP classes, and I honestly wouldn’t have wanted to be anywhere else in the world besides Gilbert Street with my boys Josh and James. I no longer felt any nerves about copping drugs down here. Anything becomes normal when you do it with some regularity. That’s why immorality is the norm, not the exception. That’s why genocide occurs.