house.’
‘Try.’
‘What’s it mean?’
‘Dunno.’
‘So are you a Black Muslim now?’
‘Not necessarily.’
‘Sure sounds like it.’
‘It sounds nice.’
‘What does Reggie say?’
‘You know Reggie.’
‘He wouldn’t go changing his name like that. I can just see his mother’s face.’
‘Huling’s a slave name, Mama.’
‘And your family name.’
‘Daddy’s name.’
‘Oh, Jerome.’
‘Omar.’
‘For me you’ll always be Jerome.’
-
CLEVELAND, OHIO, 1968
My Girl
He parked his car on Euclid Avenue, close to the Circle Ballroom. It was around midnight. A halo of light hung over the city. It was the dead of winter, but the air was warmed by the heat and the promise that wafted out of the clubs—the dancing bodies, the smoke, the alcohol, the music. He got out of the car, closed the door, and ran his hand over the red finish. He had smoked a few joints and taken some speed before leaving home. The pills had kicked in as he stood at his bedroom mirror, looking approvingly at the sheen of his silk shirt. Speed mixed with weed provided exactly the feeling he needed on a Saturday night. The energy and exhilaration started in his belly and ran through his limbs; his fingertips vibrated like he’d been given little electric shocks. Meanwhile the weed was making his skin flush and soften, was making the beige of his shirt shimmer hazily like gold. The drive from Akron to Cleveland could last for five minutes or a couple of hours. The view as he approached the city, a real city, the smell of burning steel and sulfur and oil that oozed in through the cracked-open window, the lights in the office towers that stood together in a cluster, the imposing Cleveland Indians stadium … The road hit an incline, he felt the resistance in the steering wheel, it was as though Cleveland was built on a mountain, which in itself commanded respect. And then the music in his car. The cassette player he had routinely unscrewed from a parked Pontiac the week before, snipping the wires with his sister’s nail clippers. It fit into his Oldsmobile’s dashboard like it was made to order. No dealing tonight. Tape in. Tadadam tadadam tadadam. The bass notes vibrated in his stomach. Tadadam tadadam tadadam. The tension that those few low, rolling notes could stir up. Then the guitar coming in—no, wait, once more, rewind to the beginning. Tadadam tadadam tadadam. He snapped his fingers. Now there was no holding it back. The guitar introduced the melody. Lightweight, vibrating notes danced on the thick bass. Pam padadadam pam. I’ve got sunshi-hi-hine on a clou-dy day. When it’s cold outside … I’ve got the month of May. Shit. Euclid already. He’d have to stay in the car if he wanted to hear the whole song. I … guess … you’d … say … What can make me feel this way? He pulled over to the curb. Took a half-smoked joint from the dashboard ashtray, smoothed it out and lit it. The sweetish odor of the weed filled the car … talkin’ ’bout my girl … His body was too small for what was going on inside him. He felt his blood quiver and itch in his veins. The speed. The sultry violins. The way The Temptations moved in their snug-fitting black suits, supple and self-assured, the understated dancing, their footwork. The hidden messages behind the innocent lyrics. I don’t need no money … David Ruffin’s voice went higher. The guy had such amazing control; he could even make his whimpers and screams and anger sound like flattery. Like something romantic. I’ve got all the riches baby … My ass. He laughed out loud. The music was a confirmation of everything he loved. The music was sex, rhythm, glamour, love, speed, pride. Cleveland.
Stop.
‘Cognac?’
‘Cognac.’
It wasn’t busy. A few couples danced at the back of the bar. He followed the movement of their bodies to the fluid music of Al Green. Sipped his Courvoisier. Sucked up the misty smoke and shut his eyes halfway. Squinting into the crowd, he noticed the glittery dress on one of the women. He recognized her at once. Nona Johnson. That dress of hers clung to her body like a second skin, light blue and sequined. It made him think of a snake. Her ass stuck out shamelessly. It was so tight and so big that he was sure her skin wouldn’t give an inch, no matter how hard he squeezed. And her breasts, they were the size of little round pomegranates. He liked small breasts. Women with small breasts got wound up quicker. She had cropped hair and bangs. White features but skin so black that her dress was all that seemed to move out on the dance floor. He could pick her scent out of thousands. A sultry, sweet scent. A combination of sandalwood, coconut, and fresh sweat. Her sweat. They had talked last week, although he couldn’t remember about what. Nona was a good girl. They’d had a good laugh together. It was nearing dawn. He was as high as anything and her scent did the rest. Like being drugged. It didn’t take much effort to imagine how her pussy would smell.
‘Hey Nona.’
Her dance partner looked over. Don Cooper from Hough. He didn’t recognize him in that shiny white suit. He would offer him something, see how he reacted.
‘Nona.’ He raised his hand in the air. No reaction. She nestled her head into Cooper’s neck and he tightened his grip around her waist. She pushed her pelvis against his groin. He recoiled slightly but was quick to recover and started twisting his hips to the rhythm of the music. Nona smiled. There was jazz on the jukebox, but Omar was still hearing The Temptations. Their high vocals echoed in his head. I’ve got a sweeter song than the birds in the trees. Pa-da-pam pa-da-pam. He could hardly sit still. He tossed back the rest of his cognac and asked for a refill.
Nona either didn’t see him, or pretended not to. Cooper whispered something in her ear. Took her by the arm and led her over to the bar. They sat a few seats down from Omar.
‘Nona.’
She looked up, held his stare for a second, then resumed her conversation with Cooper. Her expression betrayed nothing. The way she reached for her glass. Her fingers. Long, unvarnished nails. Caressing the glass, playing with it, turning it round and round. Omar tasted the burning, wooden tang of cognac in his mouth. The alcohol warmed his belly. She drank too. Just a sip of syrupy bourbon. Placed the glass carefully back on the bar, as if it might break. He couldn’t hear what they were talking about; their conversation dissolved into the buzz of the jazz, in the lazy song of the saxophone. The glitter of her blue dressed was etched onto his retinas. Her neck. The short tufts of hair. He wanted to let his fingers glide over her neck, from top to bottom, feel the soft spot between the neck muscles, just under the skull, press gently. She would relax at once, throw back her head. He saw the thin lines on her throat, the texture of her skin, the endless web of minuscule lines and specks. The taste of her skin, salty on his tongue. Her tongue. She felt so near. In his imagination the barriers between their bodies blurred.
He took his glass, slid off the barstool, and walked over to Nona. Cooper eyed him furtively, the bastard. Just a few weeks ago they were right here drinking together. He’d arranged a few tape decks for Cooper, at a discount. Cooper liked to act like a big-time hustler. And he was definitely a handsome fellow. Hazel pupils, watery eyes, like he’d just got out of bed. That absent, melancholy look gave Cooper a kind of vulnerable, mysterious air, as though he was in some sort of trouble, and that you could save
