Omar went over to the auditorium entrance. A young guy in black pants and a black T-shirt was frisking people as they went in. He looked like a bouncer—Omar had seen him before at nationalist meetings—and it looked as though he might burst out of that tight T-shirt any minute, his biceps and torso were so pumped up. He had tried to phone Evans but his number had been disconnected. What did Evans expect him to do? ‘You’re in charge.’ The students thronged inside. The bouncer giggled along with the girls, ran his huge hands lightly over the boys’ bodies. Omar turned to look back across the nearly empty quad. The sun reflected off the white and red tiles. He squinted a bit, saw only the bright white light. He heard the excited chatter behind him. He felt invisible. He thought back on the night classes at the University of Akron. He’d gone four times, just to please his mother. He saw the white walls of the classroom, the students chatting at their desks about the courses they were taking, the books they’d read; he saw the satisfied look on their faces, their excitement about the future. They truly believed they were safe within the university’s white walls, that it was just a matter of time before they would conquer the world outside those walls. He hated them. It didn’t matter if they were black or white. Every time he was on campus he became invisible, crossed an imaginary bridge that led to an island where nothing was real, nothing was tangible, where the buildings were like a reflection of the sky, the air white and rarefied. After class he’d always fled the building to drive over to Howard St. The yellow and red and orange neon lights of the bars and clubs flashed welcomingly at him, as though he had just landed back on earth. The air smelled different on Howard St. He always got a whiff of perfume and dust and alcohol. The hot, rancid, bittersweet smell of sex. Eunice, who smiled at him as soon as he entered the High Hat. The familiarity of that smile, of her perfect blue-black skin. The way she laughed off the grousing of the whores and the pimps. After her shift she usually made out with John behind the bar. He’d never seen a woman so totally surrender herself to a man. Eunice wasn’t one to play games. Wasn’t afraid of getting hurt. She trusted the half-white, baseball-crazy John. They were a nice couple.
Omar even preferred the sweltering heat of the factory to the vacuity of the university classroom. There, at least, he wasn’t kidding himself.
He opened his eyes. Clenched his fists. Music spilled out from the auditorium. He heard conga riffs, brisk Latin rhythms. He squeezed between the students and tapped the bouncer on the shoulder.
‘Leave it to me,’ he said.
‘And who are you?’
‘Ben Hassan. I’m in charge.’
‘Says who?’
‘You know that as well as I do.’
‘Don’t get bent out of shape, man. Everybody’s already inside.’
Omar opened his jacket. Offered the bouncer a glimpse of the gleaming metal.
‘What, am I supposed to be afraid now?’ He didn’t look at Omar, but waved some more students through. ‘Go ahead, asshole,’ he hissed, and then turned and walked off.
Omar began awkwardly frisking the last few boys. On stage, a small black man with an African cap sat behind two enormous congas. He drummed so fast that you could only see the motion, not his hands themselves. His hands disappeared in the forceful, compelling rhythms that flew off the congas.
A man with a beard and an afro pushed his way in.
‘Hey, you!’ Omar shouted.
‘What?’ The man looked back, irritated. He wore a red-and-yellow dashiki. His skin was deep brown.
‘Just wait.’
‘What for?’
‘So I can frisk you.’
‘What’re you talking about? I’m one of The Last Poets from New York, you fool. I’ve gotta perform now.’
‘I don’t care if you’re James Brown. I’m in charge of security here. Nobody just walks on through. Otherwise get lost.’
The man raised his hands. ‘Can you reach?’ he asked condescendingly while Omar’s hands patted under his dashiki and along his pant legs. ‘That tickles.’
Omar stood at the back of the auditorium, near the exit. He was sweating but couldn’t take off his leather jacket because of the guns in his inside pockets. The weight of the metal tugged at his shoulders. For the first time that day, he was relaxed. He watched the drummer on stage. The guy looked like he was in a trance. The complex rhythms seemed completely effortless. Omar leaned against the wall. It was like he was listening to an entire orchestra of drummers—he heard a bassline rhythm and a melody at the same time, but the melody wasn’t really being played, it just wafted up from those natural rhythms like a wispy vapor; he caught snippets of soft, mysterious tones that were gone, evaporated, before he even really and truly heard them. He looked at the microphone stands and the speakers on the stage. The students had nestled into their seats, leaning back expectantly. He wished he could go sit with them. He felt superfluous here. He knew he had to stay alert, and that the lazy, relaxed mood could be a forewarning of something else, danger, violence. Evans had explained it to him so often, the principles of security, deterrence, always being a step ahead of your enemy; fear and how to combat it with prayer and weapons, how fear heightened your senses. Omar knew it well. The rules of security didn’t differ that much from the rules of the street. He closed his eyes. Fear was the last thing he felt—the complete lack of it, in fact, sometimes worried him. The dull indifference that came over him at the strangest moments. He never told Evans. He didn’t want Evans to think he missed the hustling, the drugs, the flashy cars. He was startled out of his reverie by the loud, agitated male voice that came through the loudspeakers. ‘They come from Harlem. Their poems are grenades. Give ’em a round of applause: The Last Poets!’
Three men sauntered quasi-nonchalantly up onto the stage. The drummer slowed his rhythm. Omar recognized the man he had just frisked. All eyes were drawn to his brightly colored dashiki. He took the microphone. ‘Who’s the big talker from security?’ he shouted into the auditorium. Snickering from the audience. Omar straightened his back. He didn’t give a shit what that nigger from Harlem thought of him.
‘This poem’s for him and for all the other muthafuckas who think they’re ready for the revolution. When the revolution comes … ’ he chanted, and the other two men joined in at the same pitch. ‘When the revolution comes … When the revolution comes … ’
The drummer stopped. The audience held its breath. He gave the conga a few cautious slaps, gradually built up the tempo: supple, round beats that seemed to reverberate around the room, faster and faster, becoming a single, drawn-out note that snaked its way around the hall.
The poet moved his head with the rhythm. He appeared to be the youngest of the three. He had a deep, vibrant voice, a forceful, aggressive tone.
When the revolution comes
some of us will catch it on TV
with chicken hanging from our mouths
you’ll know it’s revolution
because there won’t be no commercials
when the revolution comes
preacher pimps are gonna split the scene
with the communion wine …
Omar’s
