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  “This is the band, son,” he said as the van shifted into drive.

  I scanned everyone’s face like I was choosing them from a criminal lineup. The driver had to have been the leader of the band. He had chalky skin that was peeling badly, and he sat firmly in the front seat with the wheel in his right hand gripped only by the ring and pinky fingers. He had a cigarette in the other hand and spoke in a squeaky voice that did not go with his serious demeanor. To the right was the only woman in the entire ensemble: Beverly. She had lace “Like a Virgin” gloves and wore eyeliner that made her look mean and mysterious. Don’t worry. She wasn’t pretty or even cute, and Beverly’s teeth were awfully yellow and nowhere near as straight as yours. She sure seemed to spare no one the luxury of viewing them though.

  “Hi there,” she said after turning to me. Her voice was deep.

  Although I knew there were two other male band members behind me, seeing as I could feel the heat of their breath, I didn’t bother speaking or even turning my head to acknowledge them. I was too shy for that. After I buckled my seat belt, noticing my short legs just barely touched the muddy rug on the van’s floor, I began looking at my stepfather. He sat in a position you wouldn’t believe a man with testicles could in such a cramped space: left leg folded over the right, guitar resting in his lap like a baby being prepared for a diaper change.

  We rode in that smoke-filled silence for what seemed like two days, but it was actually only three or so hours, until we arrived in Lone Tree, Iowa. In school, while studying states on a map, I never realized how long it took or how far it was to get from Chicago to those towns in Iowa. Along the way we passed wheat fields and cornfields and big grass groves filled with enough cows to make a billion burgers. I had to stretch to the back or front windows in order to see them clearly.

  My stepfather spent the majority of his time tuning the guitar, smoking cigarettes, chewing gum, humming smooth tunes in a voice as average as Jermaine Jackson’s, and asking me, “Are you okay, my son?”

  His son? Nice. I don’t think I’ve nodded my head that many times since. But when we got to Iowa, it all became clear.

  We pulled up to a reddish-brown brick building with wide and clean windows. It looked like a medieval castle you’d see in a movie, complete with a drawbridge and a dragon that blew ferocious fire at unwanted guests. When we arrived, a man with a uniform began grabbing bags from the van and wheeling them on a cart. There was a white guy sitting behind a desk, talking on the phone, writing, doing so many things with each hand that I couldn’t keep track. He had a jet-black and full beard that covered his lips completely. Had to lose food in that thing while eating.

  The driver of our van was a short man, closer to my height than my stepfather’s, and was definitely the band’s leader. I realized it as he walked to the counter, head up but barely able to see over its wood surface. He began speaking with whatever authority he could command from that squeaky voice.

  He was Beverly’s husband.

  How did I know? Because even though he held the cigarette in his left hand, flaking skin leaving a visible trail as he walked, the other hand remained locked with hers as she stood to his side. She remained there quietly.

  The attendant divided the room keys and Stepfather and I proceeded up the stairs quickly. He carried his duffle bag like he didn’t want it, using only his fourth finger, and plopped it onto the bed.

  “You okay, son?” He began lighting another cigarette. “You like it so far?”

  I nodded. That word son made nodding come easily.

  The walls were thin in our hotel room and I could easily hear people conversing on each side and later on that night moaning. There was a brand-new color Magnavox, one big bed, which meant Stepfather and I were sleeping together, and a red-painted wood table with a lamp. Straight ahead was the only window, a large window that extended floor to ceiling, and slid open left to right. Stepfather immediately walked onto the balcony after finishing a cigarette and I eagerly approached the handsome television.

  “Come out here with me, son,” he said, no sooner than I’d turned on its power.

  Iowa wind felt different from anything I’d experienced in Chicago. It didn’t maintain a consistent force, nor was it even strong enough to blow papers away. It was almost charming, blowing softly into your ear like it was whispering a secret.

  “This is what your father does on weekends,” he said, while patting his pocket for more cigarettes. He lit the stick with speed—a Benson & Hedges 100’s—and placed it in the corner of his mouth. “You need to see what happens in the real world now,” he continued. Stepfather didn’t look at me as he talked. His eyes were focused on the sky or something floating in the air, and they panned back and forth as though words were written on one of those jet banners for the entire world to see. “These are the eighties, son. Things are different now than when I grew up. They’re not better, they’re worse. Everything’s more expensive and most of it’s not reachable. A black man’s gotta get what he can.”

  I remained silent, with my eyes darting from the top of his head to his feet. My stepfather lit cigarette after cigarette while talking. Each stick was nearly finished in two pulls. He’d place the butts between the middle finger and thumb, shooting them from a slingshot. I’d watch each as they landed like raindrops in the road.

  “This here is Reaganomics we living in, young man. You know what that is?”

  I shook my head and looked at him closely because I’d heard the word before: Yep, you mentioned it sometimes when watching the wall. They said it on the news as it played faintly in the background but I never thought you actually focused on it. At least until he returned, I assumed you just sat in the bedroom listening to whatever sounds were available in the room. Said you learned more about life by listening than watching.

  “Now you get to see what I do all the time, son,” he said again. He moved quickly inside the room, snatched his guitar with less care than I’d ever seen him handle it, and stepped back to the balcony.

  The balcony was wide enough for us both to stand, but the moment he came with the guitar it seemed overwhelmingly crowded.

  “This is how you make it, son. There is no small-time anymore. If you listen to the radio, listen to the world, listen to anything or anyone, you better remember one thing…there won’t be some damn trickling-down effect like they talk about on TV. That’s foolish. You are black and always will be…have to be aggressive and take what you can.” Stepfather extended the guitar to me but I made no motion to take it. “Aim high, son,” he said. “Aim very very high.”

  I didn’t even know what the word trickling meant.

  That same night was the first time I ever witnessed him on a stage. He galloped and sprang on muscled legs with the agility of a ballerina, singing, dancing, strumming the guitar, pointing at me. Later that night, in the hotel bar with the stage that seemed as big as the Apollo Theater’s, I was allowed to do things I could’ve never done back home: I sat in a crowded, smoke-filled room with at least fifty white men and women, some in suits, others in plain jeans; I drank four glasses of Pepsi poured from a sixteen-ounce glass bottle and sipped the leftovers of two beers because Stepfather told the waitresses to give me whatever I wanted; I ate pretzels with salt chunks as big as rocks, was called “cute” repeatedly by this couple sitting next to me snorting drugs from the table through a dollar, and didn’t get to bed until the early hours of the morning.

  Stepfather was in bed with me for a while after the show. He tucked me in tightly beforehand, telling me repeatedly that I’d better not pee from drinking all that soda pop. I didn’t. And no sooner than I’d come close to dozing off, I heard a soft knock on the room’s side door. At first, I assumed it was some sort of storage area for clothes or cleaning products. Nah. The delicate knocking cleared my confusion. It was actually a door leading to the room next to us.

  Stepfath
er opened the door and Beverly’s small frame shot through.

  “He’s downstairs drinking,” she said. They walked out to the balcony, held hands, and whispered in the Iowa wind while Beverly’s brown hair seemed to blow without a breeze. “Is your son asleep?” I heard her ask.

  “Yeah, he’s fine.”

  Okay, I’ll tell you the truth, Stepfather was really standing on the balcony kissing Beverly. But it was different than he did with you. He kissed her like she was an Olympic medal won because of steroids, or a new car from a game show, like if he didn’t take all he could at that moment, he wouldn’t get another opportunity.

  * * *

  THE NEXT MORNING I was allowed to play in front of the hotel alone. There was a small, clear-watered pond with ducks quacking around it. I took three pieces of bread left over from breakfast and began feeding them. Beverly came and sat on the bench right next to me. Her hair seemed to continue blowing when there was no wind.

  “You look just like your father,” she said. “Good-looking, just like him.”

  I nodded.

  “Do you like army men?”

  Another nod. I continued chipping small pieces of bread, tossing them to the birds.

  “I got a surprise for you,” she continued, while pulling her left hand from her back.

  When she handed me the action figure I didn’t immediately take it. Just stared at her awhile.

  “I bought it for you,” she said.

  “Beverly likes you, son,” Stepfather said as he strolled up behind me. “She’s kinda like your mother away from your mother.”

  I couldn’t help but notice the toy’s packaging. All my favorite colors were there: glimmering golds, twinkling silvers, everything with gloss and shine. I just couldn’t move.

  “Remember what I told you last night, son.” He walked around the bench, breath sweet with chewing gum and musty as an ashtray. “There will be no trickling-down effect. Take what’s yours.”

  There was that word trickling again.

  He opened his palm and I placed the remaining chunk of bread there. After he turned and began tossing pieces, he yanked a cigarette from his pocket, took two normal puffs this time, and nudged me with his elbow. “Trust your father, son.” He began speaking while looking off into the distance at his jet banner of words. “You have to.”

  I turned my head to notice Beverly sitting there, hair with its windless blow, just smiling with those bad teeth.

  * * *

  FROM THAT WEEKEND ON, you allowed me to travel with Stepfather at least once a month, on trips with Beverly’s Band. Once the band booked better gigs they bought a new van with as many windows as the Wrigley Building. It rode smoothly and gave everyone enough space to stretch their legs easily, and Stepfather could tune and play his guitar without cramping.

  You should know with that much room, Beverly and Stepfather sometimes held hands on the opposite sides of their seats in the van, out of view. He’d always sit right behind her and she’d wrap her hand around the right side by the seat belt and touch his knee. Stepfather was doing a good job of taking things, of working his way around Reaganomics. I’d hear Beverly’s husband arguing with her before and after the gigs, louder and squeakier each time, could even smell the liquor on his breath from next door. We always ended up with a room connected to theirs. Her husband would then storm from their room, slamming the door hard enough to wake everyone in the hotel. Within five to ten minutes Beverly would be politely tapping that side door like a pizza delivery guy and whispering my stepfather’s name like she wanted him to read her a bedtime story. They’d tiptoe to the bathroom, the balcony, and yeah, the bedroom too if we had a suite. In those, I slept on the sofa. Their whispers were easy to make out. Stepfather asked where her husband was; she’d say it didn’t matter. He’d tell her bills were piling at home and that I needed things; she’d tell him it would be handled. I heard them kissing and fondling often and the entire time they assumed I was asleep.

  You never found out about Beverly, even after my stepfather’s long road trips became more frequent and even after he was no longer with the band. He told you it was because of “creative differences” and that the band’s real leader, Beverly’s husband, didn’t want to play any up-and-coming material.

  But I knew the truth of what really happened; he was forced out.

  I knew Stepfather jumped from band to band after leaving the group and slowly began playing less and less. There would be no more early-morning waking on weekends to the strum of a guitar or the tuning of strings. And I didn’t agree that you two should’ve split up either, even after I heard you say during an argument that you smelled some woman on him and didn’t need his shit and could do waaaaaaay better. I heard that from the bedroom, clearly, through the broken door you pulled shut as tightly as possible. You both assumed I was asleep but I always listened. I also forgot to tell you that on the night before he left us, he packed the guitar in the black case I hadn’t seen in years and placed it in my room. It sat there in the corner, resting against the steel bedpost that leaned to the side. There was a note attached: “This is for you now, son. Trust me and take what’s yours.”

  But that note is still on it and I never learned to play.

  MIDDLE SCHOOL

  Sure, on the first day, I thought I’d wake up in the morning, clean green boogers from my eyes with the tips of my fingers, and hope I might be able to sneak out without brushing any teeth. My mother, oh, my mother…a black hound, snout-nosed. She would even check the cleanliness of your mouth by making you blow your breath on her, make you scrape the sides of your teeth for food and stuff. I didn’t brush on purpose a couple of times the school year before just so I could give her the punishment of smelling me in the morning, even though I knew there may be some consequences.

  Nah, I didn’t think it would be easy going to another school, the faraway weird and different school they said was for smart kids like me, the one my older brother said was the beginning of our mother turning a housing-project boy white. I just thought the day would go a bit more smoothly since I actually got to choose my clothes for the first day, a treat I’d never enjoyed.

  My mother would always say, if she was home, “Boy, I can’t let you go out of this house lookin’ any ol’ way! People will think badly ’bout me!” The only times she seemed to talk to me were when I in some way would be representing her.

  The night before, I picked out a pair of Lee jeans. In ’86, they were a stylish brand, a hand-me-down from Jacob, at least three years old with a slice smack-dab below the right knee. The stitches made them look real cool to me but a lot of the kids in the buildings just said I was super-poor and played the dozens on me. Imagine that, being so broke that even other kids in the projects laugh at you. I was wearing cut-up pants before they became the in thing and you know you can’t be a trendsetter in the ghetto. It took me a while to figure out what would go with my favorite pants. I didn’t have many shirts that coordinated. Ah yes, to coordinate. I learned what the word meant almost a week before my first day at the new school, when my mother gave the great news that I’d be picking out my own clothes.

  “You have to make sure that things you choose coordinate!” she said, slightly scolding, pointing those thin, wiry fingers almost into my eyeball.

  I ran away immediately, starting my mission only to return to her multiple times and receive rejection after rejection, day after day. I guess I didn’t get the meaning of the word coordinate right away. I finally ended up with my Lone Ranger–looking shirt: red-and-gray stripes, flower prints around the chest pockets, making me look like I was straight off the nighttime soap Dallas or something. (My mother wouldn’t let me watch but it was easy to sneak anyway. She was hardly home.)

  The shirt was from a rummage sale, had shiny ivory-colored buttons with a silver coating around them that I knew chicks would notice, and a collar so large I had
to fold twice to get it to lay down. It was a choice between that shirt and this black Michael Jackson T-shirt I loved. My mother hated it. I think she kinda hated him, because in my thinking Michael was so cool, my mother felt in some way slighted. But Michael looked smooth on the front of the shirt with his hand resting outside his pocket.

  Even though I finally decided on the cowboy shirt, put together with the jeans and the beat-up “you don’t want to try and describe the way they look” sneakers, I was still nervous. Not about school, at least not yet, but about whether my mother would finally approve the outfit. I took clothes to her every night the week previous and didn’t sleep until she came in the mornings to criticize them. Got it wrong each time. Didn’t help that I initially kept bringing that same Michael Jackson shirt with me. All I’d do was just change the color of the socks, thinking the difference was significant.

  This time, before I could even get a word out of my mouth, “I like that one, son!” my mother yelled, rushing up to snatch clothing from my hands. My mother’s voice in the morning was similar to a truck’s engine. It growled, sounded as though it could push you through a wall. She was in a good mood and I had no clue why.

  She flipped the cowboy shirt around on the hanger, twirling the top of the hook between her first two fingers, looking at the back as though she’d never seen it before. I didn’t understand why people do that. She then held it up to my body, stretching the sleeves to my wrists. I guess she was checking to make sure it still fit. Sure was glad she didn’t make me try it on ’cause it barely fit. My mother then looked at the pants. That took a little longer. The funny thing was, she didn’t say anything about the cut by the knee.