Red White and Black

Chapter Fourteen - Part A

Markus

The sun rose another morning, reaffirming to Markus he was still alive. He had felt ashamed after his experience with the pills, not wanting to think about it or even to admit how far down he had fallen. With that phase behind him, resignation had set in. Its mind numbing power would soon overtake him and he was positive it wouldn't be long before he too joined the ranks of stooped old men hanging around the street corners and taverns telling tales of what might have been. For awhile, he might create a stir, him being a high school basketball standout and all, but the street corners and taverns were full of former high school stars. He would fit right in.

The smell of breakfast drifted into his room and motivated him out of bed and into the shower. Aunt Sadie rarely allowed anyone to show up at her breakfast table looking like they had just rolled out of bed. They had to be washed up and dressed, no lollygagging around in bedclothes. And after tasting Aunt Sadie's homemade biscuits, no one ever complained about that rule either.

"I took the day off today," announced Aunt Sadie as Markus shuffled into the kitchen, "to help you with your job hunt."

Markus moaned, the memory of the incident at the landscape supply place still fresh and rankling. Nevertheless, his place on the street corner was calling and he had his destiny to fulfill. "I must need all the help I can get, I guess. I can't get anywhere."

Placing a steaming stack of hotcakes in front of him, Aunt Sadie added, "Well, I made a few calls myself. I do know a few people here and there."

"I can just imagine," mused Markus. "You gonna have me workin' in somebody's church somewhere, I just know it."

His aunt shook her head and stood with her hands on her hips. "Well I do declare. I ain't never met a boy so cynical as you. And it ain't like a little more church would hurt you, anyway."

"So who you know that's gonna give me a job? And how'm I gonna get there anyways?"

A cryptic smile eased across her face before she gave in with a laugh. "Ha! Boy, you just gonna haf to have a little patience. I can't believe you ain't got no more patience than that." She turned back to the stovetop but continued talking. "You need some churchin' up alright. You start waitin' on the Lord and you gonna learn all about patience. Yes sir. I got to get you down there to the church more regular like."

After breakfast Markus learned his first task of the day was to change the oil in the DeSoto. Personally, he didn't see the point. With the car burning it almost as fast as you could pour it in, a steady stream of fresh oil was already continually flowing through the crankcase and it seemed the chore of changing it was redundant. Aunt Sadie couldn't be persuaded otherwise, so mid-morning found Markus chest deep under the car trying to gain enough leverage to remove the oil filter. As with so many of the tasks and responsibilities around the house, Aunt Sadie had her way and her's turned out to be the only way. Markus had long ago learned to accept his lot in life as far as she was concerned; it made for a smoother and easier night around the dinner table.

The sun had already turned the driveway into a giant griddle so Markus slid a large piece of cardboard under the car before starting. He peeled off his shirt, not wanting to take a chance of smearing oil across it thereby relegating it to the rag pile. There were about forty or fifty million other things he would rather be doing right now, but he didn't bother complaining too much. Complaints wouldn't matter one ounce to Aunt Sadie. It wasn't that he disliked or resented the chore, he just couldn't stand getting all covered in oil and grease. No matter how careful he was, he always ended up with a gooey mess covering a good percentage of his anatomy.

The used oil drained out of the crankcase into the waiting oil pan, a thick black viscous fluid he would later sprinkle across the gravel in the alley behind the house to help keep the dust down. While the oil drained he remained still, relishing the shade provided by the car. He closed his eyes and his thoughts drifted to Jay C. He hated the way things had gone, hated not having his friend, but most of all, hated that Jay C was involved with drugs. On second thought, the thing I hate worst is that he thought I was gonna help him move some weed.

The sound of a radio from next door caught his attention. That was unusual because Mr. Morris never played any music, but it was even more strange because the music was current, not some outdated fifties garbage. Growing up next to him and hearing nothing ever resembling a tune emanating from the house or car, Markus lived a great percentage of his life believing white people didn't get into music. Come to think of it, the bulk of his knowledge of white folks had been gleaned from the television. If what I know about whites comes from the TV, what do you think that means they've learned about us?

When the oil stopped flowing and reduced to an intermittent drip, he replaced the plug and slid out from under the car, scooting the drain pan along with him. Lifting it carefully, he turned to tote it to the alley. The oil sloshed close to the brim, causing him to stop and catch his breath. Then he noticed the girl.

She was in the Morris driveway washing a car, one he had failed to take notice of earlier. She looked to be about his age and had long dark hair. But she was white. What is a white chick doing at Morris's house? He knew about the seldom seen wheelchair bound mother, but this girl was anything but wheelchair bound. So confounded was he at the supposed conundrum, he failed to realize he was staring and that she had taken notice.

"You'd think you had never seen a person washing a car before," she said.

Closing his gaping mouth, he could do nothing other than grin. "Sorry," he responded. "I just never expected to see anybody other than Mr. Morris there. You kinda surprised me."

Nodding like she understood, she went back to hosing down the car. He still held the used oil but inexplicably bent over and put it back down on the ground. Markus had very little interaction with white people and even less with white women. To narrow that down even further, almost zero experience with young white women who were his age and incredibly attractive. He was immediately fascinated by her but could think of nothing intelligent to say, an unfortunate situation and one all too familiar. He invariably became a near mute when confronted with girls, and almost downright terrified when one expressed any sort of interest in him.

He realized it was unusual--his timidity with the opposite sex--at least according to the tales regaled him by all his teammates in the locker room, especially in this day and age. To hear the stories, every guy in high school had scored with more women than he had ever even talked to. Of course, not everybody had an Aunt Sadie. On the few times he had opportunity, it was like the very essence of Aunt Sadie filled the room and was expressing her disappointment at his behavior.

If he ever stopped and thought about it, he couldn't really blame it on Aunt Sadie. He just clammed up around women and could never think of anything to say, nothing that would impress them anyway. Since elementary school he had devoted his life to basketball and almost all social skills suffered because of it. Now, here he was right next door to not only an attractive girl, but a white one to boot. Meaning he had even less in common and thereby even less to say to her.

He opened the new containers of oil and filled the crankcase, careful not to spill oil on the crankcase where it would cause a great cloud of smoke when the engine heated, adding to the already voluminous cloud that emanated from the tailpipe.

"So. You play basketball?" came her voice from the neighboring driveway.

Startled, he stood bolt upright, skinning his head on the hood latch. "Yeah," he answered holding his head with one hand. "What makes you ask?"

She bent over, momentarily hidden by her car, then reappeared with a basketball in her hands. "Well, I had a pretty good idea that since my dad doesn't play and you have a basketball goal over there. I thought this might very well be yours."

Markus gaped at the ball in her hands, wondering how it had ended up in her yard. "It is. I mean, I do." Flustered, he started over again. "What I mean is, I do play and that is my ball. I can't figure how it got over there."

She laughed and it was a golden sound. "Maybe it was fate."