Part 82 (1/2)
”h.e.l.l, don't start on that.” Blanche said The look of alarm on her face was not far from her expression in the cafeteria when she'd told us about being detained by the police because someone thought she looked like Angela Davis. Other than her Afro and lighter brown skin she didn't remotely resemble Angela, whose picture was plastered all over post offices and newspapers, but the differences hadn't registered with white cops eager to see themselves on the evening news after catching America's most wanted Black radical. The same thing happened that year to Ernestine and Aisha, who didn't look much like each other or Angela either.
”That mess almost lost me my first big job.”
”Oh come on,” I said.
”No really!” When I finally got an interview at Della Robbia, I'd been struggling to get into advertising forever. Then I had to fill out this form and when I got to where it asked if I'd ever been arrested I froze. I mean really, like paralytic.”
Tank and I erupted into laughter.
”Who the h.e.l.l was going to think being mistaken for an FBI fugitive was amusing?”
”So what'd you do?” I asked trying to keep sarcasm out of my voice. I couldn't imagine Ernestine or Aisha in such a quandary.
”What any good revolutionary does when pinned down by the man-I lied.”
Tank's laugh again filled the room. It was obvious he was still susceptible to her charms.
”Technically it wasn't an arrest,” I said dryly. I don't know why, but I felt like we were being disloyal to Angela. ”You didn't even stay overnight.”
”Sitting in a job interview in a corner office on Madison Avenue, literally on Madison Avenue . . . in New York City . . . didn't seem like the time to discuss subtle legal philosophy, my sister.”
I had to smile even though her condescending tone usually got on my last nerve.
”Hey, I'm going to order some grumbles,” Tank interrupted, still running interference between folks when it looked like some kind of disagreement was on the horizon. ”Any requests?”
”Grumbles? Tank I haven't heard that word since-”
”Now don't you start, too. You want food or not.”
”Yeah,” Blanche and I answered together like we were cheerleaders, which we'd never been. He went off to the bar to put in a request for a selection of appetizers.
”You still in advertising?” I asked.
”Yeah, it's a living,” Blanche said with the lowest level of enthusiasm I'd ever heard in her voice. ”My ex-husband has a small firm and I manage his office.”
”Ex?”
”Believe me it was cheaper to stay working there than try to get anything out of him!”
I was surprised to hear the edge of disappointment in Blanche's voice.
”Business is going great,” Blanche said re-igniting her spark, as if she needed to refute my thoughts. ”We keep a steady flow of work going. I can't complain.”
From the cut of her suit it looked like she really was doing fine despite the unusual arrangement, but clearly there was something missing.
”You still doing photography?”
”Oh yeah.”
”You know, I have seen your pictures.” Blanche rolled her eyes upward and seemed to search her perfectly colored coif for a memory: ”Once, in the Times, I think. I couldn't believe it!”
Why the h.e.l.l not! I was just about to spit out when Tank came back with another BIP in tow.
”Edwin!” Blanche squealed and leaped up from her seat as if she were relieved we weren't going to talk about our professions any more. He'd always been the quietest Black man I ever met, and when he said h.e.l.lo it sounded like he hadn't changed much. You still had to lean in to hear what he said; but now the manner had a subtle authority. The fullness in his face was new and the oversized leather FUBU jacket almost concealed his extra pounds.
”Brother man, it's like old times,” Tank said.
”I hope not,” Edwin shot back as he clasped Tank's hand in the multiple grips of the Black Power handshake that went on for four minutes.
I hadn't seen Edwin in years, but we had spoken on the phone a while back when I gave him permission to use some of our photos for a PBS doc.u.mentary he was directing. Even though he'd filled out, Edwin's tightly coiled energy gave the impression he was wiry.
”The last time I saw you two together Tank was beating your a.s.s in a game of bid whist and you were chugging on a bottle of Creme White Concord!” I said.
”Still cracking wise Miss Roxie.” Edwin's grin widened further as he hugged me. The waiter arrived with a couple of bottles of New York State champagne and gla.s.ses.
”At least we don't drink screw top wine anymore,” Edwin dropped into a chair as we widened the circle.
”Righton!” Blanche said, deliberately enunciating like a Black Vanna White. I could see the young, white waiter working hard not to smile as he was popping the cork.
”I loved the last piece you produced for . . . was it ”Lehrer News Hour”?” Tank said.
”Oh yeah, Edwin, that really was good,” I said, remembering I'd seen it too.
”It was deep,” Tank said solemnly.
”What, what?” Blanche asked, wriggling in her seat.
There's something that happens around people's eyes when they don't want you to see inside. Edwin masked his discomfort almost completely. ”It was a doc.u.mentary about people who're mixed race.”
”Mixed . . . ?” Blanche didn't squeal. Her voice, perplexed, dropped down to her ample chest. There are always some details that get lost in memory.
”You know, like Tiger Woods,” I said, trying not to sound like I was talking to an adolescent.
”Like me,” Edwin added.
I could see Blanche rea.s.sessing Edwin's medium brown skin tones and lightly waved hair, searching to remember if she knew this information already. He'd always been a gung ho nationalist, yet avoided the harshest ”hate whitey” rhetoric. He was one of only a few BIPs who'd been on the losing side with me when the controversy broke about changing the name of our newspaper from Off the Pig to Black Times.
”Basically I got a chance to look at the larger idea of what it means to be Black in the U.S. and not rely on some constructed mythology of race or cultural purity that we all know is . . . well just myth.”
”Go, brother, I hear you.” Tank's enthusiasm seemed sincere. Did that weigh in on the side of agent or not?
”That may be the last you hear of me,” Edwin said shaking his head wearily. ”The way money is drying up now, if your name ain't Burns, don't even think about getting funds for a doc.u.mentary these days.”
”Well . . .” Tank intoned as if he were in the amen corner.
”His stuff is good.” Edwin jumped back in, not wanting to sound like he was bad-mouthing another filmmaker. ”But I can name you three other black guys who've been trying for the past twenty years to rustle up money for films on blacks in baseball and in jazz.”
There was silence while we each sipped champagne and wondered how depressed we'd make ourselves before the reunion really got going.
”Speaking of white devils,” Blanche said after a moment, tickled with herself. ”You know who's coming tomorrow, don't you?”