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Blogs by Joseph W. Montaperto
THE SCORE - THE SCARE 3/2/2023 8:55:32 PM
Joey has much on his mind as he strolls through the Roselle High parking lot - when suddenly... Many things on his mind, Joey freezes when he thinks Na-Na is out to seek revenge against him!
I’m strolling through the Roselle High parking lot after school today, a kind of warm sunny day, uncharacteristically nice for November 1st. Chugging down a can of Dr. Pepper, I’m mulling over the various conflicts and problems that have presented themselves in my life, the queasy feeling about basically betraying Na-Na to Contreau, the forbidden, puzzling pull over Kyla, and the determination that I have to go up to Elizabeth - and soon.
Suddenly, a screeching white Cadillac lurches to a halt directly in front of me, jolting me out of my warring fantasies. It happens so quickly that I drop my can of soda, it hits the black asphalt like a fizzy grenade, rolling over and spraying carbonated foam everywhere.
Shit. There’s nowhere to run.
The black tinted window slowly descends to an electric hum.
“Get in.”
Oh shit – this is it. I’m finished.
I reluctantly crawl in, and through the thick cloud of cigarette smoke I peer into the expressionless profile of Na-Na Johnson, ensconced at the steering wheel; Marvin Gaye’s, What’s Going On? playing on the radio.
As the electric window rises up again, he peels out of the driveway, a Kool clinging precariously to his bottom lip. I involuntarily swallow the rest of the soda that remains lodged between my throat and esophagus. Another stolen car, too. Total silence.
“What’s up, Na-Na?”
I breathe heavily, fully aware that these may be my last breaths. We wail up Sixth Avenue, I don’t know where we’re headed, and, at this point, I don’t really want to know. I start blabbering at high speed.
“Na-Na, man, I was scoping for you yesterday. That dude - Contreau - he’s gunning for you, man. He was dogging you, he wants you out! Dude was like “we got plans for him.” Serious. He was using these, like, Vietnam tactics on me too, yeah, and Silverstein.”
“Yellow-tone Uncle Tom mo’f***a, he interrupts, nigga ain’t gonna do shit to me. Got something for that nigga.”
I relax a tiny bit now - at least the venom isn’t being directed at me. Not in this moment, anyway. He hands me a large piece of paper. It’s a drawing, one of his ink drawings, and in typical graphic Na-Na style. It depicts a scene in which this rabidly fierce black Doberman Pincher is springing in mid-air, teeth gleaming, ears pinned back, saliva spewing, going for the throat of this guy, who appears to be white. Except that he has Negro, kinky hair. A horrified, almost pleading expression dominates his face, which Na-Na has captured expertly. The outline of the school lies in the background, a sign that reads – BEWARE OF GOD – written in what seems to be dripping blood, is posted right next to the attacking dog.
“Give this to that yellow ass Tom. Tell him I know what time it is.”
He takes a long drag from his Kool.
“Where you tippin’ to now, Strong?”
“I gotta go to work at this restaurant, The Fox Hole…it’s near Linden”
“Aiight”.
He apparently has a pretty good idea of where it is, and a few minutes later we’re pulling up in front of The Fox Hole, in the big white stolen Cadillac.
Philly’s out in front, sweeping the sidewalk. I notice his sarcastic sneer as I pop out of the ride, clutching the rolled up drawing.
“Check you later, Na-Na.”
“Aiight.”
As he skids away, Philly smiles widely.
“Who’s the gar in the f***in’ Reverend Ike mobile, Joey? One of your coon friends?” He shrieks.
Here we go. “Gar” is short for nig-gar, at least in Philly parlance.
“Not today Philly, awright?”
“That your pimp there, Joey, heh?”
Tommy Boy steps out the front door, smoking a cigarette.
“Hey Tommy Boy, ya know Joey’s a niggeh loveh? Yeah, he just pulled up here with his f***in’ pimp!”
Tommy Boy laughs.
“What’s the matter, Philly, you jealous? You want me all for yourself?” I retort sharply.
“Ooo-ooh, cold!” Tommy Boy laughs.
Philly turns all red and deflated.
“Awright, niggeh loveh, get in there and wash them dishes now.” He responds with false bravado.
“That’s weak Philly. You’re burned! Just keep sweeping.”
