The Man of the House by Peter Christopher November, 1995 and February, 2002

In November 1995, I was traveling through the southeast U.S with my friend Mosley. I was nineteen and taking a one-year break from college. I was on one of my many crusades of self-education. On this crusade, I was learning about teaching by visiting schools around the country, and learning about America by walking city streets and country roads.

Mosley and I knew we were two white kids from the north. But we were two smart kids and thought our common sense was enough. Mosley at least had spent some time living in a city, while I was still a pure country boy. A few days before, we had attended a church service at the historic sixteenth-street baptist church in Montgomery, Alabama. We visited Martin Luther King's birthplace. We saw pictures from the civil rights movement, in the same places we were visiting.

Now we were in Little Rock, Arkansas. We weren't scared coming into town. But my curiousity and lack of street smarts got me into trouble. In Little Rock, I lost some money and confidence; I said goodbye to some innocence and learned a few things. I got snookered. It happened like this.

Mosley and I needed some time apart that day, so after parking the car, we each went our separate ways for an hour to explore on our own. My goal was to find some lunch. Instead, I met a black guy named Early.

Early was standing on the street, maybe waiting for a bus. I knew his name was Early because he had on a blue mechanic's outfit with his name on it. It wasn't greasy though. I walked by him and smiled.

"Hey, you got a cigarette?" he asked. "And what you doin headin for that part of town?"

"I'm looking for a bakery," I said. Then I hesitated; what part of town was I heading for anyway? "And, sorry, I don't have a cigarette."

I started walking again. He said "Hey, don't biscuits taste better?"

"What?" I said.

"Here, I'll take you to a bagel place," he said. I recognized it was a nice gesture. I accepted. We started heading north, along a street about two blocks east of downtown.

"I'm Chris," I said.

"Early," he replied. Then after a second, he stuck out his hand. I shook it.

We walked past a tall black woman wearing a black and red dress standing outside her doorway. She didn't seem happy or sad. She didn't seem smart or dumb. I took another look at Early. I noticed he didn't seem happy or sad either. I was having a hard time reading the black people.

"Hey -- howya doin?'' he said to the woman as we passed. She looked at him. She didn't say anything though. Then she looked at me for a second then back at Early. Early just kept walking. I just kept walking.

Twenty yards further, Early nodded his head back towards the woman. "You want to buy some of Bernice's time?" he asked with a little smile.

"Huh?" I said.

"She's looking to sell her body,'' he said.

I shook my head. I turned around and took another look at her. She was looking the other way. As we continued walking, I started to feel cold.

"It's alright, hey, the bread place is right up here," Early said. I felt reassured. I liked Early. Mosley and I had been traveling for three weeks and had met a whole lot of strange people who seemed really possessive of themselves. I was pleased that I had finally found someone who was generous enough to walk with me through his town, instead of watching me until I left.

I wanted to know more about him, but I was too afraid to ask. All I could do was look at him. He was kind of short, maybe five foot four. He was skinny, and he had medium-dark skin. It was shiny. He had very short curly black hairs, and thick, baggy eyelids. It was the only fat I saw on him. His buggy eyes darted back and forth, taking in the cars passing us and the people on the street. He looked about thirty years old.

As we walked to the bakery, he asked about my interest in Little Rock. I explained my research on alternative elementary schools and my desire to see new places. I told him a friend of my mother's was living in town, and that Mosley and I were planning to spend the night at her house.

"I don't get it," he said. "That doesn't make sense; what's your real story?" I showed him my college ID and driver's license, but my driver's license -- like many in Vermont -- had no picture. Early said it could be a fake.

"We shook, and I'm calling you brother -- that's trust,'' he said, pointing with his finger in a random direction and nodding. I realized we were very different, but it was nice that we could still related to each other as human beings, that we could still trust each other.

He waved to folks as we walked by. Sometimes he said they were friends of his, one guy even Early's brother-in-law.

Finally, Early said "Here we are." We were standing in front of a TCBY.

"This isn't a bakery," I said. "And it's not a bagel shop either."

Early didn't answer me. He started walking again down the street. I followed him.

Then he said, "There's something peculiar about you, brother -- your story just doesn't make sense. Are you a cop?''

I was flattered. "No", I said, smiling. "My car is actually two blocks that way, do you want to see it?"

"Sure," he said, "and there's definitely a bakery up that way."

So I pointed out my car. Early said I should unlock it to prove it was mine.

"Mosley has the key; he's in the library," I said. It was true.

"Right." Early said, grimacing. I decided I'd get myself something to eat no matter what kind of place we ended up at next. I wanted him to like me.

"Want some Mary Jane?" Early asked. "I'm going over to a guy's right now to buy.''

"Some what?" I said.

"Some M.J." he said. I wrinkled my eyebrows indicating I still didn't understand.

"Would you like to buy some pot?" he said.

So he trusted me after all. "No thanks,'' I said. "I don't like to smoke a lot.'' That was true too.

Early grimaced again.

Then I said, "I might have a couple beers with you though.''

"Now we're talking,'' said Early. And he smiled, playing with his hands together.

"But I'll have to find my buddy before then so I don't leave him in the lurch," I said. "I told him I'd meet him at the library in about fifteen minutes, at one."

Early didn't say anything. He just kept walking, and so I just kept walking. In a few minutes, we were at the Little Rock Wonderbread Factory Outlet.

Staring through the windows into the display area, I said, "Well, it's not exactly what I was looking for."

I was going to get a loaf of bread anyway. "My favorite breads are these dark, round, unsliced loaves," I explained anyway, hoping it would ring a bell. I really didn't want wonderbread.

"Oh,"' said Early, "you like to cut it yourself?"

"No," I said. "I like to rip off hunks and eat em like that!"

Early smiled. "Brother, that's just how my grandmother used to do it back in Baltimore. She'd grab a hunk by the crust and eat away at the middle."

"See that low, gray building over there?" he said, pointing. I saw it. It looked nasty. "That's where I can get us that bag of weed. Just let me roll one joint out of it and you'll have a nice, fat bag to take with you.''

"Early, I don't want any," I said. "Why can't we have this guy just roll you a joint? I'd be happy to buy you a joint."

"He won't break his bags, man -- listen, I'm a poor guy. I got a wife and a baby, why can't you just help me out here and I'll go home and play with my baby girl and smoke the joint?"

"You have a baby?" I asked, surprised.

"Yeah, that girl is expensive!" he said. "Luckily my wife is back at work, thank god. She waited five months til the baby could hold the bottle fine -- but now she's back. It's sure hard finding childcare for an infant but we make do. Jobs are scarce here in Little Rock, too -- I've been working for a year and a half, and all I'm making is $6.50. All the good jobs go to folks who've had them for a while -- and so here I am making six and a quarter."

I wondered why he said six fifty the first time and six and a quarter the second time.

"Getting paid only every two weks, too, that sucks" Early said. "And $340 a month for rent. You gonna buy that bag? -- What's your name again?"

"Chris is still my name. And how much does a bag cost anyway?'' I asked.

"Don't work," he mumbled to himself. Then he turned to me, "I know your name, Chris. Just wanted to see if you'd say something else. A bag costs twenty but I know the guy and can probably get it for fifteen."

"Can you get it for ten?" I asked. I could bring whatever extra he has home and give it to my girlfriend or anyone else on her hall.

"Maybe," he said. "Give me the ten, and then I'll try."

I took out my wallet, pulled out a ten-dollar bill, and gave it to him. He looked at both sides, folded it, and stuffed it into his shirt pocket.

"Come on," he said. "You know you don't need the other five. Give me a fighting chance for us.''

Reluctantly, I gave him another five. For educational value, if nothing else. I was learning the first part of the lesson.

"There," Early said, pointing a few blocks down the street. "We'll walk to the Sunbeam bread factory. I'll have my buddy call the guy with the weed."

On the way down the street, one of his buddies appeared. I don't know how Early knew he was going to be there. The buddy seemed suspicious of me, and Early had to talk with him privately. But after that the buddy left to place the phone call, and Early said he was confident that trust was simply a matter of time.

The so-called bread factory was closed. It seemed more like a warehouse to me. Early and I headed up a hill to where his buddies were waiting at a Salvation Army. On the way, we passed a bagel vendor. It was about time. I bought one flimsy little bagel for a dollar. It was overpriced, especially for a bagel like that, but I was happy to finally have something to eat.

We met two of Early's buddies at the Salvation Army and one of them joined us walking up the hill. Early signaled the two of us to wait, pointing ahead. There was a nervous black man walking towards us on the sidewalk, and Early went up and talked with him. The nervous one was tall and younger, maybe twenty.

"Tree-top," said the man standing next to me, nodding towards the tall guy talking to Early.

Then Early and Tree-top walked back towards us, and all together, we all walked down a side street and stopped in front of a run-down brick building. Early looked around, then gestured with his hand that Tree-top and I should walk up onto the porch with him.

``He doesn't have any pot," Early said to me when we get on the porch. "We're going to get something else instead."

Tree-top, who was apparently selling, reached out his hand to Early, and dropped about six or seven little white rocks into Early's hand. They were each about an eighth of an inch across. Then he immediately walked back down off the porch and turned onto the street back where we came from. Early handed the the rocks to me and took a few steps towards the edge of the porch. I didn't know what kind of drug they were. They looked and felt like vermiculite, the little white pebbles in potting soil. I was afraid to ask Early what we had bought because I didn't want to seem naive. I had no more intention of taking these drugs than I had of smoking the pot in the first place. But I was on an educational and cross-cultural mission, and I wanted to see what happened next. A few days later, I described what the rocks had looked like to a friend, and she said it had been crack.

Tree-top was gone, but there were now three guys down on the street, and Early invited them up onto the porch. I held out my hand and Early took the rocks back. Things were a bit complicated, but I had it all under control. Early grabbed a coke can from off the ground, and walked into the building. We followed him. I went last. I left the doors open behind me. The apartent was a little run down inside, but still livable. Four of us sat down on two couches but the tallest guy walked into the other room. He kept walking back and forth and in and out of doorways. Early sat next to me. One of the guys on the other couch pressed some buttons on a boom box sitting on the nasy carpet. He had kept on his thick winter hat, as if he wasn't planning on staying for long.

"That's Al Green, the father of soul," Early explained when the music came on. "He made most of his music while in the penitentiary.'' I had heard of Al Green, and I had heard of soul music, so I assumed Early was just continuing to share his culture with me. They kept the music quiet. It was unfamilar.

Early put the rocks down on the table and everybody listened to the box for a few minutes. On the wall across from me was an old art project made of a black-painted wooden board with some nails protruding randomly. There were colored strings connecting the nails to one another, but the top surface of all the strings were covered with dust.

The tall guy was still walking in and out of the room. Early stood up and followed him through a doorway. I think they were in the kitchen.

I was able to relax and reflect on my surroundings. I was pleased by how kind Early's buddies were. Despite the harsh conditions and experience I understood from Early's descriptions of their life in Little Rock, they had welcomed me, a stranger, into their culture, into their worship. I was glad, recognizing that there is reward, if we are willing to have faith and allow ourselves to be vulnerable with our brothers.

Early came back in and sat down. "Where's the ashtray?" he asked.

"On the table in front of you," said the guy with the hat.

"You guys really don't have a cigarette?" Early asked them. "I don't want to smoke this dry."

They didn't say anything, or even flinch.

"Got to settle for ashes, then," Early said, displeased but not surprised.

He took the bent-up coke can he had been carrying aroud, and turned it sideways with the dent side up. The coke can apparently had previous experience. It had a small hole in the middle of the dent, and around the hole there were some gray specks still stuck to the can. Early picked up the elongated ashtray from the table and tilted it lengthwise, pouring cigarette ashes onto the can. Then, putting a few of his rocks right over the small hole, he lifted the can to his mouth. He picked up a cigarett lighter from the table, lit the flame, and held it to the drugs as he inhaled through the can. The rocks sizzled like bacon and eggs. Early kept the lighter on the drugs for the duration of his inhalation. Then he passed the can over to his friends and blew out a cloud of smoke.

"What do you like to drink?" said the guy with the hat, looking at me.

"Vodka," I said. At 19, I wasn't much of a drinker and didn't know the difference between drinks. But I knew vodka was a drink.

"Great," he said. "We'll get some beers and vodka in a minute."

I wanted to ask them how the drug made them feel. I wondered how long the effects would last. But again, I didn't want to show how little I knew.

"They sell this stuff up in Vermont?'' Early asked. He didn't seem much different after inhaling the drugs than before.

"Don't they sell everything in every state these days?" I said.

"You want to smoke, Chris?" Early asked. "You bought it.''

"No, I'd rather not, thanks," I said.

"Come on, it won't hurt you," he said.

"Naw, no thanks," I said.

After the two guys from the couch had each smoked a rock, the big guy from the next room came in with a thin metal tube about three inches long. He placed it in his mouth like a cigarette and sucked up the remaining two rocks from the table. I assume they lodged in a screen in the pipe. He lit up the lighter and took a couple pulls. The tube sizzled.

Then the guy with the hat pulled it off suddendly and put it on the couch next to him. "Boy, this shit makes you sweat!" he said. There were big droplets on his forehead. Then he stood up, and grabbed his hat, putting it on again. The other guy on that couch stood up too. They walked out without saying goodbye. They had seemed like nice guys. I listened to them leaving but couldn't tell whether they had shut the outside door. I leaned to the side, but the door was just too far down the hall for me to see it.

The tall, nervous guy was still standing up in front of us. He was very tall. "Let's go get some beers and vodka. A 12-pack," he said. It was the first time I heard his voice. I realized I didn't understand him at all. He scared me. He wasn't calm like Early. He was a loaded gun.

"I'm up for it," I said. "Can the two of us go get the beer?'' I asked, nodding to Early. "I need to talk to my buddy on the way, though, because I don't want him to feel abandoned. I meant to be back there at the car after grabbing lunch."

"Alright -" said Early. "He can go get the beer, and we'll go see about your buddy."

"Do you think the two of us could go get it on the way back?'' I said. I didn't want to lose any more money or end up with something else I hadn't ordered.

Early stopped looking at me. He hung his head and shook it back and forth slowly. After about ten seconds, he looked up at the wall. "Hey, come straight, man," he demanded of me. "Don't down the Man of the House!"

I assumed he was giving me advice on how to treat his friend respectfully. Perhaps his friend had provided this space for us. Perhaps I should have been more courteous. I guessed his friend was the Man of the House.

"Sorry, I was a little nervous," I said "It's just, all that I have is a twenty."

"Man," Early whined, "Don't need to be nervous!" He still wasn't looking at me. But the tall guy and I were both looking at him.

"What's going on?" he said. "You don't need to cut out. Don't down the Man of the House. Come Straight." I definitely did not want to down the Man of the House.

"I'm sorry" I said. "I don't think I quite know what you mean. What's "come straight" mean?" I felt my chest breathing deeply. Early hung his head again. I pulled out my wallet and gave him a twenty.

Then the tall man turned around and opened a closet door on the other side of the room. He grabbed a metal trash can from the closet and took it outside the apartment door into the front hall. He dumped it out, either into another trash can or on the floor in the hallway. It was loud.

"Listen, come straight with us, Chris," Early repeats. "Your story doesn't click, you've got to come down, or else I have got to bring you straight."

I realized Early thought I had something to hide. I wished I had something.

The Man of the House came back, and headed straight back to the closet with his empty trash can.

"Don't worry, he'll come. Gentle," Early said to him. I imagined the Man of the House grabbing a baseball bat and turning around with his face in a snarl. My stomach twisted up.

The Man of the House turned around and walked over to me without a bat. He looked straight down at me.

"Give me your wallet," he said.

I was still scared, but relieved that my wallet was all he wanted. I pulled it out and handed it to him. He counted out my eleven twenty dollar bills and then threw the wallet back on the table. He didn't even look at my credit cards or bank card. It was bad, but I was going to be safe.

"Two forty," he said to Early.

"What else you got?" Early said, looking me straight in the eye again. "If you got that, you got more."

Maybe I wasn't safe. "That's all my money," I said. "That's all my money for how I'm getting back home and finishing my trip. That's all I have."

Early gave up. He turned to his friend, the Man of the House. "Give me my one-twenty," he demanded. Then, turning to me, "How much did you have?"

"I had two-forty left, I think."

Then I stood up, took my wallet in my shaking hand, and walked to the door.

"You'll get it," I heard the Man of the House say to Early.

In the hall, I saw that the front entrance door was open. I walked out, and took a left down the street, back towards my car. Early and the Man of the House followed me, walking out and down the stairs.

"You bring any trouble here, and I'll kill you," Early said.

I turned around and looked at him. Then I saw them turn around and walk the other way down the street. I faced straight ahead again and tried to act normal.