Imperial

Norwood

12 norwood In the old black-and-whites my grandfather stands with the new models, the sleek future on the showroom floor. Dark-suited and imperious, he owned the city’s biggest dealership, and drove a black Cadillac. Or rather, it was driven for him by a black driver named Norwood who had boxed semipro in East St. Louis. He had a flattened nose to show for it, a porkpie hat, and a green stogie he puffed on as he buffed Grandpa’s car in the alleyway behind the shop when I was eight or nine, then taught me how to shadow-box my own reflection in the Caddie’s echoing darkness. Now, fifty years down the line, I realize that watching Norwood throwing jabs and crosses and uppercuts in a blur was the first time I saw a man being who he wanted to be, in the shadow of who he actually was. ...