Mister Satan's Apprentice: A Blues Memoir

5. White Boys

C H A P T E R F I V E WHITE BOYS Fucking up white boys like that made us feel good inside. —NATHAN McCALL, MAXES ME WANNA HOLLER k FEW DAYS AFTER I got back from Virginia, New York suddenly turned sour. My Mouse and Panama hat were stolen, I got hassled on 125th Street. Then, just before Christmas '86, a gang of young Italian guys with baseball bats chased three black guys out of a pizzeria in a place called Howard Beach. One of the black guys ran across a highway and was whacked by a car, dead as a stray dog. The New York tabloids love nothing more than a nice juicy race-hatred story with bruised black bodies and fists raised in outrage. My Harlem honeymoon was over. The equipment ripoff was my fault. I was working mornings at the Writing Center over at Hostos; trying to be discreet about my second career, I'd gotten into the habit of leaving my Mouse and hat in my car, parked just off the Grand Concourse. This was the infamous South Bronx, where cat-sized rats scurried across vacant lots. One noon I came back to find the rear window punched in, empty back seat glittering. Stupid! Raging inwardly, I tore the shit out of my harps on the drive home. Later I raided the cookie jar in which 69 A Mister S a t a n ' s Apprentice I'd been husbanding my busking money, subwayed down to Manny's Music, and picked up a new Mouse—a pristine black trapezoidal cube, comfortingly heavy against my thigh as I swung back up chilly Broadway. Mister Satan called the next morning, raring to kick and stomp. "You got my people asking after you, Mister," he laughed. "Fools be running me ragged with all kind of mess, talking about Hey Satan, where's that white boy at?" I called my supervisor at Hostos, weaseled out of afternoon hours, drove down. He'd already worked up a small crowd, mostly men, several of whom leaned back against my car the moment I slid up next to the fire hydrant. Older cars were appropriated this wayin Harlem, I'd noticed. Flashy new Benzes and Volvos driven by young guys with gold-capped teeth were not. Satan had undone his cornrows and combed his gray-flecked hair out; he looked regal, leonine. My new Mouse delighted him: a material addition to our collective stock. "Lift up on him," he rasped after clanking to a stop, leaning over to slide a strip of cardboard box between amp and sidewalk. "We got to keep this baby looking new." "I coulda done without the upgrade." "Feels like they snatched a rib clean out your chest, don't it?" "You can see where they nailed me," I said, jerking my head at the garbage-bag-and-duct-tape rear window. He lit up a cigarette and dug the three or four bills he'd made out of the tip bucket. "Ain't nobody broke into my step-van one damn time in Harlem, going on six years." "You're lucky." His smile vanished. "You said that. Hell, the best way you got to cover your back is show respect in front of your face and give away free liquor. Everybody out here know me. People see my van, ain't nobody gonna break in and mess with my altar. Half those bastards out on Seventh Avenuedone got drunk in the back seat." His preaching had drawn a couple of guys close; they roared as we slapped hands. One, in a dark blue security guard's uniform, I suddenly recognized: the stocky powerlifter with the scarred fore70 New Life head who'd collared me that first afternoon with a story about a white boy he'd grown up with down in Mississippi. He looked sober now, if not quite legit. "Hey Satan," he laughed, working his massive shoulders. "Hey Satan, listen, I gotta—" "Mister Satan." "Mister Satan. ..." He hesitated, chastized, then leaned in conspiratorially , backhanding his mouth. "Awshit, man, gimme a goddamn dollar." "Mister Murphy!" Satan roared. "Aaaaaaaaah!" Murphy howled, doubling over. His laugh seemed to have a life of its own, writhing and whoo-hooing as it swung him away from us. Satan tried to keep a straight face and couldn't. "Get on back here you ugly bastard!" He was back, mirthful...