The Quiet Parts Pt. 7
SIXTH STORY
For the open house, Leigh puts on makeup and her friendliest pink cardigan. On the porch she finds three men: a postal worker in his forties, a scholar with many published articles on the diaspora, and a man she gasps to see, because she knows him personally. It is Mica the dread-wearing, Angela-Davis-fanboying, Huey-P.-Newton-defending, Venus-Xtravaganza-quoting, black nail polish, military boots, keffiyeh scarf, perfectly pointed goatee, lashes so thick they look like mascara, loves to eat pussy, butch one day, femme the next queer slam poet she drunkenly gave her Black Guy V-Card in the UCSC dorms, in her roommate’s bed.
They embrace. He says he has been couchsurfing for three months since being evicted.
“Will the interview be hard?” he asks, cool but clearly anxious.
“Not at all,” she assures her old friend. “Just a few questions to see how we vibe.”
In the kitchen, the men partake of Trader Joe’s snacks. Andre, having vetted the three, has brought Drew and Sam for security. He reintroduces himself with hugs and handshakes. The interviewees grunt, slouch, munch figs, and slur in an effort to out-cool one another. Charmed by their macho display, Leigh remembers black men invented cakewalks and rap battles, everything a competition in search for the alpha.
To keep them upbeat, she plays a spritely reel on her fiddle. Before she can play another song from that demo she recorded long ago, Jason takes her by the elbow and whispers, “We need to talk.”
On a small deck some three paces in length, built high above the backyard that descends until it ends at the fence separating Chen Wo’s property from a Baptist church, Jason scowls upon her. So great is his anger he appears to be having an outbreak, red splotches on his face like jelly stains.
“Yes?” she says sweetly.
“They’re all black!”
She shrugs. “I believe we agreed we would go into the community.”
“I thought you meant the punk community! I don’t want thugs and bums in my house!”
“Andre vetted them. Look”—he needs things explained in simple terms— “we’re coming from privilege. We should be helping keep POC in Oakland—”
“There it is again,” he sharply interrupts. “White privilege is an excuse people use when they fail. I couldn’t give a shit about keeping anybody in Oakland.”
“They all come with references and their credit is good,” she persists. “If we like one of them, let’s roll with it. If not, we pick nobody. They’ll behave because they’re desperate.”
Still skeptical, he agrees on her conditions. On their way inside, she teases, “You’re cute when you’re angry.”
In the living room, Mica sits across the coffee table from the housemates. First, Jason asks how he earns an income. “Teaching kindergarten and Uber,” Mica answers without hesitation.
Next Sequoia asks his food preferences, willingness to do chores, his communication style, his experience with consensus-based decision making, meditation, weed, full moon healing circles, sex positivity, body positivity, dedication to diversity, his championing or lack thereof for queer liberation. He has a mature and reasoned response every time. Maybe a bit too polished for Leigh, who values spontaneity. But she likes his humility, as attractive a trait as in college.
Come her turn, she asks, “Where did Malcolm X build Temple Number Seven?”
It had been her idea to include an educational component. She had Andre drop this fact to all three men. If they were smart, they would have studied.
Mica smirks. “Harlem, New York.”
“Who founded the National Council for Negro Women?” she asks with a saucy quirk to her eyebrow.
“Mary McLeod Bethune.”
“True or false. Off the Wall was Michael Jackson’s debut—”
“Solo record? False. People think it’s Ben but it was Got to Be There. Came out earlier that same year, 1972.”
“Mica,” she coos and jumps off the couch to hug him. She whispers in his ear, “You’re in.”
Next comes the postal worker. He tells them he has been living in his van for half a year. She asks, “Who was the first black mayor of New York City?”
“I’m sorry,” he says, confused. “I don’t know.”
“Hmm.” She marks that down. “It was David Dinkins. We’ll be in touch.”
“That’s it?” he asks in disbelief.
“That’s it.”
“I really need a place,” he insists. “Even for just a month.”
“Thank you,” she says with finality. A man who disregards his own history wouldn’t respect her home.
At last the scholar sits down. Barely a minute in he starts on about his research into Jamaican maroon colonies. Sounds a little full of himself. She asks, “What was Spike Lee’s first movie?”
“She’s Gotta Have It.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. The answer is Do the Right Thing.”
He glances from her to Sequoia to Jason and then back to her. “The answer is She’s Gotta Have It.”
“I’m pretty sure that’s the Netflix show.” She dislikes his arrogance.
“The show is based on the movie. What is this?” he growls. “You bring in black men and quiz them on black history? Is this some kind of prank? I find this whole affair offensive.”
At his aggression, she sobs. “You do not get to come in my house and accuse me of that. All I wanted to do was respect the diaspora.” She even visited Harlem to take notes. “I just want to build a loving community. I feel so oppressed right now,” she bawls, weeping into Sequoia’s shoulder.
“You should leave,” says Jason icily.
The scholar pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “I’m a free man and will do as I please. This is taking white bullshit to a whole new level. And you”—he stares at Leigh—“your white tears do nothing to me.” Behind him, Andre eases into the room to touch his shoulder, and the scholar explodes from his seat. “Nigga, get your motherfucking hand off me!” Sam and Drew come in behind Andre. “So y’all house boys? Uncle Toms?”
Andre grabs him by his tweed collar. “I agree with the man,” he says through grit teeth. “Time for your ass to leave.”
Three on one, they bully him out the door. Her heart racing, Leigh watches Andre pick up the man’s Warriors cap and hurl it at him. “And stay gone!”
Minutes later, she still weeps from the scholar’s words. Shivers of fear run up and down her body as Andre, sitting with her on her bed, talks sweetly to calm her.
“You know how triggering male aggression is for me,” she reminds him. She adds with a scornful smile, “‘Your white tears don’t affect me.’ Hating white women is so original.”
“You’re strong,” Andre affirms.
She does a Whip-It. “I know.”