Tyrone looked skeptical.
"You didn't play no football? How they let you get away with that?"
"It's simple, Tyrone," said Burns. "It was Rob's decision. He didn't want to do it." Tyrone continued to look me over as though I was a species of Negro he had never seen before. He even seemed mildly resentful. I picked up my bag to walk down the street to the subway.
"I'll give you a call," I said to Burns. "Maybe we can do it on Friday evening."
"Friday might be a problem," said Burns. "Saturday would be better."
"Saturday's fine," I said, thinking it would give me an extra day to spend with my parents and in case they became suspicious.
"Say, why don't we give you a lift to the subway entrance? It's a bit of a walk, and it won't take us out of our way," said Burns.
"I wouldn't mind it."
"Okay, let's go!" said Burns. I could see Tyrone stiffen as he opened the door to the limousine for us. Burns climbed in first. I put my bag inside and got in behind him. Tyrone shut the door with a thud and went around to the driver's side. "Times Square is probably crowded," said Burns. "Why don't we drop Rob off at Fiftieth Street?" Tyrone murmured his assent and quickly pulled into the traffic, snaking between cars and accelerating in the open lanes at breakneck speed. I had never ridden so fast in such heavy traffic, and I had little time to appreciate the luxury of riding in a limousine. Before I knew it, Tyrone had pulled the limo up to a corner curb.
"There's the entrance," said Burns, pointing to a dirty concrete structure that looked like a bunker. Tyrone remained behind the wheel, so I got my bag and opened the door myself.
"Thanks a lot for the ride," I said, loud enough for Tyrone to hear me, but he seemed not to. "I'll give you a call on Friday, Gordie."
"Okay," said Burns, "but be sure to call before sundown." He used such a natural voice that I thought nothing of it at the time, but as I stood on the platform waiting for the train, I thought it seemed a little odd. As the train rolled into the station, however, I concluded his family had probably made plans for dinner on Friday evening, and I thought nothing more of it.
I boarded the train headed uptown and found a seat. The doors closed and the train accelerated quickly, barreling through the tunnel so fast that every passenger, even those who were seated like me, had to hold on to something to avoid being thrown to the floor. Eventually, I found the rhythm of the train's movement and began to look around at the other passengers. A well-dressed Chinese coupleâat least I thought they were Chineseâwere seated across from me, studiously avoiding eye contact with anyone except each other. There were several white people on the train, most of them elderly and simply dressed. The women wore hats and the men needed a shave. The whites were either talking to each other or reading the paper or looking at the advertisements that were posted in the train. And there were several colored people, seated apart and looking out the window at the switching lights or dozing with their heads bowed as the train sped through the tunnel. As we headed north, the Chinese couple and the white people got off at various stops and were replaced by more Negroes, until the train reached 110th Street and it looked as though we were traveling through the South in a segregated coach.
Chapter Five
Instead of going directly to Cousin Gwen's, I decided to get off the train at 125th Street. For as long as I could remember, I had heard people at home talk about 125th Street as though it was the eighth wonder of the world. "The big time," "the crossroads of Negro America," they called itâbut on the few occasions when I had visited New York with my parents, I had only glimpsed the street in passing, on our way to Cousin Gwen's apartment. Now that I had some time of my own, I decided to see what all the fuss was about. I knew Cousin Gwen was expecting me, so I couldn't stay for long, and,
"You didn't play no football? How they let you get away with that?"
"It's simple, Tyrone," said Burns. "It was Rob's decision. He didn't want to do it." Tyrone continued to look me over as though I was a species of Negro he had never seen before. He even seemed mildly resentful. I picked up my bag to walk down the street to the subway.
"I'll give you a call," I said to Burns. "Maybe we can do it on Friday evening."
"Friday might be a problem," said Burns. "Saturday would be better."
"Saturday's fine," I said, thinking it would give me an extra day to spend with my parents and in case they became suspicious.
"Say, why don't we give you a lift to the subway entrance? It's a bit of a walk, and it won't take us out of our way," said Burns.
"I wouldn't mind it."
"Okay, let's go!" said Burns. I could see Tyrone stiffen as he opened the door to the limousine for us. Burns climbed in first. I put my bag inside and got in behind him. Tyrone shut the door with a thud and went around to the driver's side. "Times Square is probably crowded," said Burns. "Why don't we drop Rob off at Fiftieth Street?" Tyrone murmured his assent and quickly pulled into the traffic, snaking between cars and accelerating in the open lanes at breakneck speed. I had never ridden so fast in such heavy traffic, and I had little time to appreciate the luxury of riding in a limousine. Before I knew it, Tyrone had pulled the limo up to a corner curb.
"There's the entrance," said Burns, pointing to a dirty concrete structure that looked like a bunker. Tyrone remained behind the wheel, so I got my bag and opened the door myself.
"Thanks a lot for the ride," I said, loud enough for Tyrone to hear me, but he seemed not to. "I'll give you a call on Friday, Gordie."
"Okay," said Burns, "but be sure to call before sundown." He used such a natural voice that I thought nothing of it at the time, but as I stood on the platform waiting for the train, I thought it seemed a little odd. As the train rolled into the station, however, I concluded his family had probably made plans for dinner on Friday evening, and I thought nothing more of it.
I boarded the train headed uptown and found a seat. The doors closed and the train accelerated quickly, barreling through the tunnel so fast that every passenger, even those who were seated like me, had to hold on to something to avoid being thrown to the floor. Eventually, I found the rhythm of the train's movement and began to look around at the other passengers. A well-dressed Chinese coupleâat least I thought they were Chineseâwere seated across from me, studiously avoiding eye contact with anyone except each other. There were several white people on the train, most of them elderly and simply dressed. The women wore hats and the men needed a shave. The whites were either talking to each other or reading the paper or looking at the advertisements that were posted in the train. And there were several colored people, seated apart and looking out the window at the switching lights or dozing with their heads bowed as the train sped through the tunnel. As we headed north, the Chinese couple and the white people got off at various stops and were replaced by more Negroes, until the train reached 110th Street and it looked as though we were traveling through the South in a segregated coach.
Chapter Five
Instead of going directly to Cousin Gwen's, I decided to get off the train at 125th Street. For as long as I could remember, I had heard people at home talk about 125th Street as though it was the eighth wonder of the world. "The big time," "the crossroads of Negro America," they called itâbut on the few occasions when I had visited New York with my parents, I had only glimpsed the street in passing, on our way to Cousin Gwen's apartment. Now that I had some time of my own, I decided to see what all the fuss was about. I knew Cousin Gwen was expecting me, so I couldn't stay for long, and,
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