A LANDLORD’S TALE

My eyes weren’t fixed on the direction I was driving, but on the words "Nigger Landlord" slashed in bright neon paint across the ribs of the oak tree that stood in front of my new home. And on the woman who waited with arms crossed and meaty butt spread against the iron railing that led up the stoop to the front door.

I yanked back the steering wheel of my nine month old Baby, a ‘76 cranberry Cadillac Seville, as it jumped the curb, scraped rubber and screeched to a halt in front of 247 W. 128th Street.

Shit. The gun tucked inside the waistband of my pants slid to my crotch as the car rocked to a stop. A toaster and a tangle of shirts, jackets and ties tumbled onto the front seat. I threw clothes off me with one hand and dug around in my pants like a pervert with the other while the woman on the stoop with the ham hocks butt gave me the evil eye. Jesus, lucky I didn’t shoot my damn nuts off.

I had given up my lease at my Sugar Hill crib. Lack of money was the reason. And I’d just come from Bunky’s pawn shop where I had divested myself of most of my earthly possessions. The rest I’d piled high in the back seat—now they were in the front.

I hoped Hocks couldn’t see what I was doing. I retrieved the gun and tucked it under the seat and slammed out of the car. Trouble comes in threes—like death. At this moment Harry the Monkey Chaser was number two, which was the reason I was carrying. I glanced at the woman. Was she number three?

I marched around to Baby’s polished chrome bumper and bent to inspect the whitewalls. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the woman slide her butt off the railing and roll like a tank toward me.

"You the landlord?" she asked.

Her question was as weighty as she was. I reserved my answer. Street life had taught me to be wary. If I’da been a dog, my ears would have flattened back against my head and I would have growled at her approach, but I was an entrepreneur now, owner of two brownstones willed to me by my father, so I was cool. Don’t let her be somebody else I owed.

"I axed you if you was the landlord?"

She was all up on me now. I could see she was frayed around the edges. I stepped back to let air come between us. The sour smell of her breath almost knocked me over.

"You THAT landlord?" she said, pointing to the tree.

"Why you asking?"

"I’m looking to rent a room is why. Is you the landlord or not?"

I shrugged the woman off, opened my car, slipped the gun into the pocket of my coat and said, "I don’t rent to no big butt women." And hoped that would end the conversation.

"Well, fuck you, too. Looka here mister, I ain’t the one wrote on your mother-fucking tree, so don’t be fucking taking that shit out on me."

She had a point, but I didn’t let her know that. I set the burglar alarm, locked the car door and proceeded up the steps to my brownstone. Her last "hey" came at me like a bear breaking wind.

"Hey", she repeated, "you got a dollar on you? Since you ain’t renting, Mister Nigger Landlord, whyn’t you give me some change so’s I can ride cross town to check me out a room over there."

I turned. The woman was crazy.

"The name is Amos Brown," I said and shook my head in amazement at her audacity. And then, I don’t know why, but I bust out laughing—at her, at me, at the tree—at the whole fucking mess I had got myself into. If it had been her that owed Harry the Monkey Chaser six thousand dollars--would she care? Hell no. It’d be Harry’s problem, not hers.

There she stood, hands on hips, expecting me and the universe to cough up her daily bread. And we would.

I said, "Hell woman, you ain’t even got money for transportation to get across town. How you think you going to pay for any room?"

It was her turn to laugh and I saw the parking space where her front teeth had been.

"Social Services, they help me out. Now honey, believe me when I tell you I can get the rent. I knows how to do that."

"I’ll bet you sure enough do." I dug into my pocket, extracted a silver dollar and flipped it to her. She flapped her hands together like a trained seal, and caught the coin between her lips. Amazing. Tucking it into her bra, she grinned her appreciation at me.

"What you say, Nigger Landlord, you all right," she said. "Yes sir, you all right."

"Amos."

But she didn’t hear me. She was stepping fast. Probably beating a path to Sam’s Liquor store located around the corner on Lenox Avenue.

I stood there for a while, hands tucked in my pant pockets. Life hummed along the length of the busy block. It was late spring, and sprouting cherry blossoms graced the branches of the trees on both sides of the street. Children played catch, and rode their bicycles and scooters in and out of the spaces made by cars parked along the street. Looked like Anytown, USA, except it wasn’t. It was a suffering Harlem. Beyond the trees ornamented with blossoms, were signs of a decaying community. Abandoned buildings and boarded-up houses with locked away memories of Harlem were scattered among the occupied residences. I breathed the street. This street was me.

My Harlem. Born and bred here and proud of it. The facades of the buildings were weathered, but there was a grandeur that lingered-- waiting to be revived, spruced up, ready to go again. Like me, I guess.

I glanced up at the tree. A child’s purse, colored red, dripped like blood off one of its branches. I reached up and pulled it down and inspected the contents—a collection of feathers and small stones. I smiled. Play money, I bet, and didn’t I wish I had some—money to play with. I slipped the tiny bag into my pocket. Probably belongs to one of my tenant’s kids.

Hard luck had been on my butt like a dog in heat, and I didn’t have anybody to blame but myself. That’s the natural truth. Trouble Number One, like a gathering hurricane, knocked me off my feet and wiped my ass out. My numbers operation crashed and burned, my bride of six months disappeared soon as the money went, and my gambling spun horribly out of control.

Now Harry-the- Monkey-Chaser and his boys were looking for me. Number Two, no shit, the man wanted his money. Simple. And I didn’t have it. That was simple too. So like Job, I wondered when the next axe would fall—Trouble Number Three. All I needed was a little time; I’d get it together. I had never chiseled on a bet before, and I wasn’t starting now. But Harry was impatient. He didn’t want to wait for leaves to blossom.

In my mind, a guitar twanged, and a bluesman sang, Blues, stay away from my door. I touched the weapon in my pocket, looked to the right and left, then entered the three-story brownstone. News travels fast in Harlem. How soon before Harry caught up with me? How soon before the next axe fell?