Freedom Of AssociationChapter 6 free porn video

Claude never thought he’d sell out so easily. Certainly he had his principles to consider, but when money turned the bend like the headlight of a locomotive in the middle of a thunderstorm, it didn’t take much for him to hop on board and enjoy the ride. He knew he needed money, and sometimes money takes first priority. White folks usually had it built into them so that they profited with grace. And suddenly Claude took the same route. He didn’t know what his teammates would say to all of this, though. In his excitement he peddled towards a playground in Newark where his good friend Clarence would be.

His teammates, actually, wouldn’t take it very well. They would label him a sell-out and probably refuse to compete with him, because once a person, in effect, sells out, he understands that he is at the mercy of the system. Claude didn’t like to think of it that way—that he was at the mercy of something larger than he was—but he was aware of his tacit compliance with such things as the global economy and the political system and the individual economic operator. It was a tacit compliance for now, a tacit understanding, a quiet agreement that gave the go-ahead for all forms of control the government uses to ensure favorable economic conditions. Once again, something of this magnitude went beyond poetry. Art became a little less heavenly and plummeted towards Earth. A painting had a price tag, and so did a poem. Little did he know that money worked just like applause: over time a man needs more of it. Rarely did the society praise a man who tried hard but failed. Only high school teachers taught that. The society favored a man with wealth, and so did the women, only he never knew this until Preston Whitcomb came barreling into his life.

From Claude’s angle, Preston looked like a successful poet, only that bad health was getting the better of him. Claude trusted him, though, and would rather align with him than with the rest of the riff-raff on the slam circuit. Somehow Preston had a link to the shoreline and all the pretty waspish types who sunbathed there. If he could be rich enough one day to afford one of them, this would suit him better than hanging around the rowdy clubs where they viewed him as some sort of novelty act.

Slamming had worked well for a time. He always felt comfortable on the stage, but he also had to live with his mother at the end of the night. Not that living with his mother wasn’t nice. On the contrary, his mother’s home was one of the most luxurious in the Village of South Orange. But he had been living there all of his life, and he had a pressing need to move out of there. On a slam poet’s salary he couldn’t afford Twinkies at the nearest Seven-Eleven let alone a nice apartment. He made the right decision to stick with Preston.

Selling out wasn’t that bad. He didn’t sell out completely, though. He figured there were ways to do it and still hold on to one’s integrity. He still commanded his own future, his own fate, and he figured he could walk the thin middle line towards salvation, and that meant avoiding the jagged cliffs on the far edges of the road. His own survival came first, and he struggled with the idea of shrugging his shoulders and leaving it all up to powers greater than himself.

His poetry had been based on fighting injustice, and suddenly the fight ended. He could become blissfully ignorant again and not care so much about the plight of others. He could leave these things to the politicians, because he couldn’t fight it anymore. There were other people to worry about, his mother, for instance, who had been acting very strange since the funeral. It was as though his father, after death, entered her body and took it over. His mother never would have scolded him for being out late. That was out-of- character. He figured he finally crossed into the adult world, saw what most people saw, and understood that he didn’t have to carry the future of Black America upon his shoulders and get so angered over it that he had to start a riot with his poetry or some counter revolution to prevent world tragedies before they happened. He could let things evolve naturally instead of resisting so much. Fighting the system so much made him forget what he was fighting for in the first place. He needed a break from these slams, and God sent a white man to pull him out of the battle.

He peddled his bicycle up South Orange Avenue and into the frayed fringes of the Newark inner-city. Newark wasn’t exactly bicycle-friendly, as he narrowly avoided being squeezed into the parked cars on the side of the road by a bus and a couple of church vans. He and Clarence used to hang out at the playground regularly before his father barred him from going there. He hadn’t heard from Clarence in a couple of months, but he never lost track of him. They were into separate things now. Claude spent most of his time on the circuit, while Clarence dealt in shady occupations.

A wire fence surrounded this playground where several do-ragged black men battled fiercely over a basketball. It was an intense game, judging by the ferocity of their verbal taunts volleying from one team to the other. It was a hot afternoon, the sky darkening. Rivulets of sweat dripped from the players’ faces and long black arms, a brilliant translucence only available to those on basketball courts at dusk. A sizable crowd watched the game from the perimeter of the court, the ball ba-banging on the cracked asphalt and waves of heat slithering into the air.

He recognized Clarence right away. He was the player in the middle of the fray, the one who talked the most—his intimidating put-downs and taunts defining him as the boss of the entire playground, public territory that was somehow appropriated by him, and the guys on the opposite team functioned as ploys for him to win every game no matter how terribly he played. Both teams seemed a part of the same crew, and there was little question that the medium-sized, muscular, and taunting Clarence, wearing a white tank top, a black spandex do-rag stretched tight over cornrows, and loose-fitting Chicago Bulls shorts grazing his kneecaps, was their boss. For some reason Clarence wanted both sides to play a little harder and not let him score so easily. Of course no one on either team stopped him. When Clarence wanted to score, he scored, no questions asked, and the lovely, voluptuous women on the sideline cheered only for him as he scored with an around-the-back lay- up and ran back to the other end of the court to defend his goal.

Clarence’s physical appearance had changed. He was no longer a skinny young street kid. Muscles bulged from his arms and chest, even from his face, which seemed more defined than before.

Claude again remembered when Clarence drove him around town without a license in an old Chevy Impala that was ready for the junkyard. They didn’t have a radio in the car, only a boom-box that they sandwiched between themselves in the front seat. Clarence was more of a brother to him than Monty ever was, and Claude admired him more than Monty. Clarence always knew where to take him, which parties to crash, the places they served liquor without checking ID’s, clubs whose sound systems rattled the windows of the other apartment buildings in the vicinity. And so much time had passed since then. Claude couldn’t help but feel a little older, and a wizened confidence didn’t necessarily follow this maturity and sophistication. Something in him searched for the way things used to be—so carefree, a life without boundaries, perceptions cleansed, and the streets alive with chrome-heavy cars bouncing their way through lime-lit intersections.

Claude was more confident about things back then. They both had the youthful notion that they could do anything and become whatever they wanted. He was smarter back then. He didn’t have to comply so readily. He could say what he wanted, speak of things forbidden, and have sex for the sheer pleasure of it. And now he was about to tell Clarence he threw in the towel for all of these hypnotic notions of becoming a national celebrity. Clarence wouldn’t have believed it himself—the great warrior-poet falling on his sword just when the battle got interesting.

The game ended when Clarence decided to end it. Clarence spotted Claude leaning against the sagging fence of the court. Clarence returned the ball to one of his teammates and strutted towards him, unsure if it was really Claude or some darker demon from his present. He smiled when he recognized him.

“Claude, is that you?”

“Yeah, it’s me.”

They shook hands and embraced.

“What brings you down here?”

“Just wanted to say hello.”

“Hello, huh? Now you know you came down here for more than that, don’t you?”

“Ahh. Just feeling a little blue, that’s all.”

Clarence called back to one of his teammates for the basketball.

“Feeling like a game of HORSE? I know you don’t want a one-on-one.”

“Yeah, I could use a game of HORSE right about now.”

“Something serious, huh?”

“I guess. Something’s been bothering me.”

“That’s nothing new, Claude. Nothing new at all.”

‘Horse’ was the closest Claude let himself get to the game of basketball.

They shot baskets from points around the faded white lines of the key and the free-throw line, the ball often bouncing off the fence that guarded the children’s playground next door.

“What you been up to these days?” asked Claude.

“Business,” said Clarence as he arched a perfectly thrown ball through the netless steel hoop.

“Business, huh? By the looks of things, you’ve been doing pretty well. Is that you’re Cadillac Escalade over there?” Claude pointed to a brand-new bulky SUV parked at the edge of the playground, its jet black body and chrome rims illuminated against the dented slides, swings, and jungle gyms in disrepair, the kiddie rocking horses rusted and inoperable.

“Business is good these days,” said Clarence, advancing along the key.

“You raking in a lot, huh?”

“You would have been raking it in too, if you didn’t disappear like that.”

“I had to.”

“You did what you had to do. I’m not bitter about it. But you would be rich right now if you stuck with me. What I do isn’t exactly what they want these damned school kids doing, you know what I’m saying? But I’d be damned if the money wasn’t good.”

“It’s dangerous, what you do.”

“Sometimes, yes. Sometimes, no. But you know it’s the only way to get out of this place.”

“But you haven’t left.”

Clarence smiled and threw him the ball when he missed his shot.

“No, I haven’t left,” he said. “The money is too good. But one of these days I’m gonna get my act together, fly straight, and move down to Brazil. Retire and play golf.”

“You better get out while it’s good.”

“And do what? Go to one of your poetry readings?” They both chuckled.

“I’m actually moving into different territory,” said Claude.

“Something that gets you some green, I hope.”

“I’m going to college.”

“College? You? Never.”

“Yes. I’m going to Seton Hall.”

“You mean that white college up the road?”

“It’s a good mix of people.”

“I don’t believe it. You never liked school. Hell, half the time you were out riding with me. You’re too angry for school, man.”

“Not anymore. They want to put me on television, but first I have to go to college.”

“Who’s putting you on television?”

“These people I met at one of the slams.”

“Get out.”

“I’m serious,” as he missed an easy shot near the baseline. “They want to put me on television.”

“That’s crazy money right there.”

“I’m finally realizing that life is about money.”

“Out here money is the only thing there is. I remember back in the day we were so poor we couldn’t put gas in the tank, remember? And now? Look at us. Honestly, Claude, I never understood why you went for poetry. I admired you, though. I respected you for doing what no one else would do. Hell, I remember wanting to be like you. But I never took that shit seriously. You did, and now you’re getting paid for it. In my book that’s damn good. Damn good.”

“There’s a price to pay for everything. This shit isn’t for free. I have to stop slammin’ and read more books.”

“Sometimes a man has to do what he doesn’t want to do in order to put bread on the table. How long have you been livin’ at your father’s place?”

“It’s now my mother’s place. My Dad died last week.”

Clarence tucked the ball into his hip and said:

“What?”

“My Dad died last week. I couldn’t invite you to the funeral. I’m sorry about that.”

“Sorry? You’re Dad wouldn’t have wanted me there to begin with. Look, I’m sorry about your Dad, man.”

“We never saw eye-to-eye. We were never on the same level. But nowadays I’m starting to see what he saw.”

“No, no, no! Don’t let that happen. You don’t want to turn out like he did.”

“I know we never agreed on anything, but I see what he was talking about—about things like money and white people.”

“What about white people? You have no business with white people.”

“I tell ya, Clarence, I never thought much of it, but since they’re the ones giving me the contract, I have to get along. And that’s what my father wanted more than anything else: to get along with them. No more slam poetry. No more anger. We’re trading now. We’re trading, and I’m getting along.”

“You’re one of those cross-over niggaz, just like your Pops.”

Claude shot from the free-throw line and missed.

“To put it bluntly, yeah. I can’t do what I love forever. That time is over. It’s about money now. It’s all about survival, and we mold to what keeps us alive. That’s the way it’s always been. When we were younger we never saw it coming, and then all of a sudden—bam!- we trade everything away for it. I wonder if I still have a soul left.”

“Then don’t do it,” said Clarence. “Work for me instead.”

“Ha! I’ll be dead in a year.”

“No, no, I don’t mean work at what I do. I’m talking about working for an organization that we set up. I can back you. We can rent out clubs and charge admission. You can still do what you do.”

“Like a production company?”

“Yeah. A production company.”

“You’re serious?”

“Hell if I’m not.”

“And you have that kind of money?”

“It’s a drop in the bucket compared to what I make. I know you’ve got talent, so it’s not like I’m spending my money just because I got it. And speaking of having it, you better concentrate on your game, because you’re almost out.”

“I have H-O-R.”

“H-O-R-S.”

“Basketball and I just don’t mix,” as he missed another shot, an air-ball that landed by the fence.

“That’s because you’ve got the white man in your system now. Any brother out there will tell you that they’re never up to any good. They’ll only confuse you.”

“No they won’t.”

“Yes they will,” said Clarence lapping him around the key. “Take my advice: you’ll be much happier staying black. It might even improve your game.”

Just to rub it in, Clarence hit a basket from the three-point line.

“Are you serious about backing me?”

“Hell yes.”

“What do I have to do in return?”

“Perform. Stay blacker than black and perform. You’re already a superstar. I don’t see why you have to mess with it. I’d put you on the payroll, and we can rent out the clubs. I get with my people. You get with yours.”

“I’ll have to think about it.”

“Take all the time you need. But if I were you I wouldn’t trust the game you got now. That’s how they get you. They promise you the world, show you that a few niggaz made it in this world, and then in reality they give you a mop and a bucket from the last black man who thought he could do the same.”

“You got that right,” said Claude, missing the same shot. “I’ll get back to you on it.”

They embraced again.

“If you need anything,” said Clarence, “you give me a call. We’d make a good team.”

“You really think so? It’s been so long since, y’know, since we hung out.”

“Yeah, I know. Times change. I want my little brother back, that’s all.” On his bike ride back to South Orange, Claude couldn’t help but feel a little confused. On the one hand he stood to gain a national audience for his poetry, but on the other hand he figured sooner or later he’d be cheated out of it. He could always stick with slamming and be managed by Clarence, but Clarence’s murky and suspicious underworld would eventually slip into his. Nonetheless, it was good to have choices in life. He certainly couldn’t do both, and he would soon have to decide between the two, if not decide immediately, and this was much better than not having any choices at all.

As he peddled down South Orange Avenue, he noticed how the cars on the road turned more expensive. Old and rusted Japanese models gave way to new BMWs and Lexus SUVs. The rich were indeed a different sort of people. It seemed the inhabitants of South Orange could afford anything they wanted, and Claude wanted a little taste of that freedom. He wanted what they had, and this one thought alone was a terrible violation of what he had practiced and preached for several years straight. The grass was a lot greener on the other side of trenches overwrought with barbed wire and railroad ties. Only a few black men could cross over it, and he thought only nerves of steel could withstand the breach. And yet he was a little tired of being so black all the time. There was so much anger involved in being a color, so many subtle injustices that he had gotten used to and so much struggle to make people understand the struggle. The struggle itself sometimes distorted reality in favor of an internal and an emotionally turbulent bellicosity.

“Thank God people don’t think like me,” he muttered as he peddled through the center of town beneath the railroad trestle.

He tried to rid himself of the bird’s eye view some mocking deity shoved into his brain. A stupid view, and the sooner he rid himself of it, the better. He knew it wouldn’t be easy. And he wouldn’t go along with Clarence just yet, maybe down the road if things didn’t work out, but not yet. He felt incomplete without the greater challenge of Preston’s plan staring him down.

He turned the corner on Valley Road and approached his mother’s house. There were two cars in the driveway: his mother’s old Cadillac and Monty’s delphin gray BMW. He sighed at the sight of Monty’s car as though the world were over. Being in the same household with Monty was like tiptoeing through a minefield, and sometimes Monty’s volcanic temper manifested itself in cruel words like: “Dad never loved you,” or “Mom is ashamed of you,” or his favorite “get a job, hoodlum,” uttered in the same tone his father had always used. These words angered Claude, but the fact that Monty thought he scored a few points by using them angered him even more. As a matter of fact, Claude never really cared about Monty’s comments or his temper. They tacitly agreed that they ought to stay clear of each other and visit their common mother separately. The problem with this arrangement? Phyllis’ heart melted when she saw the two brothers together, and she insisted the family have dinner every Sunday, with Monty’s wife to boot, only that this wasn’t a Sunday and Monty’s car sat like a stealth bomber in the driveway.

Claude wondered if Monty brought along his beautiful wife, Eliza, the tax attorney. She usually sided with whatever put-downs her husband spat out. Claude sat on his bike near the curb and asked himself over and over if he should go in. But there was no place left to run, only the crude option of entering the house like a man when he really wanted to sneak in like a mouse and hide in his room upstairs.

Claude left his bike by the stone vases out front and walked in as if he didn’t give Monty’s visit a moment’s thought. His mother cooked in the kitchen, and the aroma of the spices she used went right through his nostrils. Phyllis usually reserved her fried chicken for Sundays, and it would be an outrage if she cooked her fried chicken for Monty on a weekday. He walked into the kitchen and kissed his mother. He was relieved to see a pot roast sizzling behind the oven window.

“Hello, baby,” said his mother, an old apron tied around her waist.

“Hi, Mom. I’ve got good news for you.”

“You found a job?” came a voice and a chuckle from the dining room.

“Now cut that out,” called Phyllis. “Don’t pay any attention to them.

They’re just teasing you.”

“How long are they here for,” he whispered.

“They’re here for a little while. They both took the day off.”

“Great.”

“Go on now and sit with them and act like a gentleman. I’m sure they want to hear your good news too.”

“I doubt that,” said Claude.

“Go on now.”

An arched opening from the narrow kitchen led into a larger dining room deeper within the house. Monty and Eliza drank soda and snacked on a platter of celery, carrots, tomatoes, and a bowl of onion dip. Claude shook Eliza’s hand but not Monty’s. He then fed on the vegetables just to plug the gaping silence.

“So what’s your good news?” asked Monty, his wire-thin glasses reflecting the dim light.

“Why do you even ask?”

“Oh, I see,” he said, chewing a celery stick. “It must mean that your news is not that good.”

“And how do you figure that?”

“You would have said something about it just to rub me the wrong way.

I mean, how good could it be? You still don’t have what it takes to make it on your own.”

“I’m warning you, Monty. Not today.”

“I have some good news,” interrupted Eliza.

“No, honey, no,” said Monty, “we have to address his good news before we can address yours, because we already know that his good news has nothing to do with his getting a job or moving out of his parents’ house, nothing to do with the responsibilities a man has to take care of. So let’s be honest with him. That’s the only way he’ll ever learn, so let’s hear it, Claude. What’s your good news?”

Claude breathed hotly but didn’t reply.

“You see. I told you.”

“Monty! Stop teasing your brother,” called Phyllis from the other room. “You’ll talk about something nice, or you won’t talk at all.”

“What’s your good news, Eliza?” asked Claude. “Oh, it’s not important,” she said.

The three sat in silence until Phyllis brought over the silverware for their early dinner.

“What’s the occasion, Mom?”

“Oh, I just wanted to invite Monty and Eliza over for dinner. It’s so empty living in this big house.”

“And guess why she can’t move out,” said Monty snidely.

“Oh hush, Monty. I don’t want to leave just yet.”

“Yes you do.”

“Don’t put words into her mouth,” flared Claude.

“Be honest, Mom. Tell everybody what you’ve got planned.” Phyllis sighed and folded her hands primly.

“Well,” she began, “lately I’ve been wondering if this house is too big, now that Daddy has passed away.”

“Taxes are exorbitant here in South Orange,” said Eliza.

“Yes. It’s very expensive to keep living here, and there’s so much junk we need to get rid of, so much space unused, that Monty and I thought we’d sell the house, and I’d move to a smaller place.”

Monty smirked when their common mother delivered the news. Claude could have punched him right there.

“The proceeds of the sale would go into a family trust,” said Eliza, “and your mother would rent an apartment and officially have no assets. This would qualify her for Medicaid.”

“I could give the money to my children,” said Phyllis, “but then I’d have to rely on you two to pay the rent, and the food, and all the expenses, so Monty came up with the trust idea.”

“Oh he did, did he? Since when did Monty get to decide all this?”

“It’s business,” said Eliza. “It’s nothing personal.” Again the smirk from Monty.

“So it’s like that now?”

“Oh, Claude, don’t get so angry,” said his mother. “You knew we’d eventually sell the house. It was only a matter of time.”

“And who’s in charge of the trust?” he asked.

“I thought it best if yourself, Monty, and Eliza were in charge.”

“Eliza? You don’t actually think she deserves to be a part of this?”

“I’m as every bit a part of this family as you are, Claude,” she said.

“You three will be the trustees,” said Phyllis. “The three of you will manage the estate.”

“And each of us gets a vote as to when and where the funds are allocated,” said Monty.

“This is bullshit,” said Claude, slamming his hand on the dining room table.

“Not in here,” said Monty. “You’ve got a problem with it, I suggest you go outside and cool off.”

“What have these two Toms been telling you?”

“I will not stand for that kind of talk in this house,” said Phyllis sternly. “Behave yourself.”

“Behave myself? These two have got you fooled.”

“No one has me fooled. This is the best decision for the family.”

“Yeah, everyone in the family but me. Even Eliza gets more say than I do.”

“I’ve had about enough of you,” said Eliza, getting up and walking away. “You ever insult my wife again, and I’m gonna kick your ass—whether it’s inside or outside.”

Monty was the only person Claude really wanted to strike, and he would have done so if his mother weren’t there.

“Calm down, both of you, okay?” said Phyllis, her hand on Monty’s arm. “Monty and Eliza didn’t push me into this.”

“Then who gave you the idea?”

“It’s just the way the system works, okay?”

“Well, why is it always working against me? Can you explain that?”

Phyllis sighed and said:

“You can’t stay in this house forever, Claude. You have to move out sooner or later. You have to stand on your own two feet at some point in your life—”

Again the smirk from Monty.

“I’m gonna knock that smart-ass grin off your face, Monty, if you’re not careful.”

“Montgomery,” yelled Phyllis, “stop teasing him. Go to the living room.” On his mother’s order, Montgomery tended to his wife, the smirk still hanging on his face.

“You realize that if you give Eliza power over the trust, those two will always vote against me. You know that don’t you?”

“First of all, the trust is for me, darling. It’s not your inheritance. When I pass away, and honey one day I will, the trust will be dissolved, and you’ll get your inheritance, whatever amount that is. No one’s taking anything away from you. The money in the trust is to pay for my expenses, not yours or Monty’s or anyone’s.”

“Oh.—But I do have to move out, now don’t I?”

“Yes. Every young adult has to live on his own at some time or another. You can’t keep living with me, coming home at all hours of the night, not cooking for yourself, not cleaning up after yourself.”

“I’m asking you, Mom—please don’t sell the house. I’ll improve. I’ll change. Monty and Eliza won’t take care of you like I will.”

“You’re gonna take care of me, huh?”

“Yeah. Sure I’ll take care of you.”

“That’s very sweet,” said Phyllis, caressing his face, “but that’s not going to happen. You need to get out, get a job, and build your own life.”

“I know I do, and I want to move out, but first I have some things to do regarding my career.”

“Career? You mean that poetry nonsense?”

“I’ll probably be on television. I’m in contact with a guy who discovered my talent. He wants me to go on television, but first I have to go to school.”

“Television, huh?” said Phyllis, still incredulous.

“Yeah, television. I’ll be making crazy money, more money than Monty and Eliza combined. It’s only a matter of going to college, and this publishing company is sponsoring me.”

She shook her head and said:

“Honey, you are the true dreamer in this family. You get that from me, y’know.”

“This is not a dream. I swear it.”

“Dinner’s getting cold,” she said and ended the conversation there.

Monty and Eliza soon joined them, and Claude struggled while holding

Eliza’s hand during grace, her palm smooth and warm but hiding resentment within, he was sure of it. He ate a hearty meal of all the good stuff: pot roast, collard greens, candied sweet potatoes, catfish soup with dumplings, and a coconut crème pie for desert. And even though the food tasted delicious, he grew suspicious of the people seated around him, the supposed family that never supported his poetry, the same supposed family that was throwing him out of the house. He thought of it as tough love on his mother’s part, but he knew that Monty and Eliza gave her the idea and convinced her of it.

There was no after-dinner conversation as in the days when his father had them sit and answer his pointed questions, forcing the table to communicate, and so he immediately darted upstairs in disgust and began another poem— this time about a young, black child who had been neglected for most of his life, once again tapping and channeling the darker parts of himself and letting it gallop along the page.

And then, midway through one of his angriest lines, he considered that he might be developing a temper problem, his skin thin and sensitive to the world burning around him. Claude knew anger to be a lousy motivator but one that carried him through the toughest times, and lately he questioned whether or not he could stay calm in front of Monty anymore, wondering when he would breakdown and punch him in the jaw. He came close at dinner, and he swore he’d never lay a hand against his own brother, but lately only the thinnest of lines separated him from becoming physical. It had to stop, and yet the force that separated him from full-out attack weakened against anger’s negative light. A troubling conniption bothered him, and he suddenly had images of destroying Monty with his bear hands, ripping his limbs apart and eating them, his brother’s skin stretching and snapping from his shoulder blades as he chews his bloody arms.