Sometimes Like Dimes: Life Lessions in the Steel City

By Thom Slofer

Sometimes Like Dimes: Life Lessons in the Steel City is about Thom Slofer, and chronicles his experiences growing up and becoming older in the Hill District neighborhood of Pittsburgh Pennsylvania, USA in the 1980's and 90's. During this time period the people, life passages, and the changing surroundings are described as they affect him.

The Hill was once a thriving inner-city neighborhood. World-famous jazz musicians once played in the ballrooms and jazz clubs nightly; the Hill District was to Pittsburgh what Harlem is to New York City. Hard economic times before and after the 1980’s hit the once economically thriving black community at the foot of downtown Pittsburgh hard. The Hill was now nothing more than a snapshot of economic demise.

The successes and setbacks through his high school years and into his young adult life are chronicled. Older women he became involved with showed him another way to be despite peer and neighborhood influences. He graduates high school to attend college but drops out and obtains a reasonable job; but the streets and thier infuences are present. He becomes a part-time bartender then begins to carry a gun before loosing his job and succumbing to low self-esteem. He’s then forced to survive on the streets but refuses to take part in any crime. He rises above and eventually beyond the streets, but the lessons "street life" taught stayed within him.

Sometimes Like Dimes: Life Lessons in the Steel City not only demonstrates that if every man were to write a book about his experiences every story would be unique; but is also a lens to view what it was like to live life in Southwestern Pennsylvania, USA.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jan 12, 2011
• ISBN: 9781456810337

Thom Slofer

THE AUTHOR - Thomas W. Slofer is a first-time author who grew up in Pittsburgh Pennsylvania, lived in Atlanta Georgia and now resides in Phoenix Arizona. Educated in public schools, he obtained his paralegal degree at the Community College of Allegheny County in Pittsburgh. His occupations included stock clerk, bar tender, hospital admissions representative, work release house manager, private investigator, and paralegal. His interests include Formula One Grand Prix racing, automobile history and the automobile industry, high-performance motorbikes, various forms of music, African Culture, reading, traveling and playing bass guitar.

Book preview

Copyright © 2011 by Thom Slofer.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

Rev. date: 05/26/2021

Xlibris

844-714-8691

www.Xlibris.com

589276

To D-, you got me through, and you still do.

Keep your head to the sky young man and young father.

CONTENTS

Dedication

Acknowledgements And Thanks

Introduction

Prologue

Chapter 1     Fall 1985: Original Times

Chapter 2     Valley Lights

Chapter 3     Fall/Winter 1985/86: Like Living in Alaska

Chapter 4     Those Things Don’t Happen to Us

Chapter 5     Summer Good Times at the Y

Chapter 6     Mystique Is Moving, But …

Chapter 7     Springtime Breeze, Summertime Work

Chapter 8     The Last Football Season, Part 1

Chapter 9     Winter to Spring 1988

Chapter 10   Late Spring/Summer 1988 Part 1: Movin’ On

Chapter 11   Tiffin Road

Chapter 12   Troubling Horizon

Chapter 13   Truth And Change

Chapter 14   Another Summer, 1989

Chapter 15   New Travel: Fall/Winter 1989

Chapter 16   No Plan with a Man

Chapter 17   A Seminar and Business Proposition

Chapter 18   The Real Tika

Chapter 19   Family Affairs

Chapter 20   The Image Shattered: Winter 1991

Chapter 21   Why Is That?

Chapter 22   A Choice and a Chance

Chapter 23   Into the Hall of Mirrors

Chapter 24   Dark Streets, Blind Alleys, and the Unrelenting Sun

Special Novel Preview Twilight Concierge: That Kind Of Talent

DEDICATION

T HIS BOOK IS dedicated to the one almighty God for I could not have made it without you and those you put into my life—my grandmothers and fathers who passed away (for there is no family without all of you), my uncle Wade Harvey who passed in 2010, a man of true integrity who showed many how to build anything (figuratively and literally) they set out to build.

Also for friends who passed away all but too young: Hillary White, Sean Ike Harris, Lisa Hilabreath (who didn’t know she had only seven years to live a lifetime), a man named Chancy whose life was taken in a senseless act of jealousy and insecurity; and a kind, honest, and classy girl named Dawn Lewis who left way before her time. Their voices were unfortunately silenced—I feel—before they should have been. So perhaps just maybe … some of their thoughts, hopes, and dreams will always live through my words and, while I live, through me. May all your souls rest in peace; I know you are all with our Lord in heaven.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS AND THANKS

F IRST AND FOREMOST, the greatest dedication to my father, who unfortunately has passed on since the creation of this re-release. Still, like that song by Ronnie Laws, when I truly needed you throughout my life, you were Always There and I know you still are.

Special dedication to my mother (mum). Thank you for you love and support throughout all the years that some people don’t get but I did.

I want to thank and acknowledge the two men that unknowingly guided me to conceive and finish this project: Oladipo Agboluaje in London England (Gooners ‘til we die mate! Come on Arsenal!!!), and Antwon Worsham in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. Many thanks; I could not see doing this without the help from you both.

Talonda Embry-Deveraux, thanks for the pics and support. Kim Zapf, thanks for the years of nonstop belief that the day would come! Howard Dorsey, Roggie Clark, and author Carl Alan-Smith for that Reginald F. Lewis entrepreneurial spirit and know-how;Julia Siler and the Dialogue Divas Book Club in Atlanta Georgia and to Janet Hartle, Armondo Mason (rip),many thanks to you all.

To all my good relatives (way too many to mention here), thank you. To all my true homeboys from around the way, stay up partna’s, you know who you are! And I’d like to thank all the people that I encountered over all of my years that I didn’t get the chance to mention this time. Without you, there would be no book.

INTRODUCTION

M Y PURPOSE IN writing this book is to tell the story of growing up and older in a Southwestern Pennsylvania city. I wanted to recreate the feel, atmosphere, sights, and sounds.

I wrote about the times and moments that defined my life and me as a person. What I express may surprise some who know me. I’ve always kept many of my personal thoughts and emotions hidden, even from my family. Those who never knew me will find (hopefully) a man that endured a unique journey—one that started from an impetuous teenage adolescence that developed into manhood, one that at times I thought I would never complete. Overall I enjoyed writing this book and recalled many wonderful and fond memories of my past.

This is the story of a kid that grew up around the United States ghetto, a story of one person caught between the lifestyle of fast living and the lifestyle of the honest workingman. This is the story about someone that would hold all emotions inside, never revealing any pain even to close friends or family for fear of appearing weak or vulnerable. This is the story of a kid that never lived in the lower-development homes but spent many days and nights there; the story of a person that took unnecessary risks and, for reasons only God knows, survived; a story about how I was molded by that experience. A good friend told me once that if every black man were to write a book about his life, every story would be unique; so here’s mine.

PROLOGUE

I ’M EXCITED AND tight (scared), at the same time riding in the backseat as we drive along, my stomach doing laps around my ribcage. We gonna drive around for a minute? I wanna drive some man! I say to the two up front. Man, what is deez bullshitn’ tapes up in here? Todd Rundgen, Eric Carmen, Gerry Rafferty ‘n’ shit? Dis gotta be a white mothafucka’s car. Yo, man, throw dis shit out da window! barked Gary as he drives along Centre Avenue in the car that he stole with Carl from Oakland a half hour ago. They stopped when they saw me on the corner of Centre Avenue and Francis Street. The stolen car is a 1984 Oldsmobile Cutlass, practically brand-new. I didn’t know they stole it until I got in and saw the steering column was shattered into pieces. Yo, Slo, Gary says, we know dis dude who lives up RC, and he need tires offa GM, so I busted dis one down. We gonna take it up Kennard. Don’t have time for you t’ drive now, all’ight? Yo, whatever, man, I say back to him. We’re riding through the dark, eleven o’clock hour, on a hazy, hot, and humid summer night in the Burg. I know Gary and Carl from school; I met them both as a freshman, and we hung during the school day sometimes. But this is the first time we got together outside of school. They live in the public houses on Robinson Court, RC. Gary drives past A. Leo Weil Elementary and into the parking lot of Kennard Field. He goes toward the back of the field where it’s pitch-dark, no moon in the sky to give us up. I watch from the backseat as tall grass disappears from in front of the hood as Gary bounds through the seldom-used Old Krikpatrick street. The high beams light up the hood-high grass as it’s mowed over, piercing two knife-sharp beams into the veil of darkness. All of the sudden out of the abyss appears another car and two dudes waiting by it. Carl in the front seat yells to Gary to ram the car in front. He slows down to ten miles per hour letting the car drift into the other with a crash; we all laugh. We get out of the car, and we’re greeted by the two who think Gary’s crazy for crashing into the car they have. They’re also from my school and have stolen a car, too. They were waiting and concerned that Gary might have been caught by the police when he didn’t reach the rendeezvous point on time. After saying what’s up to me, tire irons and jacks come out from the trunks of the cars. We didn’t know you were down with dis shit, Slo, says one of the boys who were waiting for us to arrive, you helpin’? Yeah, man, I replied, gimme dat four-way lug wrench. One boy is jacking up the car as I undo the lug nuts. They’re not concerned with leaving the cars on bricks. They’ll leave them sitting on the ground as we drop the cars to earth and remove the remainder of the wheels. Our faces are full of sweat from working in the thick, hot, sultry air. Whilst I help to take the tires off, Gary removes the radios from the cars. We leave the vehicles, rolling the tires across the dark empty field of grass and through the woods up to Burrows Street. We continue to roll and roll, taking turns when we come across the Housing Authority Police station. We’ve stopped for a moment with our stolen goods, watching some young kids being taken inside. Gary knows who they are. They were also down in Oakland in the same spot Gary and Carl had been, trying to steal a car themselves. We decide to hurry along before we’re spotted with our ill-gotten prizes. We continue across Wadsworth Street and up the back city steps to Robinson Court. A few minutes later after taking turns lugging the tires up the flights of steps, we’re in the hallway of a building; Gary quietly knocks on a door. A man comes out into the hall and says nothing. He takes a look at us, the tires, and then goes back inside the apartment. He comes back, handing Gary money, and softly gestures to feed the tires to him at his door; the man rolls them inside one by one. Gary asks if he wants a radio, the man looks at him oddly for a second then goes back inside his home closing the door. Just as quickly and quietly, we exit the building and go around to the back where in the dark he divides up cash to everyone, except me. Because we jus’ picked you up and wasn’t in on it from the giddy up, you don’t get no loot dis time, Slo, he says whilst taking extra money for himself for masterminding the caper. You know how to bust down rides, Slo? he says to me in an inquisitive yet matter-of-fact kind of a way. I feel annoyed for a slight moment for his assuming I knew how to steal cars. Naw, but I want to, I quickly say back. He tells me to come up to his crib tomorrow or call, and we’ll plan for the next time. He’ll show me how to use a screwdriver to bust down tilt steering wheel columns in GM cars. He adds there’s more loot to be made this summer and that I’ll be sure to get some. We all part ways: they through the court and to their buildings just a short walk away, and I down a long flight of pitch-dark city steps to Brackenridge Street, and then another long dark tree-covered corridor of steps back to Centre Avenue.

That happened this past summer. Prior that it was five years ago when my family and I moved from the Knoxville neighborhood of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, to the Hill District in 1980. Knoxville was a very nice place to grow up. I was born on what is known as the Southside—sousi’d—of town. I have many wonderful memories growing up there in the 1970s. The usual tormenting from my older brothers and sister was a part of growing up. I’m the youngest of five children. I was labeled, like other children that are the youngest in a family, the baby. Oh, how I always hated being called the baby. And of course I would always go out of my way to prove that I was anything but a baby.

My father’s a hard-working man who would let you know who was running the show in his house had anyone forgot. As a child, I remember him being strong, athletic, and with a tremendous amount of pride for himself and his family. He wouldn’t take any mess when it came to protecting his children. He would drink moderately and never smoked anything. I can still remember the empty bottles of Duke in our basement that he would keep in its case. Duquesne was a local brand of beer brewed on the Southside of Pittsburgh until they shut down. One would keep the empties and return them to the distributor for a discount on the next case of refreshment. He worked nights at the bus depot, but I can’t remember him sleeping much during the day. He was always on the move it seemed. He was either playing basketball, cutting the lawn, or riding his motorcycles. When relaxing around the house, his favorite sport was listening to music. His state-of-the-art eight-track tape player would provide me with an everlasting appreciation for a variety of music. I remember Isaac Hayes, Nancy Wilson, Johnny Ace, Billie Holliday, Quincy Jones, Walter Jackson, Ray Charles, Idris Muhammad, Donald Byrd & the Blackbyrds, the Spaniels, Marvin Gaye, and Wes Montgomery just to name a few that shared our living room on any given day. Although Dad and I had our rough moments when I acted out, usually involving a leather belt, he was kind and nurturing toward me. He had always provided for his wife and family, and we were sure to go to Kennywood Amusement Park in West Mifflin every summer. I remember the time when I snuck into that backseat of our 1970 Buick LaSabre when I was nine years old because I knew he was going to the Bell: the local neighborhood bar in Saint Clair Village. Saint Clair is the public housing development my family lived in before I was born. He arrived, discovering me in the backseat, but wasn’t mad or upset. As a matter of fact, that turned out to be a very fun day for me to remember. I recall sitting on the bar stool and having a Cherokee Red soda while he had his Miller High Life. We hung out for an hour or so playing billiards while my dad talked to some of his friends from the Village. I later realized (years later) that he knew I was in the backseat before we had even left the house. Over the years he would teach me many things I would need to know without him having to say a word.

My mother was nurturing and caring but firm when required. I never forgot that she could take it to me when needed and still remember the swats on my backside from Hot Wheels race-car tracks. That’s right, Hot Wheels, in the traditional day-glow orange or bicentennial red, white, and blue! We had both sets; cars sold separately. When growing up in the typical black family in the ’70s, a kid usually gets beat by his mother or father with the first thing within their reach, so long as it’s not too radical. This wasn’t child abuse for the beatings were never severe. However, Mom and Dad were in my conscience should I go astray, that’s for sure. As a result of that philosophy, not much trouble came from any of my brothers and sister either.

Now we were on the Hill. This was surely a far different neighborhood than Knoxville. It was foreign to me that a lot of my newfound friends had no father or mother in the home. I had never known life without both my parents being there for me. I can recall my first days of attending Margaret Milliones Middle School, formerly known as Herron Hill when my mother attended school there. She grew up on the Hill when she was a little girl. She lived at 2241 Bedford Avenue to be exact, an address I would become familiar with because my grandmother lived there before she passed. My three eldest brothers had since left home leaving my brother Ellery and my sister Irene as my older resident siblings. My mother works for a large insurance company, and my father has his own business. My sister works at the same company that my mother does, and my brother is working for my father. We aren’t rich, but we have more than the average family living around us. I was never without the latest Atari 2600 video game, central air-conditioning or Cube Cable television. We always had at least two cars that were no more than a few years old and in excellent condition. Having a Cadillac is a must in my family. My mother and father came a long way with six kids from St. Clair Village, so I suppose they owe that one to themselves. My mother wanted to live in a brand-new home, so we moved to the Hill. The Hill is nothing like it was in its heyday of the 1920s, ’30s, and ’40s. All of the jazz greats used to come and play in the clubs and ballrooms right here in this neighborhood! Lena Horne, Billy Eckstine, Duke Ellington, Roy Eldridge, and many more performed on the Hill at one time or another. Now the Hill’s great clubs are mostly torn down, abandoned, or just shells of their former selves masquerading as taverns for derelicts and the riffraff they attract. The Civic Arena now stands where great jazz clubs used to be, and the famous Wylie Avenue days are a thing of the past. I’m attending Schenley High School and have managed some popularity due to me playing on the football team, but no doubt mostly to me being able to master the human beat box since 1984. With the Fat Boys, Biz Markie, Just-Ice and Cool DMX, and Doug E. Fresh all being the Stuff, the ability to beat box and rap a little is a very nice tool for meeting girls. Despite my hip-hop prowess, I don’t think I would be considered the typical kid. Sure I have the same interests as other kids like football, basketball, hip-hop culture, and rap music. But I’m into some things that the average teen in a black neighborhood isn’t. My first love is Formula One Grand Prix Racing. It’s kind of hard to hold a conversation when all of my friends mainly watch ball-and-stick sports. Since 1983 when ESPN was even more primal, I never miss a Grand Prix. Early Sunday morning I stay glued to the TV set to watch Nigel Mansell, Ayrton Senna, Nelson Piquet, Keke Rosberg, Michele Alboreto, Jacques Laffite, Eddie Cheever, Andrea de Cesaris, and Alan Prost all wanting to win the world championship. I’d be in amazement of the one-thousand-plus horsepower of the BMW-powered Parmalat Brabham, the Renault-powered black and gold John Player Special Lotus; Tag Turbo Porsche—powered Marlboro McLaren! That’s of course when ESPN could get the signal to work from some faraway distant land in Europe, Australia, or Great Britain. I learned more about other cultures through Formula One than I ever had in social studies class.

It’s the beginning of the new school year, fall 1985; seventeen years old in tenth grade—thanks to me failing the first and sixth grades—ready to embark on another school year, and looking forward to playing another season of football for the Schenley Spartans. I’m not starting full-time on the varsity team at this point of my high school football career, but I have secured a spot on the kickoff and punt return teams since being a freshman and manage to play the odd defensive play or two as well. The other thing I’m looking forward to is meeting some new girls. Every guy on the football team has a renewed enthusiasm for posting perfect attendance because he knew the year promised a new crop of fine freshmen honeys, just the thing a teenager with hormones in a stir is looking for. The new girls at the school are unaware of our mischievous ways. And it was our job to get to them first before the sophomore, junior, and senior girls told them of our devious plans and spoiled our fun.

I lived on the Hill for a few years now, and I’m well known. I never had a problem with being picked since sixth grade on, and because of my brothers Ell and Larue attending Schenley before me, the older and more popular senior students befriended me, a good advantage. I weigh in at about one hundred ninety and bench-pressing about two hundred eighty pounds, not too bad for a city-league tenth grader. I had no aspirations to attend college after graduating when I first got to Schenley; didn’t lend too much of my time to that prospect. Now I wish I had made that a primary concern when I was a freshman. My grades were not what I’d consider college material then; how could they be? I was in the vice principal’s office almost as much as he. I would jokingly suggest he have a nameplate for me put upon his desk so I can cover the office in his absence. My mother and father would not have that nonsense for too long. That is if the news ever made it back home to them. The school system inspires an environment of passing kids along to the next grade because holding them back doesn’t make sense. Doing that only makes life harder on the teachers. No one is interested in identifying kids with problems then focusing on their specific needs before they enter the real world. It’s too late in the game once reaching eleventh or twelfth grade. Maybe in elementary school but not in high school—damaged goods at this stage of the game is too risky to tinker with. They rather just pass the student down the line. And if the student were eighteen or nineteen in the ninth or tenth grades, they dare not fail them if they weren’t too much trouble. They’d get them through for social promotion; that way a kid would at least hit the streets with a diploma. See, turns out they do have compassion after all, huh? Once graduated however, they were on their own. Fortunately I took a vested, albeit late, interest in my own education because I had to maintain a minimum 2.0 grade point average. Anything less and I would not be allowed to play football. When I face problems in the classroom or at home, the football field is a means of escape for me. It’s a respite where my problems can’t follow me. To me, it became more than just a game; it stabilized me and became a means to cope with life on the Hill. I never saw myself as a ferocious player. A high school friend that I used to be in a rap group with told me once, You a cool dude ta hang wit, but I heard dat when you get on da football field, you change into someone else. I’m unaware of this transformation. I just try to cover my assignments the best I could. I never considered myself as being a crazy type of player. I just knew the nature of the game and tried to conform to it. I suppose that adaptation was always one of my better attributes, a quality I hope to rely upon in other situations, particularly when dealing with the girls I hope to meet.

Amazingly enough, my mother and father never had "the sex talk" with me. I guess they may have been too embarrassed to hold that conversation. I don’t think it would have been a comfortable subject for me anyway. Sex and drinking were topics I never wanted to get into discussing with my parents. As a result, the board of public education was responsible for my first and only educational sex conversation. It came via my gym teacher in the form of health class in middle school. I remember only one or two days spent on the subject, not a lot of time to teach anyone anything about any subject.

Everything I do know about sex so far comes from one source: porno tapes. At this stage of the game, I haven’t gotten too lucky with the girls, although I managed to make out here and there. I haven’t been able to so-called close the deal for one reason or another. My friends and I would sit around and watch porn movies sometimes. We’d borrow videotapes from older kids and pass them among my group of friends to watch. Sometimes we would gather at my house or at my friend Alhar’s house. He lives around the corner from me and is my first real friend on the Hill. His mother and father give him a lot of freedom when it comes to having company in his home. So his basement became the neighborhood headquarters for the whole crew. From New Year’s drinking to college and pro football game day, that’s the place to be. We really get a laugh out of the corny music and the bad acting seemingly obligatory to pornographic films. To us, porn is unintentional comedies, not something meant to arouse. However I do get one important lesson from all of those tapes, pleasing the woman comes first; the man’s satisfaction is always second. Since no one ever had a talk with me about sex, I took what I saw on those tapes as what I’m supposed to do with a girl. So when it’ll come time to try it in the comfort of my own home, I’ll have the templates of success. In my mind, those templates can lead me to world championships of a different sort. To me, sex is like a job that is to be done well. I have this idea that part of it is to have the girl like me as a person. I would want that girl as a friend, too, in a strange kind of way. I guess it really isn’t all that strange. I want to have fun and be cool with girls, enjoying their company; having sex is just a part of that fun. I suppose I don’t necessarily want a girlfriend, just what comes with it. The most important part of it all is no getting girls high or drunk and taken advantage of them. I want her to do what I like but only if she’s down with it. If she doesn’t want to, I’ll just take her home or leave if I know I want nothing else to do with her, but nothing by force; that’s wrong. Without drugs or beer to do it, 100 percent natural is the only way to be and no drugs of any kind. I never smoked weed; that’s for punk-ass suckers. I never need something to control or relax my mind; that’s what music’s for.

Another way, maybe, for my education might just be Mystique Pryor. She has a good job and her own home. Young and impressionable, I know I still am, definitely so when Mystique walked into my life. Riding in and stealing parts off stolen cars was proof of that. Fortunately Mystique intervened and, no pun intended, steered me away from me obtaining a degree in Unauthorized Motor Vehicle Acquisition and Management; not that she knows about my involvement in such things. Why risk getting put in jail proving how cool I am by stealing cars? Being with her (going to restaurants, learning to conduct myself by following her example) is more fun to me. I can still remember that first day I saw her. Late this past summer, I was sitting on the wall at Francis and Elba streets by myself on a late Sunday afternoon. It was a warm day and the wind slightly breezy. The sun was shining and danced through the wind-blown tree leaves as it headed toward the horizon. I had nothing particular to do, besides sit on a cinder block wall. I was just relaxing and enjoying the peace alone with Maze featuring Frankie Beverley Golden Time of Day playing in my head. That’s when I caught an image out the corner of my eye. I blinked once or twice, and then turned my head to focus on what my peripheral sight noticed, and that’s when I saw Mystique. She must have gotten off the bus at the corner of Centre and Francis streets where we hangout in the neighborhood. This girl was too fine! She had a dark, impossibly clear complexion and looked to be twenty-four to twenty-eight and about five feet seven in height. She looked like she weighed around one hundred ten pounds, and despite her lean physique, she was quite voluptuous. The black long curly hair on her head was done nicely and shone in the amber sun. I could tell she was definitely not a teenager! Oh, did I mention she was fine too? Yeah, I think I got that in. She was going to walk right past me; she was walking with a purpose. Perhaps she was late to wherever she had to be. That’s when I stood up from my seat on the wall and said, Excuse me. She came to a stop in about three steps but did not say a word; she just looked at me, wondering what I wanted and waiting for me to say whatever I needed to stop her to hear. I walked toward her but not too imposingly. Um, hi, how are you? I said quickly. All right, she replied in her mature-sounding voice and still looking at me, no doubt thinking, what next and hurry up with it. You in a hurry? That’s cool, but if you have a moment, I’d like to talk to you if that’s all right? I said in my best appealing voice. She thought for a second after my short impromptu speech, looked me up and down, and then the corners of her mouth hinted slightly upward. Yeah, okay. I knew I had to make whatever I was going to say to her good and quick. I had no idea what words were about to come out of my mouth.

So,what’s up, I’m Thom … and you are, um?

Mystique.

All right, Mystique, cool. I know you in a hurry and all, but I don’t wanna keep you from anything, you know? Maybe we can walk up the hill to the next corner? You won’t be slowed down and still be on your way to where you headed. If you don’t like what I have to say, well, that will be that, coo?

She agreed, and we were both on our way together.

I never saw you ’round here before. You don’t come ’round this way too much, do ya?

I live in Wilkinsburg. I’m going to see my father. He lives over here, and I want ta visit him before I leave town for a minute.

I came to find that she played lead guitar in a band called Third Time Charmed. I also came to find out ten minutes after meeting her that she smoked. It was the only vice that I knew about from the onset. She told me that she had a gig in D.C. and would be out of town two weeks from tomorrow. By the time we reached the top of the hill near Jones Funeral Home, I must have made a positive impression; meaning she didn’t tell me to get gone.

Oh well, I’m out of time to impress you, I guess. I’d like to continue this conversation though if that’s okay?

Her head tiled slightly upward as she scanned me with her pretty eyes as if they were lie detectors, gave me her number, and said, Call me in two weeks, okay? Oh, yeah, I replied calmly. I’ll call you. Okay, I’ll talk to you later, Thom, bye, she said with her face smiling, then she turned and walked up the street. And with that she was on her way. I watched her for a moment then turned to walk away myself. Why did I say excuse me instead of something like, Yo, baby, come check dis out, when I wanted her to stop? Why didn’t I try to act like I was some kind of player? When I thought back upon that moment, I knew that she would not respond well to that. Somehow I just knew it. I was starting to develop what I like to call my sixth sense. For the first time, I felt as if I knew what a girl wanted to hear. I never knew if I would see her again. Hell, I didn’t even know if the number that she gave me was for real. I called the number that she gave me later on that week, and no one answered; nonetheless I hung onto it. Two weeks and a day later, I called again; and just like clockwork, she answered, just like she said she would. Ever since that day, my personality was altered. I just knew she would become one of the most direct influences upon my life, in more ways than one and in ways I could never imagine. I could see her being my friend, my teacher, and my idol. Anything she wanted to teach or show me I would be ready to absorb, embrace, and make a serious attempt to master it. Anything.

CHAPTER 1

Fall 1985: Original Times

A T THE BEGINNING of the school year, my routine during football season consists of going to school and spending the first period or two waking up. When lunchtime comes around, I’m already in anticipation for going to practice. I would spend one half of the lunch period eating and the other beat boxing or, on occasion, rapping whilst someone else made the beat. I’m becoming quite the improvisational hip-hop emcee; being able to think of the next thing I’ll say while simultaneously rhyming. After football practice I hang down at the YMCA, go home, and do my homework before eating dinner and watching the A-Team or Magnum P.I. My mother and father didn’t mind if I caught Johnny Carson’s monologue before I went to bed on the weekdays, something I’ve been doing since the ’70s in the summertime. Fridays I stay up late night hanging on the corner of the YMCA drinking a forty-ounce of malt liquor with my friends. I don’t go to the bar unless I have money for two bottles. My only concern is quickly drinking the first one before the second one gets too warm. I have such a high tolerance to the stuff that it really doesn’t affect me any longer. I only drink on the weekends, and I’m not concerned that it’ll affect my performance on the football field. We do so much physical conditioning for football; I don’t have to worry.

We’re playing the first game of the season on this hot Friday September afternoon at South Vocational High School’s South Stadium. We all look forward to playing the first game of the year on the Southside turf, much more hospitable than the dust, dirt, and rocks of the practice field. But the turf, unfortunately, is just that more hot, too. And now I guess that I didn’t have enough water to drink for as the game goes on, I’m getting dizzy and blinded by the sun. I finally have the chance to play regularly on varsity defense, and fate just has to intervene. The coach summons me and puts me in to play defensive end, but now my dizziness is really coming on strong. I can’t see a thing, except bright light and barely anything else. I’m relieved that I’m coming off the field now, not to mention glad that the two plays I was in for didn’t come my way! Coach obviously saw that I was having some type of problem. I’m not going back in to play. Those are the breaks. The game is over, and though I’m very dizzy, I still know I need medical attention from the paramedics. I approach them with my symptoms, and they give me ice packs and water; I’m experiencing a heatstroke.

I’m still out of it, feeling quite dizzy and now nauseous, too. Two of my teammates are doing me the favor of helping me make my way to the bus. I’m talking to friends outside of the bus before boarding; a girl I know from school approaches me. What up, Thom?

Hey, Lori. What up, girl?

Nothing, you look like you’re out of it.

Yeah, I know. The paramedics told me I have heatstroke. I’m kind of dizzy.

What are you up to later on?

Nothin’, sep for going home and gettin’ in bed.

All I’m interested in at this point is getting on the bus and sitting down so I won’t be as dizzy. But she has a friend of hers that she wants me to meet.

Here’s my girl Karen I was telling you about.

What up, Karen?

Chillin’, what up with you?

I answer her slowly and in a tired-sounding voice, Not much other than being dizzy. I still can’t see that good, I mean, well, now. I’m not feeling hot either. I wanna talk, but I need to be sittin’ down. You think you can gimme your number so we can talk though?

Lori had been telling me about her girlfriend Karen over the past week. I really wanted to hook up with Lori, but she said she had an older girlfriend to hook me up with. I forgot that she was bringing her to the game. What little I can see is long black hair, nice hips and legs. She’s about five feet five or six. She’s either out of school or dropped out. I can’t remember which one Lori told me. I do know that she’s around nineteen. She gives me her number and tells me to call her around eleven o’clock tomorrow morning. Lori and Karen say their good-byes, and I get on the bus. Shortly after the bus got on its way back to Schenley, I promptly throw up in the team’s water cooler. My teammates aren’t impressed and they’re letting me know about it. But it’s either that or the floor.

Feeling somewhat better now after arriving at the school and taking a shower with the cooler to wash it out, I’m glad Dad has shown up to give me a ride home. I eat some crackers and drink ginger ale before turning in early, too tired to hang out with Johnny Carson and David Letterman. I’ll check those guys out Monday night.

It’s Saturday morning, and I feel much better than the night before. I’m still a little light-headed, but overall, nothing like yesterday. Thank goodness for that. It’s a nice sunny morning; I’m looking forward to getting out of this house. Starting my day with a bowl of cereal and Thundarr The Barbarian on ABC’s morning cartoons, I figure I better call Karen. I’ve got her on the phone, and she wants to hook up around one in the afternoon in front of Murphy’s Store in Lawrenceville. I tell her that I’m feeling much better today, and that’ll be fine.

I’ve gotten dressed, out of my house, and on my way; it’s around noontime. Catching the 81B Lincoln bus at Centre Avenue and Francis, I’ll ride to Morewood Avenue in Oakland just before entering the Shadyside neighborhood. I can walk to Bloomfield from there. I’m on foot now, and it’s getting hot and humid outside. Why am I out here in this heat? I haven’t any water, but I still have a hint of light-headedness. Hey, one of my friends from school is coming down the street. What’s up, Ted? Slo, what’s up? he says. Ted lives in Lawrenceville down the hill from Bloomfield. He and his older brother Aaron are respected among his friends as well as some of my friends in school. He’s part of a big family that’s well known in this neighborhood. Where ya goin’ to, my man? I’m headed down to Lawrenceville to check dis girl out, I tell him. Be careful down there, he says. A lot of guys down there ain’t quite down with the brothas’, know what I’m sayin’? If you have any problems, you tell ’em you know me. I tell him thanks, and I’ll check him out in school on Monday. Ted didn’t have to say that. Lawrenceville doesn’t have many black families living there. Only one or two of my black friends live there, and it’s more like up the way in Polish Hill as opposed to down in Lawrenceville. I even heard stories of black kids being chased out of the parks after dark by gangs of white dudes. I’ve got about fifteen minutes left to get to Murphy’s, and I can make it right on time if I hurry. I’m walking swiftly, exerting myself like I shouldn’t do. I’m in front of G. C. Murphy Co. on Butler Street and in time. Now I just have to wait. Hey, here’s Karen now. What up, Thom, feeling better than yesterday? she says whilst greeting me with a hug. Yeah, much better, I say. I’m still a little light-headed, but I’m doin’ all right. That heatstroke messed me up. She wants to go inside the store now to get something to drink. We’re both walking in, headed to a cooler, and she grabs a bottle of Coke. Taking the coldest one inside, we proceed to the cash register and wait in line. Now I’m noticing that all of the activity in the store is nearly at a standstill. All of the people in the store are looking at this black kid with a white girl in the heart of Lawrenceville of all places. I’m thinking, to hell with them, although I’m feeling a bit uncomfortable at this moment. I know if this was 1950 or even the ’70s, I would be in serious trouble, and I’d be in it right now! We pay for the soda leaving the store. Now we’re walking from the high street to the back streets and alleys. In most of the neighborhoods, the back streets are narrow. Lawrenceville is near the Allegheny River, so the back streets are even narrower than the average streets. I’m now in the place that most black youth wouldn’t care to be, and walking with a good-looking white girl on top of that. What am I doing? Have I gone crazy? If I run into the wrong group of kids now, I better hope that me knowing Ted gets me a pass. If not I’m bound to catch a bum rush that I surely won’t forget in a hurry. That is, if I live through it. We’re walking and talking about our friends and each other’s likes and dislikes, getting a feel for one another. We keep on walking, and we reach the river. There are some neighborhood kids, looking to be a few years older than me, jumping into the river from a swing made from rope and an old tire under the 40th Street Bridge. They have nothing to say to me. I guess they’re too busy having fun cooling off on a hot, muggy afternoon, failing to notice us. Or have they? We continued walking, and now we’re entering a train yard full of boxcars. I don’t have much on my mind other than conversation and watching out for the unexpected in my weakened state. The tracks are becoming more and more congested with large railroad boxcars. It’s absolutely vacant of people and sounds of civilization. The only noise we hear is our footsteps on gravel as we’re walking alongside of the tracks holding hands. We came in-between two boxcars stopping for a moment. I check the car coupling for grease before leaning my back against it. Karen comes to me, putting her arms around my neck, and I do the same around her waist. We start kissing, lightly on the lips at first, then French kissing. I hold her, running my fingers through her long hair that hangs down her back. Both of us aren’t saying anything. It’s as if we know what the other is thinking without speaking. I can’t hear anything but dead silence, no sound of wind, birds, anything, like being in a vacuum, as if we’re the only two people in Lawrenceville. I feel her as she moves closer to me. There’s only one way we can be closer now. She gently breaks her kiss and lets go of me. Now she’s taking a few steps back, looking between the seemingly endless curving rows of boxcars, checking if the coast is indeed clear. Stepping back to me, she’s unbuttoning her jeans, pulling them down along with her panties. I’m doing the same with my clothes without hesitation, but I’m trying not to seem too anxious. Now she’s standing up on the rail with her jeans and panties halfway down her thick well-shaped thighs. I bend my knees, kneeling down slightly approaching her. I come to her, and then … it’s happening. Holding her with my hands around her lower back, and she has her hands around my shoulders. My face is pressed against her soft cheek as I listen to her inhale and exhale. I’m feeling a world that I had never felt before. I guess ten minutes have gone by now, I really can’t tell. It’s feeling all right, but not what I’ve been expecting. I’m not as fazed as I thought I would be. I pretended to pant a little bit now emulating porno movies I’ve watched so many times. I’m expecting something unearthly or some mystical, magical, metaphysical phenomenon to occur. I really don’t know what to expect next! But I know one thing for damn sure: I like this, I like this a lot. No, I love this! I love this closeness and the feeling of a girl. At this moment I know I have crossed the threshold. And with an older girl too! We slowly come to a stop and pull our clothes back up. We’re kissing again, tightly embracing, leaving the train yard, and walking with our arms around each other. Walking along an alley, we get to an old abandoned warehouse and climb the stairs. Inside it’s loft like, paint is peeling from the walls. It smells damp with cool moister and the windowpanes have been broken a long time ago. We find a piece of cardboard, and I sit down putting my back to the wall. Karen sits in front of me and leans against my chest; now we’re talking about what we did. So funny, I don’t feel nervous or in danger at all being here; we’re talking about getting together in the future. I’m not telling her that she’s my first experience. Since she’s obviously experienced, she probably knows it anyway. It’s much cooler in here. I nearly feel 100 percent better. I’m surprised that no one has come up here after we did, and I hope not. We’ve been sitting for a while now, but it’s nearly four o’clock; we think it’s time to leave the warehouse.

We’re back into the daylight, walking to the bus stop on Butler Street across from Arsenal Middle School. We’re talking to each other, sitting on the bench now under the pavilion and waiting for my bus to come. We can see a long way down the street and have no idea when it’ll get here, neither of us knowing the schedule. But we’re not going to talk much longer now because here it comes. We give each other another long hug saying good-bye as the bus is coming to the curb. I’ll call you tomorrow or Monday, I say. She says, Okay, and I get onboard. I’m watching Karen from the window as the bus pulls away for as long as I can. She vanishes among the buildings. My thoughts now turn toward getting back home and, more importantly, washing up. I don’t know if I’m going to see her again; only time can reveal that.

It’s Sunday, and like I said I would, I’m calling to get together with Karen again, but I can’t reach her; there’s no answer. When I spoke to Lori last week before hooking up, she told me her home situation isn’t that stable. In fact, now that I think about it all, I’m surprised we’d even hooked up at all.

Days have gone by now; I’ve lost contact with Karen altogether. I wonder what is going on, what’s happening, and what’s going to become of Karen. For some reason, I don’t think the result is going to be a good one. She wasn’t thinking of furthering her education to my knowledge, nor did she mention any dreams or aspirations that she had. I supposed that we didn’t have enough time to talk about those things. I hope she’ll be cool doing whatever regardless if we hook up again or not. If not, I don’t think I’ll forget her. How could I?

CHAPTER 2

Valley Lights

E VER SINCE BEING with Karen, I’m a new person. I walk down the school hallways with confidence, and it feels as if my newly acquired persona is emitting from my every pore. Yes, the typical school days here at Schenley: English class, social studies, gym, lunch, and football practice. I’ll be waking up each morning and doing it all over again and again. Fall is here, and this football thing is really starting to pay off for me. I’m becoming quite appealing to girls due to my extracurricular activities. Friends that I have at school are involved in different things. Some play sports, lift weights, and others just rather go home after school. Dave Evans is one of those closer friends. I started hanging around him in school and over time, the weekends too. We’d hang out where he lives on Sugar Top, a section of the Hill, messing around with the girls he introduces me to, drinking Brass Monkey and Private Stock malt liquor from the 730 Lounge on Herron Avenue. We’d even talk to the same girls, and if they start showing me interest, he’d mess things up for me. True friend indeed! It’s all in good fun.

It’s Wednesday and I’m at the end of my school day now, and walking with company on the way home. Between periods late in the day, I was taking a drink at a water fountain before going to my next to last class when a nice-looking girl came to have a drink after I did. So I stuck around to see what she looked like from the front. I had just seen her back; it’s a nice back. I introduced myself, and we started talking. I don’t waste time before showing a girl I’m interested in hooking up—that’s if I feel the same interest from her. She was telling me about her boyfriend and how she was tired of him. I was a bit surprised and delighted to find out that it’s my boy Dave. Tammie lives in a different place on the Hill than me, so I can only walk her part of the way home. She gives me her phone number and says to call tonight.

It’s about six in the evening now. I’ve got Tammie on the phone. We’re talking about the usual school junk whilst watching MTV and about getting together Thursday. It’s a long weekend coming up. She’s ready to tell Dave that she wants to quit him. I’m going to tell him that it’s over. After I call him, I’ll call you back, she says. We hang up. About ten minutes has gone by, and now the phone’s ringing. I answer …

Hello.

What’s up, Slo?

Dave, what’s up man?

That was a good one, partner. Tammie just called and gave me the boot. Nice work, dog.

Yeah, I had to get you back for messing me up with Tina, man!

It ain’t nothin’, Holmes. I’ll give you a call tomorrow. We’ll hook up later, cool?

All right, Dave. Dat’s coo, man, later on!

I hang up the phone; he isn’t angry with me at all. We’re good friends,