would see more than that before it was all over. Then she would die. That he hadnât told her.
Well, he knew for a fact that Tracie Burlingame would only be allowed to hold on to what she had for so long. After all, Tracie was nothing more than the host, so to speak. Satisfied with the greatness and wisdom that had been granted him, he walked the streets of Harlem.
He walked with his tall frame hunched over. His huge hands were stuffed in his pockets. His bald brown globe of a head gleamed under the streetlights as he ducked into the shadows to avoid the glare beaming from the lights.
He decided he would begin with a small gift. He headed over to 125 th Street. The woman who owned this bookstore was a disseminator of information. He watched the woman as she began the process of closing down the dusty old store.
As he watched, he noted the certificates and little gold plaques hung on the walls, which reflected her achievements and those of others. Her little shop was chock-full of books. She had black history books. There were books on theology and the seminary, African-American books, memoirs, biographies, and autobiographies as well.
Even the ceilings of her store depicted the gifted and famous. Posters hung with pride from the sagging ceiling. There wasnât an inch of space that didnât reflect black pride.
He smiled ruefully to himself. All the books crammed onto the shelves of the dinky, dusty little shop reflected pieces of him in one way or another. That was the puzzle he could not allow some smart-alecky know-it-all to try to figure out. That was one of the reasons he needed to collect the gifts.
He watched the old woman with the silky gray hair, every strand laid in place. No doubt she was one of Miss Burlingameâs elite clientele. Her carriage was erect. She carried herself proudly, tall, with a hint of arrogance.
Her air was like that of the great professors who, once they had taught their students the astuteness and wisdom of how to arrange the words of the English language to create vision, preened at their own images. They preened at the continuity of vision they had pumped out.
Oh, but he knew. This woman had taken up space here in the hopes that, between the pages of the knowledge she sold to the public, there would be one who would string together the truth about him. Well, she would not see it in her lifetime. It was time for her to join the others. They must all be gathered together.
He walked into the shop just as Ms. Virginia, as she was known through out the borough, had closed out the register. He stood with his brown, bald head gleaming under the single bulb she had left on while closing the shop.
He found the light irritating, but it was necessary for now. Later he would crawl and hunker down into his little room of darkness, where all was right with the world . . . where he could recuperate from the light.
Ms. Virginia looked up at his entrance. âI was just closing, young man.â
She was a nice woman who always wanted to help someone in need. Sometimes just as she was ready to close her doors, someone would run through needing that last-minute item. Students looking for research, or others who just couldnât wait till the next day. She was always accommodating. She loved books. She could talk about them for hours, even when she was about to close.
The man didnât respond.
âWell,â she said, âif you really need something, just go ahead; Iâll spare you the time.â She smiled engagingly at the man.
He didnât move. So she asked, âWhatâs your name?â
âMe,â he said.
She looked up from marking the cash-out envelope. âYoung man, I meant your given name.â She knew about all the strange names the kids gave themselves these days. She personally thought it was ridiculous. Why didnât anyone like to use his or her Christian name these days?
âI know what you meant,â he said. The hairs on the
Well, he knew for a fact that Tracie Burlingame would only be allowed to hold on to what she had for so long. After all, Tracie was nothing more than the host, so to speak. Satisfied with the greatness and wisdom that had been granted him, he walked the streets of Harlem.
He walked with his tall frame hunched over. His huge hands were stuffed in his pockets. His bald brown globe of a head gleamed under the streetlights as he ducked into the shadows to avoid the glare beaming from the lights.
He decided he would begin with a small gift. He headed over to 125 th Street. The woman who owned this bookstore was a disseminator of information. He watched the woman as she began the process of closing down the dusty old store.
As he watched, he noted the certificates and little gold plaques hung on the walls, which reflected her achievements and those of others. Her little shop was chock-full of books. She had black history books. There were books on theology and the seminary, African-American books, memoirs, biographies, and autobiographies as well.
Even the ceilings of her store depicted the gifted and famous. Posters hung with pride from the sagging ceiling. There wasnât an inch of space that didnât reflect black pride.
He smiled ruefully to himself. All the books crammed onto the shelves of the dinky, dusty little shop reflected pieces of him in one way or another. That was the puzzle he could not allow some smart-alecky know-it-all to try to figure out. That was one of the reasons he needed to collect the gifts.
He watched the old woman with the silky gray hair, every strand laid in place. No doubt she was one of Miss Burlingameâs elite clientele. Her carriage was erect. She carried herself proudly, tall, with a hint of arrogance.
Her air was like that of the great professors who, once they had taught their students the astuteness and wisdom of how to arrange the words of the English language to create vision, preened at their own images. They preened at the continuity of vision they had pumped out.
Oh, but he knew. This woman had taken up space here in the hopes that, between the pages of the knowledge she sold to the public, there would be one who would string together the truth about him. Well, she would not see it in her lifetime. It was time for her to join the others. They must all be gathered together.
He walked into the shop just as Ms. Virginia, as she was known through out the borough, had closed out the register. He stood with his brown, bald head gleaming under the single bulb she had left on while closing the shop.
He found the light irritating, but it was necessary for now. Later he would crawl and hunker down into his little room of darkness, where all was right with the world . . . where he could recuperate from the light.
Ms. Virginia looked up at his entrance. âI was just closing, young man.â
She was a nice woman who always wanted to help someone in need. Sometimes just as she was ready to close her doors, someone would run through needing that last-minute item. Students looking for research, or others who just couldnât wait till the next day. She was always accommodating. She loved books. She could talk about them for hours, even when she was about to close.
The man didnât respond.
âWell,â she said, âif you really need something, just go ahead; Iâll spare you the time.â She smiled engagingly at the man.
He didnât move. So she asked, âWhatâs your name?â
âMe,â he said.
She looked up from marking the cash-out envelope. âYoung man, I meant your given name.â She knew about all the strange names the kids gave themselves these days. She personally thought it was ridiculous. Why didnât anyone like to use his or her Christian name these days?
âI know what you meant,â he said. The hairs on the
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