“Wait,” he said, calling behind me. “I can order the books for you if you’d like.”
I must have looked skeptical because he continued to try to convince me. “Ten days to two weeks. I’ll have them right here in my store for you,” he said. “Do you know the name of the author?”
“Yes, it’s Bashir Hussein. The series is written in Arabic,” I told him.
His face lit up. “Where are you from?” he asked.
“Where are you from?” I turned the question around on him.
“No, really,” he asked me again.
“I just came from the number two train,” I answered him.
He smiled, unfolded his arms, and threw up his hands saying, “Bravo! Okay, kid, you win. I see you’re a tough one. But you like books, so I like you. Come back in two weeks and I will have your series for you. If not, then I’m not Marty Bookbinder!” He held out his hand to me. I shook it.
Two weeks later when I returned to The Open Mind, I entered the store and walked around quietly, wondering how this guy survived in this business when I had yet to see him with a customer besides myself. I saw him shoot past me inthe maze of shelves without acknowledging that I was standing there. I took that to mean he did not get the books I ordered and didn’t feel like facing me. I turned to walk out.
He shouted after me, “Hey, I have your series.”
Surprised, I turned back around and followed him to the section where he kept the new books shelved. Naturally I smiled as I saw volumes one through twenty-one of the series my father first chose for me right there in front of my face in this foreign land. “I’ll take volumes fifteen through twenty-one,” I told Marty.
“That’s seven books,” he said to me. I thought it was a dumb comment that implied I either did not know that already or could not count for myself. “Each book is seven-fifty,” he said.
I put my fifty-two dollars and fifty cents on the counter plus eight percent sales tax. “Put them in a bag, please,” I said.
“What about the other volumes?” he asked.
I picked up my bag and answered, “I read them already.” I left the store thinking of how much I hate to be underestimated.
“Wait a minute.” He followed me. “What’s your name?” he asked.
“Maybe next time,” I told him.
“That’s an interesting name.” He laughed. “Listen, please come again. I’ll teach you how to play chess. Do you play chess?” he asked.
“Chess? Maybe next time,” I said again.
Down that same block, I found a friendly Jewish realtor. I explained to her that my mother didn’t speak any English, but we were looking for a place to stay. She was the one who eventually led Umma and me to the Brooklyn projects, into a three-bedroom apartment on the sixth floor. She showed it to us like it was the ideal place for the ideal price.
She charged us three months’ rent in advance. Somehow,only two months’ worth of the money we gave her counted. The third month’s rent, she said, was her fee for locating the apartment for us.
The bottom line was we were never suspicious that the realtor had led us into a hell reserved for poor Blacks. We didn’t know about the crime rate, the condition of African Americans, hostile policing, illegal drugs, welfare, food stamps, or Medicaid. All we knew was the monthly rental price was an amount that we could afford to pay without Umma having to work for the first year while she gave birth to and began breast-feeding and raising the baby, who my father assured us was a daughter.
With the keys to our new apartment in my hands, I went in and scrubbed the walls, toilet, and tub with Dettol. I swept, washed, and waxed the floors in every room. I cleaned all of the windows. I taught myself how to use the stove and oven. I cleaned it out as well as the refrigerator. The job took so long to complete that I never made it back to the hotel where Umma was hand-washing and hang-drying her favorite cloths and packing our few belongings. She did
I must have looked skeptical because he continued to try to convince me. “Ten days to two weeks. I’ll have them right here in my store for you,” he said. “Do you know the name of the author?”
“Yes, it’s Bashir Hussein. The series is written in Arabic,” I told him.
His face lit up. “Where are you from?” he asked.
“Where are you from?” I turned the question around on him.
“No, really,” he asked me again.
“I just came from the number two train,” I answered him.
He smiled, unfolded his arms, and threw up his hands saying, “Bravo! Okay, kid, you win. I see you’re a tough one. But you like books, so I like you. Come back in two weeks and I will have your series for you. If not, then I’m not Marty Bookbinder!” He held out his hand to me. I shook it.
Two weeks later when I returned to The Open Mind, I entered the store and walked around quietly, wondering how this guy survived in this business when I had yet to see him with a customer besides myself. I saw him shoot past me inthe maze of shelves without acknowledging that I was standing there. I took that to mean he did not get the books I ordered and didn’t feel like facing me. I turned to walk out.
He shouted after me, “Hey, I have your series.”
Surprised, I turned back around and followed him to the section where he kept the new books shelved. Naturally I smiled as I saw volumes one through twenty-one of the series my father first chose for me right there in front of my face in this foreign land. “I’ll take volumes fifteen through twenty-one,” I told Marty.
“That’s seven books,” he said to me. I thought it was a dumb comment that implied I either did not know that already or could not count for myself. “Each book is seven-fifty,” he said.
I put my fifty-two dollars and fifty cents on the counter plus eight percent sales tax. “Put them in a bag, please,” I said.
“What about the other volumes?” he asked.
I picked up my bag and answered, “I read them already.” I left the store thinking of how much I hate to be underestimated.
“Wait a minute.” He followed me. “What’s your name?” he asked.
“Maybe next time,” I told him.
“That’s an interesting name.” He laughed. “Listen, please come again. I’ll teach you how to play chess. Do you play chess?” he asked.
“Chess? Maybe next time,” I said again.
Down that same block, I found a friendly Jewish realtor. I explained to her that my mother didn’t speak any English, but we were looking for a place to stay. She was the one who eventually led Umma and me to the Brooklyn projects, into a three-bedroom apartment on the sixth floor. She showed it to us like it was the ideal place for the ideal price.
She charged us three months’ rent in advance. Somehow,only two months’ worth of the money we gave her counted. The third month’s rent, she said, was her fee for locating the apartment for us.
The bottom line was we were never suspicious that the realtor had led us into a hell reserved for poor Blacks. We didn’t know about the crime rate, the condition of African Americans, hostile policing, illegal drugs, welfare, food stamps, or Medicaid. All we knew was the monthly rental price was an amount that we could afford to pay without Umma having to work for the first year while she gave birth to and began breast-feeding and raising the baby, who my father assured us was a daughter.
With the keys to our new apartment in my hands, I went in and scrubbed the walls, toilet, and tub with Dettol. I swept, washed, and waxed the floors in every room. I cleaned all of the windows. I taught myself how to use the stove and oven. I cleaned it out as well as the refrigerator. The job took so long to complete that I never made it back to the hotel where Umma was hand-washing and hang-drying her favorite cloths and packing our few belongings. She did
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