War Comes to Harlem

Barnes and Noble

They continued to hike up Amsterdam Avenue until they reached 125th Street and the Cotton Club, the world famous Harlem landmark. It was also the first time that they spotted a taxi since leaving the park. There were several taxis parked in front of a diner across the street.

The drivers began to filter out upon their arrival. The first through the door was a short Hispanic cabbie, a gypsy-driver, known for venturing into neighborhoods that the licensed cabs wouldn’t. After a short exchange, he agreed to take them.

“You folks have come to the right man,” boasted the driver, wearing a wide grin. Julio Alejandro Rivera at your service. The whole country, it may be shut down, but Julio is always open for business. 154th Street and Malcolm X Boulevard, It will only cost you a hundred, up front.”

“One hundred dollars, that’s highway robbery,” Mason protested. “This guy’s a crook, Stony.”

“Pay the man, Sergeant,” was all Thomas said as he hopped in the back seat. Julio’s mood remained buoyant, as he seemed to ignore Mason’s remarks.

“Relax, Papa, you are in good hands. With that, Julio gunned the late model Lincoln Continental onto the street and sped east across 125th street. Before they had gone a block, Julio popped in a CD. As he rocked and swayed to the Salsa rhythms, he managed to make himself heard above the music. ”Look, if you folks are here to party, I know some hot clubs up in the Bronx.”

Not waiting for a response, the cabby continued. “It’s none of my business, but what are people like you doing uptown, especially now? Things have been a little loco around here lately, even more than usual.”

“We’re visiting a friend,” Thomas responded nonchalantly.

“They must be a really good friend,” Julio responded, chucking to himself until it morphed into a laugh. “What is life without friends, right?”

Their ghetto sherpa dodged through traffic, ignoring half of the red lights, and singing all the way. Life along 125th Street seemed undisturbed. Women lugged shopping bags, young boys mulled in groups around storefronts.

Turning up Malcolm X Boulevard, the sounds of blaring music, street banter; and an arpeggio of screams and outcries filled the air. They felt enthralled yet fearful, like space explorers after landing on a distant planet.

Thomas glimpsed up the side streets as they went. People moved as shadowy outlines, intermingling in the darkness. Abandoned vehicles dotted the streets and burning trash barrels flickered in vacant lots.

Julio lowered the volume. “This is it,” he announced, turning up a side street. Slowing to a crawl, he began checking the building numbers. He spotted it and pulled over. His head was on a swivel, keeping track of the gang of youngsters eyeing his cab with deep interest. One or two of the smaller ones began drifting in their direction. Julio was tapping the stirring wheel now, the pleasant smile expunged.

“Julio has kept his promise. You go with the blessing of St. Joseph,” he said, making the sign of the crucifix across his chest before peeling off.

Outside the cab, the three of them stood staring up at number 333 over the door of a grimy tenement. On both sides were rows of equally condemnable structures with the same encrusted windows and rusted wrought-iron fences. The front steps were worn and beveled in the center from the years of traffic. The front door was open, but two large men, dressed like pallbearers, barred the doorway. Looking over his right shoulder, Thomas could see a crowd of teenagers drifting their way.

“What you doing in the hood, white boy,” one yelled. “Haven’t you heard? The drug store is closed. So, you can just turn your white asses around and head on back across 110th Street. You feel me!”

Thomas ignored the warning and proceeded toward the building. Before they could reach the front steps, a muscular man, skin the color of lampshade, stepped in front of them.

“We’re not here for drugs. So, if you don’t mine…we have business inside,” Thomas asserted, his tone calm but forceful.

“You should have left when you had the chance, white boy. Now it’s too late. When I count to three, they are going to use you and your friends for target practice, including your pretty little friend. Or maybe we’ll just save her for the after party.”

Several of the male teens, eyed Allira’s form while grabbing their crotch. The smile vanished from the big man’s face and in its place a deadly scowl.

“One…”

Thomas shook his head in frustration. “You’re making a big mistake.” By now the three of them were surrounded. There were multiple clicks from an assortment of automatic weapons.

“Two…” Thomas and Mason drew the weapons, taking aim at the large youth blocking their path. The tension was as thick as molasses in winter.

“We’re here to see the old, blind man,” said Thomas. The big man suddenly looked confused. He relaxed his stanch and halted his countdown to death.

“You just bought yourself some time. But, if you’re fronting…” Thomas lowered his gun and reached over and slowly lowered Mason’s gun hand. The large man pulled a cell phone from inside his jacket, and began talking in a low voice, eyeing the intruders from head to toe.

“This is your lucky day, white boy.” Then, the large youth stepped aside, and one of two suit-clad men beckoned to Thomas from the top of the steps. The three of them advanced with Mason clutching his weapon.

“Secure that weapon, soldier,” Thomas ordered in a hush tone.

“But, stony…”

“Put it away, and that’s an order,” Thomas’ patience now threadbare. One of the suited men led the way while the other followed them up. Their guide pulled up at the top landing and turned to Thomas.

“Turn over your weapons or take you chances on the street.” Thomas turned over his weapons and instructed Mason to do the same. Mason complied, but not without a quiet protest. The interior was the typical inner-city rattrap, with paint peeling, hallways reeking of urine, caved in mailboxes, and rickety banisters. They were led down a long, dark hallway to a door built to withstand a swat assault.

Crossing the threshold, they were astounded. Unlike the dreary surroundings they had just left behind, inside resembled a corporate suite, featuring Moorish architecture and ornamented with fine African art. So preoccupied with the plush ambiance, they failed to notice their guides’ departure.

Standing beneath a domed skylight, Thomas spun 360 degrees, taking in the room. The walls were an olive green trimmed in gold with an antique rug occupying the center of the floor. Elaborate tapestries spun tales of ancient clashes between the forces of good and evil. It was like they had stepped into a dream. It was Allira who surrendered to the room’s allure and plopped her self down in one of the oversized chairs.

“Stony, I don’t like this,” complained Mason. “I can’t tell whether we’re their guests or their prisoners.”

“If they wanted us dead, it would have happened down in the street,” said Thomas. “No, he is here. I can’t explain it, but I’ve been here before.”

“Who’s here? And, what do you mean you’ve been here before?” asked Mason. “Forget what I said about not wanting to know, tell me everything.”

Before Thomas could answer, the door swung open and in walked a tall black man of mocha complexion, his eyes the color of cooper. He donned a plain white tunic and slippers made of linen cloth. His erudite manners and unassuming appearance set them all at ease, even Mason.

“He will see you now,” the man said, bowing respectfully. Thomas was stunned by the reverence shown to him by the urbane stranger. Allira and Mason followed Thomas to the door, but were halted. “The two of you will kindly remain here. I will return shortly with some refreshments.”

Allira nodded her approval while Mason craned his neck trying to see beyond the door. There were several rooms on either side of the long corridor, each adorned with Egyptian marble floors and painted in soft earth tones. Twin columns of onyx guarded the entrances to each of the rooms.


Finally, the man came to a stop in front of a modest wooden door. He then bowed and left. Thomas knocked and waited for an answer. None came. He tried the door, and the knob turned under his hand.

“Hello,” Thomas called, nudging the door open. The room was not what he had expected. It was dimly lit, and quite ordinary. The setting consisted of a military-style cot, a wooden desk, and a simple wardrobe. At the far end of the room sat the old man, gently rocking.

“Do come in, my son.” Thomas took several steps forward and stopped. “Come closer, Thomas. I know that there are many questions swirling around in your head.” Thomas moved a little closer. “Would you like some grapes?” the old man asked. Thomas noticed a bowl of grapes in his lap.

“No thanks,” Thomas replied.

“Don’t be concerned about you friends. All of their immediate needs are being met. Come sit down beside me.”

The old man appeared just as he had in Thomas’ dreams: gentle wrinkles lining his charcoal face and his eyes veiled behind dark shades. He wore an old black suit, and white cotton shirt, no button left unfastened. His turned up old shoes held a spit shine.

Thomas grabbed a chair from the desk and planted it in front of the stranger and waited for the old man to look up.

“If God made anything more delectable than these sweet teardrops from heaven, then he must have kept it for Himself. I do love them so. Some would argue that it is a sin to love anything so much.”

Setting the bowl aside, the old man’s eyes focused on Thomas for the first time. “My son, I know that you have more on your mind than the simple pleasures of an old man. You have traveled far and at great peril to get here; therefore, without further delay I will attempt to answer your questions. Are you still in possession of the book?”

“Yes,” Thomas said, pulling the book from the sac and attempting to hand it over to the old man. The old man’s pleasant tone changed to one of indignation. “The book does not belong to me.”

Then the old man smiled, squeezed Thomas hand and settled back in his rocking chair. “You still don’t understand, do you? You have been chosen. No one else is worthy of its possession. It is time for your edification to commence. Ask what you will.”

“For starts, who are you?” Thomas asked.

“If it is His will, you shall find that out in time. My true name will not fit within the puny parameters of modern language with its linear boundaries. However, most see fit to call me Ben.” The old man chuckled. “When I arrived here, one of the children called me Uncle Ben”. I liked the name and chose it for myself. But, most just call me the old man.”

“What is this place, and why the masquerade?” The old man appeared amused by Thomas’ choice of words.

“When one looks at a neighborhood like this, one sees what one wants to see, or what one have been conditioned to see. This building, like life itself, is not what it appears to be.”

“Why do you need a place like this? What purpose does it serve?”

“To tell the truth, I wish that there wasn’t a need for it, but to gather others to the light, it’s sometimes requires small displays of power.”

“What light are you talking about?”

“That will be revealed to you in time,” the old man responded, while starting to rock.

“What about the book?”

“What is it that you want to know about it?”

“Where did the book come from?”

“Why, God, of course.”

“You mean like the Ten Commandments?”

“Yes, only by comparison, the tablets that spawned the world’s major religions are to this book what modern skyscrapers are to the Sphinx.

“This all seems so far-fetched. Why should I believe you? What proof do you have of your, in all due respect, outrageous claims?’

“I was wondering when you were going to get around to that. They all do sooner or later.”

In the blink of an eye, the walls, floor and ceiling drifted away, replaced by a pastoral setting, where the sun set in the distance sky and billowy clouds drifted leisurely across the heavens. Thomas’ heart skipped a beat as he viewed the paradisiacal greenery stretching out endlessly before him.

Before Thomas could open his mouth to speak, they were transported atop of a Mesoamerican Pyramid embedded in an emerald green rain forest. Volcanoes erupted in the distance, spewing columns of lava high into the air, tarring the sky blood red.

In another second, they were wisped away to the polar region where they stood on an ice flow, surrounded by endless sea. Thomas watched as huge planks of ice broke from a gigantean wall and collapsed into the sea, sending splashes hundreds of feet into the air.

Before the frostbite could set in, they were jettison back to the small room. A shivering Thomas stared wide-eyed at the old man.

“What about the dreams?” asked Thomas? What’s their connection to the book?”

“The one who rightfully possesses the book will be shown the future.”

“If what you’re saying is correct, then America is doomed. I envisioned the destruction of everything that I hold dear.”

“The vision that you’ve been seeing is one possible future. It is the prevailing direction of reality as it is currently unfolding. If nothing is done to alter the course of events, then what you see will surely come to pass. Alter the events and you alter the course of history.”

“How do I change the future? Where do I begin?”

“Like with all journeys, yours begins with a single step.”

“What journey?”

“A long and dangerous journey is required if the world is to have a chance.”

“But, if my country in such danger, isn’t my place here?”

“On the contrary, your nation’s fate may well hinge on the outcome of your journey. Preparations have been made to see you to your destination. I have taken the liberty of gathering as many of the men who served in your old unit as I could find. They are already waiting for you. Oh yes, and a few of the young men that you encountered out front will be joining you. Go now and rest up. Your companions will be waiting for you. If all goes well, we will meet again.”

Thomas rose and gazed down at the blind man. “Where am I going?”

“Africa!”

With that Thomas headed back to his friends. Mason barked at the news of traveling to Africa. His mood, however, improved with the news of a reunion with their old squad.

Below the building in a restored basement, they shared sleeping quarters with six of the black youths from the earlier face-off. The room was setup barracks style, filled with cots. The six youths sat on two bunks at the far end of the room, joking and yelling to be heard over the blaring rap music.

“Boss, how the hell are we going to get some shuteye with those ‘homeboys’ over there throwing a rapfest?”

“They’re just young, Sergeant,” Thomas reminded him. “You remember what it was like to be young and full of life.”

“Oh, so that’s what they’re full of? They seem to be taking particular pleasure in busting my balls.” Allira, who had already slipped into the sleeping bag, gave a deep sigh, punched her pillow with her fist and turned her back to the room.

“We’ve got a long day ahead of us, so I suggest you worry less about them and more about getting some rest,” Allira said, before signing off. Thomas agreed and the three turned in for the night.