The YOUNG Men’s Christian Association
I almost drove away. The heavily ornamented red brick building which housed the South Philly YMCA was four stories tall. Doc said he mopped ‘all three floors.’ “Wrong again.” I said aloud. I quickly had second thoughts and decided to go inside anyway. “Already here, may as well check.” I heaved myself out of the car.
The cold weather bit into my flesh as I slammed the door and hurried across the sidewalk to the entrance. I climbed the steps and looked up at the huge marble lintel which carried the weight of the building over the massive front door. Large silver letters which spelled the acronym ‘YMCA’ had been set into the stone on pins. Behind the newer letters were carved letters which denoted the building’s original use. The old letters read ‘Edgar Allen Poe Public School.’
I remembered something I’d heard about the school once upon a time. I might have even read it in the newspaper when the city turned the building over to the ‘Y.’ The Poe school had been the idea of some wealthy Victorian-era business owners. They’d paid for the building and funded the teaching but quickly got tired of supporting the school. It shut down when the money ran out and sat empty for years. When the YMCA wished to expand from their original Center City location, they petitioned the city to grant them the building. The city was quite happy to comply, mainly because abandoned buildings pay no taxes.
I entered the lobby of the old school building and paused to be impressed by its two-story-tall, domed ceiling and marble columns. I quickly realized that the entire first floor of the building was two stories tall. I was in the middle of thinking that I might be in the correct place after all when the squeak of rubber soled shoes attracted my attention.
I followed the sound until I discovered two teams of young men who were in the middle of a spirited basketball game. They were playing in what had once been a lecture hall. The hall was to the left of the main entrance and was partially obscured behind a wall built of white styles and yellow patterned glass. All the seating had been removed to create the basketball court. Strong wire screening had been added on the inside of the exterior windows and to the glass partition walls.
I watched the game for a few moments. The teams were integrated, whites and blacks playing together. The men played shirts vs skins. I admired the bodies in motion, and the firm young flesh which glistened with sweat. I admired the men with the universal jealousy the old has for the young. I also thought of them carnally. I had a brief fantasy of what it would have been like if both teams had shown up for one of the orgies in Madam Mitch’s Arabian Nights room at the Kingdom of Keystone.
I shook my head at my wandering imagination and chided myself for having leering thoughts about the college-aged men. I forced myself to turn away from the game. Across the lobby was a small, cheaply-built reception desk. I strolled to it and looked around. No one was present behind the desk and there was no bell. I noticed an open door to another lecture hall on the right side of the lobby and peered inside.
This lecture hall still had its seating. Dark wooden benches were supported on wooden fretwork which ran up three sides of the room like an ocean wave crashing against a cliff. The remaining wall held moveable chalkboards mounted on rollers. A scuffed wooden floor made up the center of the room.
An integrated group of young men and some women sat on blankets and rugs. They appeared to be working on some kind of art project because they had small cans of paint and artist’s brushes. Many of the youth were leaning over sheets of poster paper and cardboard. A transistor radio bleated from one of the benches. The artists were so absorbed in their art, they hardly made a sound. The young people were quiet enough that I could hear the tune on the radio.
A folksy singer droned over an acoustic guitar. He was saying something about a man walking down a road and how many miles before he’s a man. The singer apparently had no answer for his question, but he claimed the wind knew. The tune sounded like nonsense to me. I wondered if it was some kind of metaphor like the magic dragon I’d heard about in another song.
I squinted into the room to get a closer look at the artwork the youth were so absorbed in. I scowled when my eyes finally focused on the work. I’d stumbled upon a group who was preparing for a protest. What I thought was an art project turned out to be a bunch of signs with slogans which were against the Vietnam War. The signs read ‘Johnson is a War Criminal,’ ‘End the War,’ ‘Resist the Draft,’ ‘US Mass Murderers,’ and the like. I didn’t think the war was a good thing, but I also didn’t like protestors.
I shook my head as my better judgement gave me second thoughts. I forced the scowl from my face and reminded myself how very young the people were. They had a right to protest if they wanted. They wouldn’t accomplish much, but they were doing what they thought was right. Who was I to judge them? No one, that’s who.
A young woman who was dressed in what looked like a knitted Afghan blanket noticed me as I stood in the doorway. She nudged a rangy, underfed black man and pointed at me with the little finger of her left hand. The man stood from where he sat cross-legged on the floor. He walked over with a bounce in his step like he moved to his own private rhythm. His face looked out from a huge afro which swayed in counterpoint to his steps.
The young man threaded his lean body through the doorway that I thought I’d blocked completely and walked out to stand behind the desk. I followed and went around to the customer’s side. He spoke first.
“Didn’t you see the sign, man?”
I looked back toward the entrance to see if there was a sign I might have missed. I didn’t see one, so I asked what sign I was supposed to have seen. He answered sarcastically. “The one over the door, man. It says ‘young’ men. You definitely a man, but you ain’t young.”
I tried to correct his misconception about why I was there. “I don’t want to join.”
He raked me with an appraising eye and seemed to draw a conclusion from my shabby suit. “You need a place to stay, old timer? We full up. No room for old men.”
I was about to explain why I was there when the young woman in the Afghan came out of the lecture hall. She stood very close to the man and touched his bare forearm to get his attention. The small familiarity between the two made me wonder if they’d been intimate. It was alright with me if they had, but I still wondered. “Is everything OK, Malcom?”
“Nuthin I can’t handle.” He sneered in my direction.
He seemed to be showing off, putting on a tough guy act for someone. I didn’t know if he was doing it for my benefit, or for the young lady’s. Perhaps he was doing it for himself. I’d had enough of the act, so I blurted out my reason for being there. “I’m looking for Doc.”
His face squeezed into an angry scowl. “We ain’t seen the baby killer in a month.”
“Baby killer?” I’d heard the slur leveled at soldiers who had returned from Vietnam, but I didn’t think Doc deserved to have it directed at him. I didn’t think the soldiers deserved it either, but I was there for him and not for them. “What are you talking about? Doc wasn’t a soldier. He was a medic. He tried to save lives.”
“Yeah, save the murderers so they can do more murder. Nah, man, your Doc ain’t here and we don’t want him back.”
I got mad. I didn’t appreciate anyone badmouthing Doc. I was tempted to punch his face for his words, but I wasn’t quite mad enough yet.
The young woman tried to intervene. “Who are you, Mister? Why are you looking for Doc?”
Malcom stepped in front of her. “We ain’t askin no questions, Dawn. No help for the man.”
My temper rose a little higher. I was almost ready to give vent to it, but I didn’t want to lash out in front of the girl. She seemed like the delicate type, so I tried to make her go away. “Young lady, would you give me a moment with Malcom? I think if he and I could have a word man to man, we could settle our differences. What do you say?”
Malcom agreed with me. “Yeah, Dawn, you go-on back to the group. I’ll take care of this myself.”
Dawn ducked her head and scurried away like a mouse caught in a flashlight beam.
As soon as she left, the young man started to puff himself up for an argument. He was ready to exchange words, but I was quickly getting beyond the point of words. Any disagreement between he and I was about to become physical. “I didn’t come here for a fight, but I’m ready to have one if that’s what it takes. I’m looking for Doc. He and I had a disagreement, and he left. I need to find him. You’re either going to be civil and answer my questions, or I’m going to rearrange your face. It’s up to you.”
Without Dawn present to rein the young man in, he challenged me directly. “You git fucked old timer.”
That was the last straw. I opened my hands and flexed the fingers. My joints burned with arthritis pain. The pain reminded me of my age. I had originally planned to drag Mouthy Malcom over the low counter and drop him on the floor. Once he was down, I would have the advantage. I wondered if I still had the strength to execute the move. I wondered if I still had the speed. I wondered if my hand would cooperate or if my joints would lock up at the critical moment. My fingers had a tendency to get stuck before they were closed all the way. I’d been dropping menus because of it.
I cursed my mouth for issuing a check my aging body would struggle to cash. Since I’d already made the threat, I would make good on it or to go down trying. I rocked on my heels and widened my stance to get ready for the grab, but I didn’t get the chance.
Malcom must’ve noticed the preparations I was making to lay hands on him. He put two fingers in his mouth and blew a shrill whistle. The whistle was a signal of some kind. Quiet befell the building around me. Someone killed the transistor radio in the other room. The squeak of rubber-soled shoes on polished wood became stoney silence. Malcom’s whistle had stopped the basketball game in the other room. Muted footsteps followed as both teams of basketball players left the court and entered the lobby. The young men surrounded me and stood quiet as a panting wall of locker room odor.
The other room emptied as well. The protestors, including Dawn, came to stand as a group around Malcom. They supported him on the other side of the desk. Young men and a few women came down the stairs from the upper floors. They gathered on the grand staircase to watch with curiosity and vague menace.
I was scared. If left alone with Malcom, I might have been able to handle the youth. I’d already judged him to be more mouth than fist. Even at my age and diminished physical capacity, I was still more fist than mouth. Even if my grab failed, Mouthy Malcom seemed like the type who would crumple if I managed to land one or two good hits.
Now that I was completely surrounded by two teams of athletes, the difference between our individual fighting abilities was irrelevant. I was fucked. I knew it, and the grin on Malcom’s face told me that he knew it as well. Even on my best day during the youngest and angriest time of my life, I couldn’t have beaten all those men by myself. At sixty-eight years old, I’d be lucky if they didn’t kill me.
My mind raced. It was busy trying to come up with a plan to bluff my way out the front door. I wished I had my gun. If I had a firearm to flash, that would hold the men at bay until I could escape. I doubted they’d fall for my finger in my pocket. A gag like that would only enrage them and I’d wind up pummeled into mush by powerful young fists.
One of the white men next to me caught his breath. “Trouble, Malcom?”
Malcom pointed his finger in my face and lied. “The man called me a shitty, racist name and said he was going to kick my ass!”
The white guy shoved his hand against my shoulder. “Did you?”
For a split second, I considered pretending to be a helpless old man. I thought, maybe if I could convince the group that I was a senile old coot who just happened to wander into the ‘Y,’ I’d be able to get away. I decided not to give Malcom the satisfaction of letting him know that I was scared. I was honest about what happened. “He said something nasty about a friend of mine and I threatened to rearrange his face. I didn’t call him names.”
A black man on the other side of me spoke up. “You tellin’ stories again, Mal?”
The woman named Dawn entered the conversation. “This man was very nice to me. Nicer than Mal ever is.”
The white man who’d shoved my shoulder asked a question in a more reasonable tone. “What do you want here, old man?”
“My name is Law Edwards. I’m looking for Doc. He’s been staying with me, but he and I had a falling out. I want to apologize for my part in it. I came to ask a few questions. My only aim is to get enough information to find my friend. I had no intention of picking a fight with anyone. When I asked Malcom, he called Doc a baby killer. I took offense and threatened him. That’s when he whistled for backup.”
The black man next to me shook his head. “You needed all of us to protect you from one old man. Learn to stop cryin’ wolf all the time, Mal.”
He turned his body toward mine and offered a sweaty hand for me to shake. “Lionel Washington. Folks call me Lion.”
“Law.” I said again. “Nice to meet you, Lion.”
He raised his voice to the crowd. “Anyone seen Doc?”
A small voice called down from the upper part of the staircase. “I saw him.”
Everyone looked toward the voice. A tall, fat, white man with a mop of messy black hair on his head stepped clear of the crowd and eased his way down the steps. Once he got to the counter, Lion dismissed the rest of the crowd with a sharp word. “Y’all go mind your business.”
The crowd disbursed. The basketball players went back to the court, and the protestors went back to their protest signs. The onlookers from the stairs went back up the stairs. Even Malcom turned to walk away. “Not you, Mal!” Lion said to his back.
He turned around and stood against the counter. Lion jerked his head toward Malcom but spoke to me. “You want to fight him?”
Malcom objected. “Come-on, Lion! You wouldn’t really let him hurt me, would ya?”
Lion shouted down the objections. “You gotta learn to quit runnin your mouth. Maybe Law can teach you.”
I put my hands up in the surrender pose toward the mouthy young man. “I don’t want to fight. I don’t ever want to fight anymore. I’m too old to settle everything with my fists like I used to. I’d appreciate an apology for what he called my friend, but I won’t even insist on that.”
“Sorry.” Malcom muttered to the counter in front of him.
Lion’s long arm flashed out like a striking snake and slapped Malcom on the side of his face. “Again!”
Malcom’s hand shot up to cradle his cheek. I was as surprised as he was. I wondered about the relationship between the two men. They didn’t look alike and obviously weren’t brothers, but they must’ve been more than acquaintances.
Malcom opened his mouth to shout but snapped it shut when he saw that Lion wasn’t messing around. He made his apology like a naughty school child might if he was caught bullying the younger children. “I’m sorry for calling Doc a baby killer.”
Lion jerked his thumb toward the room of protestors. “Git!”
Malcom ran off and left the three of us alone. Lion leaned against the desk and slid back to sit on the counter. The fat man who’d been quiet shifted his weight from foot to foot. I remained where I was to ask a question. “That whistle thing was a neat trick. What’s that about?”
Lion explained. “It’s a signal they use during protests. If someone gets in trouble, they whistle and the others come running. We all know it.”
“You all protest?”
“No, but enough do that we know the signal.”
“Makes sense.”
Lion cocked his head toward the fat man who stood to the side. “Law, this is Tiny.”
To get in touch with the author, send them an email.
