Tommy
I was in nursing school. Going
through a rebellious period – one of many, many. I’d been in the hospital for colitis
and my roommate Becky and I became buddies. I started hanging at her apartment
after we were discharged. She lived in a sketchy housing project, so violent
the local police were loath to even make drive-by cruises.
Becky’s boyfriend/man, Greg, was
black, and he and her two sons from previous relationships all lived together.
Greg was a nice guy, good-hearted. He had something not-quite-right about him
that was just obvious enough to keep him from getting a decent job. Becky was
more than likely a prostitute, although I was fairly naïve and it didn’t occur
to me how she earned a living until I sat down to write this. I knew she sold
drugs. I didn’t have any problems with that.
Becky and I were about the only
whites in the general area. Greg put the word out that my car was to be left
alone, and I felt no concern when I visited, which was about every day, until
one or two in the morning.
Men queued up to meet me under
the guise of checking to see what Becky had for sale. They’d posture in a very
ghetto sort of way, which was totally new to me. It didn’t impress me nor did
it amuse me. I had an appreciation for their appreciation for me, but I
recognized that I represented an accomplishment, an object, an asset they
wanted to possess. So I remained aloof, but pleasant.
One day, Greg’s older brother
Tommy showed up. He was very different from the other men. Handsome, every hair
carefully combed in place, sparkling white teeth, beaming smile, nice trimmed
mustache, tall, athletic. He wore jeans with ironed creases, a white t-shirt,
blue jean jacket, white Converse Chuck Taylor tennis shoes. He had long
muscular legs and a nice ass, broad shoulders. Pretty much my physical ideal at
the time, except he was black and I didn’t go out with black guys.
He commanded a lot of respect,
almost reverence. The men deferred to him and the other females made over him,
flirted, stroked his arm, batted their eyelashes, rubbed up on him. He had a
sense of humility and confidence, sexuality without being blatant, that I
liked. He projected very much like a panther. I liked the way he handled
himself. He treated each person with respect but definitely controlled the
interactions.
At some point, he puffed up and
made his move on me. This was the way it worked back then; it was expected – or
at least I expected it. We exchanged C.V.s: I told him I was in nursing school,
which obviously impressed him. He told me he was a lineman for the phone
company. It was a very good job for a young black man at that time and place,
and I recognized that although I was used to men his age holding that caliber
of employment.
Becky picked up that I was not
duly impressed, and made a big deal out of it. “Tommy’s a photographer,” she
said reverently as if in addition to being handsome and a hunk, he was also
Pope.
“You have lovely bone structure,”
he purred. “I’d like to photograph you. Have you done any modeling?”
“Yes,” I answered. “I’ve done a
good little bit. I’m really not interested in modeling; it’s boring.”
He was a bit taken aback. I don’t
think he’d ever been turned down before – at least, that’s the sense I got.
We smoked some weed, the entire
apartment full of people passed joints around and we all got mellow. Becky and
I drank wine over ice, T.J. Swann’s Easy Nights, out of huge plastic mugs. A
bunch of us played Spades for several hours, more wine, more weed, lots of
conversation and joking. People drifted off – upstairs to do other drugs,
outside to talk to others. Some went home.
I enjoyed Tommy’s company and he
made it clear that he was interested in me. He was curious what a white girl
from up on the hill was doing down in Orchard Manor. We talked, and I liked his
personality. He brought up the photography aspect again, and urged me to come
up to his house so he could take some shots of me. I declined. “I have enough
pictures of myself, but thanks anyway.”
He’d told me he had purchased his
house and was remodeling it. He spoke with great passion about what all he’d
done so far and what his plans were. He
told me I should come up sometime and see his place and tell me what I thought
of it. I felt he was sincere. It didn’t feel like a line.
I told him I’d love to see his
house sometime. He had mellowed a bit by that point, between the beer he had
consumed and the pot he’d smoked. “What about tomorrow?” he asked. “Why not
come over tomorrow afternoon?”
“What is there to do?” I wanted
to know. “What will we do besides you showing me your kingdom? I’m not driving
all the way up there just to see your house.”
“I’ll be working on my Javelin,”
he said. “I have to change the brake shoes and work on the timing.”
I perked
up. Cars, I knew. Cars, I liked. We chatted about cars for a few minutes and I
asked him if he’d ever had a girl help him work on his car before.
“No,” he said, and laughed.
“Never.”
“Then I’ll come on condition I
can help you work on your car,” I said.
And that’s how it all began.
Thirty-four years ago today. Rest in peace, Tommy.
Love always,
Ginger
