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First Chapter Work In Progress…
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First Chapter Work In Progress…
Hey all,
I said a few weeks ago that I’d create a section for writers to put their first chapters of works in progress. I hope this will help new writers to see that it ain’t all perfect, but you work to get to perfect. I’ll start.
This is the first draft of my book, Unconventional, a satirical novel about Black academia. It’s designed to be absurd, cause that’s my brain. It’s written in the first person. Who is the next brave person to upload their first chapter work in progress?
Chapter 1:
Every day, rain or shine, I sat on the worst bench on the UCLA campus.
Concrete, with no ornamentation whatsoever, except for little round nodules designed to enhance its discomfort, the sadists who designed the bench did it because they wanted to make sure the unhoused didn’t use these monstrosities for beds. Because God help us if the unwashed masses might not want to sleep on a cold, wet, grassy terra firma. But that’s neither here nor there. I’m no king, just a mere unheard citizen of this country; I have no power to do anything about it.
So, I sat there despite knowing the dubious nature of its artistic aesthetic, comfort level, and social justice symbolism.
Voluntarily.
Purposefully.
Didn’t do it as an opportunity to have intellectual conversations with my faculty colleagues because, to be truthful, I didn’t care much for my faculty colleagues. Nor did I have much in common with them.
Nor did I sit there to enjoy the Southern California sunshine. Or to watch the beautiful students walk, run, bike, and rollerblade past me. No, I sat there for several reasons. However, the first reason, I’ll admit, makes no sense at all. I sat there because of one building.
Bunche Hall.
Before I explain, let me address a few questions that may be coursing through your mind right now. Why would one stare at a building? Weren’t there other ways to stare at Bunche, ones that didn’t make your ass numb after five minutes?
The grass was right there, available and accessible. There was a wooden bench nearby that no one used except for the pigeons that shit on it. Alternatively, I could have just stood during my lunchtime, which health studies suggest is beneficial for the body. And what made Bunche Hall so damn fascinating in the first place that I made it a point to sit in this particular place? My answer was always the same.
Because.
That’s it.
Because.
In my thirty-five years on this planet, I’d matured to understand that ‘because’ was a viable answer to any question, which I learned is a great philosophy to live one’s life. Because works as an opaque answer to anything presented before you. It’s inherently neutral, with a finality that throws the original question back to the questioner. It gives the ‘because’ sayer as many off-ramps as possible, as they contemplate how to best come out of the situation with no harm to themselves, a life lesson one needs to know if you spend an hour in academia.
The causes and effects of the ‘because’ answer were neither negative nor positive to the person receiving your answer. Sometimes, and perhaps this comes from the Stoics, but I wouldn’t know because I only got a B- in philosophy at Berkeley, so don’t quote me as a philosophical expert. Still, maybe, just maybe, it was better to let things exist without explanation than go through a tortured semblance of a sophisticated lie or a convoluted truth. Life becomes more understandable once the answer ‘because’ becomes a vital tool in your philosophical toolbox. And why is that?
Because.
This is a world where everyone wants an answer they can toss into their outrage machines, and since our lives revolve around the endorphins that come with social media ‘likes’ and ‘reposts’ of our every thought, there hasn’t been a space for something like ‘because’ in a long while. And here I am, making ‘because’ the central thesis of my life. I’ve gotta say, I feel good about that.
Back to the concrete bench. A better question about my presence on it is not why I sat there but why the concrete bench existed in the first place. Not that I’m an existentialist—far from it. Given the available materials, one must ask why concrete?
I had theories.
From a metaphoric perspective, the concrete bench existed to help students, administrators, and faculty members understand that life is painful. And life at UCLA was particularly agonizing, so getting comfortable wasn’t in your best interest. Everyone and everything were disposable, including the knowledge being imparted to you. And as a professor, the knowledge your students half-listened to as they played games on their phones while you explained the Irish revolution or physics was as useless and effort as spitting into the wind.
The open secret that Big College doesn’t want to tell you is that society moves so quickly that the educational foundation you received during your four years is often obsolete before you move your tassel from left to right.
In my short five year experience teaching among the ivory towers, I’d learned humanity was the tiniest part of the academic design calculus. It wasn’t even part of the original hypothesis—just a happenstance of having a university filled with people. My discomfort as a human being in this academic space was a deliberate design feature by the institution, not a flaw, just as the university’s choice to create a concrete bench as a resting place was an intentional feature, not a flaw.
“Keep it moving, sonny boy. That bench will be there long after you’ve left,” was the clear institutional message I’d heard and received. I had no delusions about having a long, distinguished academic career at UCLA. I was here for a good time, not a long time.
Students leave every four years. Thanks for the tuition, sucker. Now, pay your student loan debt for the rest of your life. Administrators get laid off, retired, or fired because they’re perceived as interchangeable with the light bulbs in the office.
The faculty, even the Nobel Prize winners, with their coveted parking spots on campus? Not even their prestige protects them. The smart ones? The ones who head off to Silicon Valley as an advisor on vanity project of a student, turned venture capitalist, well, they’re well compensated with the Ms in their bank account.
They rest? They’ll eventually receive not-so-subtle emails to box their shit up and get off campus because they’re no longer valuable to the school. Tenure be damned. And while you were busy researching the attitudes of the Gullah people of South Carolina and Georgia toward the English language and the influence African languages had on America, the university secretly got the governor to change the tenure laws so that everyone at every university in the state is a de facto adjunct. Hand your ID to the security guard and cry on your way out, fella.
Sometimes, the paper trail they set up for you as a trap will force you out. Or they’ll make your job so annoying that you leave, thinking it was your idea. Terrible classroom assignments. Maintenance messes with the lock to your office, so it never closes… or opens. Little annoyances. Whatever it takes to make your daily existence intolerable. Either way, you’ll move sooner rather than later and falsely believe you’ve been in control all this time because you’ve been at the university for decades.
UCLA was just like thousands of other institutions. That bench was part of the institution, just like millions of benches on college campuses. We were all tiny bodies within the same gears that Mario Savio discussed in the ’60s, while standing on a police car on the Berkeley campus. But this time, most students aren’t protesting. They’re fatalistic. Life ain’t fair. UCLA ain’t fair. And it would be here long after we were on this planet. But as of this minute, here I am.
Because.
~
Most academics arrive on these campuses as damaged goods. Like comedians who tap into their inner unresolved pain, professors, writers, and artists often use their intelligence and talent to avoid the deep therapy we desperately need. Instead, most strive to dig deep into their petty. To get revenge against those who did them wrong by succeeding in the spaces that most thought they’d never rise, and I’m no exception.
Like anyone else, our pain was generated by the dysfunction in our good ole American family. Every psychologist since Freud has tried to blame their insecurities on the maternal figure in their lives, and for a lot of people, that’s unfair. But for me, it’s true. The saying that you can’t choose my family was never more accurate than for me.
I grew up as an involuntary loner, the only child of a single celebrity mother whom I called Mother. Not momma, mommy, memaw, or some other affectionate name, just her government-certified role.
Mother.
From the minute the doctor slapped my ass, Mother made me feel like a redheaded foster stepchild outcast. One whose monthly subsidy from the government ran out at the end of each month, and she wasn’t sure I was worth the bother if she wasn’t paid. Not saying she was as bad as Mommie Dearest, but let’s say she loved Joan Crawford movies.
Why she had me is as mysterious as the concrete bench. Did Plan B not work? Was it a need for something to love? A living replication of her DNA? My intuition tells me I was on Earth so she wouldn’t be left out of the cocktail party conversations about kids.
Yep. Just that simple.
“That’s my child,” Mother proclaimed to her party guests at one of the coveted cocktail parties she hosted monthly. We lived in a New York penthouse at the time, the stereotypical setting you see in bad Hollywood movies, where the theme is how terrible it is for characters to succumb to greed and avarice, so we spend two hours watching their depravity. That was Mother’s cocktail parties in a nutshell.
The Black intellectual class, including writers, artists, musicians, and professors, would mix and mingle with Black Hollywood types. In some ways, it was a dystopic version of the Harlem Renaissance rent party, but without the historical significance. On other nights, it would be a whites-only party of the Upper East Side elite. None of this mattered to Mother if she was the center of attention.
When Mother claimed me as ‘my child,’ it was as though she were claiming ownership of a coat from lost and found. She said it with a grand, pompous sweep, straight out of a 1930s screwball comedy, complete with a slinky silver dress and a white fox wrap.
With her ever-present extra-dry martini in one hand and a half-smoked Virginia Slim in the other, Mother put me in the middle of a circle of her guests, which to my three-year old self, felt like a football huddle with their faces looking down on me, and pointed her cigarette down at me.
Then, she’d demand the precocious little three-year-old boy with an insatiable thirst for knowledge perform an intellectual feat for her guests, a bit of intellectual entertainment, like a monkey grinder with a wind-up key who could recite Shakespeare.
“Say something smart to my friends.”
That was my cue to spell a word like pterodactyl or chrysanthemum, anything the drunk adults in the room thought was above the intelligence level of a three-year-old Black boy. Since some of the cocktail guests were professors, they’d watch, applaud and then talk among themselves about some random Harvard study they’d read in the New Yorker about how gifted Black kids weren’t truly talented, but the opposite, mentally retarded (they still used that r-word freely amongst themselves back then, but never in public. They were good liberals after all.)
Taking said Harvard study at face value, the professors would return their gaze to me and wait for me to do something, well, retarded, like piss on myself or slur my speech in a certain way for no reason, just to prove the article correct.
In the meantime, I’d stand there, unsure why these people were in our penthouse in the first place. Or why no one would pick me up like you saw adults do to little kids all the time on television. None of that mattered to Mother. She was the center of attention due to my particular intellectual skill, which was her goal. Then again, I was driven to learn these things from my nanny because if I didn’t do something interesting for Mother, she wasn’t interested in me.
Mother often got bored. With her job, men, and me. She started as a hip-hop dancer in New York, your typical b-girl from Brooklyn with the gold hoop earrings and MC Lyte mushroomed ‘do, she eventually decided to train in classical dance one summer. Six months later, she joined Alvin Ailey, where she remained a mainstay for over a decade. Eventually, that bored her, so while on a vacation in Cabo San Lucas, she discovered science from a young, disabled karaoke singer named Stephen Hawking. Yes, that Stephen Hawking.
What? You’re surprised Hawking was spitting on the mic? The man explained the union of general relativity and quantum mechanics. Do you think he can’t get his artificial voice box to sing Tears for Fears’ Everybody Wants to Rule the World? Get real. And he hits the high notes, too, just so you know.
Anyway, because Mother sang Coldplay’s Viva La Vida to the point of perfection, and a lesser extent, based on Hawking’s recommendation, Mother somehow ended up in Raytheon’s experimental skunkworks lab in El Segundo, California, where she discovered over two hundred patents on how to improve the efficiency of solar panels through an enzyme found in collard greens. Raytheon was amazed because they didn’t even have a solar panel division.
In one year.
Bored with that, she accepted a tenured position at Berkeley in the anthropology department, a subject she’d never taught or studied. But the department chair thought her brilliance so intuitive and natural that, with a few years of seasoning and perhaps working toward her bachelor’s degree, which she didn’t have since she hadn’t spent a minute in a college classroom, she’d do just fine teaching young students about Margaret Mead and the like.
It did not go that way.
Mother taught the classes but showed as much interest in anthropology as her Berkeley students did, with no interest in anthropology whatsoever.
“It was in Russia that I learned three things,” she once told her freshman anthropology class on its first day. “I learned to say, ‘I’d like a vodka for breakfast, please. Hold the tomato juice.” The Russian mafia doesn’t take kindly to being late with your extortion payments. And if you don’t mind being filmed by the Secret Service, Moscow is a paradise for threesomes. But that’s neither here nor there. Please turn to your syllabus…”
Even her devoted supporters couldn’t deny that Mother may have missed her mark as an anthropologist. Still, then again, the Berkeley anthropology department did give tenure to Dr. Vincent Sarich, a racist who believed the brains of Black people were abnormal, so therefore Black people were inferior (author’s note… real dude, look him up), so how much of a loss was hiring Mother?
But it was at Berkeley where she’d enter the American public’s imagination, not as an anthropologist, but as a writer. Mother stumbled into a career writing a series of romantic novels about the life of a pesticide salesman…as one does.
That series became a New York Times bestseller many times over, all because we had our home exterminated, and she found the process fascinating, so it became a romantic pesticide book. It made total sense, at least to her, and millions of women, as well as more than a few gay men, who loved her initial novel, Pest Side Story, and she never looked back.
Long story short, Mother succeeded at everything she did, except for being Mother. She’d bored with that task six months into the job. And, instead of staying and perfecting her role, or even learning the role in the same way she’d learned her other roles, she doled me out to the nannies she hired to feed and cart me around town.
On the road three hundred days out of the year, where she signed books and lectured on college campuses, I never spent much time with her at home throughout my childhood. However, I did see a celebrity version of her regularly on Good Morning America, Oprah, and other shows. People would plop me down in front of the boob tube and go, “Look, there’s Mother! Aren’t you proud?” In my little toddler brain, the idea of being on television and the road was associated with pain and loneliness. Therefore, Mother was associated with pain and loneliness. And she didn’t exactly do things to dissuade me from those feelings.
“Fifteen more years, and we’re officially done with him,” Mother told her friends in a long-running hack joke at every weekly cocktail party. They’d laugh from their gut, and I’d laugh too, not knowing the joke was on me.
My cynical view of life comes organically. What did I have to feel optimistic about? But I did learn one thing from the experience: that being smart was my calling card, as it put me on Mother’s radar screen, no matter how dismissive she was about my presence. And it told me an early lesson. I could shine as long as I was smart.
Mother did one thing that gave me a bit of refuge, albeit unintentionally. When she got off the road, Mother didn’t look at this as an opportunity to catch up with what she’d missed. Instead, she thought of me as being an unnecessary impediment, so she’d drop me off at the local library and let thousands of books raise me because she was too busy being famous.
“He is not to use any computer,” Mother would say to our local librarian, who at first had been befuddled by her behavior, but now, months in, were used to it, “Or watch any television. Did I make myself clear?”
“Ms. Foster, for the hundredth time, this library is not a daycare facility,” said Mrs. Anderson, the head librarian at the Biddy Mason Memorial Library. Mrs. Anderson favored the actor Esther Rolle, who possessed the same regal bearing as the actress. “And you should be ashamed of your actions. This is a brilliant boy, and you don’t appreciate that.”
Mother never even turned to acknowledge her or my supposed intelligence. The only sign she’d heard Mrs. Anderson was her dismissive goodbye wave, mother at her passive-aggressive best.
“Back at seven. Please note that the boy has allergies, so kindly refrain from feeding him anything containing peanuts. I don’t want to spend the evening in the hospital. I have a significant event to attend. One hundred guests. Hard to get an invite. And I know that Barack and Michelle will be mortified if I don’t stay the evening.”
And with that, Mother dipped.
At first, Mrs. Anderson stared at me like Mother’s cocktail party friends, puzzled about what to do with me. Finally, she’d taken me to the kids’ table, placed a few children’s books in front of me, and watched me from behind her desk.
“Now, don’t you move from that table without asking me, you hear?” she directed.
I’d nod, a sense of loneliness coursing through my little soul. But as I stared at those books, it was as though they talked back to me. “Leap, Rashford. Take the leap and read.”
And I did. I’d devour the children’s books like they were a bag of Snickers on Halloween. One book transported me to a deserted island with the Swiss Family Robinson. another had me living as a Union spy during the Civil War. I loved it because I felt like I was feeding my brain with things that would make me valuable. In my gut, I knew I was brilliant, and books made me feel like I was expanding my brilliance.
I’d look for the nearest books I could pick from a shelf without feeling Mrs. Anderson’s wrath for not following instructions to never leave my table. Suddenly, I had stacks of World Books on the table daily and was learning about everything from Addis Ababa to Zoology. I didn’t realize it, but Mrs. Anderson watched every move.
Soon, Mrs. Anderson moved me to the adult table, where she sat. Our ritual was the same each day: We stared at each other for ten seconds before Mrs. Anderson said three words.
“Come with me.”
We’d walk to a dark corner of the library, typically unused, except for the young PhD students who liked to sit on the ledge, deep in the throes of pedagogy and hegemony. Little did I know their lives would be a precursor to my own.
“This is made from the Tree of Knowledge.” Mrs. Anderson said, pointing to what I thought, even with six-year-old eyes, was an ordinary mahogany table. “It is now the Table of Knowledge.”
“What makes it special?”
Miss Anderson took my face between her hands and looked at me directly.
“Nothing. Nothing makes it special. In fact, nothing in this world is special until you make it so. But this table is magical, if you use the magic within yourself. Then it becomes special. Your brain is magic, the key to making you who you are. The more books you read, the more magic doors your brain will unlock. Understand?”
I nodded yes because I loved Mrs. Anderson. She was the only person who talked to me like she cared, and she also gave great hugs.
From that point, she started my literary life with a steady diet of post-war children’s books. These were old-school books, such as The Happy Hollisters and The Boxcar Children, written in the 1940s and 1950s, alongside Newbery award-winning books like Queenie Peavy and Rifles for Waite. I tore through the bookshelves, looking for the magic gold seal of Newbery approval on the book cover.
For years, I gobbled up whatever book she threw in front of me. The benefits extended beyond increasing my knowledge. I was suddenly the star at every lily-white private school Mother sent me to. I was the Black mascot with the intellectual party tricks, just as I’d been in those cocktail parties.
White teachers at my schools rushed to give themselves credit for my intelligence, as they were firmly in the liberal camp of nurture, overcoming what they wouldn’t say out loud, which they thought was my Black nature of underachievement.
“You’re going to do great things, Rashford,” they’d all say. It was a miracle that no one rubbed my head for luck. It was clear that in future years, they’d use me in some way to advance themselves.
“See, I was a crucial component in Rashford’s genius when I taught him his multiplication tables. So, as we can all see, I deserve that raise.”
Mrs. Anderson was different. As the years passed, the books and the lessons I learned from her became more challenging. I realized that this wasn’t just about me.
“I want you to understand how white America wants you to think about itself. Do you see yourself in these stories?”
“No.”
“Then know that they don’t want to see you in their world. They don’t want to see you in their present, past, and, most importantly, future. It’s up to you as a black boy to change that.”
Soon, it wasn’t enough to read the books, but my brain asked questions as I read. How come the books I read, the ones where white characters were the heroes, didn’t have black friends? Or live in a world where black people lived. Or how come the Black people couldn’t be the adventurers or the detectives or the heroes?
I’d dig into the front pages to read the copyright date. A 1943 version told me that there wasn’t much of an effort to make social justice a thing, but a 1959 copyright said to me that the doldrums of the mythical bucolic 1950s were falling away. The bloody faces of black children facing the rabid dogs of Bull Connor started to inform the authors and their stories.
Black characters, still written through the aspirational yet segregationist lens of white writers, started to come to the fore, with their forced and on-the-nose sense of humanity designed to assist white children traumatized by black suffering. But still, they remained white.
Very white.
“The box is of their making, and I want you to be able to see how they constructed it. It would be best if you didn’t think outside the box. It would be best if you didn’t recognize that a box exists. Don’t accept limitations imposed by others,” said Mrs. Anderson.
Mrs. Anderson added lessons through the years, but this statement would be her constant admonishment to me. My guiding light as I grew taller toward the sun.
To this day, I chant this in the morning when I wake up. And I chant this when I go to sleep at night.
Don’t recognize that the box exists.
Don’t accept limitations imposed by others.
Don’t recognize that the box exists.
Don’t accept limitations imposed by others.
White people aren’t magic.
Fame is corrosive.
The last bit was what stuck with me the most and the longest. I had firsthand knowledge that fame was corrosive. I saw it in how it corrupted Mother. I saw it in the famous people she brought around me, so I could spell subterfuge or supercalifragilisticexpialidocious. I saw it throughout my academic life. Fame corrodes everything from your ego to your sense of right and wrong. And that’s why I decided to avoid it for as long as possible. And beyond the because answer, maybe that’s why I chose that bench. To keep me grounded, rather than feeling the fake euphoria of fame.
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6 Replies
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This a prologue and chapter 1 to a dark Black Academia project I’ve completed entitled “Fraudulent”. I’m in the process of refining. Thanks all for the help in advance.
Prologue
In the wee hours of an early September morning in 1986, I was speeding down California Highway 13, a tree-lined stretch of road weaving through the Oakland hills. Through my windshield, the streetlights were a blur, as I whizzed by them. The night had devolved towards a nightmarish conclusion that had left me covered with drops of blood and brain matter throughout my clothing and skin. All I wanted to do was forget the fragments of what I could remember happening moments earlier; sleep it all away like a bad dream, but I wasn’t sure if that was in the cards for me. Was I being sought for questioning or was I in the clear? I needed to get off the road and think it through.
I exited at Redwood Road and headed up a steep hill. After a couple of turns, I parked in a dirt lot about a mile up. The bottle of Malibu Rum in my lap was still cold. I took a swig, gathered myself and exited my ’81 Corvette. I sat on top of the hood and gazed outward. Some of my best high school romances had begun at the top of this hill, across the street from the sprawling campus of Merritt Community College. This vantage point displayed a soothing and beautiful view of the whole San Francisco Bay Area, juxtaposed to the jarring ugliness that was my new reality. I took one last gulp from the bottle, as lights twinkled below piercing the fog as it rolled in from the bay. I pitched the empty bottle into the darkness, causing it to shatter like my current psyche. Metaphorically, it was time to pick up the pieces; no time like the present to act. I thought to myself, nobody saw me leave the scene. If that were the case, nobody was looking for me. I began to feel the warmth of a newfound sense of security wash over me.
I needed to call someone to help me affirm my rationalization. Besides coming to this familiar comfort zone, I had driven up this hill to go to an out-of-the-way phone booth in front of the campus.
I felt more and more like I had nothing to worry about as I stared at the serenity of the city below, but I still needed to know if I was right. I walk across the street to the phone booth. Reaching into my pants pocket, I fumbled for change. I dropped a quarter into the metal slot.
She answered on the first ring. “Hello,” said Vivian Robertson, my grandmother, alert for one in the morning.
“Grammy—,”
Grammy cut me off. “Jimi what’s going on? Cops are banging on the door. They’re yelling at me to open up!”
My sense of calm was immediately shattered… again. “Listen Grammy, I don’t have time to explain right now, just know I didn’t do anything bad. I did the right thing. I’m gonna sort this out. I love you. I gotta go.”
I hung up the phone. What the fuck? Nobody saw me. This shit didn’t add up.
In the distance, a football field away I saw headlights. At this time of night, the only thing coming up here was a cop. As the lights came closer, I noted I was right. It wasn’t an Oakland P.D. cruiser, but rather a campus cop car. A sense of relief came over me. I turned my back in an attempt to not let the cop see the blood on the front of my trousers, sports coat and face. The cruiser slowed a bit, shining a search light before moving onward. Great, I thought! I left the phone booth to cross the street and headed back to my car. I picked this phone booth in an attempt to avoid cops, only to be foiled. Why in the fuck was a campus cop on duty at this time of night anyway? No mind, he was gone and in a moment I would be too.
When I hopped back in my ride and put the key in the ignition, headlights appeared in my rearview mirror. This fucking cop had made a U-turn and doubled back. I took off my sports coat in an attempt to look somewhat normal. Next, I dabbed the sweat from my brow and attempted to wipe the blood off my face. The cop cruiser was now directly across from my car, with his window down. The cop motioned for me to roll down my window.
His searchlight was directly in my face, creating an uncomfortable glare. “Hey boy, whatcha doin’ up here this time of night?”
I wanted to tell this cracker to fuck off, but I held my tongue, because I didn’t want to give him a reason. “Taking in this spectacular view and composing my thoughts,” I retorted.
The cop’s face displayed a smirk as he put his car in park, exited his vehicle and walked toward me. His right hand was affixed to his holstered thirty-eight service revolver. “Breakout some ID, son.”
When cops weren’t busy breaking you off some disrespect by calling you “boy” their other go-to was “son”, which was equally insulting.
“I’m going to slowly reach into the inside pocket of my sports coat on the passenger seat to get my wallet, okay.”
The cop was now in a squared-off position, ready to unholster his weapon and shoot me, if he felt threatened. “Fine.”
My father had taught me at a young age exactly how to speak and move around the police during a traffic stop. The rules for interacting with law enforcement were much different for Black people than anyone else. I reached ever so gingerly to get my wallet. As I slowly pulled it from the coat’s inner pocket, I had to keep in mind to maneuver the piece of clothing so as not to show the part covered with blood. All of this intricate hand-eye coordination done while slightly toasted was a bitch, but I managed. I opened my wallet and slid out one of my driver’s licenses.
“Jameson Williams,” said the cop, as he looked up at me after reading the license.
“Yes, that’s the name I was born with,” I replied, which wasn’t a lie, but an intricate truth.
“I’ll be back. Sit tight, son.”
It seemed like an eternity had passed before the cop came back.
“You’re free to go, but you should move it along. It’s not safe up here,” he instructed.
“Thanks, I’ll do that.”
I heeded the cop’s advice, started my car, made a U-turn and headed down the hill. The light at Redwood Road and Campus Drive was red. I sat for what seemed like forever. The thought crossed my mind to run it. I should have followed that intuition.
I heard a siren blaring. I gazed up in the rear-view mirror only to see fucking blue lights! The campus cop was back, now directly on my bumper. I briefly thought about flooring the accelerator, but thought better of it. A high speed chase would only make this bad situation worse. The campus cop instructed me with his loudspeaker to go through the red light and pull over on the side of the road. The cop swiftly exited his vehicle with the driver’s side window down, his gun now un-holstered as he knelt behind his driver’s side door.
“Throw your fuckin’ keys toward the sidewalk, open the door from the outside handle with your left hand!” he commanded. “Put your right hand out of the window and exit the vehicle slowly with your goddamn hands up!”
I silently followed the commands to the letter. Not doing so would most likely mean getting shot. Hell, following directions could mean getting shot. I was now standing outside my car.
“Put your hands with fingers interlaced behind your head, turn around and walk slowly backward towards me.”
Walking backward after several drinks should have been problematic, but the gun trained on me helped up my concentration level. I had had guns pointed at me before, which may have explained why I wasn’t scared senseless.
As I approached the cop, still walking backward, he said,”Get on your fuckin’ knees.”
I complied and he snapped on the cuffs, extra tight as usual, slammed me on the concrete, checked my pockets, yanked me to my feet and read me my rights.
“Not smart!” blurted the cop. “Giving me a fake license. I got your ass, Jimi McDaniels!”
Chapter One
The Rabbit Hole
It was a beautiful day in March 1986, exceptional by Bay Area standards. I had the top down on the ‘Vette and the stereo cranked up. Anyone near me could hear the sounds of “Why You Treat Me So Bad”, a catchy new release by a Bay Area group, Club Nouveau. My flat-top haircut was freshly faded on the sides with a left-direction part framing my chiseled face.
“Baby, why can’t you just drop me off in The City?” pleaded Ariceli “Air” Jackson, a sexy girl of Latin and Black mixture occupying the passenger seat.
“I’m low on gas, money, and traffic on the bridge is a bitch this time of day, especially on a Friday,” I replied.
Ariceli ran her hand up my thigh stopping at my crotch with a slight squeeze. “Jimi, if you can do this solid for me, I’ll make you forget all about traffic on the bridge.”
“Girl, what you tryin’ to do? Make me crash the main thing of value I got.”
“Oh, you’ve got somethin’ else and I definitely value it.”
Air and I had broken up months ago, but remained friends with benefits that never seemed to end. We just enjoyed each other whenever the moment suited us. That moment had passed about an hour ago in San Jose. Air, originally from San Francisco, was headed to a birthday celebration, which meant all night partying with her girls in The City.
“Maybe another time, baby,” I said
Moving slowly and with a sad sulky look on her face, Air departed the car, closing the passenger door. Once gone, she picked up the pace when she noticed a train approaching the elevated platform of the MacArthur BART station. Her hair flowed down her back, as I watched her hips shake from side to side in her white summer dress and red strappy stilettos. She shimmied hurriedly through the turnstiles with a leather bag over her shoulder. Her juicy rear end was worth watching until it went out of view.
I wasn’t lying when I said I was low on gas. I was on fumes. I hit an off-brand gas station in a run-down neighborhood on MLK Way. I eased out of the car and headed inside to pay.
“Yeah, twenty on seven, please,” I requested from the cashier as I passed him my debit card.
“Ya good, bro,” said what appeared to be a Middle Eastern cashier.
I departed the store and there she was…trouble. She exited a red convertible Volkswagen Cabriolet with a white top and interior. She looked slightly Asian, but not like Chinese or Japanese. Her skin was a golden tan. Her hair was in a bun, with a body featuring a nice chest. My eyes scanned down her short dress that accentuated her creamy thighs and calves that went down to her perfectly pedicured feet in kitten heels. It was as if she was moving in slow motion as we walked toward each other. When we got closer she gave me a pearly white smile.
“How you doin’,” I chirped as she passed.
She didn’t reply. Slow motion ended once she passed me, but I looked back to see her saunter into the store and was not disappointed. Her car was on the other side of the pump, across from mine. I saw a chocolate-skinned young lady with long hair in the passenger seat. She glanced back at me with a smile as I filled my tank. I smiled back, but not with as much gusto as I had for her friend. The girl in the car had blue eyes. Exotic, I thought. Colored contacts were the new “in” thing, so I figured her eyes weren’t really blue. It was okay, though. She was pretty enough. Her friend, the driver, had returned. She sashayed by my car, with a fragrance trailing her too sweet for words.
“Nice Daytons,” she said as she floated by.
“Thanks!” I said, impressed with her knowledge of custom wheels.
Most people assumed because I was in The Bay, especially Oakland, that the silver spoke rims on my car were Trues. Daytons were the rim of choice in L.A. at that time. I was always one to be different.
“Maybe I’ll see you around, ICEE,” she said with a wink as she hopped in her Cabriolet, not getting gas.
“Me having your number can change that from a maybe to a definitely.”
She laughed as she started her car and whizzed away. Just like that, she was gone. Oh well, her loss, I thought. I did notice her vanity plate read: TEN WINS.
I contemplated what that meant. Was she advertising she was a “ten”?
I cruised around Lake Merritt, a man-made lake in the middle of Oakland, surrounded by very nice 1920s era houses. I parked on the east side of the lake, sat on my hood and took in the impromptu summer dress festival that was taking place on this beautiful day. In The Town, once winter was gone and warm weather came, the skeezers came out en masse. Skeezer was a term that could be used to describe women of questionable moral fiber.
At about six o’clock in the evening I’d had enough of people watching. I was also now running late to pick up my Sands, Robinson Middlebrooks Chandler, from the Lake Merritt BART Station. Sands is a term used in the “D9”, Divine Nine organizations, historically Black fraternities and sororities, to describe someone you pledged with. We had crossed into our fraternity a couple years back. Robinson Middlebrooks Chandler, the name his parents had saddled him with, was way too formal. He simply went by Rob. We had made plans earlier for him to take BART up from the South Bay after his final class.
When Rob and I first met on the campus of San Jose State University, we did not click at all. He came across like an arrogant asshole. Being thrown together on a pledge line, we had no choice but to get along as a means of survival. During the seven brutal weeks of the pledge process, we figured out that we had three things in common; liquor, weed and an appreciation of fine women.
I pulled up right in front of the Lake Merritt BART station entrance on Oak Street at about ten after six to see Rob with a scowl on his face. I got out to open the trunk, so he could put his gear for the night inside.
“You’re late, nigga!” he stated, loud as hell. “Pledging the frat didn’t teach you shit about punctuality.”
During this time use of the N-word was frowned upon by older generations of Black people, especially those affiliated with the D9. I shared this view and tried to get Rob to stop using the N-word, but Rob was gonna be who he was gonna be.
“Got caught up hoochie gazing around the Lake, brotha,” I replied.
We both hopped in my ride, closed the doors at the same time and roared off towards the Oakland Hills, Montclair District to be exact. Our destination was Grammy’s house, a nice two-story hanging off the side of a forest-covered hill near Snake Road, a narrow, winding, never ending thoroughfare. This was the home I had grown up in from age ten through high school.
Grammy, whom I loved to death, had come to live with me near the end of my junior year of high school. She was in her mid-sixties, without an ounce of fat on her five-foot two frame. She sported a blonde bob hairdo, which made her look a good decade and a half younger. She had been my backbone through the roughest time in my life.
Whenever my frat and I were in town, we’d stay over, if we had overdone our partying, which happened frequently. San Jose was some thirty miles south and a treacherous drive for the weary and intoxicated.
I parked in the driveway of the nicely-appointed residence. We gathered our things from the trunk and walked through a six-foot-high fence towards the front door. Upon entering, Grammy, chic as always, greeted us with big hugs.
“Hey babies, how you doin’,” she said with kisses applied to our cheeks.
Rob took in my grandmother’s affection like one of the family, because that was what he had become.
“What you been up to, Grammy?” Rob quizzed.
“Same ole, same ole.”
“Oh, I’m sure you’re being modest, a pretty young thing like yourself.”
Rob was a six-foot Black male with a close-cropped haircut, and he was a charmer, which made him the perfect wingman. He had charmed the pants off of many ladies…literally.
“So what are you handsome gentlemen getting into tonight?”
“The Akkas, I mean Alpha Kappa Alpha is having a function at Cal’s Pauley Ballroom,” I answered.
Alpha Kappa Alpha, the oldest D9 sorority in the country, was founded in 1908 in Washington, D.C. on the campus of Howard University. AKA was the acronym for their organization.
“We’ll probably hit Chuck’s and Carlos Murphy’s on the way,” added Rob.
Chuck’s was a nickname for Charlie Brown’s. Charlie Brown’s and Carlos Murphy’s were two chichi restaurants set right on the bay in the Emeryville Marina. Emeryville was a crusty, small, factory-laden waterfront town just north of Oakland. The Marina was one of the few nice things about Emeryville. Charlie Brown’s and Carlos Murphy’s were across a parking lot from each other, so if you hit one it made sense to hit the other. Both were notorious meat markets, great for pre-party drinks and scoring a number or two. Both spots catered to an upscale crowd. The ambiance and the prices kept low class individuals away.
“You guys be careful. Five-0 is out deep in these streets,” Grammy informed us. She was always on the cutting edge of all the young vernacular of the day. “You guys coming back tonight?” “Maybe,” I replied.
“If you do, come in quietly. I plan to have a gentleman caller over a bit later.”
“Oh,” said Rob and I at the same time looking at each other.
I leaned in once more to hug Grammy. “We’re going down to my room to get ready. We’ll catch ya later.”
My room was how I had left it upon moving out after high school. Posters of Vanity, the Mary Jane Girls and Rick James still graced the walls. A Raiders pennant was affixed to the back of the door. I was still a fan even though they had abandoned Oakland for L.A. a few years ago. There was a teak trundle bed so that two could sleep in this room if need be.
Once I closed the door Rob asked, “What was going on at the Lake?”
“Oh man, there was a parade of skeezers in sundresses!”
Rob couldn’t help but laugh. “Man, I should have skipped that last class and rode up with you,”
“Nah bruh, a mind is a terrible thing to waste, and you don’t have much more to spare,”
“Fuck you!”
“Hey, I was smart enough to know not to schedule classes on a Friday. Besides, you wouldn’t have fit in the car anyway.”
“What you talkin’ bout?”
“I hooked up with Air and gave her a ride up here.”
“You’re still fuckin’ with her?”
“Naw we’re friends.”
“Yeah, nigga, right.”
“Okay, with benefits.”
“That’s what the hell I thought,” said Rob. “Didn’t you learn from the last time?”
The last time was a reference to the time a bunch of the brothas and I had gone out to a club in Milpitas. I met this fine-ass Filipino girl who I was trying to persuade to go home with me. Just as I thought I had closed the deal in the parking lot, Air, who I hadn’t even seen in the club, came from out of nowhere and snatched the girl by her hair. From there the fight was on. Girls should never fight at the club. Both their mini dresses rose up, exposing ass and hoo-ha for all to see.
Air and I had broken up about a week before that incident due to her extreme jealousy. She was always checking my answering machine; constantly looking through my wallet and my drawers, when I left her alone in my studio apartment. I never understood why such a hot girl had so many insecurities. After that incident in the parking lot, I put her on ice for months.
“I’ve got things under control now.”
“Sure you do,” said Rob. “So you went over to The City?”
“Oh, fuck not. I dropped her off at MacArthur.”
“My nigga!”
“I almost forgot. I saw this Asian and I don’t know what the fuck else, maybe Black, chick at a gas station on MLK.”
Rob was perpetually on the hunt, so his next question was automatic. “You get the digits?”
“She played herself. Hopped in this funky Cabriolet with some slammin’ ass rims, after flirting with me.”
“Friends?”
“She had this chocolate-skin hottie with blue contacts in the passenger seat.” I knew this reply would intrigue Rob. He loved brown skinned Black women.
“You didn’t get the digits. You fucked up!”
“They were fine as fuck, but you can’t win them all.”
“You barely win a third.”
“Kiss my ass mutha fucka. I’m an ass-o-lo-gist and don’t you forget that shit,” I informed Rob with a wag of my left index finger in front of his face.
We bantered like this for about an hour while getting dressed to leave the house for the evening, a little before nine. The white Detroit muscle car roared down the hill and hit Highway 13, the Warren Freeway. I loved rolling the ‘Vette down the 13, because it was usually traffic free and featured no curves. Tonight I was doing more than one hundred miles per hour; a frequent occurrence for me on this cop free piece of highway. At the Highway 24 West interchange to downtown Oakland, I chilled out, because 24 had traffic and CHIPS.
Minutes later we were cruising the parking lot of Charlie Brown’s and Carlos Murphy’s looking for a parking place, as we fronted and hollered at the ladies that passed on their way to the entrance. Bam! There it was, the red Volkswagen Cabriolet parked at the valet stand in front of Charlie Brown’s.
Rob spotted the vanity plate. “TEN WINS. What the fuck does that mean?”
“I’ma park and find out, bro.”
We parked, hopped out and looked at our gear in the gleam of the white paint on the ‘Vette. We were both wearing black leather three-quarter trench coats, rayon button down shirts, slacks and black Bally loafers on our feet. We entered Charlie Brown’s with swagger on level eleven.
Heading to the bar I spotted “TEN”. Our eyes locked immediately.
I leaned back and whispered to Rob, “That’s them.”
TEN and her girl were parked at a spot on the bar with a perfect view of the San Francisco skyline in the distance. The chocolate-skinned girl now had green eyes. As I approached, they turned towards the bartender.
“I guess this is around,” I uttered in TEN’s left ear.
She turned towards me, “Do we know each other?”
“In time. In time,” I repeated. “I’m Jimi and this is my Sands, Rob”
“Sands. So you’re frat boys.”
“No, gentlemen of the Oldest and the Boldest.”
“Oh I stand corrected,” said TEN, tilting her chin slightly up to laugh at me.
“Who’s on your wing over there?”
Before TEN could speak the green-eyed devil reached out her hand towards Rob and introduced herself, “I’m Kali. With a k.”
“What are you and TEN drinking?” Asked Rob.
“Beautifuls. How’d you know her name was Ten?”
“The vanity plate on that Cabriolet sitting in the valet was a hint.”
I chimed in, “That platinum necklace with a 10 pendant is also a dead giveaway.”
“And you know jewelry, excellent.” Ten was impressed. Some mistook platinum for silver or white gold. “What if I’m just a ten and that’s all this means,” she said, holding the pendant between her thumb and index finger of her left hand.
We had pulled up bar stools by this point on either side of the two ladies.
“Maybe, but you wouldn’t have to advertise that, so I’m thinking it’s more than just a moniker.”
“Oh, you’re good. You got me. The name’s Tenaka when being formal, but you can call me Ten,” she said, extending her right hand and smiling.
As I took her hand and caressed it between both of my hands, I noticed a fragrance that could have been the aroma of heaven. Wearing a red, tight knee-length dress exposing her back with black patent leather high heel peep toe pumps, she lived up to the moniker Ten. Kali had on a similar outfit, but in all white, and she wasn’t chopped liver either.
“Bartender, two more Beautifuls for the ladies and two Long Islands for me and my man.” I requested.
“Oh, we got a baller here,” Ten noted as I pulled out my Amex card.
“Baller? Me? Nah, just a guy,” I responded with a smirk.
“So, ICEE, I mean Jimi, is that ‘Vette yours or your daddy’s?” This inquiry let me know she had noticed the vanity plate on my car, too.
“Ouch! No, it’s mine, but it used to be my daddy’s.”
“Oh, you’re one of those spoiled entitled rich hill kids.”
The Oakland hills were considered the place to be, while the “Flatlands” were sometimes prone to be hit or miss.
“Hill kid, yeah. Spoiled and entitled, not even.”
“You just told me your daddy gave you a relatively new Corvette.”
“Technically, but I don’t want to talk about that,” I responded. “Let’s keep it light. That’s not a fun story.”
Ten snapped her fingers. “I get it now. ICEE. Your vanity plate is to rep your frat.”
“You got it.” I put my hands out and bowed my head. “So, are y’all Deltas?”
“What would give you that idea?”
“Red dress and white dress.”
By this time Rob and Kali had engaged in their own conversation, so things were progressing in the right direction.
“No. What gives you the idea I attend college at all?” asked Ten.
“You got that Cal look.”
Ten tilted her head to the side. “And what’s that Cal look?”
“Smart.”
Ten giggled as she sipped her drink. “I look smart? Cool, I’ve got it made then.”
“You’re quite the smart ass, as well.”
“That’s how we roll at Cal. So where do you attend classes?”
“San Jose State. See, I told you I’m not entitled.”
“A bit far from home, aren’t you?”
“Oakland is my home. Born and raised.”
“Your boy, too?”
“Naw, he’s from Frisco. How about you?”
“L.A., baby. That’s why I knew your ‘Vette was sittin’ on Daytons and not Trues.”
“Bravo!” I said, giving a golf clap.
“The Vogue tires are a dead giveaway you’re from Oakland, though.”
“Sure, but it’s a sick combination. What part of Lala?”
“Ladera Heights. Are you familiar?”
“Yep. Who’s entitled now?”
“Oh and you’ve got jokes. Good for you.”
“Among other things,” I replied. “That Cabriolet screams rich, pampered girl all day.”
“Me? Neva. Just a girl getting an education.” We both took sips of our drinks.
Before I knew it an hour had passed as we got to know each other further. In that hour I conveyed to Ten that I wasn’t rich, but also not from the streets; rather somewhere in between. Ten gave off the vibe that she liked witty conversation and smarts in her men. I hoped that I had presented in that light, because I felt a connection.
“Well, me and my boy are headed over to Pauley Ballroom,” I said, signalling for the bartender to close me out.
“Us too,” replied Ten.
I stood up and said, “Well, maybe I’ll see you around.”
“Definitely.” Ten slipped a piece of paper into my right hand on the sly.
“Definitely then.” I slid the paper into my pocket.
I tapped Rob on his shoulder and waved my hand in a motion signaling him that it was time to go. Rob rose from his barstool to leave after a short protest. His protest ended when I reminded him I had the car keys. That always made him move his ass.
After we were no longer in earshot Rob said, “Dude, I’ma hit that.”
“Right. Walk down the hill, don’t run, son.”
That was a motto we had adopted meaning show poise, not desperation.
We settled into the ‘Vette. I twisted the key in the ignition. The powerful engine growled, as I tuned to 107.7 on the stereo. “Surgery” by the World Class Wreckin’ Crew featuring Dr. Dre was playing.
“Bump that shit, boy!” proclaimed Rob, as he pumped his fist in the air repeatedly.
I granted Rob’s request as I backed out and rolled onto Embarcadero, the frontage road that ran between Interstate 80 and the San Francisco Bay. When I hit University Avenue after a couple of miles, I busted a right and continued into downtown Berkeley and towards Cal.
Pauley Ballroom was at the intersection of Bancroft Way and Telegraph Avenue. Telegraph was littered with stores and eateries, as was Bancroft Way, which made parking a bitch at most hours of the day. Cal had an underground parking below their campus pub, The Bear’s Lair. I parked in the reasonably priced, under utilized lot. It was attended, so I didn’t have to worry about theft.
We arrived at the back entrance to Pauley Ballroom at about a quarter to eleven, which was perfect timing by our standards. We never liked to be the first to arrive at a function. I grabbed the handle of the door that read Authorized Personnel Only and we proceeded to walk through it. This door led to a kitchen, where we navigated past prep stations that weren’t in use because the kitchen was closed at this time of night. At last we made it to the magic door that let us into the back of the ballroom. After the hell we went through pledging, with Rob almost dying at one point, we felt entitled to never ever pay for a college-related activity. Paying was for suckers and freshmen.
Brothers in our fraternity chapter were always amazed at how much I knew about the ins and outs of most places. I would tell them when we were sneaking into a venue that there are always two ways into a spot, per the fire marshal. This was mostly true, but when it came to Cal I knew a whole lot more.
During my junior and senior years of high school, I was part of a minority college preparatory program. I made it a point to go through all the nooks and crannies of Cal to gather information I figured would be useful at a later date. Tonight was one of those later dates.
I applied to Cal and was accepted, but for personal reasons having to do with my father I did not enroll there, but rather at a more cost effective California State University. I even pledged a rival D9 Fraternity to slight him, even though neither thing mattered by that time.
The ballroom was packed, the temperature was rising and the base from the sound system pulsated through my body. We made our way through the crowd and spotted Jax. Jaxson Woods was a neophyte from our chapter. A Neophyte was a new brotha just inducted. Jax was six feet tall, medium build with wavy hair, faded on the sides. His skin wasn’t dark, nor light, but somewhere in between. Jax hailed from Danville–a rich White suburb in the valley over the hills from Oakland. During his youth, he had been deprived of interactions with other Black people by his parents who perceived that the White suburbs were better for their only child. Once Jax had the opportunity to participate in activities on campus with Black people, he dove in headlong.
“What up Nigga!” yelled Rob.
“What’s goin’ on J. Mac, Rob!”
“There’s a lot of potential here tonight,” said Rob.
“Remember brotha’s walk. Don’t run. They want us more than we want them. That’s the attitude.” I was always coaching. These two made it steady work.
Momentarily, my Ace, Kassandra strolled up on my left. She went by Kass to her friends. Kass was a Delta at Cal and had pledged at about the same time as Rob and I.
“How you doin’, my Nubian kings.” Kass was all about the proliferation of Blackness.
“Just checkin’ out the scene. Seeing who’s deserving of an opportunity.”
Kass folded her arms while shooting me a knowing glance. “Jimi Mac, you ain’t checkin’ out shit. You know Air will act a fool if she even gets a whiff of you messing around.”
Kass and Air were parallel sands; people who pledged the same D9 organization at the same time from different chapters.
“Oh, you haven’t heard? We’re only beneficial friends now.”
Kass tilted her head back and let out a full-bellied laugh. “That’s a good one. I heard how she acted a fool out there in Santa Clara at the club a while back.”
“It was Milpitas. Riffs is in Milpitas,” I corrected. “And I put her in the penalty box for quite some time for that shit. Now we’ve agreed to be just friends.”
“Just friends.” More chuckles came from Kass. “Okay, we’ll see.”
Kass was beautiful, brown skinned, five-foot eight, a nice figure and long braids down her back, but she was like a sister to me. She was a guy’s girl. Not really into hanging with a bunch of women, but rather men, and choppin’ it up just like one of the fellas. She was quite independent from her sorors and liked it that way. Rob and Jax had drifted onto the dance floor at this point.
“Jimi, I want you to meet my little sister, Bethany. She’s up for the weekend from Long Beach State.”
Bethany had just made her way over. She was the sexy version of Kass; same height with loose curly brown hair and dimples. I extended my hand for what she thought would be a greeting and said, “This my song! Come on girl, let’s go!” and with that, I whisked Bethany onto the dance floor.
It didn’t matter if this was my song or not. It was a great excuse to get Bethany on the dance floor. “DMSR” by Prince just so happened to be one of my favorite songs. Trying to talk to someone on the dance floor is a pointless endeavor, so I just let my body do the talking…and so did she! The deejay was on hit. He mixed effortlessly from track to track. We danced for probably fifteen minutes straight.
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Love the first sentence! “Every day, rain or shine, I sat on the worst bench on the UCLA campus.” I also love that just moments into reading, I had a clear picture of this character’s life and personality without having anything spelled out for me outside of this little slice of life. Before any backstory, before a first name, I start to understand who he is because of his relationship with this one spot on the campus and the places his mind goes while sitting there. I felt like I was watching a movie, and know that a movie couldn’t do this writing justice. lol. Excited to read more.
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This reply was modified 3 days, 13 hours ago by Natalie.
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This reply was modified 3 days, 13 hours ago by
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@j-hubbz I’ll read this later tonight. Thanks for uploading!!!
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@alpha1906 your 1st chapter is genius. I was laughing out loud multiple times. Mother was an apt name for mother. I liked how “because” was tied into the pain of having an absentee parent. I loved how institutions of higher education were called on the carpet for their exploitive nature. I can’t wait for more!
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@j-hubbz I’m reading in parts:
I love the tease, even though I’m not a big proponent of prologues. If it’s in the story, then just start that tease as Chapter 1. It’s great backstory that does a wonderful job of doing a bunch of things: I know the stakes, but the mystery about what happened is still there. Since we play with time and space, there’s no need to sorta signal to the reader that this isn’t being told linearly. Just go with it, and the Chapter 2, we’ll automatically know that we’re back in time before the first part happened.
But you definitely have my attention, and I like how our character escaped the first encounter with the cop and then we see him get caught. Awesome.
Reading more as the day goes by.
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@alpha1906 the prologue isn’t anywhere else the manuscript, but offers connectivity later.
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