Title Page

BOOKS BY MELVIN DIXON

BOOKS BY MELVIN DIXON

Vanishing Rooms (1991)

The Collected Poems of Ljopold Sidar Senghor
(TRANSLATION, 1991)

Trouble the Water (1989)

Ride Out the Wilderness:
Geography and Identity in Afro-American Literature (1987)

Change of Territory (1983)

Dedication

for Richard

always

Epigraph

Where’s taunted Christopher, sad queen of night?
And Ray, who cursing crossed the color line?
Where’s gentle Brother Davis? Where’s dopefiend Mel?
Let vanished rooms, let dead streets tell.

—ROBERT HAYDEN

PART ONE

PART ONE

Jesse

Jesse

Metro wasn’t his real name, but I called him that. It was fall of 1975. He led me by the arm out of the dark, rotting warehouse and to the pier fronting West Street. The sharp, fresh air cut through the smell of mildew stuffing my nose. The shock of the bright October sun made me blink so hard I missed a step and stumbled against him. He reached to block my fall, lifting my fingers to his nose. I squeezed his shoulders, held tight for a moment. We wobbled like two dancing drunks, vying for balance. His hands were shaking with a chill. The salt flavor of his skin left my mouth and my lips dried. I could stand and breathe again.

The lot around the pier and the warehouse looked like a deserted playground. Behind me I heard footsteps and creaking floorboards where we had been. We walked on ahead where the Hudson River lapped at soggy wooden piles. The water gurgled and sloshed with delight and the loose, stiff wood swayed in the dim flow. One post cracked free, bobbed in the sucking current, and floated away limp. I brushed off my jeans, more dusty now than blue. Wood splinters fell out of the seams. I looked at Metro to see if he noticed. His eyes were red and puffy. Maybe mine were too. His jeans were torn at the knees and just as dusty. Maybe his knees were scraped, I couldn’t tell. He kept shivering, but I felt warm in the wide blade of sunlight. I squinted to see him clearer. My face wrinkled to a pout.

“Are you mad?” he asked me, brushing tangled brown hair from his face. His hand pulled out splinters. “Are you mad because I made you come here?”

“You didn’t make me come,” I said. “I came because I wanted to.”

Metro touched my denim jacket and let go. He shook his head. “Then why are you looking like that?” he asked, his eyes holding mine.

“Like what?”

“Like you’re relieved or something.”

“What’s gotten into you?” I said. He stepped back from me. I didn’t mean to sound so annoyed. His skin had never looked so white.

“Nothing.”

“I don’t want to meet here again, Metro. Promise me we don’t have to meet here.”

“Why should I promise? You call me Metro, don’t you?”