One Week Gig. Rufus Jr. Curry Jr.

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      Proofreader/Editor: Tracey L. Willis

      Introduction To Conflict

      Chapter 1

      I stood in front of my beginning band class as they fumbled through the music for the halftime show that just happened to be two weeks away. As they played, I cut them off and gave them a look that if it were a gun, I’d be doing quadruple life for the massacre of a class of what were supposed to be some of the finest, middle school musicians in the state of Florida. I thought to myself, “Damn, somebody sure pulled the ole switch-a-roo on me.” I tapped the music stand in front of me with my baton.

      "Okay ladies and gents, let’s take it from letter D. Now sing through those horns. Remember the horn is an extension of your voice.”

      I snapped my baton up crisper than an overdone saltine cracker. The students’ response to my baton was less than acceptable. “Is that the best that you’ve got? Do it again, so we can see how many laps it takes to render a freshman band student unconscious.”

      I raised my baton crisp again, and the snap up of those instruments looked so sweet, I had to do it again just to be sure it wasn’t a fluke. I counted them off, “1,2,3,4”. Man, they sounded as if someone had switched the band while my head was down. Now here we were playing Getaway by Earth, Wind & Fire. I doubt if any of the kids even know who EWF are.

      Believe me before their four years at Freedman High are up, I’m going to have all of that old school music pumpin’ through their veins. Well, we made it through another rehearsal.

      “I expect all of you to go home tonight and put in two more hours on this music. All songs will be memorized by Thursday, and we shake the tree for the starting line up on Saturday morning. Any questions?” I see a hand in the back.

      “There is no way to remember all fifteen of these songs by Thursday, and my Mama said I need to go shopping for back-to-school clothes this weekend too,” squeaks little Willie McFadder.

      I pause for a moment to let little Willie McFadder’s question marinade on the brain cells of those who face the same dilemma. It’s amazing how dumb a freshman can look. I guess it comes with the territory. Be you fresh meat in high school, college, or even the military, it’s all the same. I’m going to take my time with this one, because if there’s one thing I hate when dealing with young musicians, it’s repeating what I say over and over again. I tilt my head to the side and try to maintain a sense of control.

      “Son, I want you to listen, and listen good. Can you hear me?” Willie McFadder answers me in a voice so soft that if I had closed my eyes I could have mistaken him for my high school prom date.

      “Yes Sir.”

      “Now, Willie, you don’t have to remember all the songs. You don’t even have to practice if you don’t want to. But if you plan on being on that field marching with the Mighty Bull Dog Band two weeks from now, you will have my music memorized by tomorrow and be on the field stretching and ready for me to call your number on Saturday morning. Now, remember, you don’t have to. The only thing you have to do in this life is stay black and die. Now, if you decide not to follow in the customs of the Marching Bull Dog Band, that’s fine too. I’ll just see you sitting in the bleachers near the band, with your Mama and Daddy, with your new school clothes on, thinking, ‘Was that shopping spree really worth it?’”

      The rest of the class burst out laughing. I guess I kind of embarrassed him a little bit. But that’s how you have to be with these kids these days, especially these young black boys. My musicians are top notch, but no one is more important than anyone else when it comes to the priorities and commitment of the team. I see I’m going to have to squeeze that last li’l, teeny bit of punk out of Willie before I lose him to being a life long Mama’s boy.

      I dismissed the class as the bell rang at the end of seventh hour. Well, that’s one more day under my belt. All of my old head band students kept coming by, poking their heads into the office to let me know they’re hyped about the marching band season. It’s amazing how fast some of these students mature. I have to do a double take most of the time because the boys have gone out and grown muscles, beards and moustaches. The girls─some of them look like they have been eating super grow, because they have the bodies of grown ladies. To the untrained eye, these kids are young men and women. But believe me, they are far from that. All you have to do is sit down and talk to most of them for an hour, and those brand new butts, breasts, muscles, moustaches and chest hair will all fade away.

      My partners who don’t teach in the school system ask me how I do it. You know─teach and never be tempted. I tell them, “You all are only looking at these kids from a distance. I know them through and through.” The girls walk around with all that body and don’t even know how dangerous they are. They’re like babies with loaded machine guns. Dangerous! The boys are equally as dangerous because their Johnson gets hard every time their heart beats. Besides, I like fish on Friday, FAMU football and the Marching “100” on Saturday, and collard greens on Sunday, and you can’t guarantee me any of those things in prison. So I can’t put myself in any situation that will put me there. The only things I like young are chicken, money, and babies.

      Well, time to be getting out of here. I’m thinking I might swing by The Spot to see what’s going with my peeps. That’s a shame. I should be going straight home, but…you got to know how it is sometimes.

      Look at me. I’m just rambling on about myself and I forgot to introduce you to my wife, Terri Black-Sweet. We’ve been together since our days in college. When I met her, I knew there was something special about her. I spotted her walking across the campus decked out in those jet black Sergio Valente’ designer jeans, a form fitting polo shirt and those sexy flat black shoes.

      You all just don’t know what a sexy woman in some low-heeled shoes would do for a brother back then. My view was that anybody could be sexy in high-heeled shoes. High-heeled shoes were specifically designed to create that illusion. The trick was to see if a sister could make me look twice while she was wearing low-heeled shoes, or even sneakers and jeans. I guess real fine sisters in low-heeled shoes were in line with the philosophy I developed in high school while conducting research on boy/girl relationships working undercover at Mickey D’s. If you go to a Mickey D’s, Burger King, or a White Castle, and the sister standing behind the counter in the fast food polyester or one-size-fits-all uniform appeared to be fine, that meant she was real fine. I deduced that it took some real serious curves to poke through those baggy one-size-fits-all uniforms.

      Terri met the criteria. She was a country girl, all the way from Butt-Naked, GA, by way of Miami, FL. She was sweet and somewhat shy, I guess, or at least she pretended to be. Man, her conversation was so inviting, the rhythm of her walk so hypnotic, the curve of her hips like that of a ten ounce, not a sixteen ounce, Coca-Cola bottle, and her mind was sharper than a dressed-up preacher on pastor’s appreciation day. Now that’s what I liked. She was smart. Oh, so smart. I mean, don’t get me wrong; I’m not trying to say that all of her physical attributes didn’t draw a soul brother to her sweet nectar. I concede that. It was her sharp mind that kept me right in the middle of the game. No joke! I place high stock on the intelligence of a woman.

      Have you ever tried to talk to a...how should I say it? “Dumb Dora”. Man, it is painful. I’ve had my share of airheads, but I did try to avoid them at all cost. Talking to one is like working a part-time job after a full day’s work. I was kickin’ it with this honey back in my college days who was so dumb, I told her I was on the male birth control pill and she believed it. Well, it’s not like women corner the market on stupid. All of us have suffered from bouts of the “Please spit on me and tell me it’s raining syndrome.” СКАЧАТЬ