Tony and Charlie first met in second grade, having chosen the same girl to
impress with their skills in distance spitting.  They both promptly lost interest in her when the conversation turned to professional wrestling.  The merits and character flaws of the various combatants were debated, and with a friendship thus forged, they had been inseparable ever since.  In the ensuing ten years they had ridiculed and heaped abuse upon each other as only the best of friends can.  They were also each other's greatest sources of support.
           
"Even if I get a scholarship, it will probably only cover tuition,” Tony said.  School had just let out for the day, turning loose a flood of adolescence onto the surrounding streets.  "I'll still need to pay for books and a place to live."
           
"What part-time job do you know of that could pay for all that without putting your ass in jail?"
           
"I'll find one." 
           
"Stay home and commute.  Sponge off your folks as long as you can.  It's the American way."
           
Charlie's advice was both practical and sound.  This mattered little to Tony, for his strategy was based on far different guidelines.
           
"I can't deal with him anymore.  I have to get out."
           
Charlie massaged his head, momentarily dulling the gleam of the sun off his dark chocolate dome.  He had been caressing it virtually non-stop since shaving it bald a month earlier, as if the existence of his scalp was an unexpected surprise. 
           
"You've dealt with him this long.  A few years more can't hurt."
           
"He thinks he can turn me into him.  I ain't going for it." 
           
Tony reminisced about the childhood wars waged with his dad at the dinner table.  They would stare at each other for what felt like days, neither of them willing to concede defeat.  His mother would try to mediate, but to no avail.  Finally Tony would force a piece of broccoli into his mouth, disgusted by the texture and taste, but mostly by the smirk that would creep upon his father's face in his moment of triumph.
           
Then Tony would vomit the green intruder back up, the grin would vanish, victory would be seemingly his.  That is, until his father stated that he would either have to finish eating his vegetables or else go get his belt.  Broccoli always won out over his father’s aged leather belt, a fashion accessory that somehow managed to grip the skin of one’s behind as if it possessed razor sharp teeth.
           
"So when are you planning to talk to Janet?" Charlie asked.
           
"As soon as the time is right."
           
"A fine girl like that won’t stay available for long.  If you don't make your move soon, someone else will."
           
"I've got it under control."  Tony didn't need to be reminded of his cowardice, for it haunted him daily.  Rather than allow his false claim to be disputed, he continued the game of musical chairs with conversation topics.
           
"How's it going with Sheila?"
           
Charlie's hand returned to his scalp and his persuasive grin went out like a light bulb that had just used up the last of its watts.  Sheila was the one subject guaranteed to cast a cloud over his sunny outlook.  "That's over with."
           
"Really?  Yesterday you were willing to walk across the East River for her."
           
"Well today I wouldn't cross the street to spit on her if her hair was on fire."
           
"I thought she might be the one, after breaking the two month mark and all." 
           
"I kind of thought so too," Charlie admitted.  "But dem's the breaks.  I'll get over it soon enough."
           
“What up homies?” said Larry Faulk in greeting as he caught up from behind and wrapped an arm around each of their shoulders.
           
“Not much,” Tony answered.  “Did you ace our last Spanish test like you usually do?”  Larry would never be mistaken for a scholar, unless the subject was either hip hop videos, NBA statistics, martial arts movies, or female celebrity posterior comparisons.  But he always excelled in the tests given by Mrs. Sanchez, who happened to be Polish, but presumably Mr. Sanchez was not.
           
“Of course.  You know I spend crazy hours studying that language.  If I want to impress these fine ass Boriquas and Morenas, I need to be able to conversate with them real smooth in their native tongue.  You know what I’m saying?”
           
“I hear you.”
           
“You guys hear about the prank Billy Frazier and his boy Shaqawn played on Mr. Flaggs in fourth period? 
           
“Yeah,” answered Charlie.  “Everybody was talking about it.”
           
“Them niggas are crazy.  I guess that settles the debate about whether he wears a toupee or not.  I heard they got mad detention, like three months.  But Shaqawn practically gets his mail there anyway, and you know Billy is just going to sleep through it just like does most of his classes.   I can’t stand how Mr. Flagg be trippin’ over every little thing.  He was all on my case the other day just cause I blew a bubble with my gum.  He would have made a great Nazi.”     
           
Larry had been affectionately dubbed the blackest white boy alive by his friends, and certainly not due to the constant ruddiness of his cheeks.  He was so deeply immersed in African-American culture that they were waiting for the day when his hair would start to kink up.  He never gave the impression that he was trying to be anything other than who he naturally was, pretending to a throne he did not rightfully inherit.  Rather, it was clear that he felt sincere passion for a culture that was not his birthright, but he nonetheless fit into like an old pair of slippers.  
           
"I’m out of here, fellas.  Gotta join the huddled masses.  I’ll be getting my own ride soon.  I picked out this phat Corvette.  It needs a lot of work, but if definitely beats the alternative.  The honeys are not overly impressed by my bus pass.”  He sprinted towards the bus that had pulled to a stop at the corner and was quickly filling to capacity.
           
Tony and Charlie resumed walking until they reached the intersection where they were to part company for the day. 
           
"See you tomorrow, Charlie.  Don't go breaking any hearts."
           
"I'm the one who always gets his heart broken.  That's what happens when you're a sensitive guy like myself."
           
"No, that's what happens when you're an asshole."
           
Charlie laughed and stuck up his middle finger as a farewell salute.  Tony headed towards the library, alone again with thoughts of Janet.

***

A few hours later Tony stood waiting outside of his home.  In an institution of learning he felt in control of the actions that would help determine his fate.  He knew what to prepare for and how to go about it.  His efforts achieved tangible results, and each A grade was another stepping stone towards the future he envisioned.            
           
The world behind the door he now stood before was of another sort entirely.  No amount of preparation helped to appease the unquestioned king of this particular castle.  From the commotion inside, it was obvious that his father was enraged over fate's latest helping of grief.  ‘Here we go again’ was the thought that leapt to mind as Tony put his ear to the door in order to calculate how much of a mess he was about to walk into. 
           
"There's no need to get worked up over this," he heard his mother say.  "The strike will be over in no time."
           
"Caren, they can easily replace me with some kid for half the pay.  You think they give a damn that I have a family to support?"
           
"Then you'll get another job."
           
"Oh yeah.  A middle aged nigger with nothing more than a high school diploma.  That puts me right at the top of the hiring list." 
           
“There are no struggles too difficult for God’s love to guide us through.”
           
"We got nothing to sell, nothing to mortgage.  Might as well lay down and die.  They'd love that.  Another black man broken by the system.  Another nigger goes on welfare." 
           
Lionel Johnson's bemoaning came to a halt when the front door opened. Tony had decided that a good time to enter would not be coming any time soon. 
           
“If it isn’t my son the bookworm.  Got all your college applications out the door, boy?  Need a few dollars for tuition and dorm fees?  Well you better wait in line, towards the back I might add, because you’re not the only one wanting to empty out my wallet.”
           
Lionel looked expectantly at Tony, though he was waiting for something other than answers to his questions.  He seemed to want a confession.  The accusatory look in his fiery eyes could not be mistaken.  They issued condemnation of the smugness he perceived in his eldest son’s demeanor.  Tony was no doubt looking down on him, thinking that once he was out on his own he would never allow himself to be imprisoned by poverty.  He would not accept limitations that others attempted to impose on his options.  He had no intention of blaming racism for that which was brought about by submission.  In other words, Tony had arrogantly concluded that he would never become his father.