Bad Break: A Novel

Chapter Thirty

Once again, I'm too amped to go home and sleep, but again, I skip Shangri-La and head for the Saki Room.

The first time I visited this place, I made the mistake of slamming the Dewatsuru Kimoto Jumnai brew in my choko, as though it were a shot of Jameson's.

It has a kick, and the bartender scolded me to think before I drink, lecturing me that Dewatsuru was meant to warm one up slowly. Its consumption should progress steadily and smoothly like logical thoughts, he'd said.

I've never forgotten that embarrassing admonition and have it top of mind, as I stroll into the dark, sleek lounge, searching the booths and two-person tables.

But the object of my hunt is seated at the proper bar, hunched over as though he'd arrived with the weight of the world on his shoulders.

"What's up, doc?"

Tannery Freeman looks up at me, wryly, and raises his choko.

I signal the bartender to get me the same so I can return the salute.

Freeman nods thoughtfully and unconsciously begins drumming a beat on the countertop to keep up with the sounds of Sketches of Spain streaming from the stereo speakers.

He has the look of a wounded animal. Not the angry wounded animal, but the frightened or confused wounded animal. A new patient had insisted on any doctor who didn't look like him.

We sit in silence for a moment, just listening to the tunes.

Then Freeman asks, "Know what really bugs me?"

I nod as if I already know the answer. I don't. But I know I'll recognize it and probably agree with it when I hear it.

"I hate it when my White co-workers —especially the middle-aged and elderly ones— tell me how popular Black people are, how Black people are soooo powerful and influential. They say it like you tell a parent they should be proud of their kids."

Even the eavesdropping bartender smiles at that one.

"Seriously," Freeman continues, "we're not all Barack Obama or Russell Wilson.

"I can't tell you how often I hear how cool it must be," Freeman continues. "And then they back up that theory by telling me how their teenage son owns every album of some rapper, how most of the music played in their home is by black artists, how Lebron James or Steph Curry should run for president."

I jump in and finish his thought. "And yet, these same folks would have heart attacks if you came home with their daughters or if you moved in next door."

Freeman shakes his head wryly.

"Un-unh. Not me. And that's my point. They're OK with me, because I'm one of the 'good' ones. I get to be in the same class as James and Curry. But what if I wasn't a doctor and a professor?"

"Then you'd be me? Also, I'd be right about the double standard."

The bartender snaps us out of our self-centered debate then and pours us both fresh drinks.

We try to protest, but he says they're on the house. "Least I can do for us, brothas," he says with a wink and a smile.

We should smile back. But neither of us does for some reason. Instead we give matching shrugs and drink up.

Two sips in and my cell phone rings, though. It's Turner, my nemesis, my crush.

"What's up, Trick?"

"Let's cut through it this time Blake. This is serious."

Talk about a buzz kill.

I slam a redeye coffee as I step off the elevator and into the newsroom. It's eleven forty-five p.m., and since the first two editions of the paper have already gone to print, most everyone has gone home. Only Lackey and a skeleton crew of copy editors are left to make sure the final edition goes out smoothly at twelve forty-five a.m., and they don't notice me as I slip past and trot toward the cafeteria to meet Turner.