Take a Seat

June, 1988. Greensboro, North Carolina.

The boy stands near the stool next to me, sneakers squeaking against the tile.

“I’m Jamal,” he says. “They said come talk to you fo’ I start my trainin’.”

I look up from my coffee cup. He ain’t my first trainee, but he’s gonna’ be my last.

I look him up and down. Mocha skin. Freckles. Orangish-yellow Afro with a pick sticking up from the back of it. Oversized jacket, pants dropped six inches beneath his waistline like he’s ghetto.

One of his parents is clearly white—the other clearly Black—like me.

A young man caught between worlds—or maybe the world has just changed beneath my nose, and he’s right where he needs to be.

“Pull your pants up, Jamal,” I say. “Act like you’re in church.”

He shuffles uneasily. “I don’t really go to church.”

“Well,” I say, “you’re in church now, so pull them pants up and have a seat.”

Ellen winks at me and refills my coffee.

“Fresh one, Micah?” she asks, pointing at the boy who has now pulled up his pants and is trying to figure out which hole he should use to fasten his belt in their new position.

I smile and nod.

Her hair has lost most of its former red—mostly white now. She’s been here a long time.

We both have.

“Go easy on him,” she says, like she always does.

She knows I’ll do no such thing.

This is hallowed ground, and the boy needs to understand that.

Once he does, the rest of the job is just mopping floors and turning screws and all the other bits and pieces of keeping this store and this diner maintained.

The boy points at a nearby table.

“Should we sit over there so we can talk easier?”

I frown.

I point at the stool nearest him.

“I can talk just fine right here,” I say. “Now sit down and let me tell you why you will never sit anywhere in this room other than right here at this counter.”

He looks confused.