New Boy by Julian Houston

father. "Let him be."
    "Well I don't want him to find himself in an embarrassing situation when he gets down there at the dinner table with all those white folks and somebody says 'Please pass the potatoes,'" she replied.
    "Couldn't be any more embarrassed than he is right now," said my dad.
    My mother, father, and I left Cousin Gwen with her pad on her lap sitting in front of her television, and we climbed into the Roadmaster and drove south, taking 110th Street across to Park Avenue and then heading down.
    Even in the dark, I could see that the buildings along this part of the avenue were rundown, with metal fire escapes hanging off the front, little shops with signs in Spanish painted on dusty windows, clusters of brown-skinned men with curly hair and dark, somber eyes standing on corners under streetlights with their hands in their pockets, and lots of kids running in and out of the shops. I couldn't believe this was the same street
where Gordie lived. But suddenly, as the Roadmaster continued to roll along, the streets became cleaner, the sidewalks became deserted, and the buildings became tall and grand. As we rode by, you could see inside their lighted lobbies, huge pots of flowers standing at each side of the door. Awnings began to appear on the sidewalks and doormen in brass-buttoned uniforms and white gloves patrolled the entrances. We were in another world.

    The gray stone building where Gordie lived took up an entire block and looked more like a bank than an apartment building. A long, dark blue awning ran from the curb across a huge sidewalk to large, double glass doors with brass kickplates and brass handles polished to a high gloss. Through the doors you could see tapestries hanging from beige walls and a spectacular cut-glass chandelier suspended over a table with a large vase containing an explosion of red roses.
    When my father pulled up to the curb, my mother rolled down the window. The doorman, a tall, strapping white fellow, walked over to the Buick and leaned over to the door. "Can I help you?" he said. He sounded impatient, as though we were taking him away from something much more important.
    My mother relished such situations, enlisting her best classroom voice to deal with them. "Yes, you can," she said. "Our son is having dinner with the Burns family this evening. We're just dropping him off, but there's no need to park the car."
    "Are you sure you have the right place, lady?" said the doorman.
    "This
is
the Burns residence, isn't it?" said my mother, doing her best to control her indignation.

    "That's right," he said. "But I don't know anything about a colored boy visiting the Burns family this evening." He was wearing a dark blue uniform, the coat bristling with gold braid and buttons, and a cap like policemen wear. His black shoes were gleaming. Change his color and give him a plumed hat, I thought, and he could pass for Marcus Garvey. He had obviously been hired to discourage intruders. With his hands resting on the Roadmaster's passenger door as if to keep my mother from getting out, he leaned over and took a long look inside the car, staring first at my folks and then at me seated in the back. I felt as though we were about to be charged with a crime. I had to think of something fast or my plans for the evening would be wrecked.
    "Look! Would you just give the Burns apartment a call?" I blurted out. "Gordie's expecting me."
    "Gordie, you say?" said the doorman, raising his eyebrows. "What's
your
name, anyway?"
    "Rob Garrett," I said. The doorman reached inside his coat pocket and produced a crumpled piece of paper, squinting to read it in the darkness. Then he folded it and put it back inside his coat.
    "Okay," he said. "Yer awright." He opened the back door of the car and held it, standing stiffly at attention, as I climbed out and walked over to the sidewalk. He shut the door firmly. "Come right this way," he said, escorting me up to the entrance
doors and holding one door open. Before