New Boy by Julian Houston Page B

the rest of the world. I could imagine living like this one day myself.
    I heard a door open and Gordie returned with his parents, escorting them into the living room, trailed by the faint scents of cinnamon and licorice. "Mother, Dad," he said, "I'd like you to meet Rob Garrett. Rob's a friend from Draper." Dressed in a blue silk smoking jacket and wearing bedroom slippers, his father was older than I expected, but his dark eyes twinkled mischievously as he held out his hand to me. I rose from the sofa to shake it.
    "It is a pleasure to meet you, young man," he said, with an accent that sounded French to me. He was tall and lean like Gordie, but his skin was a shade darker and his thin hair was beginning to gray. He was wearing a little black cap like the Jewish people wear. And then it suddenly came to me like a bolt of lightning: Mr. and Mrs. Burns were Jews. And Gordie was a Jew, although I would never have known it, since I thought all the Jews were named Goldberg or Cohen. I didn't know much about the Jews. You hear things, of course—that they have money, that they keep to themselves, that they are "sharp," "slick," "greedy"—but you hear things about Negroes too, and most of it's trash. People are people, in my book, and you have to size them up one at a time.

    There was a Jewish man at home, a shopkeeper who used to sell dental implements and equipment. His name was Mr. Cohen and he had a little store that my father would sometimes visit when he needed to replace things. Dad used to say that Mr. Cohen was the only white man he knew who wouldn't make him wait. He would treat Dad like he was any other customer. If a white man came in after Dad, that white man would have to wait his turn.
    "And this is my mother," said Gordie. "Mom, Rob Garrett." Mrs. Burns extended her pale hand theatrically, and I shook it. She had long, flaming red hair that she wore in an old-fashioned style, piled on top of her head, and she was wearing a dark green dress that fell below her knees. She seemed much younger than her husband.
    "Very nice to meet you," said Mrs. Burns. "Now, Gordon, I'd like you to be back home by eleven. Is that understood?" She sounded just like my own mother.

    "Okay, Mom," said Gordie. "I'll be here."
    "Tell me, young man," said Mr. Burns, "are you from Manhattan?"
    "No, sir," I said. "I'm from Virginia."
    "Virginia!" he said. "Well, I'll bet you're glad to be up here in New York."
    "I'm getting used to it, sir."
    "Well, you two go off to the movies and enjoy yourselves," he said. Gordie and I headed straight for the door. As soon as we left and were in the hallway, I told Gordie about the doorman. "'I don't know anything about a colored boy visiting the Burnses' apartment,'" I said, mimicking the doorman. "If I hadn't mentioned your name, he would never have let me in, and that would have ruined everything."
    "Charlie's not the worst guy in the world," said Gordie, "although he can get carried away sometimes. I don't know why he had to bring up the fact that you're colored, though. When I get back, I'll tell my father about it. He'll have a word with him. It won't happen again."
    The elevator arrived and with a yawn the old man opened the door and took us down to the lobby. As we entered the lobby, the doorman appeared, in full regalia. "Yes sir, gentlemen. Would you like a cab?" he said.
    Gordie glanced at his watch. "That's not a bad idea," he said. "Oh, Charlie, did you meet my friend, Rob Garrett?"

    "Why, yes," said Charlie, "we met earlier when he arrived."
    "So you did," said Gordie, in a cool voice. Charlie's face turned beet red.
    "I'll get you a cab," said Charlie, and he walked out to the sidewalk to hail a taxi. Soon thereafter, he stopped a yellow cab and opened the door for us to climb in. We both thanked him, and Gordie pressed a small piece of money into his palm as we got in.
    "Thank you, sir," said Charlie. "Have a pleasant evening." He shut the door with a thud and we headed for