Chapter 4
Early that night, after my haircut, I lay in bed under a strip of dusky light shining in from the window. I flipped through
a pamphlet for West Egg that Daisy had given to me when we returned.
Inside were interviews with the school founder, Jay Gatsby Sr., who spoke of the school. I decided to open West Egg after my son spent a semester in France, he’d said. Jay Jr. loved Paris’s diversity and wanted to create that in New York. He envisioned a school with a culture of acceptance
where migrants from the South could escape prejudice and access the opportunities of an elite education.
I didn’t hate the idea of an “elite education.” I’d learn everything I needed to understand life.
Could I attend an integrated school? Study math and English at the same desks as whites?
Well, it would depend on what kind of whites I’d find there, and I’d never know if I didn’t apply. My story could pave the way for my acceptance; surely white integrationists would love to hear about a grief-stricken Negro boy who fought his way up to New York, against all odds?
The pamphlet also highlighted various scholarships that could help cover the expenses. To get one, my application would have
to be as bold, surprising, and showstopping as real life.
I sat on the floor and opened my notebook, but my hand shook on the page as I tried to write. All I could think about was
how two unwavering pillars in my life—Pa and Mr. Wallace—were not here to help me. I had to discover my own way to express
my purpose and what I hoped to become.
Come on, Nick. The words were somewhere at the bottom of an empty well. Pa’s voice was here to guide me, but came through my brain in staticky
waves, as if through a radio.
I wrote and rewrote my story until the night inched closer to midnight and the homeless had started to dig through garbage
outside. While fishing for the beauty in my tragic plight, I decided that the best way to get into West Egg was to make it
seem like they could give me a second chance I couldn’t get anywhere else.
By morning, I was ready to seal up my letter and mail it off. All that was left to do was wait.
And check the mail.
And wait.
Checking the mail became my favorite afternoon hobby.
During the day, I occupied my time at the Wash ’N’ Fold out back, sorting through some abandoned clothing from clientele to find dress shirts that weren’t ill-fitting.
I found a shirt of virgin wool that fit like a poncho and stared at my reflection from every angle, trying to convince myself it could work for the first day of school.
Uncle Beet appeared in the mirror, and the sight of his large and portly frame behind me made me feel like I’d been caught
doing something I shouldn’t.
Uncle raised an eyebrow. “What’s got you all excited to put nice clothes on all the sudden?”
I was nervous to say it aloud but did so anyway. “I’m hoping to get accepted into West Egg Academy.”
That made both of Uncle Beet’s eyebrows raise, like he’d seen a night demon. “West Egg. Well, that’s impressive, nephew, but just how do you plan on paying for that? West Egg is one of the most expensive schools
in the city.”
I was surprised at Uncle Beet’s reaction—it was so different from Daisy’s. “Well, they say they offer scholarships to people
traveling up here from down South.”
“Even so, you’d have to set about thirty dollars aside for room and board,” he said. “You’d need bus fees to travel across
Manhattan weekly. Then there’s books and supplies.” Uncle started pulling clothes out of a hamper and throwing them in the
washer. “East Egg’s got us dried out for Daisy’s education already—to be a maid, at that. Working for a white man—Can you believe it? I don’t know what it is about these elite schools that excites your
auntie so.”
I stayed quiet, thinking of how to shift the focus from money. I didn’t want to spend the few dollars I had stashed away. That money would be my safety net if my world fell apart again. Better to keep it close. Quiet. To myself.
“If I don’t go to school, I’ll sleep all day, Uncle,” I said. “I don’t think anybody wants that.”
Uncle looked at a pillowcase with some dried drool on it. “Definitely go to school if that’s the alternative,” he said. “Pretty
soon your slobber is gonna fuse with the fabrics.”
He stopped what he was doing, looked at me, and assessed my interest. Then he chose to support it. “Matter of fact?” he said,
coming to put his arm around my shoulder. “I know just what you need, nephew.” He led me out of the Wash ’N’ Fold and walked
me to the end of the driveway, where he pointed to the shops at the end of our street. “You see what I’m pointing to?”
I squinted out, but there was a lot to see on the corner of Amsterdam and 130th. Some men passing by in tailored suits, cigars
in hand. The store for haircare, and a man outside the store waving this tub of cream around.
“We have strayed so far from our roots that we now try to change the very root of our scalps!” the man shouted, as people moved around him.
“Texture planted by a one-handed jester on a quest to run us from our home! For shame! Who’s to blame?
Boycott the relaxer, my brothers and sisters. Refuse to play the white man’s game!”
“Um . . . a demonstrator?” I said.
“No, boy,” Uncle responded. “Behind Megaphone Melvin.”
I squinted at the haircare shop behind him, where a Help Wanted sign sat in the window. “Oh. That.”
“There you go!” Uncle Beet let out a hearty laugh. “I got three friends I want you to meet—J, O, and B. They’ll get you everywhere you need to go and further, without running my bank account into Hell!” He gave me a big slap on the back. “Good luck, nephew,” he said, and turned down the driveway.
Okay, so my uncle may have had a point. To have a real shot at finishing my West Egg diploma, I’d need a job—scholarship or
not.
I decided to take the train downtown and start there. It would help me practice my commute from West 131st to 124th for my
travel to West Egg, in the event I got in.
I started at a corner jewelry store with a Help Wanted sign in the window. I straightened my cap and pushed through the door, but before I could even ask, the manager—a Negro man—was
already shaking his head, eyes glancing over me with disinterest.
“We need someone who’s done this work before, son,” he said, his tone final.
What was he, some sort of psychic? How did he know what I’d done before? Or that I was even here to apply?
I swallowed my pride and tried the hardware store next door. The owner listened, politely enough, as I stumbled through my
experience, hands fidgeting, trying to sell myself on my willingness to work.
“Sorry, young man,” he said, finally, with a shrug. “I got boys out in trade school for this. You understand that, don’t you?”
I nodded humbly and left the store, the rejections from my own people weighing heavy on my soul. Where would I stand a chance,
if not at the Negro-owned places in Harlem?
My third try was for a restaurant, tucked into a narrow storefront, half hidden by a red awning, a cardboard Staff Needed sign out front. It was small inside, with a handful of tables crammed together. Lanterns created a soft glow, and tapestries
of mountains and calligraphy hung on the walls. It smelled of ginger and smoke.
Through a window to the kitchen, I saw a man who looked Chinese stacking plates. At the far end of the restaurant was a young
person around my age—a boy with neatly combed dark hair, dressed in an apron that was too big for his slim frame—wiping down
tables.
The man looked up at me and immediately shook his head. “No,” he said as if he knew what I was here for. He came through a
door to the main area. “Our customers . . . they want a certain type of person,” he explained to me. “It’s not personal. You understand?”
I nodded humbly and left without a word, shoulders sagging, my confidence chipped away.
I’d only gotten a few steps down the street when I heard footsteps rushing up behind me. I looked back to see the busboy,
running toward me.
“Hey!” he called, holding out a square of paper.
I hesitated, glancing from the application in his hand to his earnest face. He was doe-eyed, with long eyelashes, a natural
gentleness, and a lightness to his movements.
“Don’t listen to my stepfather. We could always use more help,” he said quietly, with a smile, his eyes holding an apology for the man who rejected me. “Just fill it out, and I’ll try to talk to my grandparents.”
“Thank you,” I said, taking the paper. I would not be filling it out, but I’d keep it as a reminder that there was support
for me in unexpected places. I for sure knew I’d never be working there after his stepfather’s reaction.
The boy ran back into the restaurant, and I went about my search, finally trying this place called Kirby’s—a diner with a chrome exterior. The design inside was like a refurbished train car, stools lining a counter, and a column
of little booths.
A sturdy man whose build was like my grandfather’s was sweeping behind the counter. He stopped to look at me when I walked
in.
“Hi, sir,” I said, guiltily, feeling already as though I’d been rejected again. “I was wondering if there were any jobs available.”
He set the broom down and wiped his hands on his apron, and then he sized me up. “Cook. Night shift. Can you do it?”
The offer caught me off guard. I couldn’t believe it was real at first. “Sure,” I said, trying to hide my excitement and relief.
“Follow me,” said the man. “I’m Mr. Kirby. Bought this new space with my wife about a year ago.”
I trailed after him through the kitchen and into an adjacent room. It was an office, the size of a cupboard, with a ceiling
barely tall enough for him to stand.