The Strivers' Row Spy by Jason Overstreet Page A

the pool hall the night before. I put my head down and tried to keep them from spotting me, but to no avail. Just as I was about ten feet from them I heard my former opponent’s voice. He walked directly in front of me, impeding my forward motion.
    â€œYo, hold up there, pretty boy.”
    I stopped and looked him in his face.
    â€œDon’t you know you always give a nigga a second game?” he asked. “This is Harlem, motherfucker, not Kansas.”
    This was a man who couldn’t be reasoned with so I treated him as such, responding with, “I see. Well, shit, you must really need it.” I reached in my pants pocket, digging for some cash. I attempted to hand him back his ten dollars, but he slapped it out of my hand.
    â€œNigga if I want my money I’ll take it from yo ass.”
    I glared at him and then put it back in my pocket. “What the hell you wastin’ my time for then?” I said. “Take it from me.”
    He sat on those words a second. Then he revved back and swung, but I ducked it, kneeing him instead between the legs and punching him in his Adam’s apple. He fell to the ground, clutching his groin and gasping for air. No doubt I’d damaged his larynx. Eyes bulging, he began to convulse.
    His friend kicked me in the ribcage with his wing tips. I felt a break. While dropping to my knees, I used the force of the fall to sweep my right leg through both of his, knocking him off his feet.
    Before he could react, I rolled over on top of him, grabbing his neck with my left hand. I used my right to deliver two violent punches—one to an eye, the other to his nose. As the second one connected, I could hear the distinct sound of breaking nose cartilage. Blood spewed from his nostrils.
    I stood up, clutching my ribs. Both men lay there moaning and immobile. Several onlookers had witnessed the event. I hobbled down the street, trying to catch my breath.
    When I entered the Sweet Tree, the female attendant noticed blood on my shirt and how I was gingerly holding my ribcage.
    â€œMy heavens, what happened?” She approached and tried to help by lifting my arm and putting it over her shoulder.
    â€œNo,” I said with a painful whisper. “That makes it worse. Do you have any aspirin?”
    â€œLet me check. I’ll bring you what I have.”
    I managed to climb the steps and enter my room. I slowly lay on the bed and tried to find a position that would best allow me to breathe. The attendant entered with a first aid kit. “I have aspirin, ointment, and an ace bandage. Can you sit up to take these pills?”
    I took a deep, excruciating breath and sat up. I downed four pills, realizing they were barely going to minimize the pain.
    â€œI need you to help me wrap the bandage around my ribcage,” I said. “The break is on the left side.”
    â€œIf it’s broken, maybe we shouldn’t wrap it.”
    â€œNo, I have to,” I said, knowing it would restrict my breathing but help limit the natural ribcage movement.
    I stood and walked over to the mirror above the sink. She helped me remove my shirt and tie and began wrapping the bandage around the area. I was thankful that she was so patient, caring, and good with her hands. She finished wrapping and helped me back to the bed.
    â€œI’ll come by early in the morning to check on you. I’m leaving you a few cups of water and the bottle of aspirin. I hope you’ll be okay.”
    â€œI’ll be fine. Thank you for your help.”
    The night was endless. I didn’t sleep a wink, barely sipping the night air as if sucking it through a straw. The only cure for a fractured rib was time and aspirin. I had plenty of aspirin but not a lot of time.

7
    I TOOK A TAXI TO CARNEGIE H ALL IN HOPES OF HEARING G ARVEY speak at a mass meeting. It was nice to be out and about taking in the scenery along Madison Avenue after days of lying in bed and living on little white pills.
    I