I've begun the next phase of work on the novel I plan to self-publish in January. The protagonist of
Inside-Out is Vinnie, who served in that role in my first novel,
Close to the Edge. It is 1980, about a year-and-a-half after the shooting. He is a substitute teacher, often filling in at Lafayette H.S., which was ranked third academically city-wide during at least one of the years I attended, '63-'67. It gradually became a hellhole and was so well into the '90's. These days conditions are much better. Here's an excerpt wherein Vinnie is speaking to Reuben, a security guard and assistant football coach at the school. It's a few minutes read:
"Things quiet?"
Reuben smirked. "The chains again. Can't have one quiet day." A series of robberies had the school on edge. Lockets had been stripped from males and females. Despite this, many still flaunted jewelry, defying both the thieves and those who wished to keep the peace. The crimes were attributed to blacks and Hispanics, although they were among the victimized as well. All minorities stood accused by the most thoughtless whites, and battle lines had been drawn.
The students were predominantly of Italian descent, as were most of the people of the surrounding neighborhood. The remainder of the population was chiefly Jewish. An Asian presence was becoming more pronounced. There had been few non-whites in the school when Vinnie attended. The number increased steadily as the housing project nearby opened its doors to minorities. In 1969, a progressive school opened just seven blocks away, attracting many of the brightest students. In the absence of so many of its best minds, the academic standing at Lafayette declined, morals plummeted, and violence arose. The social and political turbulence of the era accelerated the plunge. There was constant friction between the races. There were now security guards on each floor, communicating constantly by walkie-talkie. In his day, teachers alone patrolled the halls. The staff's greatest fear was all-out racial warfare. No matter how remote the possibility, it was prevalent in everyone's mind and perhaps this, above all, kept it from occurring.
Two years ago, a group of whites chased two blacks through the schoolyard, under the elevated tracks, across the wide street that separated the school from the housing project, and onto its grounds. There they encountered a larger group and fled. One boy fell behind and was caught. A black youth, knife in hand, bid the whites to: "Watch your friend die," and calmly cut the boy's throat. The murderer was still at large. Vinnie wondered if he were at all remorseful, if he still carried such venom in his heart, or if it had been purged by the killing. Did the act reflect a hatred prevalent within the housing project, which seemed so sedate from outside its boundaries and which was a model of tranquility compared to most in the city? Or was it an aberration, the result of the passion and angst of youth? To the amazement of all, the incident did not precipitate all-out war. In fact, it appeared to have opened the eyes of many to the consequences of blind hatred.
My thanks to the elderly Latina, who bought Stephen King's
Delores Claiborne; and to Barry, who purchased a special edition of
The Diary of Anne Frank; and to the gentleman who selected a trilogy on the Titanic geared to young adults. It was damp and chilly. The forecast calls for beautiful weather this weekend. I'm curious to see if it changes, as it did last Sunday. In other words, I'll believe it when I see it.
