THE CUPCAKE

​

R J Cowley Jr

​

“There ain’t nobody in Hawkinsville who likes sweet stuff more ’n me, except for my friend, Jamal.” I declared to Mama, who was elbow-deep in making a key lime pie for after supper.

My proclamation did not faze Mama.

The year was 1983. It was one of those August days in the south that never seemed to end for five-year-old Erik Burke.

 “Y’all go on out ‘n play, ya hear? You’re underfoot here; besides, your Daddy’ll be home in soon. He catch you lollygagging, he’ll find some chores for you to do.”

That was all I needed to hear. I purloined the last bit of pie crust and absconded to the warmth of the afternoon sun. 

Mama called after me. “Don’t go too far. We’ll be having supper around five-thirty.”

I was outside. I didn’t know what time it was, and I didn’t care. I ran down the street to find Jamal. After our house, the paved road stopped, and the road leading to the cemetery was dirt. It was rutted whenever the rain came, but that day in August, it was flat and dry and dusty. I never gave it a thought; that was the way it was back then.

I found Jamal at play in his side yard, where he tossed a ball up in the air and then caught it in his ratty baseball glove.

“Wanna have a catch?” I offered.

“Might’s well.”

We tossed the ball for a while. He used his glove to catch the ball; I used my bare hands.

Before long, we tired of it, and I said, “I’ve got a couple a pennies. Wanna go down to Flynn’s drug store and get some bubble gum?”

We had to cross a busy street to get to Flynn’s. Mama warned me that I could be hit by a car at that intersection, so she insisted that I hold her hand whenever we crossed the street. Apparently, Jamal’s Ma said the same thing to him. We two five-year-olds held hands as we crossed at the dangerous intersection and walked down the block to Flynn’s.

I purchased three pieces of Dubble Bubble. We each popped a piece of the gum in our mouths, and I pocketed the third for later. We walked along the street, chomping our gum, trying to get it soft enough to blow bubbles. Under the warm Georgia sun, we were without a care in the world. Life was good.

After a few minutes of chewing and walking, Jamal asked, “What are you gonna do with that other piece of gum?”

“I dunno. Guess I’ll keep it for later.”

“Don’t seem fair,” Jamal observed.

“But I bought it.”

By then, we were no longer holding hands, and Jamal reached for the gum in my pocket.

“Gimme it,” he said. “We’ll split it.”

“No way.” I pushed his hand away.

We started to tussle. Jamal was a tad bigger and stronger than I, but I managed to end up on top of him, holding him down.

“You let me up, Erik!” Jamal threatened. “Or I’ll pound you.”

I was afraid to let him up, and I didn’t want to share my gum. For a few minutes, the stalemate remained until we reached an arrangement. Jamal agreed not to pound me, and I gave him half of my third piece of gum.

I bit the third piece in half and gave him the half I didn’t have in my mouth. Dispute settled, we walked on happily, each chomping on a piece and a half of Dubble Bubble.

My older cousin, Carl Blake, and several of his friends approached us as we headed home. Menacingly, Carl asked, “That darkie picking on you, Erik?”

We tried to walk past. The next thing I knew, Carl and his friends pushed Jamal around and said mean things to him.

“You leave my friend alone!” I yelled and waded into the older boys with all the fury my five-year-old body could muster.

One of the boys pushed me hard in the chest, and I fell backward. I hit my head on the slate sidewalk and was dazed. When I got to my feet, they were gone, and I had a lump on my head.  Jamal was nowhere to be seen, and Carl hadn’t bothered to check on me before making tracks. I plodded home a bit dazed and wondered about Jamal.

That night I told my Daddy what happened. I expected him to be mad at Carl and that he would talk to Carl’s dad.

He explained to me that people like us don’t associate with darkies like Jamal. When I asked why he simply said that is the way we do things here. He did agree to talk to Carl’s dad about pushing me. He also told me I was confined to the yard for two days for hanging out with Jamal.

I felt hurt and confused. Jamal Jeter was my friend. I hadn’t noticed that his skin was brown, not white like mine. As instructed, I stuck to my yard for two days.  I didn’t see Jamal in his yard during those two days, either.

Several days later, Mama made chocolate cupcakes with coconut frosting, Jamal’s favorite. I snuck out the back door with a cupcake and ran over to Jamal’s door.

Jamal’s Ma answered the knock. “Jamal don’t want no cupcake,” she said.

“But…” I stammered.

“You go on now, Erik Burke. You go and play with your own and leave my boy alone!”

Ma Jeter had never treated me that way before. I didn’t know what to think or do. Dejected, I turned, cupcake in hand, to go home.

I saw Jamal peek wide-eyed out of the corner of one of the Jeter’s living room windows. He ducked down as soon as he saw me, but I could tell he wanted that cupcake.

I did not see Jamal for the rest of the summer. By the time for school in the fall, we left Hawkinsville and moved to the outskirts of Atlanta.

I never saw my friend again, but I never forgot what happened to us.

✽✽✽

The date was Monday, 1 August 2005, and I worked for the River City Gazette. Mr. Bowen, the paper’s editor and a principal in the corporation, had called a ten o’clock meeting to introduce our new legal eagle, Mr. Jordan Matthew Johnson. I sat across from the handsome brown-skinned man, and I nursed the notion that I had met this man before.  I could not place him. 

As so often happens, the meeting dragged on for two hours. When we adjourned, I volunteered to take Mr. Johnson, who was new to the area, to lunch at the Samuel Clemens Restaurant, an upscale establishment in River City. We hit it off. The conversation was relaxed, and before we knew it, the magic hour of one o’clock loomed before us. 

We were about to wrap up lunch when the waitress approached with the dessert tray.

She said, “Anyone for dessert?”

 I demurred.

Jordan Matthew Johnson said, “I’ll take the chocolate cupcake with coconut frosting.”