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It was tradition on Central Avenue that whenever Joe Louis, heavyweight champion of the world, was in a fighting match, the hectic bustle of the street ended and Central Avenue was mostly deserted. Everyone who ordinarily would have been on the street was somewhere huddled near a radio, listening to the fight. This had been going on since 1937, when Joe Louis knocked out James J. Braddock, the world heavyweight champion. James Braddock was white. Joe Louis knocked him out in the eighth round. Mrs. Hendersen talked about how the street had erupted. Everyone had pretty much gone crazy. After the fight, people burst onto Central Avenue yelling and screaming, riding in cars, honking and leaning out windows and shouting in celebration. Down home, we had had the same feeling. Papa, the boys, and I had gathered around the radio for that fight and all the Joe Louis fights after that when we were home. Most of black America had done the same, for when Joe Louis fought, it was a time for joy. He had defended the title numerous times and had kept it. In a country where we as a people were belittled, not recognized for all we had contributed to building it, a country that still denied us equal rights, Joe Louis’s victories were our victories. The days that Joe Louis fought were days to be black and proud in America. The fight Flynn and I celebrated together was different from the many previous fights, for Joe Louis was fighting another Negro boxer. But Joe Louis won. He remained our champion, our hero.
He kept us proud.
* * *
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Flynn began to open up to me about his life. He told me about his life in Puerto Vallarta and British Honduras. He told me about his life with Miguel and Maria Peña. He told me about poverty. He said I knew nothing of what real poverty was like. In my life my family always had food on the table. I had never gone hungry. I always had people to call family. That was not the case for him. After his mother took him and Justine to British Honduras where she had found work, his little family had to survive on their own. He told me about his brothers, both killed by police in Mexico. He told me about the harsh conditions of their lives, how they struggled to make ends meet, how he had worked, how Justine had worked, how his mother had worked. He told me how he had once swum the crocodile-infested waters in an effort to reach his mother and sister after a fire had consumed the land. The hard life they lived, in the end, had killed his mother. That is when Justine took over. For a while there were only the two of them, and they totally depended on each other. Then Justine made the decision to come to the States and send him back to Mexico to live with the Peñas.
Flynn did not speak again of Faye. I wanted to ask him about her, but I thought I shouldn’t. I knew he was still seeing her, and probably sleeping with her. He was not sleeping with me, and he made no overtures to do so. That bothered me even though teachings throughout my life forbade me from having sexual relations until I was married. To do so was not only considered a sin, but would have brought disgrace upon the family if it were known. There were weekends when I did not see Flynn and he did not call, and that bothered me even more. I had no real hold on him. We had made no commitments to each other, but I was jealous. I tried not to show it.
* * *
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In the fall I decided to take a law course at UCLA. The course wasn’t toward a degree, just for my own learning, and I relished being on a college campus again. The class invigorated me. After each class I shared what I had learned with Flynn and he was always attentive, asking questions, and he delighted in my enthusiasm. The class was once a week on Friday afternoon, and although I took the bus to the university campus, Flynn came for me after class.
He waited for me outside the class building or, if for some reason he ran late, I would meet him on the walk to his car, which he always parked on the same campus street. I never worried about my safety on campus. After all, this was a university, a place of higher learning and highly educated people, where ethics were taught and moral values were supposed to be intact. One evening in early January after an oral exam I emerged from class and Flynn was not outside the building. It was already dark. I waited for a few minutes, then walked the well-lit pathway toward the street. My mind was on Flynn, on seeing him and telling him about the exam. I paid no attention to the man walking toward me. As I neared the man, he stopped and blocked my path. “You need somebody to walk you home? I could do that.”
Startled, I looked directly at the man and did not panic. He was a white man, looked to be in his late thirties, early forties. I had been propositioned before and knew how to respond. “No thanks,” I said. “I can see myself home.”
“Well, really, I don’t mind—”
“Well, I do. I have someone coming for me.”
“Oh, really?” said the man, moving closer. “And just who would that be?”
“That would be me.”
I looked past the man and smiled. It was Flynn.
The man turned, and now it was he who was startled. “’Ey,” he said, backing away. “I was just trying to be of help.”
“Yeah, I know what you were trying to do,” said Flynn.
The man glanced at me, then hurried toward the street and into the night. “My hero,” I teased.
“Am I?”
“Well, you always seem to be there when I need you.”
A scowl shadowed Flynn’s face as he looked after the man. “I should have laid him out.”
“He didn’t touch me, Flynn. I’m okay.” I hooked my arm into his. “Come on and let’s do something fun,” I coaxed, trying to get him to forget about the man. “I’m feeling so good about my exam, I’m not going to let anything spoil it. I got an “A”! Come on, let’s go celebrate! Let’s do something special!”
The scowl still on Flynn’s face, we walked to the car. I wasn’t yet ready to go home. Since we were already in Westwood, close to the wealthy neighborhoods of Beverly Hills and Bel-Air, I suggested we drive through the area and look at the beautiful houses. I wanted to celebrate my “A” and dream of what might be. I also wanted to lighten Flynn’s mood and get his mind off the would-be masher. Flynn hesitated at the suggestion and said that might not be a good idea, but I wanted to see the glittering lights of the massive mansions, the places of dreams of the very rich, and he gave in to me. But Flynn was right. It wasn’t a good idea.
* * *
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As soon as we had made our tour of several of the residential streets and turned back onto the main street of Wilshire Boulevard, a police siren blasted behind us. Lights flashing, the police car tailed us until Flynn pulled over and stopped. The police car stopped right behind us and two policemen got out. The headlights, still on, shone through the Mercedes, almost blinding us. One of the policemen stopped at the rear of Flynn’s car, looked at the license plate, and took out a pad. The other came to the driver’s side of the car. Flynn rolled down his window. The policeman took a moment studying the two of us, and I had no doubt he had realized we were colored before he stopped us. “You’re kind of out of your neighborhood, aren’t you?” he said to Flynn. “Let’s see your license.” Flynn pulled his wallet from his jacket and handed the license to the officer. The officer checked it under the boulevard lights. “Registration,” he said. Flynn handed him that too. The officer looked at it, then again at Flynn. “This is a mighty fine car you’re driving. Foreign, isn’t it? Step on out.”