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14
1960
Leroy: The End of Innocence
Bad, bad Leroy Brown the baddest man
In the whole damn town
Bad, Bad Leroy Brown,
Jim Croce
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Nearly fifty years ago, when Leroy lived, breathed abundantly, moved about and terrorized people in Oshawa Ontario, I was a young, respectable (some may say too respectable) lad, trying to move about as inconspicuously as a young black man could in a caucasian environment where, against the snowy white background it was impossible to blend. Like Leroy, I also breathed, but typical to the genre that I represented, I tried to breathe as shallowly as was feasible so as to consume as little of the ambient oxygen as possible.
I did this shallow breathing for fear of criticism of depleting the common resource of breathable air, since as part of the vanguard of Caribbean immigrants we were all alert to the irreparable damage that may be done to our families, to our country of origin, to the region and the race we represented should we be judged as doing something critizable. Being extra sensitive, and wishing to be as good a boy as possibly I could, I wanted to leave the air as unused as if I hadn’t been there.
Leroy emerged, shortly after my arrival, from another of the Caribbean Islands. His feet had hardly touched the Ontario soil when news of his arrival began to spread in local circles. In 1960, the arrival of any person of colour into a small Ontario community was significant. If for no other reason, Leroy’s arrival increased by fifteen percent, the black population in the Oshawa region, there being only six other black people in the city. My acquaintances considered it some kind of service to me to keep me informed of the comings and goings of people who bore some physical resemblance to me, reckoning that birds of a feather would naturally want to flock together. News about Leroy at this stage consisted of a brief fact in passing, about a new guy in town from Trinidad, when it was learned that I was a newcomer from Jamaica.
That bit of news, as innocent as it was, created a bit of anxiety for me. My limited world experience was evident. I dug deeply into my repertoire of received ideas and found nothing of use to deal with people from Trinidad. In my native Jamaica the sum total of my knowledge of my West Indian cousins, cousins at least by geography, was that Barbados produced a superior brand of cricketers and that Trinidad produced a superior brand of musicians. In the absence of precedence about relationships with people from Trinidad, my instincts told me that I should avoid this person, if for no other reason than the fact that two black people in the same place, at the same time, might have been construed as a crowd. Canadians might start fearing being overwhelmed by hordes of black people (I wasn’t quite sure how many people constituted a horde). My new country might start worrying about integrating people of colour into the Great White North. Fears of racial unrest in the U.S. as presented daily in the media could lead Canadian authorities to further restrict the immigration policies with reference to prospective black immigrants. After all, in Australia, West Indian cricketers had already experienced the exclusionary bite of the White Australia policy on their cricket tours to that country. Our newcomer paranoia had us walking gingerly into our new environments for fear of confirming the negative stereotypes of blacks coming predominantly from the Southern U.S. but also from Canadian sources. In a way, we newcomer blacks all felt that our presence in Canada was conditional on the approval of the Canadian public.
Leroy? He was wired with different circuitry. As Leroy’s exploits circulated around the city, it became increasingly clear that he was totally unaffected by the desire to conform to the standards that the right thinking, God-fearing, peace-loving West Indian newcomers had brought with them. Leroy, it appears was a hard-drinking, tough-talking, mean son-of-a-bitch, absolutely immune to the stuff of which our bourgeois morality was composed. He was his own man. No representative was he of any other group save the particular troop of crazies with whom he associated.
News of Leroy spread in sporting circles. It seems that he had been a sparring partner to the then famous Cuban boxer Kid Gavilan. Word was getting around that Leroy was a tough nut.
Outside the ring, Kid Gavilan’s sparring partner was not above using methods unknown to the Marquis of Queensbury. News of Leroy’s brawl with Scottie Smart a local young man, sent chills through the young set. Scottie was sent to hospital with a gaping hole in his cheek the size of an Olympic medal through which, it was reported, his teeth could be seen. The hole was the result of a bite inflicted by Leroy.
Up until now in my world, Leroy led the life of a fictional character. He played the role of perfect foil to the ideal of Little Lord Fauntleroy which I inadvertently projected. There was I working tirelessly to elevate the image of the newcomer of colour, Leroy, no less industriously, was going about his hedonistic, mad-dog existence with equal dedication. In a curious way our joint efforts would furnish some kind of true statement about people of colour, people from the Caribbean: about people. We would neutralize each other’s efforts. Our contributions would be cancelled. People making judgments about the black newcomers would be forced to start over again to find new evidence or confirm the stereotype that they held.
Since we moved in different circles, it was unlikely that I would be able to confirm the rumours of Leroy’s canine attack on Scottie’s cheek, though I was curious about the alleged fight. I still had not met my alter ego and with his reputation, even if I were to meet him, I was certainly not going to ask him about the reported incident. Imagine this:
Leroy: “How you doin’ man?”
Me: “Fine thanks, a pleasure to meet you. Say, did you really take a chunk out of Scottie’s cheek?”
…Silence while he sharpens his fangs with a file which he keeps next to his switchblade…
Had things evolved as they already had for several months, I would never have met Leroy, my antithesis. But unsure about the rewards of puritanism, and curious about a certain kind of life about which I was still ignorant at twenty years of age, I let myself be seduced by an attractive young waitress of relative easy virtue, whose attentions were much sought after by my co-workers in the survey department at the Oshawa City Hall.
Fish and chips were the pretext that six of my co-workers and I used to check out a fine looking young women in the Ideal Fish and Chips restaurant. At the end of our meal I was the lucky recipient of a bill on which was written a telephone number instead of the price of the items that I had eaten. My co-workers were more than impressed that I had been singled out for special attention. They lined up at the cash register to pay their bill while I cooled my heels on a stool near the exit trying to fathom what had just happened.
The telephone number proved fruitful and I found myself going out with a young single mother with a delightful Scottish brogue and an attractive figure. My strict, evangelical upbringing was of little help in my new relationship in the weeks that followed, but my lack of knowledge and experience was not an impediment since I was instructed by a very able, enthusiastic and motivated mentor.
‘Cruising’ in these times was the preferred precursor activity, the appetizer for whatever else the night may bring to a young couple. Borrow the parents car, pick her up, head to a drive-in restaurant, tune in WKBW on the car radio and hang around until the time comes to return home with the car.
In the process of cruising one rainy night, my Scottish, single mum waitress says that she knows where a party is being held. She further suggests that we check it out. Somewhat reluctantly, I consent to checking it out. A short stay. No more than an hour. I have to get the car back.
We arrive at the house where the party is in full session. My worldly Scot takes my arm and we enter without knocking. A few paces and we pass through the front porch, into a room where, in front of my astonished eyes, is a scene which my sheltered imagination has never before conceived. There is copulation in every nook and cranny of this residence. The clothes and broom closets are bulging. Two couples in the same bed. The floor is alive with the rhythm of intercourse. At least six couples are in plain view in the living room, their bodies agitated. Sodom and Gomorrah!
Rome with its orgies. Oshawa 1960. I turn on my heels to leave and find my path blocked by two men, one of them a Black. I know instinctively that one of the two is Leroy. They introduce themselves. They already know my waitress. I am right. It is Leroy.They offer me a drink, tell me to make myself at home. I decline both offers, mutter something about having to get the car back home soon. While the other man attempts to talk me into staying, Leroy leaves, returns with a large butcher knife, sticks it up to my throat and yells:
`”I know your kind, you think you are better than us. I’m gonna slit your throat you bastard.”
The other man tries to calm Leroy while insisting that I stay for a while, at least for a drink. The couples, otherwise engaged and totally unaware of the little drama being acted out at the door are going about their copulation with the mechanical insouciance of the machines which create the vehicles in this city of the automobile.
I again stammer words to the effect that I must return the car soon. The scar on Scottie’s cheek sneaks back into my mind and I think that he escaped relatively free. I think that in a few short moments, I will be ingesting my own blood. I realize that I am completely powerless: a crazy, drunk heavyweight boxer, a knife in his hand, who at this very moment hates my guts. I resign myself to whatever the outcome and wait.
By now, my waitress, realizing the delicate nature of the negotiations, takes my defense, repeating my words, saying that it isn’t his car, he can’t stay because he has to return it.
Another voice comes to my aid. The man, who seconds ago was trying to convince me to stay, has joined the chorus.
“It’s not his car, he’s got to take it back. Come on Leroy, let the guy go.” They are almost pleading.
Leroy, letting himself be persuaded, grudgingly moves the knife from my throat and leaves the room.
The uninterrupted copulation continues. I leave, telling my waitress that I will wait for her in the car outside. She decides to stay and I leave…I take a long drive in the rain…not a cruising type drive into the part of town where young people go to see and be seen, but out of town, north out into the country, past E.P. Taylor’s spread toward Port Perry.
The night is dark. The rain is clean.
Badder than ol’ King Kong
Meaner than a junk
Yard dog.
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