When Mr. Dennis came out, I was relieved to see a tall and dignified Negro man. He wore an oversize suit and was holding a stack of papers.
“This way,” he said, in the aloof manner of someone who’d been doing this far too long. He led us all to a classroom, nodding to some of the teachers that passed on our way there.
Once we were seated, he passed each of us an IQ test, explaining that we’d be sorted into the “Blue House” or the “White House” and this distinction would chart our destiny at the school.
I was last to finish the test. Alone in the room, I pondered an algebraic equation that felt especially useless. When I finallyfinished, Mr. Dennis assessed my results on the spot and escorted me into the hallway.
“You’ll be on the Blue House track,” he said. “Here at West Egg, we sort our pupils into trades of manual labor or intellectual.”
I took this to mean that depending on your aptitude, you’d end up washing the fine porcelain of New York’s elites or eating off it yourself.
“You’ll train to be an elevator operator,” Mr. Dennis said as he walked me from the beautiful main office to an old, gray-walled dorm behind the other buildings. “Don’t worry—it’s not nearly as bad as it sounds, and there will be many opportunities to move up should your performance reflect discipline and hard work.”
Elevator operators closed doors and pushed buttons for a living. Your common alley cat could do it with the right intonations ofmeow.
I had to say something. “I’m sorry but how did the quiz determine I’d be an elevator operator, sir? I don’t believe that’s right for me. I’ve never even been inside of an elevator.”
Mr. Dennis frowned sympathetically. “What you study here is not about what you want to do, but what you’d be good at.”
“Only thing is I’m a writer, sir. My pa was a writer, and his pa before that. Everyone in my family’s been writers for generations. It’s what I was supposed to do before I had to flee home.”
“A writer?” Mr. Dennis looked confused and then laughed. “Aren’t we all?” He jingled the keys around a massive ring. “Don’t let anyone shame you about being an elevator man, Mr. Carrington. Now, where did I put that... ah, Room 17! There you are!”
He handed me my key and I reluctantly took it.
When I arrived at Room 17, I discovered a grunting door, and behind it, a dusty little cell of a place. Ashy dead bugs cluttered the windowsill and there were more bugs in the wardrobe. Thankfully, the two beds pressed against the opposite sides of the walls appeared clean, even if the frames were squeaky.
I laid down to sleep early because there was nothing else to do. But before fully dozing off, I heard in the dark someone else come in and settle into the bed across from me.
I didn’t budge. A pianist with a soulful voice from somewhere else in the building lulled me into a restful state. I soon heard my roommate snoring, and I joined him, in hopes of better days ahead.
Vinny and I met on our second day as roommates. He was lying on his bed when I came in from meeting with my guidance counselor, his hair picked out and a pair of loose overalls hanging from his shoulders, his outfit showing he cared little about blending in with New York fashion. I liked that about him already.
“Hey,” I said, as I went to sit on my own bed.
“Hey,” he returned. “Vinny. Calvin, but they call me Vinny.”
“Nick.”
“So, what brought you here?”
I paused, not sure how much to say. A part of me wanted to tell him everything, but then I felt my throat tighten up, as I tried to find the words. “Just moved up here for better work opportunities,” I managed.
“Got you,” he said, his tone understanding. “The Klan got my uncle and my cousin. Mom was scared they’d get me too, so she sent me up here to boarding school.”
“Oh.” I didn’t have a good answer. Didn’t have the courage to tell him what I’d seen myself. How my father’s body seized up, the way the bullet shattered our window and my life with it.
Vinny’s story hit too close, and in his honesty, I found myself clinging to the words he hadn’t said, wondering if he’d felt the same loss, the same fear.
He pressed on, unafraid of silence. “Never been to a white school before,” he admitted.
“Me neither.” I tried to smile. “Are you doing elevator training too?”
“Sure am,” he said.
“We’ll see each other tomorrow then,” I said softly.
After the small talk, there was more silence, but it was a warmer one. Someone was in this with me, at the bottom of the West Egg ranking system. And that made me feel less alone, less miserable about being so disrespected by this place. As a bonus, Vinny knew what it was to carry wounds like mine. Perhaps he’d be able to help me shoulder them.
