High Price

knew Ronnie knew about his car.
    But the story was now that his ride was gone: “in the pipe,” they said. The ride went in the pipe. Ronnie’d started smoking base and he’d stopped caring: that was the narrative. The Monte Carlo had gone up in smoke, along with his job and virtually everything else that had once defined him. “That shit’s too good, man,” was the way people phrased it. Ronnie’s story supported the idea that smoking cocaine took you down, an idea I took on board with little critical thought.
    I ndeed, even though I smoked reefer myself, it never even occurred to me to question the military’s drug-testing policy. Sure, I worried about being caught and I tried to minimize the potential consequences I’d face if it happened to me, but I accepted the idea that illegal drugs were bad and thought that expelling people from the service for using them was appropriate.
    I alternately got high with Keith and his homeboys and discoursed with Mark about black consciousness. I took classes and began taking them seriously—but also stole movies from Gate 2 Street every week. My behavior was in transition: I was not quite yet a serious student, nor was I a complete fuckup. The balance could still shift in either direction.
    I n early 1986, I received word that Big Mama had suffered a stroke. She’d survived but wasn’t expected to live long. The air force allowed compassionate leave in such situations. But at first I refused to take one: for some reason, I think, I couldn’t bring myself to believe that her death was really imminent. I didn’t want to even consider the idea.
    I also had just six months left in my tour of duty in Japan, and I didn’t want to fly twenty-four hours straight home only to have to do it again a few days later to return to a country that I hated. My first sergeant told me, “You’re going to regret this.” He insisted that I’d be really unhappy if I didn’t visit the woman who played such a big part in raising me, to say good-bye to her.
    To ensure that I complied, he promised to arrange for me to be sent to my next assignment rather than back to Okinawa if I agreed to go home. And he kept his word. I flew back to Miami, wondering all the way if I was actually going to be able to see my grandmother alive. When I got there, Big Mama was barely holding on in the hospital. She couldn’t speak and her face was all twisted up. She was in a terrible state.
    Trying to protect me, my mother and sisters didn’t let me get close to her: in my family, death was the business of women and they thought it would be too much for me to spend real time with her. I was at least able to pay my respects before she died. Moreover, the fact that she’d spared me another six months in Japan left me feeling pretty grateful. I was also happy to be back home.
    Soon after she died, I heard from my commanding officer. He had good news: if I wanted, I could continue my service at home, in Miami at Homestead Air Force Base. Alternatively, I could go to England and start fresh in another foreign country. I felt inclined to stay.
    Home was feeling comfortable to me again after a couple weeks; my girlfriends and friend-girls were welcoming and warm. After the lack of female companionship I’d suffered through in Japan, that was a relief and a joy. I felt nurtured and needed; I’d missed this so much. Why take the risk that another duty station might be as dissatisfying as Japan had been?
    Since I hadn’t spent any alone time with my father in a while, I went to find him. I wasn’t looking for any particular guidance; I just hadn’t visited with him yet. He’d always spent weekends drinking on the corner with his friends, so I went down to Seventy-Ninth Street and Twenty-Second Avenue and asked one of the guys if he had seen Carl Hart.
    “Dunno, man,” he said, coldly.
    After having spent damn near twenty minutes asking several other people, I went back to the first one and said, “Yo, I’m his son Carl Jr.”
    Now his eyes lit up. Because of my military bearing and haircut, he hadn’t recognized me. He’d thought I was Five-O, the police looking to harass my father. He directed me to Carl. After catching up a bit, I told him about my situation and my choice of assignments. I said I was leaning toward staying in Miami.
    I talked about being there for my family and some other bullshit.
    But my father wasn’t having it. He looked me right in the eye, knowing well the real reason for