When he would come to my apartment to visit, collect the rent, or say hello, he was never empty handed. The Old Man always managed to bring a book or record with him. He would offer it up at the door with the simple but meaningfully layered instruction to “Check this out.” Some evenings we would sit and talk about the last thing that he delivered. “Did you listen to that Fela album?” “Yeah, I did.” That was usually the last word I got in as he provided the background on whatever or whoever the topic of discussion was. “Fela brought Afrobeat to the world. Do you know what that is?” I pretended to answer, but knew the question was rhetorical. As expected, before I could offer a response he interrupted with, “No, I bet you don’t, but you listen to it. I hear it in that ‘house music’ you jump around to.” This would on occasion go on for hours, especially after he would put on whatever record we were dissecting on his old Champion stereo. The old dinosaur record player was supposed to be portable, but after moving all of my things in I didn’t have the energy to heft that relic to the storage room. I think he was glad I left it in the corner.
One Saturday morning I heard the familiar gait across the weathered hardwood upstairs, making way to the door of my rented but oh so familiar haunt. “Knock-knock,” then a chuckle and Cheshire cat grin I could imagine through the door as he caught his breath. “Who’s there?” I would answer in a bland and robotic tone. “It’s your daddy boy. You look more like the mailman but I fed you all these years so I claim you.” He would laugh heartily because after all of this time he still thought it was funny. I laughed for the same reason. After proffering a weeks worth of mail and my rent receipt (he insisted on cash), The Old Man found a seat. From under his arm protruded a thick book and an album cover I couldn’t see. I glanced at the worn spine- “The Miseducation of the Negro by Carter G. Woodson.” Without speaking I made my way to the bachelor’s kitchen he put in before I moved back home and began making coffee, fruit salad and pancakes for two. Behind me I could hear him working the Champion. As Coltrane’s “A Love Supreme” danced through the air and mixed with the smell of cinnamon and over-ripe oranges we ate in silence, both of us respecting the solemnity of the moment.
When years of unfiltered Camels, Chivas Regal, and the acute loneliness that only a widow knows caught up with The Old Man we had a simple but well-attended service. He would have liked that. Two weeks later at the reading of his will (who knew he had a will?) I received the key to his old canvas and leather packer trunk and an envelope. When I got home I sat in silence for what seemed like hours before opening the sheath. In his thick but legible script was written “Knock-knock! Between the lines and notes you will find your truth.” Fingering the well worn key I opened the trunk. Inside was the deed to the house sandwiched between every rent payment I ever made. That gift was undergirded by scores of albums and books: from Brahms to Billie Holiday, Mozart to Miles Davis. There was Shakespeare, Khalil Gibran, and distinctively dog eared copies of the Bible, Koran, and Torah. Books and records formed a parallel pallet from the floor to the ceiling of the trunk, some leather bound hardcover and some paperback. Others were wrapped in plastic or thick patterned and colorful material that looked and smelled like the men at the corner market (“We Sell Halal”).
Brought to my knees by the realization that my friend, mentor, and father was gone, I pulled a record I had never heard before from a haggard sleeve, turned on the record player,and cried myself to sleep.