"How’d you end up with a name like that?” Radix asked, that first day Degraf-
fenbach reached over to shake his hand.
“How did you end up with a name like – sorry, what did you say your name
was?” Degraffenbach shot back, pulling in his chair, keeping things on even keel.
He went on: “There’s this guy in the Math department, he’s from Nigeria,
he’s got this funny-sounding name, nobody can get their tongue wrapped
around the syllables… Oban…jem…funa! See, even I have a hard time with it.
Anyway, everybody calls him Mr. O. The kids call him Mr. O. Even the payroll
secretary calls him Mr. O. And, get this, he doesn’t mind! Says it makes things
easy for him.” Then turning to Radix, he said, “By the way, everybody calls me
Dave or Mr. Degraff. I have no problem with that.”
Not to be outdone, or to seem outsmarted, Radix said there was someone in
his department with a name everyone managed to pronounce correctly, with no
abbreviation, despite its strange spelling.
“Zbryznski… anyone know him?”
Degraffenbach said he hadn’t heard the name, nor did he know the guy. “In
any case, what did Shakespeare say…That which we call a rose by any other
name would smell as sweet…? Isn’t that Romeo and Juliet?” Bilicki assured
him it was. "That line has stayed with me since 9th grade.”
Radix thought he heard in the tone of the other man’s voice an attempt to
slide him down a notch. He figured Degraffenbach had just stopped by and had
no intention of joining them. But the next day he was back, with his tray of
cafeteria food, and his ebullient manner. When Radix tried to draw him out on
political or current issues he got the same joking response. Once Degraffenbach
slapped him on the shoulders, telling him to “lighten up”. Radix played with his
coffee spoon, refusing to lighten up, his resentment of the man growing.
For his part Mahmood seemed put off by Degraffenbach’s lack of seriousness,
but chose not to make an issue of it, putting it down to the younger man’s
inexperience. Raised on Long Island what could he possibly know about the lives
of “rock breakers” around the world?
One morning Degraffenbach joined them just as Mahmood was explaining an
incident in California involving a white police officer who had found him in his
stalled Volkswagen in what they considered a “wrong” neighborhood.
Bilicki shook his head and reminded everyone there were “wrong” neighbor-
hoods in New York. “I live in a “wrong” neighborhood just across the river in
New Jersey. If someone like you happens along there at certain hours, acting
suspiously, as they say, there are nice old ladies peering through the blinds who
would not hesitate to reach for the phone.”
Degraffenbach looked down at his plate, chewing thoughtfully; then as his
forked picked away for the next food dispatch he made a startling disclosure:
he’d lived among white people all his life on Long Island, and he couldn’t
honestly say he had experienced racism.
Everyone looked at him, mildly amazed.
“No, I’m serious. I hear talk about taxis not stopping when you hail them in
Manhattan, because you’re black. Well, I’m black, and I’ve never had a problem
 
; with cabs in Manhattan.”
“Why do you think that is so?” Mahmood asked.
“I really don’t know.” Degraffenbach leaned back, and seemed to give the
question some thought. Then he said, “Maybe taxi drivers find me attractive.”
Bilicki laughed; he was the only one who didn’t mind Degraffenbach’s jokes.
“That's it,” Degraffenbach went on. “That's why they stop for me every time. They
find me irresistible.” His voice climbed to a falsetto of mock incredulity; his
boyish face beamed amusement.
A lost cause, Radix thought, his mouth compressed in irritation. Telling funny
stories, simply refusing to think. Beyond saving, Radix felt sure.
(from Ah Mikhail, O Fidel!” a novel by N.D.Williams, 2001)
FARJOURNEY CARIBBEAN 