Darius and the Vanilla Funk



  Darius and the Vanilla Funk

  Phil Wohl

  CHAPTERS Lost and Found Candy Man

  My Name Is… Partners in Crime Mr. Cohen Can Play Breakfast in Desk

  Elements of the Universe

  Thug's Life Court's In Session Jersey Blues

  Shot In the Dark Limping Through Life Second Chance Blame It on the Funk

  Lost and Found

  My father was gunned down when I was five years old. Seeing him lying in a coffin was so spooky that the image has haunted me my whole life. I never had the chance to say goodbye to him and barely even had the opportunity to say hello.

  Being an undercover cop had its advantages for my dad, Dennis Mitchell. He grew up in Oakland, California, in the late 1960’s as a member of the Black Panthers. The Panthers were the black community’s answer to oppression and injustice. In the early 1970’s he moved from the city by the bay to the city that was the epicenter of New York, Harlem. The purpose of this exodus was to bolster the Panthers presence in New York’s premier African American community.

  A few years after he arrived at 135th Street, dad met my mother, Angela, at a Panther rally. A year later they had Malcolm, their first child, who was named after Malcolm X. Shortly after Malcolm arrived in the world, Dennis Mitchell married Angela Baines. With the glory days now fading in the glow of Harlem, my family picked up and moved to a new

  community on Long Island called Branchville. With the promise of a new career in law enforcement waiting for my dad and a new house to live in, the family had come a long way from the tension-filled, big city streets.

  My parents had three more kids in seven years, ending in the early 1980’s, as Rosa, Martin, and finally Julia were brought into the world. Rosa was named for Rosa Parks; Martin got his name from Martin Luther Ling; and Julia was named out of love for Diahann Carroll’s TV character bearing the same name. With four kids and barely enough room for everyone in the house, my mom’s baby making days seemed to be over.

  A decade went by and the family was flourishing. My dad worked his way up the ranks and out of the shadows and dangers of undercover work into a coveted position of Captain. After his last undercover operation in the early

  1990’s, he and my mom spent a few days getting reacquainted. Nine months later, I was born with the name Darius Theo Mitchell. The name Darius was an original concoction, but Theo was taken directly from the son on The

  Cosby Show, who I grew to appreciate by watching Nick at

  Night reruns.

  Being an “Oops!” baby didn’t exactly give me the explosive head start I needed in life. The one advantage I did have was that my dad was around a lot more than he was when my brothers and sisters were growing up. Working nine to five instead of being away from the family weeks at a stretch, left my dad with a lot of free time. Luckily, I was the immediate beneficiary of that extra time.

  My dad must have felt some guilt about not having spent so much quality time with my brothers and sisters. He would take me to the park when I was real small, and then we went to a few basketball games together once I was out of diapers. By the time I realized who my father was and what he meant to me, he was gone. I heard people talking about an “old score” that a few local drug dealers wanted to settle with him. Seems that dad had infiltrated their operation and the dealers served about ten years of hard time for their indiscretions.

  I still remember the night he left us like it was yesterday. We had just walked back from watching Branchville High School beat its archrival Pritchett High School in a basketball game. Branchville High was located about a block from our house—so was the local elementary school I was going to attend the following year. As we were walking into the house my dad told me to go inside, and he went to set up the lawn sprinkler in front of the house.

  Just as my mom asked me about the game, we heard the roar of a supercharged engine barreling down the street. My dad must have heard it too, because he was reaching for the gun in his ankle holster before the car had approached our house. His nine-millimeter was no match for the machine guns these guys were packing. Instead of running into the house and jeopardizing his family, Dennis Mitchell became a hero on his front lawn. The sprinkler he just turned on washed away much of the blood trickling out of his new holes but failed to wash away the memories of my main man, my dad.

  The pain of my father’s death extended way beyond my little head; my mother received a huge sum of money from the New York State and Nassau County. She proceeded to live the good life and leave me behind. The subsequent virtual passing of my mother exacerbated the grief of losing my father. She had no time or energy left for me and I was on my own.

  The years rolled by between kindergarten and the end of fourth grade. Being a kid that was always surrounded by women of color at home, it was a surprisingly easy transition to be bossed around by a bunch of uptight white ladies at school. The sound of a woman’s voice seemed to connect to some sort of obedience mechanism in my brain. Conversely, the sound of a man’s voice never made it past the outer reaches of my ears. It would sound interesting to say that male speech went in one ear and out the other, but the noise was deflected even before it had a chance to be processed.

  I was like a wild Mustang running with no sense of control or purpose. Once my sister Julia graduated from

  Branchville High School, she was out of the house about as often as my mom. Being a fourth grader with a key and an empty house gave me license to do just about anything I damned pleased. My life had come a long way from park strolls and basketball games with my dad.

  Looking back on my life in those days is often painful and a constant reminder of the person I might have become

  —the person I might have become if not for Mr. C. Lucas Cohen picked up where my dad left off. He cared about me even after I no longer cared about myself. What I had lost, he had found. What I had forgotten, he had remembered. What I couldn’t see, he clearly saw. Without Mr. C I would no longer be living on this earth. I would have been just another punk who had his death wish fulfilled. Dying time will come, but I have plenty of living to do before that fateful day.

  Candy Man

  The summers are really hot and humid in New York. The humidity clings to your body like a sopping-wet t-shirt. The heat also has a way of turning boredom into trouble for the small, deviant minds of ten year-old boys. My crew and I were growing and we were bad, in every sense of the word.

  I used to hang out with two guys—one guy’s name was Edgar Ellison, or Easy E as we called him; the other dude was simply known as Beast—this brother was as wild as he was strong. I was never really sure of his full name because we didn’t go to the same school. In fact, I don’t even know if he went to school. Someone once told me his name was Harold, but I didn’t dare call Beast by his formal name in fear that I would get beat down. My nickname was D Mitch, but Beast just called me D.

  Easy E, Beast, and I made quite the trio of trouble. I was the brains, Easy E had arms like an octopus, and Beast was the muscle in case we got in trouble. Beast always had some level of protection for us when we walked around; he carried anything from a screwdriver to a piece of broken

  glass but we always knew we were safe when he was around.

  One liquid August afternoon we took our usual stroll up to the Korean market about half-a-mile from my house. We had a few close calls with the owner of the store, but enjoyed the challenge that the market presented us. This guy had seen every trick in the book; he even saw through my distractive tactics of asking questions while my friends use their five-finger discounts to get us some snacks.

  We were
out of tricks and out of money but we were going to try to rob the vault with little more than speed, strength, and my devious mind. It was about 100 degrees outside and it had to be at least 110 inside of the airless store. I was tempted to crawl inside of the small soda refrigerator just to get some relief from the heat. The three of us worked the store pretty good, stuffing drinks and chips in our pants and shirts. We were about to leave when this huge white guy walked in, blocking any sun that was filtering through the poster-laden front glass door.

  I thought Larry Bird’s entrance would be the diversionary tactic that we needed to escape, so I motioned over to E and Beast that it was time to go. We quickly shuttled toward the door but were blocked by the owner, Mr. Morioto, who somehow had beaten us to the door. I swear I never saw the man move but he was so quick that any escape attempt on our part seemed pointless. Morioto yelled, “You punks rob me for last time! I call police!” E said, “Easy, Mr. Miyagi,” making a reference to the wise Asian man in The Karate Kid.

  Just as Beast was about to pull something dangerous from his pocket, the big white dude spoke. “Excuse me, sir. I just wanted to pay for all of our stuff.” He looked at me and said, “Bring all of your stuff up here so we can get back to school.” My friends and I looked at each other in shock as we slowly moved up to the front counter. Mr. Morioto said to the man, “What are you doing with hoodlums?” The white guy responded, “They’re in my class as part of a summer program. I’m sorry I should have told you when they walked in.” He then nodded at me like he wanted to know my name.

  I whispered, “Darius.” He then said, “Darius, make sure you and the guys get a few candy bars, too. We don’t want you guys running out of energy this afternoon. We have a lot of work to do.”

  We grabbed three or four candy bars each until the white man gave us a look and put up two fingers. He then asked Mr. Morioto for a lottery ticket and then gave it back to him once it was printed, “That ticket is for you. Thank you for your help. C’mon guys, let’s go.”

  We left the store and walked toward the man’s blue PT Cruiser; he got in the car, rolled down his window, looked at us seriously and said, “Next time don’t be so obvious.” We exchanged slaps and the man stuck out his left fist and I banged my right fist on his in affirmation. As he drove away I thought, “Who was that tall white dude and why was he in my town?”

  That was the first time I met Mr. C; he was on a break from new teacher training and he came over to the store to get a drink. Little did I know what awaited me a few weeks later when school started? Destiny had a way of setting me

  up for things before I even knew what was happening. Easy E, Beast, and I talked about getting away with stealing stuff from Mr. Morioto all day. The extra bonus was those last few bars the Candy Man threw into our bounty, making our getaway even sweeter. Little did I know that nothing in life is handed to you for free, because there is always some price to pay down the road. But, for one shining moment, I was enjoying being a kid who could do no wrong… or was that do no right?

  My Name Is…

  The summer seemed to drag on as slowly as a Social Studies lesson. With the month of August moving off into the blazing sunset, it was time to get my groove on and head back around the corner to school. Fifth grade would be my last year at Acorn Road Elementary School, and would signal the end of my not so innocent youth.

  I had spent so much time at the school during the summer when the air was calm and the spaces were wide

  open. Workmen had built an overhang to protect the kids in the portable classrooms from being rained and snowed on as they traveled to the main building; me, E and Beast often sat in the shady steps right in front of my new class. I was in the front of the line that first day for Mr. Cohen’s class. Not that I knew who Mr. Cohen was, or what torture he had foolishly signed up for. As the line for my class grew longer, I could sense that this would be a memorable year. It was like someone picked all of the bad kids and put them together in one class. I smiled as the other fifth grade classes looked at us both in horror and relieved amazement.

  I was talking to my friend Vernon, when the line suddenly grew quiet and everybody looked up. I was laughing as I turned directly into the bottom of a large rib cage.I looked up and saw a slightly familiar white man staring down at me with a big smile.He beamed and said for the class to hear, “Darius my man, this is your lucky day!” Embarrassment and I were the worst of friends.I

  didn’t like it when somebody made me look like a fool in front of my friends. While it was cool what the big white dude did

  at Mr. Morioto’s store, this was school and it was my turf. The teacher led us into the classroom and we looked up at the board for our seating assignments.

  He waited for everyone to nestle into their wooden desks before introducing himself, “My name is Mr. Cohen, but you can call me Mr. C.” He then wrote his name on the board and kept talking, “This is the first year for me as a teacher and, by the looks of this class, I’m hoping it won’t be my last. I expect you to come prepared to work every day, because I will be presenting the material a little different than what you have become accustomed to at Acorn Elementary. We have 24 students in this class that I expect to be freethinking individuals. While we will do many tasks together, I want your creativity to be the dominant force. Be respectful but don’t ever act like a robot. Now that you know what I’m about, let’s go around the room and hear your stories.”

  One person after another babbled on and told their names and life stories. Every other teacher I’ve ever had would have cut each person off after only about a minute;

  Mr. C. gave each student between five and ten minutes to exhaust his or her tension.

  Twenty-three people and a few hours later, it was finally my turn to speak. Before I had a chance to open my mouth Mr. C. interjected, “There won’t be any ‘My name is’ with this last speaker. Class, this is Mr. Darius Mitchell. Mr. Mitchell, this is the class.” I felt both embarrassed and special at the same time. While just about everyone in the class knew me, I felt a great deal of pressure to live up to the expectations of my words. I think Mr. C. sensed my anxiety and he helped me through my ten minutes of fame.

  In my five previous years at Acorn Elementary I was never made to feel anything more than average. Occasionally I would get a B on a test or a project, but no teacher ever gave me a second chance. Mr. Cohen saw right through my ordinary student smoke screen and helped me clear the fog that surrounded my head.

  From the way I am talking, it sounds like it was all smooth sailing from the moment I walked into that class—it took quite some time for the two of us to achieve a

  harmonious balance— proving once again that nothing good comes easy.

  The one mistake Mr. Cohen made was that he was trying to be so supportive that we took advantage of his generosity. To be honest, that’s what kids do if you don’t set some kind of limits for them. Mr. C. often talked to me about the guidance he got from fellow teachers and administrators. Among the gems of advice included, “Don’t smile until Christmas” and “Give them so much homework in the beginning that their heads will explode.” I couldn’t imagine Mr. C. not smiling at some point in the day. I’m not really sure how he stopped himself from exploding, but he managed to make it through that year without completely melting down.

  There wasn’t a day that went by during that first month of school that I didn’t test Mr. Cohen. The funny thing was that he was testing me right back. I had finally met my match on the stubborn scale; Mr. C. was determined to break down my walls and unlock the riches in my protected mind, but I had other ideas.

  I waited a few weeks before I told Mr. C. about the death of my father. He told the class that he was a big kid and that he loved being with us, but the real reason he became a teacher was because his wife had passed away a few years prior to becoming a teacher. I identifi
ed with his loss and instantly latched on to his unwavering spirit. I could sense that he was hurting inside but he wouldn’t let us into that world. He told us “You have to be able to separate the professional from the personal in your life.” There was nothing that wasn’t personal about Mr. Cohen’s professional life. He treated all of us like we were part of his extended family. We all could have used a good ass-wupping every once in a while, though.

  That first month was rough; the classroom became sort of a battlefield because Mr. C. was giving us room to be ourselves. We had never been in a classroom where our thoughts were listened to; life before that was all about learning random facts and winning useless certificates for good behavior. We must have changed the configuration of our desks at least once a week in the beginning. With

  relationships shifting almost every time we stepped in the room, it was difficult to find a group of four or five people you got along with at any given time.

  All of the fifth graders had to take a big state Social Studies test In November. That didn’t give us much time to get to know each other and also put in the hard work needed to do well on the exam. Mr. C. would say almost every day, “I’m not changing what we are doing for a test. I have a responsibility to prepare you guys for the future, not just the present. While the other three fifth grade classes studied Social Studies facts for at least three or four hours a day, we did our usual one hour per day.

  At first, I questioned Mr. C.’s methods; I think the whole class was wondering what he was doing. We weren’t used to a balanced attack; whenever we had a major test in a subject, the preparation was usually exhaustive. I remember giving Mr. Cohen a real hard time during those first few months. I made sure the majority of his lessons were as broken as my heart. I clung to Mr. C. at every