Night Work: A Novel - Softcover

George, Nelson

Softcover

ISBN 10: 0743235517 ISBN 13: 9780743235518

Publisher: Touchstone, 2003

Synopsis

"In New York City, there are at least three times as many doors as people. I work behind those closed doors. I work in darkness even when the light is on. My name is Night and I do night work."

Dark-skinned chocolate, sexy and smooth, Night earns his keep by pleasuring rich white women around New York City. But he's grown weary of this seedy, criminal life. If he could just get someone to sign him to a record deal, he'd willingly say good-bye forever to the emotionless sex that is slowly numbing his soul.

Just when his dream of becoming an R&B vocalist is about to be realized, Beth Ann, a beautiful supermodel deep in debt to a dangerous drug ring, begs Night to help her move a large quantity of Ecstasy. He reluctantly agrees, but the good deed sinks him deeper into the nightlife he's been trying so desperately to escape. It also puts him on the radar of the NYPD, and when one of Night's clients is found murdered the cops are quick to add it all up against him. Now Night must fight the fallout of his past and try to forge a path back to his future, before it takes off without him.

A stunning portrait of the unholy intersection of New York's sexual underground and the entertainment business, this gripping novel will appeal to fans of Chester Himes, Donald Goines, and other noir masters.

About this title

About the Author:

Nelson George is a writer, filmmaker, and cultural critic who's been working professionally more than twenty-five years. He is the author of eight works of nonfiction, most recently Post-Soul Nation, five novels including the national bestseller One Woman Short, and several screenplays. George lives in Brooklyn, New York.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.:

Chapter One

Three Times as Many Doors

In New York City there are at least three times as many doors as people. Front doors to homes and apartments. Back doors to alleys and driveways. Doors to restaurants. Doors to clubs and bars. Doors to brownstones and tenements, to sitting rooms and dayrooms and night rooms (also known as bedrooms). And there are doors inside doors -- doors to other doors and other realities, doors to the rooms where you expose yourself, where you embrace the things you love so dearly you share them with only a well-chosen few. I work behind those closed doors, places where what happens is just between the people there and no one else has to know. I work in darkness even when the light is on. You see, my name is Night and I do night work.

Like Curtis Mayfield sang, "Dark as the night with the moon shining bright." I'm as dark as Michael Jordan or Tyson Beckford. Smooth and black and glowing. Sometimes I look at myself naked in the mirror above my bed and watch how the light bounces off my skin, how it reflects the curves and muscles God gave me, and I smile at my ebony beauty.

I didn't always appreciate the chocolate. For much of my life my color was a curse, a burden, a target. It was all people saw. Nobody paid attention to my eyes, my mouth, or my troubled soul. I was a dot. I was midnight. I was doo-doo. I was black magic. I was blackmail. I was the black that existed to define white, yellow, and red. I was the punch line that made a sentence a joke. I was the exclamation point that made a sentence an insult. I was the nightmare that ruined dreams.

Black mothers laughed at me and kept their children at bay. White teachers joked about me over coffee and cigarettes. Schoolmates held up black crayons next to my face and told me I was darker. And my father -- that evil fool -- used to tell me I looked my best with the lights out.

Now my sister, she's yellow. "Yellow as a Chinaman's piss." That's what our father often said. But skin color never mattered between Nikki and me. When I'd be called "African looking" by a black person who hated himself or Sambo by someone who didn't care about history, it was Nikki who held my head and said, "One day they'll all love you like I do." I wanted to believe her but didn't. My sick little sis thought she could hear the sound of stars and the heavy breathing of fish in the aquarium, which didn't really make her the most reliable source for life-affirming information.

When I was a boy in Brooklyn I'd look into our bathroom mirror, not in admiration but pain. I used to stand over the sink and rub my skin, expecting that it would all appear like dirt in streaks on the pinkish yellow palms of my hands. But it wouldn't peel off. I'd think of Michael Jackson, the boy-man who was so large during my childhood. He'd made himself into science fiction by shedding layers of skin as I so wanted to. This should have been the perfect solution -- to shred it all and escape my burden, to quiet all the talk and the nasty laughter and, maybe, make my father love me.

The problem was what lay beneath. For Michael there was a ghost face unlike anything I, or anyone else, had ever seen. His black skin had withered and no amount of soul singing could bring it back. And the light from cracks under Michael's closed doors caught my attention. Stripped of his skin and his secrets, Michael was too naked, too damaged and damaging, for me to follow his path any longer. This I could not envy. It was too much. Too ugly. In fact, Michael's face finally put me in check. No way could I allow everyone else's poison in me. I began to understand that my skin had to be loved if I was to love myself.

So the day I turned sixteen I became Night and I reclaimed my face.

And just in time, help arrived. Big Daddy Kane, who was "big just like your Daddy," dropped "Raw." And Michael Jordan, who folk in North Cacalacki used to call "the man in the dark suit," before he sliced the Celtics for sixty-something one Sunday afternoon. And Wesley Snipes, who said, "Always bet on black," and so I did. These brothers, and others, helped reinvent the world around me. They made everyone look at dark skin. I'm talking about hi-top fade. I'm talking about Jordan in Nike ads. I'm talking about Wes boning in Mo' Better and Wes killing in New Jack City. I'm talking bald brown domes sweating under the sun. Dark skin in white tank tops. Even Grace motherfucking Jones and her freaky ass self. Black was back, all in, we're gonna win. Night had been intended to be my shield. Then things changed and it became a sword.

Copyright © 2003 by Nelson George

About this edition

• Publisher: Touchstone
• Publication date: 2003
• ISBN 10: 0743235517
• ISBN 13: 9780743235518
• Binding: Paperback
• Number of pages: 256