I was leaning over the sink one morning when I first noticed the ugly black spot on the back of my right hand. It was round, about the size of a dime. I ran my hand over it. The skin felt the same as on the rest of my hand. I hadn’t seen it there the day before. Could I have overlooked it? Maybe it was there from when I changed my car oil or from a leaky pen? I tried to scrub it away, but the spot stayed.
For the next few weeks, I looked every morning to see if the it was still there. It didn't fade or grow smaller or larger. After a while I stopped looking. But I knew it was there.
My life went on as usual. I continued going to work in the warehouse at Beaumont Trucking where I’d been for the last ten years. Nobody there noticed anything. Al least nobody said anything.
One morning I was brushing my teeth and looked down at the spot. It was horrific. The hideous thing had grown and was now the size of a quarter. Cancer! I must have skin cancer. That’s what happens with cancer. It grows. I turned my head away. It was gross.
At work things were normal. No one even asked about the band-aid on the back of my hand. If they did I’d kid and say I cut myself shaving.
But I knew this was serious. Should I see a doctor? I was afraid. What if it was cancer? I didn’t want to know. I waited a week hoping it would get smaller, but it didn’t change. I was frightened. I could feel the anxiety building. My head was aching. Then the nightmares started and I stopped sleeping altogether. Was this the end?
I went to a doctor who specialized in skin conditions. The Doctor was tall and thin, with narrow shoulders and his arms looked as though they were too short for his shirtsleeves. He poked at it with an instrument and examined it with a magnifying glass making little grunts as he went.
Then he looked up at me and said, “Don’t worry, it’s not cancer or anything serious. Cancer doesn’t look like that. It has a different color. I’ll give you some salve. Apply it on the back of your hand every day. The spot should fade away in about a month."
"Can you tell what's causing it, Doc?”
"It’s hard to say. Things like this are difficult to diagnose. It might be a lentigo. Certainly nothing to worry about."
“But it got bigger!”
He was very nonchalant.
“Nothing to be alarmed about. These spots come and go. They get bigger and then smaller. Don’t even concern yourself.”
Breathing a sigh of relief, I felt as though a great weight had been lifted from my shoulders. The fear was gone. I used the salve and looked every day to see if the spot was fading. I tried it for a month, but there was no change. The lentigo was as vivid as ever. I went back to the doc and he gave me some lotion and then something else, but nothing worked. After three months I gave up.
The spot stayed the same. Maybe it would stay that way for the rest of my life. I kept it covered. I didn’t want see it and didn’t want anybody else to either. I used band-aids and makeup and even paint- anything to conceal it. Though I knew it was still there, I was comforted by not seeing it not being reminded of its presence.
I was getting out of bed on morning and I yawned and that’s when I saw it. Jesus! The dreadful thing was covering my entire hand. It looked like I had dipped it in a can of black paint. The rest of my body was white and my right hand was black. I was in a state of panic. My heart was racing. It felt like it was going to explode. I had to sit. I didn’t know what to do. What do people do when they want to cover up their hands? They buy gloves. Of course, that’s what they do. I bought a pair of safety gloves and wore them at work. No one suspected anything. If fact, it was a big hit. Some of the other guys working in the warehouse started wearing them too. And my boss thought it was good that I was being safety-conscious.
Several months later, it was after dinner and I was parked in my recliner half asleep not thinking about anything when I felt a slight tingling in my right arm. It wasn’t numb like it gets when it falls asleep. It was a different feeling. I rolled up my shirt and looked. It was the worst thing I’d ever seen. It was hard to believe. I closed my eyes and opened them again hoping it would disappear. But it was still there. As I watched the spot crept up my arm like a black daemon moving under my skin getting larger as it moved toward my shoulder. In a matter of minutes it was covering my entire arm. I slapped it and squeezed it; and ran cold water on it. I tried washing it away and even put some rubbing alcohol on it, but nothing worked. The spot kept moving relentlessly and seemed to be going faster now as it covered my face, neck, midsection, groin, legs and feet. In less than an hour every inch of my body was black. Fortunately my hair was dark and curly so it fitted in with the rest of me.
I stood there, mortified, looking in the bathroom mirror. My features were the same, but who would recognize me? And what if someone did? They wouldn’t believe it.
They wouldn’t know what to say. ‘Hi James. You’re looking rather dark today.’
Or would they pretend that nothing had changed? ‘How are you today? How’s the weather?’
They’d be as confused as I was. I was hoping it was all a bad dream and that I’d wake up and my life would be restored to normal.
What if the other tenants saw a black man in the building? Where I lived on the North Side they’d have a fit. They’d call the police. Nobody would understand. They’d shoot me. They’d think I was an intruder.
I couldn't go to work like this. Those rednecks on the loading dock would eat me alive. I called in sick and stayed in my apartment for a week. The headache grew worse. My temples were pounding and I couldn’t get up. Deep misery swept over me.
The food in my apartment ran out. I waited till every drop was gone. I was afraid to go out. I waited till the last can of beans was gone. I was starved. I put on a sweat suit and wrapped a towel around my neck and covered my head. I thought I looked pretty sharp in sweats, like a boxer or some other kind of athlete. I went to the Mini Mart and bought some food, lots of food. When I went to check out, Hilda the middle-aged women behind the counter who had seen me for ten years gave me a funny look. She rang me up. Maybe she thought I was about to rob her.
I hung around my apartment for another week. Occasionally I’d go out for a walk. I was going stir crazy. My neighbors had started to notice me and were none too comfortable. When I went on the elevator people I’d get icy stares. They didn’t want me there. I was the only black in the building or for that matter in the neighborhood. The owner and two of the tenants paid me a visit. When they looked at me I could feel the loathing. They didn’t recognize me. The owner told me that I would have to move. I tried to tell him that I was the tenant, but he wasn’t listening. He didn’t care. He wanted me out by Friday. I could have fought them, but who wants to be where they’re hated?
I didn't wait a week to get out. The next day I bought a newspaper and went over to the South Side and looked. There were plenty of places available and for a lot less. I rented light airy two bedroom with natural hardwood floors and high ceilings. And the best part was that I felt at home there.
The other tenants in my building were friendly. They'd say hello, or good morning . Walking around the neighborhood I could see that the people were having fun. Families were out on their stoops and there was Caribbean music and jazz playing. Spicy food aromas were floating out of every doorway.
It didn't take me long to get a new job. There was small trucking company that needed warehouse workers and the place was only a bus stop from where I lived . Everyone there was black. My new life went on with out a hitch.
Lucy lived across the hall from me. She was the color of coal, tall and a little on the heavy side with close-cropped curly hair. When she spoke there was a slight island lilt in her accent. We worked the same hours and meet coming and going.
She was a nurse in a nearby hospital and over the next few months we got to know each other. She'd fix dinner or come over to my place and I'd order out. After dinner we’d go for a walk and sit in the park.
On Sundays we’d go to church and sing our lungs out. And after the service the women would serve lunch in the social hall. The Reverend and the rest of the congregation were glad to see me. There was genuine warmth that I felt deep inside. I knew I belonged.
Eventually Lucy and I started living together. Maybe some day we’d get married and have kids. We’d been together for almost two years and my white life seemed like only a distant dream. Maybe that’s all it was.
One morning I was lying in bed next to Lucy. She was lying there gently snoring. I went to turn over and as I did I looked down at my right hand and saw a hideous white spot. It was the size of a quarter. I didn’t tell Judy. I didn’t say anything to anyone. I knew what was coming next.