YMCA Black Attack, Part One, by Skorpio
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Part One
This tale takes place back in the day when the old YMCA building dominated the corner of Main and Market. That venerable institution was housed in a five story brick edifice with broad cement steps and a bronze plaque of the Ten Commandments set in stone.
You passed through the massive front doors into a large, high-ceilinged lobby with a hotel-like reception desk. The papered walls were hung with framed portraits of long-forgotten city fathers. Adjacent was a large, window-lit room furnished with badly upholstered, high-backed armchairs.
To the left, a worn, carpeted stairway ascended to the residential floors. To the right, doors opened on a stairwell that went down to a good-sized locker room, sauna and swimming pool; at the end of long corridor was a large windowless room hung with mirrors equipped with barbells, dumbbells, chest expanders, a Nautilus machine, and doctor's scales.
For decades men who frequented the YMCA were of Italian or Irish heritage. But by the summer of 1979 the complexion of the city had darkened dramatically. Blacks and hispanics outnumbered the few whites who still remained in the inner city.
Our story begins with twenty-two year old Salvatore Rossi on an Olympic bench in the basement weight room of the YMCA. With a grunt of exertion, he finishes one last press. Sweat glistened like a patina on his flawless, olive skin, soaking his white sleeveless undershirt and cut-off sweats.
With classic, chiseled features and a Roman profile, Sal could have modeled for Michelangelo. Like the statue of David, Sal's brow was furrowed and the taut tendons in his neck stood out like cords. He thought back to what brought him to the YMCA the night before.
It all started when Sal's step-father taunted him for being a pizza delivery boy without a future. Insults were hurled, slurs on both sides which could not be taken back. That led to pushing and shoving. Sal did not fight back because his mom and step-brother were looking on.
At least that's what Sal told himself when he picked his ass up from the sidewalk in front of the row home where he had lived all his life.
With nowhere else to go, Sal caught a cab to the YMCA downtown, where the rent was $30 a week, $100 for one month, paid in advance.
His small, spartan room on the fourth floor was furnished with a narrow bed, wobbly bureau, shaded lamp, and a Gideon Bible. The yellow wallpaper was old and faded. A single window looked out on a rusted fire escape.
That night Sal slept fitfully. The next morning, he called out sick to work, and feasted on breakfast of scrambled eggs, bacon, and home fries at a nearby greasy spoon.
For an hour or two he wandered the streets, mulling his situation, simmering with rage, angry with his substitute father for being such an asshole and with himself for taking the abuse like a pussy.
Needing clothes, Sal bought two pairs of cheap jeans, some colored tees, boxer shorts, undershirts, and cotton athletic socks . Keeping the weight room in mind, he picked up gray sweat shorts, a few towels, and of course a jockstrap.
Later that day, Sal changed into his workout togs in the basement locker room. By now, of course, Sal was very much aware that as a white man he in the minority at the Y. Times had changed. This was never more apparent as when he walked into the weight room and found it occupied by half a dozen "moolies."
That was quite a sight, to be sure. Times had changed indeed since Sal went away to community college. He longed for the days when coloreds knew their place, and everyone got along. There was a natural order. Only now, it seemed, the moolies were everywhere, breeding like wild animals, taking over.
Sal managed to get in a decent workout. So far, no one had spoken to him. He didn't mind niggers so much, so long as they stayed out of his way. And this was pretty much how the niggers felt about Sal. Or so it seemed.
Returning to his locker, Sal took off his sneakers and socks, and peeled away the sweaty wifebeater. Looking left and right to make sure no one was coming, he stripped off his gray shorts and supporter, then quickly stepped into his colorful boxers striped green, white, and red like the Italian flag.
Although Sal liked showing off his gym-rat physique, when it came to being naked in front of other guys, he definitely had issues. It was a size thing, if you know what I mean. There are showers and growers, but poor Salvatore Rossi was neither. Again, the statue of David comes to mind.
Headed for the sauna in his boxers, towel draped over his shoulder, paying little attention to his surroundings, Sal
bumped into a tall, imposing black man in trunks on his way to the pool.
Physical contact sent a frisson down Sal's spine. He made a grimace of disgust which did not go unobserved.
"I didn't hear EXCUSE ME," growled the brother.
"That's `cause I didn't say it," Sal snapped.
"Asshole," the black man muttered.
Sal said nothing. He had enough problems without getting into a scuffle with some nigger. The last thing he needed was to borrow trouble.
The old sauna was occupied by four black men grouped together, talking quietly among themselves. Two were about Sal's age. The other two were much older, in the forties or fifties. All four were unabashedly naked.
Sal took an empty plank across from them, closed his eyes, and filled his lungs with the moist, hot air. He wanted to be left alone, to simmer over the low flame of bitterness that burned in his restless, turbulent heart.
"Wassup?"
Sal slowly opened his eyes and looked at the one who spoke. The young moolie grinned, a bright toothy smile, . He had big onyx eyes like those of a jungle cat. Tats inked his mahogany chest.
"Nothin'," Sal sneered, dismissively.
"We don't get many whiteboys here," remarked one of the older men, almost paternally, as if to say: "watch yourself, son.: Gray, curly hairs grizzled his beard and chest.
"Got a problem with that?" Sal retorted, taking the hint not at all.
"Do you?" interjected the other youth. He was lean but wiry, without an ounce of fat. Full lips, flared nostrils, goatee.
"Let it go," admonished the older fellow.
The first youth poured water from a pitcher onto the hot stones from which came a blast of steam with a sibilant hiss! He flexed his sinewy arms and twisted his torso. His long, flaccid cock flopped obscenely.
"I wanna know why Casper gots to wear his drawers in the fucking sauna?"the other youth demanded. "Wassup with that? You shamed of somethin'?"
"Fuck you," said Sal.
"FUCK YOU!"
The gauntlet had been thrown. This was one of those fight or flight moments. Outnumbered, the angry young guido rose in a huff and stormed out. Despite his swagger and short-fused temper, Sal was basically a pussy, and he knew it. And he hated that about himself.
It was bad enough that he failed to stand up to his abusive stepfather. Now he was running from fights with niggers.
Outside the shower area, Sal quickly shucked off his boxers and hung them with his towel on a hook. There was no one else around, so he did not mind being naked. Had there been others showering, Sal would have dressed and gone back to his room.
He took a long, steaming shower, letting the water massage his aching muscles, forgetting his troubles. Time stood still. He felt renewed, cleansed, and by slow degrees his hopes began to lift.
Turning off the water, Sal went for his towel to dry off only to find it missing from the hook. Not just that. His boxers were gone, as well.
Dripping wet, Sal returned to his locker only to find the gray metal door ajar. The combination lock lay on the floor. Missing were his gym togs and street clothes, as well as his watch and wallet. Everything!
"What the fuck?" Sal roared, pissed as hell, but no one was around to hear. He slammed his fist into the locker. Bam!
That hurt like hell. Licking bruised knuckles, Sal sat down on a wooden bench to ponder his predicament. Who could have done this? It had to be a fucking moolie! As God was his witness, Sal hated those black bastards!
"Fucking apes!" he muttered so blind with rage that for a moment he almost forgot that he was naked.
Then, the young Italian glanced down, saw his shriveled manhood, and the anger turned to shame. There had to be something available to cover himself with, but a thorough search of the locker room turned up zilch.
Where was everyone, anyway, he wondered? It seemed very strange that the locker room was suddenly deserted. Things could not get worse. It could not get any worse. Or so he thought.
Just as Sal was about to give up, he heard water splashing. Springing to his feet, Sal walked to the showers where he came face to face with the man he bumped into earlier. A towering, caramel skinned negro with enormous arms, a massive chest, flared lats, and washboard abs.
"Can you help me out?" Sal ventured, nervously. "Some motherfuckers broke into my locker and stole all my shit. Could you maybe loan me a towel or something?"
"Sounds like you pissed somebody off," the black man chuckled. "Sure. I got a towel you can use. Follow me."
From his locker, the brother offered Sal a strip of cloth not much bigger than a hand towel. It was barely enough to wrap around his waist and had to be held in place.
Was this suppose to be a joke?
"Do you think I could borrow something bigger?" ventured Sal.
"Nah, I don't think so."
By now the black man was fully dressed. Bulging arms stretched the fabric of his shirt sleeves. He stuffed the large , damp towel into a gym bag.
"C'mon, man," Sal pleaded. "You can't leave me like this."
"That's tough, but not my problem."
"Look, I'll buy the towel from you."
"How much?"
"Twenty dollars?"
"Aiiight. You got the cash on you?"
"No, I told you. Someone stole my shit. But I'm good for it, I swear!"
"Sorry, dude. No cash, no sale."
The black man shrugged and sauntered off. Pausing at the exit, he turned to say: "Watch your ass, whiteboy."
Much later, in retrospect, Sal realized he should have taken that piece of advice literally. Maybe, if he had, things would have turned out differently.
Sal was once again alone in the locker room. Although the meager towel covered his junk, it barely concealed his round buttocks.
A long hour of indecision passed before Sal resolved to walk out of the locker room, cross the lobby, with his head held high. He could do it, he told himself. On the other side of the lobby were the stairs.
All he had to was make it to his room on the fourth floor. Then, he could get dressed, and put this horrible incident behind him. Clutching his towel at the hip, Sal strode through the large, open foyer. A few men of color chuckled with amusement as he flew past.
Realizing he would need a key to his room, Sal stopped at the desk for a spare. Sweat trickled on his brow as he tried to hide his embarrassment.
Once he had a key in hand, Sal breathed a sigh of relief. His ordeal was almost over. But as it turned out, that was not the case.
Upon reaching the fourth floor, Sal was alarmed to discover that the door to his room was open. Someone had jimmied the lock.
Entering, he found the room had been ransacked. The few clothes in his bureau were gone! For a long time, Sal sat on the edge of his bed, stripped of sheets, blanket, and pillows, fuming with shame, rage, and trepidation.
There was only thing he could do. In the hallway was a pay phone, where he placed a collect call to Mario, his friend and boss at the pizzeria. It was awkward managing the phone while keeping the towel from slipping.
"Mario, it's Sal! I'm in sort of a jam," he explained. "I'm at the Y... the YMCA... No, the old man didn't throw me out! I left. I couldn't take it no more... That's right... Listen, Mario, I need your help. Some moolies ripped me off. Stole all my shit."
"That's fucked up."
"I know, right? It's like a jungle here. Niggers everywhere you look. Actin' like they fuckin' own the joint."
"You gotta get out of there, dude."
" I'm workin' on that. Right now, I really need you to do something for me. Bring me some clothes, okay? I told you, they took everything! Pants, shirt, sneakers, okay? Right now, I got nothin'."
"What should I tell your folks?"
"Don't tell them nothin'."
"What about your brother? Tony can get your shit without your folks finding out."
"He's not my brother. He's my step-brother! STEP! How many times do I gotta tell you that!? Don't tell Tony shit! He's the last person I want to hear about this."
Sal and Tony shared a bedroom when Tony's dad married Sal's mom and moved in. Sal was seventeen at the time, older than Tony by three years. Despite the fact this had always been his room, the younger lad soon took over, making Sal felt like an unwanted guest in his own home.
Tony had an out-going, aggressive personality. He played soccer and had already lost his virginity. Unlike Sal, who shunned team sports and did not have sex until sophomore year at college. Tony plastered the walls with posters of hot chicks and soccer stars, and blasted disco music, which Sal detested with a passion, whenever he felt like it.
"Okay, okay, I won't tell Tony!" Mario promised.
"Just bring me what I told you. Room 404."
"I've got to close up here, Sal. I can't do this tonight. Can you wait until morning?"
"Yeah, I guess I'll have to."
Sal hung up the phone, only slightly reassured his horrible ordeal would soon be over.
Looking over his shoulder, Sal spied a black dude leaning casually against the wall, smoking a cigarette, waiting to use the phone. For a scant second, Sal wondered how much of his conversation had been overheard.
Sal put it out of his mind.
He could wait until morning. Tomorrow, it would all be over. He would take his leave of the YMCA, find somewhere else to stay. With Mario, perhaps.
Totally exhausted, the muscular, young guido curled up on his bare, lumpy mattress and fell sound asleep.
To be continued in PART TWO...
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