Aaronsyre Lord was the lead valet at the National Hotel; he worked the mid-shift from late morning to early evening and spent his nights at the free Masonic Lodge on Franklin Avenue, between Hennepin and Dupont, on top of Lowry Hill.
His
friends called him Jackie.
He worked six days a week in the hotel lobby, opening
doors and carrying packages for wealthy people, while at the Scottish Rite
Temple he was a leader of men, a Son of the Revolution and an advisor in high
demand.
Jackie was a black man, as black as strong
coffee.
He had the high cheekbones and straight hair
that whispered of native blood. His family had been in Minnesota for more than
two-hundred years, having arrived in the lake lands with the French when the
land was still wild and free.
Jackie’s grandmother was a Lakota woman, his
grandfather had fought in the War Between the States. He was among those Minnesota
Volunteers who helped put a decisive end to the conflict with victories at
Bull Run, Antietam and the Battle of
Gettysburg.
Like Jackie, his grandfather had been a leader
of men, he was instrumental in negotiating the peace that ended the Lakota
uprising and led to the recognition of the Lakota Confederacy as a sovereign
nation, a free land for native peoples, north and west of the Missouri and
Mississippi Rivers, west of the Minnesota and Red River valleys and north of
the snake.
Nevertheless, as a black man in the United
States, Jackie was treated like a a second-class citizen, even in Minnesota it
was nearly impossible to get a fair shake.
However that might be, in the lodge Jackie was
chief, he was the first among equals.
It was 5:00 in the morning when he left the temple
and locked the door behind him; as usual he was the last man to leave.
Walking east from Lowry Hill on Franklin, Jackie
had about a mile in front of him before he would get to his apartment in the
square across the street from St. Steven’s church.
He saw blind Arnie setting up his newsstand
with the help of a tall young man who seemed vaguely familiar to him. He stopped
at the paper shack with a nickel in his hand, picked up a paper and said “good
morning” to the white-haired old man.
“Good morning Jackie,” he replied.
He might only see Arnie at this hour once a
month, but Arnie never failed to recognize him. Whether by the sound of his
voice, the shuffle of his feet or by some other sixth sense, Arnie “knew” what
was going on in the world around him, and he could talk at length about the
headlines, about all the news of the day…more than what was in print; Arnie
knew what was happening in the city, he was a living cipher, and sharp as a
tack.
The tall fellow who took his nickel was
dressed in a fairly decent suit, and though he smelled faintly of whiskey, his
hands were steady.
There was a slight wobble in his knees.
He wasn’t drunk but Jackie knew that he had
been drinking.
Arnie introduced him as Johnny Holiday, proclaiming
that the lad was his protégé at The Star, a writer who was about to take
on a serious assignment for a significant patron.
It was clear to Jackie that Arnie was proud of
him, and if he was good in Arnie’s esteem, then he was likely a good person
indeed.
He extended his hand, and they shook; Jackie looked
him in the eye as they did, and could see that the Johnny was not as confident
in himself as his friend was.
Jackie thought this spoke well of him too.
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