Aaronsyre Lord…Jackie to his friends, was the lead valet at the National Hotel; he worked the mid-shift, then spent his evenings at the Masonic Lodge on Franklin Avenue, between Hennepin and Dupont.
Six days a week, while at work, he opened
doors and carried packages for wealthy people, but 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, black as strong coffee.
He had the high cheekbones and straight hair that spoke of native blood. His
family had been in Minnesota for more than two-hundred years, having come to
there when it was still controlled by the French.
His grandmother was a Lakota woman, and his
grandfather had fought in the War Between the States, having taken up arms as
one of the many Minnesota Volunteers who helped to put a decisive end to it, 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 confluence of the
Missouri and Mississippi Rivers, north of the Snake River and West of the
Minnesota and Red River valleys.
Nevertheless, as a black man in the United
States, Jackie was still a second-class citizen. Even in Minnesota it was
nearly impossible to get a fair shake.
In the masonic lodge however, Jackie was the
chief.
It was 5:00 in the morning when he locked the
door to the temple; as usual he was the last man to leave.
Heading east from Lowry Hill on Franklin, he
had about a mile to walk before he got home to his apartment across the street
from St. Steven’s church.
He saw blind Arnie setting up his newsstand
with the help of a tall young man that Jackie had seen before.
He stopped by with a nickel and picked up a
paper, saying “good morning” to the white-haired old man.
“Good morning Jackie,” Arnie replied.
He might only see him at this hour once a
month, but Arnie never failed to recognize him. Whether it was by the sound of
his voice, the way he walked, or by some other sixth sense, Arnie “knew” what
was going on in the world around him.
The blind man could talk at length about the
headlines, he could talk 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 and handed
him his paper was dressed in a fairly decent suit, and smelled faintly of
whiskey. His hands were steady, but there was a slight wobble at his knees. He
wasn’t drunk but Jackie knew that he had been drinking.
Arnie introduced him as Johnny Holiday, 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.
So he extended his hand to the boy, and they
shook. Jackie looked him in the eye when he did, and could see that the boy
himself was less than half as certain of himself as his mentor was.
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