A Negro and a Hot-Tub, short story by former NFL pro-player and emerging novelist Andre Hardy, Sr.

by | Aug 4, 2017 | Authors, Short Story

Tiny Hands paused, seemingly in deep thought, then broke out in a huge grin. “This could be the biggest return on investment in the history of the business. It only took me a month to write the book!”

Total sacrilege. Nobody writes a book in a month.

Bad Hombre seems to hear me think. He glances at me and sees my eyes have narrowed and getting angry. Then Tiny Hand confuses us both. “I’m looking for a Chinese translator,” he said. This time, The Bad Hombre holds my eyes for a moment. He’s curious, his Russian brow was rippled with furrows. But hell, I don’t know what to say. I shrugged, turn my palms up and mouthed, “Chinese translator?”

“There are what, a couple billion Chinese,” Tiny Hands said flippantly. “After I translate the book I’m going to self-publish, put it on Amazon for two, maybe three, maybe even six bucks. I’m going to make a fortune.”

Bad Hombre asks, “Your book… tell me what is it saying?”

Tiny Hands scoffed, “It doesn’t it matter. What matters is the deal. The money.”

I snapped. Off the wall, I flew with my fists raised. I had stood by before, watching as they occupied Wall Street, watching as they protested the Dakota Access Pipeline, I was always watching. Not this time, though. I thought, profoundly. First, they came for the words, and I did not speak out. Then they came for the paragraphs, and I did not speak out. Then they came for the books, and I did not speak out. Then they came for writers—and there was no one left to speak for me.

Tiny Hands eyes were wide with terror. An angry Negro had sprung from the shadows (like they always do) to harm his innocent white body. As we stood there, our eyeballs locked together, I sensed another goddamn predicament. If I hit him, I would go to prison. Probably for a long time. But when the world found out why, I’d be recognized as a literary martyr. And that seemed like a good thing. I envisioned millions of book-loving Americans marching on my behalf chanting that I should be free. And in a profound historical moment, broadcast live on mainstream media, I would stand before the court shackled and collared like my ancestors. My last words before being converted into a widget in Prison Industrial Complex would be those of my hero, Dr. Charles Johnson. I would say, “The health of a culture can be measured by the performance of those who speak and write its language. Am I wrong, then, for busting Tiny Hands lip?” A hush would fall over the courtroom… Eh, it sounded like fun.

But I had to leave. Tiny Hands may be a joke, but Los Angeles traffic is not.

Editor’s note: This story originally published on August 4, 2017 


Andre Hardy is Sports writer at TribeLA Magazine. He is also an MFA candidate at Antioch University Los Angeles, and a graduate of St. Mary’s College of California. He was the fourth pick of the Philadelphia Eagles in the 1984 NFL draft. Now he writes hard-boiled, gumshoe stories with an urban twist. He would like to thank the NFL Players Association, The NFL Players Trust, The NFL Players Care Foundation, Donald Goines, Iceberg Slim, Clarence Cooper Jr. and Chester Himes.

Another short story by Andre Hardy…

Dear Football, I Love You … Now can you please sit down? I have some things I need to say – André Hardy, Sr.

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