Sam’s club

David Renzi

Tuesday, Sept. 3, 1996 | 11:59 a.m.

Samuel Smith is one of those touchy-feely guys, which is OK if you're not trying to write down what he's saying. Then the hand clamping on your wrist inhibits the basic subject-reporter interaction so vital to the interview process. That is, his words flowing into your ear, through your pen and onto your notebook for playback at a later date.

This wrist-grabbing occurs intermittently, though often simultaneously as he throws an arm around you and head-butts your shoulder, howling with laughter at the sheer veracity of his opinions, which, he will tell you, are not opinions but fact, brother, fact.

It is at these times, when he's unleashing that cackling "wahahahahahaha" and turning your notes into hieroglyphics, that you'd like to tell him, "Sammy, babe, you are messing with my penmanship." But you don't, for to do so would put an end to that great guffaw.

Of course, the whole thing could be an orchestrated attempt to render your already scratchy notes unintelligible. That way he can at least say he made the effort to circumvent the trouble he willingly assumes by being quotable.

"My name pops up in the paper periodically," says Smith, leaning against a table inside Native Son, his West Las Vegas bookstore. "I make people angry."

Smith anticipates the next question, answering before it's asked.

"Because they don't particularly like my views. We like to hear what we like to hear. Some of us like to deceive ourselves."

About the color of Christ, for instance.

"He was not of European origin," Smith says. "Here's what I'm saying. Look at the map where he came from. That is not Europe, and traditionally white is considered a feature of Europeans. I'm not saying he's black, but I am saying he was not white.

"We know Bethlehem is closer to Cairo than to Europe. So how could he look like a European? I let people draw their own conclusions. I say he was a non-European."

If you remain in the company of Samuel Smith long enough, you will undoubtedly experience a rush of dizziness (from the maelstrom of information he unleashes) and foolishness (because, as the receiver of this information, you are struck by the realization of what a dumb, Jenny McCarthy-watching slug you really are).

In casual conversation, if such a thing is possible with Smith, he spouts arcane historical references (Fiji Revolt?) as easily as most men rattle off baseball standings, ruminates on the black situation in a European-influenced society ("I have to learn all about your George Washington, but what can you tell me about George Washington Carver?") and tests your general knowledge ("What's the oldest form of writing?") like a manic history teacher.

Which he isn't. What he is, is three, three, three Sams in one -- and he carries a business card for each identity (deputy fire marshal, Clark County Fire Department; second vice president, local chapter of the NAACP; proprietor, Native Son audio, video, fabric and books).

Smith actually is four Sams, and the last may be his legacy. It was for that persona that the Las Vegas Association of Black Journalists in May named him one its 16 "Unsung Heroes" for his "time, energy and personal resources in helping others without concern for personal reward, recognition or glory."

Which in Smith's case is helping would-be firefighters pass the admission test for the various Las Vegas-area fire departments. The nomination earned him glowing congratulatory certificates from Nevada Sens. Richard Bryan and Harry Reid, which Smith keeps in a box with a lot of other stuff.

"You start believing these things and you no longer do the things that got you these things," he says. "I'd have rather had a $25 check."

Smith believes heavy doses of mathematics are the key to scoring high on the test (70 is a passing grade, but only those scoring between 90-100 will likely gain admittance to rookie school). He begins with basic math and progresses to algebra. He's found that people who excel in math do better on the test.

"I have to oversee what they missed in high school," he says. "Some people hate me."

A sentiment confirmed by Lawrence Wickliffe, Smith's friend and a battalion chief for the city of Las Vegas Fire Department.

"Most people that work with him initially are excited, inspired, and then they hate him," he says, "because he makes you see the realities of what you don't know. ... He beats you up. He's gonna tell you what you don't want to hear. He's gonna push you, ride your back. The only reward he gets is to see you achieve. He doesn't get any money."

But he does get results, Wickliffe says. Of the 3,600 people who applied for jobs during the department's last hiring phase, 18 were hired. Of those 18, eight came through Smith's program.

Trina Jiles, 23, credits Smith for her job on the Clark County Fire Department, which hired her seven months ago.

"(Attending his classes) was probably the only reason I was able to pass it," she says.

"And now she's giving me 10 percent of her salary," Smith jokes.

Jiles describes his class, a three-hour session every Sunday in the weeks leading up the test, as a challenge.

"You walk through the door (at the NAACP offices in West Las Vegas, where Smith holds his classes) and he would throw you a question right out of the blue," she says. "You basically wanted to come in here prepared and not look like a fool."

But Smith takes on more than just firefighters. Jovhaan Guthrie, 19, came to him from the Community College of Southern Nevada on a recommendation from the student diversity department.

"It's my job to get this young fella all A's, with no excuses," Smith says.

As with the firefighters, he'll implement a math-heavy curriculum.

"He's gonna be able to square 75 times 75 when he's through here," says Smith, who takes the opportunity to throw an impromptu equation Guthrie's way. "What's 75 times 75?"

Smith is impatient.

"Taking a half-hour just to open the damn (calculator) up. You got the answer yet?"

Guthrie doesn't see Smith as a motivational figure, but as someone who can point him "in the right direction and help me learn more things. A lot of people my age need to talk to guys like Sam."

Smith says he tries to be the spark that lights a student's fire.

"I try to steer people in a positive direction, and I'm pretty good at it."

One of his secrets to success is knowledge, and reading is his path to enlightenment. He reads newspapers daily -- he calls them living encyclopedias -- and subscribes to numerous magazines.

"I take articles that I find of value and I clip them. I photocopy stuff like this," he says, removing a stack of articles from a box full of them. "I like to pride myself on being a student of society. I try to encourage people to read."

Besides, Smith says, the better educated one is, the more money one stands to make. And the more money one makes, the more books one can buy.

"You make $5 an hour, you can't afford to buy books."

Smith opened the bookstore in 1990 at the behest of his friend, Assemblyman Wendell Williams.

"I had a lot of books. If you're gonna open a business, go where your interests are. I had thousands of books. I couldn't put an accurate number on it, but guess what? I probably have more books boxed up than you see in here. That's how I opened the bookstore. Then I went looking for a name."

Native Son isn't derived from the classic Richard Wright novel of the same name, but from the title of a Newsweek report with a cover photo of a "brother standing on the corner."

The angle of the article was lost souls.

"Some of these souls might not be lost if they read more books," he says, adding that he gets a lot of calls from people who think his store caters to Native Americans.

Smith describes it as "Afrocentric." The store, which sits at the end of a tiny strip mall at 1301 N. D St., is chock full of "books and things."

Books such as "Black Women for Beginners," "The International Jew," "Lies My Teacher Told Me," "The Five Negro Presidents" and "100 Amazing Facts About the Negro (With Complete Proof)."

Things such as "Little African-American Girl Punch-Out Doll," ethnocentric videotapes, black porcelain figures, Afrocentric playing cards, calendars and posters.

But mostly books. All kinds of books, from black history to the classics to firefighter testing manuals to foreign-language phrase books. Smith doesn't pretend to have read every book he stocks, but he knows enough to enable him to converse about them and suggest titles when someone says -- as someone invariably will -- "Tell me what to read."

His reply: "Tell me what you like."

When someone says they don't know, as someone invariably will, Smith will ask for an interest inventory and work from that.

"I don't convert anybody," he says. "If you know where you want to go, I'll help you get there."

If you're a traditional churchgoer, for example, "I'm not gonna let you read these."

Smith is standing in front of a shelf stocked with such titles as "Deceptions and Myths of the Bible," "Who Wrote the Bible," "Who Tampered With the Bible," "The World's Sixteen Crucified Saviors" and "Christianity Before Christ," all of which assert "that the story of Mary and Jesus is based on some previous experience," he says.

The store itself is Early Unpretentious. The walls are cement block. The floor is covered with well-worn industrial carpet and duct tape where the seams have split. The furniture consists of mix-and-match tables, which support the book shelves and their inventory. The white ceiling has a yellowish pallor from years of trapping the smoke from Smith's unfiltered Pall-Malls. The air conditioning is out.

What he makes selling books isn't enough to finance the operation, let alone pay for amenities.

"If I wasn't on the fire department," Smith says, "I wouldn't have a bookstore. But I do get a faithful following."

Customers come in to browse and buy, friends to play chess or just shoot the bull. And Smith seems to be as much as or more of a magnet than the books.

"Sam has a very dominating personality. In fact, it's overwhelming," Whitcliffe says. "When he talks to you, he's very forceful. Even as a total stranger you're more than likely to agree with him."

And now, what you've all been waiting for, the answer to that oldest-writing question: hieroglyphics.