Tales of the Out & the Gone

by Imamu Amiri Baraka

  He was not religious, so to name any religion as “his” wd make you funny to him. He wd not deny the religious label— he wd be sourly gratified to confirm yet another fool. His self-evaluation soared with fools, but more importantly, he knew the game was not yet secure. No one generally knew where the rabbit came from or where it went. “To be anything except a counter—a Knower, a figure of evocative power.”

  Eppsmith opened the bathroom door and a young black man with a Chinese machine pistol was taking a shit on the commode. He heard it drop, the splash hitting the blue water.

  The black guy just looked up and nodded, the pistol loosely across his knees as he did Number One, reading What is to be Done? by V. Lenin, the Peking edition.

  Eppsmith backed up inadvertently. Nothing came out of him; there was no money displayed, so the shitter thought it was his own reflection whipping off the mirror.

  But he called out, “Eppsmith, you evil bastard! I’ll get a dollar—no, a ten!—a federal note, yr funny money, so you can show up & I can ask you something.”

  E. turned now & the young man came out of the john pulling his pants up & tossing ten dollars on the floor. Eppsmith had no legs. He appeared to the waist, so he couldn’t move.

  “Eppsmith, listen! What is the meaning of money? Explain credit! Explain the national debt!” The young shitting man pointed his weapon at the part of Eppsmith he could see.

  “Why are you doing crazy things? You’ll be killed even if you mean no harm.”

  “Explain, that’s all!”

  Back in the bathroom, another person, a white man with his overalls hanging at his sides, began to take a crap. He was reading a book called The National Question.

  Another man sat on the sink. He had a newspaper. There was a picture of Eppsmith chained to a safe with banknotes stuffed in his mouth. People were laughing.

  “Ignorant assholes!” Eppsmith screamed. “Ignorant lowlife assholes!” Now Eppsmith had passed indignant, which he thought was brave.

  But one shitter reached into his pocket and threw Eppsmith’s legs onto the floor. So E. walked fast away, still carrying his clothes, looking for an overcoat. He was leaving. Where were the keys? If he cd …

  “Eppsmith, forget those questions for a minute. Do you understand usury and why all the religions banned it? Why Jesus threw the money-lenders out of the temple?”

  “Yes. My family came to America. We were Red Babies. Rothschilds. I was born as the bank note was legal. I am the note.” He laughed. “The idea is all it is, you know.”

  “It’s paper,” the white boy said. “You are invisible w/o it, but where are you when you can’t be seen?”

  E. turned and stalked into the kitchen. He had a robe. He had a gun up the stairs. The Negro moved, but not sharply. He called, “Eppsmith! Usury—what is it, for real?”

  Eppsmith in the kitchen broke into a meeting of Puerto Ricans—it looked like blacks & West Indian blacks. A white foolish teacher-looking person drinking orange juice in nervous gulps.

  A black woman at the table sd, “Eppsmith, you’re going on the tube in a half hour to explain usury.”

  “What?” Eppsmith was seething. “Is this foolishness— this break-in & entering—yr idea? The police are across the hall!”

  “No,” the woman sd. “The police are in the dumbwaiter beating a Negro by mistake. He loves the police.”

  A person walked into the room picking up the notes & Eppsmith flew into a wedge of space that a moth unknowingly circled. His heart was a memory of neon bells. He sulked at his advantage. He could disappear. He could not laugh though. He was invisible by law & there were rules governing one’s acts.

  “Eppsmith, he’s here, right?” A big Indian, a red-brown Cherokee-looking dude. The others pointed at E. He didn’t understand how they cd be so accurate.

  “Usury, Eppsmith. You’re going on TV to explain it. And the national debt.”

  Eppsmith was pouting, but a large check wd do it—a credit card. His eyes were vexed when he cd be dug.

  “No, that religious language has been long obsolete!”

  One of the group began to chain him, though he was not hurt when it was all over. Shaken very badly, but he carried a Derringer in his wallet. It was an advertising campaign. The intruders used his photo & asked those questions in red on posters which soon flooded the city.

  It was serious, Eppsmith realized, when more & more people began to ask him the same questions. What is the nature of money? What is usury? What is credit? What is the national debt?

  He had an appointment this afternoon to discuss it. What was to be done? Eppsmith was stunned, amazed. There he was, answering, explaining clearly the private control of America’s money, the robbery of public monies used to secure & seize new markets for the corporations. What was wild was E. kept fidgeting & returning, so it seemed he was a sinister demon or wizard explaining how private banks got control of America’s money. How they print & sell you your money because they own it & only give you what they can steal.

  In two weeks, the entire episode was suddenly appearing on national television. Like a computer virus, the authorities explained. E. now had a bodyguard, a one-armed Kansan, but very efficient. He had met him before in Chicago, at the Kemble’s party.

  People are so ugly, Epp thought, wincing at his bodyguard’s fascinating life. He had run for president, and when he lost, people started saying they recognized him as the one-armed man who really murdered Kemble’s wife.

  He & Epp talked for hours every day. They were advised to stay inside until the videotape stopped appearing. By that time, they would also have destroyed all copies of The Fugitive as well.

  1998

  MY MAN CAME BY THE CRIB THE OTHER DAY …

  (FOR GRACHAN)

  You know the dude I told you about before, the Rhythm Travel brother?

  Yeh, yeh, I know.

  But dig this, he come up with some really other stuff this time.

  Other stuff? Shit, I thought that Rhythm Travel was all the way other. Man, what could be more other than that? Plus, I thought he fixed it so you cdnt remember nothing when you left.

  I thought I was gonna be slick and asked him could I tape the shit so I could remember.

  He let you do that?

  No. Dude so out, he wrote down the formula for the stuff and said if I was really out, not half-out or heard about out, or rich, I could figure it out myself.

  Yeh? And you figured it out?

  Well, almost. What I did was figure out what I got to figure out.

  Aw, man. You shucking.

  No, dig this. I wrote out what I got to find out to find out how he do this shit!

  Oh yeh? Well …

  I see you ain’t trying to figure out shit.

  Naw, I’ma let y’all be the Outs, and I’ma be the In that dig the out.

  Yeh, dig that jive. Anyway, if you look at this first symbol …

  Yeh, what is it?

  Damn, can’t you see? It’s a bird …

  It’s a plane …

  I dunno why I’m wasting my time trying to hip you to some shit all the way beyond yr ass.

  Probably because yr man feel the same about you.

  Yeh, right. But dig, that’s a bird, right?

  I know, the Egyptian hieroglyphic for Soul, BA, the human- headed soul.

  Yeh, so you ain’t altogether, Clarence.

  Man, why you wanna call me yr boy’s name? You think I’m a Wooden Negro like him?

  Well, y’all do resemble each other around the pockets.

  Why you diverting the conversation, brother? Yr shit must be shaky.

  OK, Bird, BA, Soul, Phoenix, Tail or Tale on Fire. Rise out of Fire every 100 years. Actually taken from Fetish, where the lower Nile northerners got the spirit paradigm from the upper Nile southerners.

  Man, I know that. You think you Dr. Ben?

  No, I’m Dr. Is …

  I told you, you shd be a standup comedian so you can pay for yr fone bill.


  But the point I’m making … The bird is an IBIS, which means—

  What?

  See, you don’t know, do you?

  I Be I Is …

  What the weise knabe call Stork.

  Stork all them motherfuckas. Including Bomba Bill and his new instrument, the Monica.

  I heard that from you last time. One of them Low Coups.

  President Clinton’s in a bad position/Not as President/But as a musician./His critics say, if you listen to them,/Bill wasn’t playing nothing./He got his Monica/Blowin him.

  Wow, that’s truly corny.

  I got it from you.

  That don’t make it not corny. Just familiar …

  Hey, brother. Are you gonna tell me the stuff about the outer than out?

  Bird, next, eye, RA, 9, are am, next snake, wisdom, Blood landlord in Eden drove yr kinfolks out the garden.

  My kinfolks? See, I hate a prejudiced motherfucker.

  Man, will you go on with yr recitation without this suspicious hesitation?

  Oh, now you gon get into my shit.

  Hey, brother. Remember, I taught you everything you know.

  Yeh, then you included in the demand for reparations. Wondered I didn’t know shit.

  See, you admit it.

  See, it’s very hard to tell an ignorant motherfucka anything.

  That’s right, I been trying to get you to understand that for years.

  Aw, man. Don’t square up on me just like the rest of the Melicans. Either tell me the other or get further.

  Yeh, I remember that. And smell better. Anyway, dig … You ain’t gonna believe it, cause yr reparations claim is absolutely correct.

  Listen, dig this. (Bends slightly as if to whisper.) This motherfucka done found a way to regrow yr teeth.

  Aw, man. Come on. These folks ain’t even been able to grow hair, no matter what the Totally Vile keep lying about. What kinda shit you talking about? Growing teeth … Damn. What, you high? And if you is, where mine, greedy bastard?

  See, that’s yr problem. I ain’t sd nothing about these folks. I’m talking about my man, Sun Tan.

  Sun Tan. I thought his name was— You thought you farted but you shit. I ain’t never told you his name.

  Why not?

  Security reasons.

  Security? From who?

  Who you think? The Lord of the Flies. The Beast who rose smoking from the Western Sea. Gog’s brother, the other Other, who actually fucked his mother, killed his father, and put out his own eyes in the name of modernism.

  Oh, yr boy, Dicht.

  Yeh, and the whole Tator family, including Santa Claus and Christy Whitman.

  OK, OK. I believe anything after watching the Vikings sell them playoffs like that. Told you about having a worm in yr sperm.

  Look, bro. Anybody—not just some little Blood, so black he blue—could get invisible, rob banks for scientific research, use music to travel.

  I know them airlines don’t like that shit.

  Plus some other Other shit I can’t talk about, it’s so out.

  I know, plus you can’t remember.

  Yeh, dig this. This dude can make clothes from light!

  Whaaaaat?

  He got a machine that if you lie when he got it on, it’ll take you OUT! This dude—

  Hey, man. Fuck that shit. Don’t tell me no other shit. I don’t want the Beast or one of his experimental body slaves beatin at my door.

  Ha, you mean like yr boy, Homo Locus Subsidere (“Near Man”).

  Yeh, or yr boy, whose name in the ancient texts means, Odor Eats.

  Hey, I meant to ask you … why yo boy HLS—Near Man, right—wow, why he got a white ring around his mouth?

  That’s an award, brother. Brecht called it the Caucasian Chalk Circle. It’s given to Courageous Coons who have, by their display of Extreme Negrossity, been inducted into the Loyal Order of Proven Condoms who act as Dicht’s Tung, thereby confirming how even Coons can make Herr Penis mightier than we sawed.

  What?

  Right, hence the CCC lips as a sort of a service ribbon, to indicate the bearer has received the Golden Kneepads, which are only to be worn at Secret Special Gatherings of the Knee Cult.

  The Knee Cult?

  I gave you that paper where this sister—she’s a detective— was commissioned by the Self-Determination Council, and reported actually witnessing one of the rituals.

  Yeh, I remember. The Knee Cult Surveillance. Wow, now that was wild. I thought that was fiction.

  That don’t stop it from being Real, you dig?

  OK, but growing teeth, regrowing teeth? In old people? In anybody? Shit, he could grow teeth on a chair if he wanted to.

  Yeh, but why would you need teeth on a chair?

  Aw, man. Bump you.

  Well, if he can grow teeth, re-grow teeth, even in old people, how come nobody don’t know about it? How come it ain’t famous?

  Why you think I’m telling you?

  Hey, man. Where you going? You ain’t told me nothing yet about the stuff.

  I’m sorry, brother. You took up too much of my time. I gotta get to my man, Grachan, before he go to the dentist!

  1999

  A MONK STORY

  I was at Monk’s funeral with Amina. But then a few months later, I run into him in Newark!

  I stopped dead in my tracks. I could feel the October wind filling my mouth.

  “Monk” slowed to look at me. He started smiling, sort of, when I froze.

  “You think I’m …” was his 1st words.

  “Uh, yeh. Wow …” was what I managed. I knew it couldn’t be him. But believe my eyes, it was him!

  “Monk” allowed that deep throat laugh, which convinced me more it was him.

  “But you was at that guy’s funeral. I heard your mouth back there criticizing the Jazz Preacher.”

  “Naw. But man, whoever you are, you look—”

  “Yeh, I know. Hey, what can I do? But this is me anyway, not that dead guy.”

  The man could be Monk, really. There was nothing I could pin that wasn’t. The face, the size, the walk, the blue nearly wrinkled vine, the stingy brim sky pressing his ears.

  “Monk” had a ring he twisted on his finger to check. It made him do a sudden slick-step. A preface to his eyes resettling into my face like the brush of notes vibrating my skin.

  “What’s yr name, brother?” I was recovered from the shock. I knew it wasn’t Monk, but this dude was an incredible replica.

  “Monk!” He had a ragged line to his mouth, trying not to laugh. But Monk always looked like that.

  “Monk?” Laughing, laughing like we do. It was funny alright, but the man wasn’t smiling anymore. Oh, maybe he was. But his mouth was stretching into scatting “Jackieing,” that hip number. Listening took me away from the mystery, but I’d by then agreed in my answer. A Monk digger who looked like the High Priest.

  For a couple minutes, the two of us, at the corner of Branford Place and Halsey Street, stood there dipping and learning some of Monk’s steps. It was a groove because the dude scatted like a horn.

  No, he was scatting like a box! A piano! No, I mean in my ear, head, I heard a piano. I heard Monk out of this dude’s mouth!

  “But what’s yr name, man? Is it really Monk?”

  “What you mean?” He shot that stare reserved for Squares.

  “Alright, yr name is Monk. But you ain’t saying—” It sounded stupider to me than it does now.

  “Hey, man. I ain’t never been dead! I wasn’t in that jive box they had in the church. Plus, Monk lived in the city. I’m from home.”

  “From home? The South?”

  “Yeh.” He lit up around the eyes, but his mouth broke into a narrow rest. “The South Ward.”

  “You from Newark?”

  “I ain’t from Newark, I’m in there! You see me. It ain’t a from.”

  I was laughing, but my afternoon was bent in a hip way. The top of my head was warm, like when you want to tell somebody right away.
“You been in Newark? How old are you?”

  “Hey, man, I don’t tell my age.”

  “No?”

  “No. You should stop telling yours too. People start to believe you believe in time!”

  Now the laughing was filling up my whole head. There was a kind of delight in it. Not the “mystery,” because I thought I’d already floated into that rationality. But the feeling there were millions of hip people on the planet. That we public hipsters were only the tip of that top. The number was out there and rising. The I’s of the Eyes who knows and hears. Who dig the sounds. Who can understand this Dis and the Cover. Who love the classics, the masters, the ultimate live beauty of “the music.”

  “Wow, this is really deep. I mean, you are Monk. I mean, really … I mean, not just the way you look and sound, but—”

  “Yeh, I told you my name. And you trying to hook me up with the dead brother. You can see I ain’t dead.”

  “Yeh, yeh.” More laughter. “I know.” Like that, you might say anything. So I say, “You don’t …”

  “Go on.”

  “You don’t play piano, do you?”

  “What you mean, do I? If I was gonna be named Monk, wouldn’t I play the piano?”

  “Well, you could be a wide receiver for the Jets.”

  Like he hadn’t replied, he said, “That’s another Art!”

  Man, that was funny. “He ain’t your first cousin, that Art?”

  “I don’t know if he 1st. But he close. Only a couple more catches.”

  More fun, football getting in like that.

  “But—” I started.

  “No, let’s get it straight. You don’t believe in no ghosts and shit, do you?”

  “Naw, man.”

  “Then the only answer is I’m another Thelonious.”

  “Is that yr 1st name?” Please! This dude was taking me over Niagara without a barrel.

  “Yeh, Thelonious Sphere Monk.”

  “Hey, brother.” I was trying to make conversation really. But I guess that cold analytical tip must’ve poked out. The dude half-laughed and half-humphed to get me to check myself. “OK.” I apologized for being lame. “It’s just the whole thing is out—really out.”

  Suddenly, the man turned to look at the traffic. A black Rolls was easing toward the curb. An old white woman in a maroon turban was sticking her head out the window, as if looking for someone. “Monk” stepped back into a storefront entrance and gestured at me to follow. It was amazing. I caught a look at the woman, who was scanning the street impatiently. No, no. It hit me. That woman looks like …