“You see that pickup truck over there,” he whispered. “It’s full of angry blacks with ugly sticks who’re gonna whip my head ’cause they think you’re my woman.”
“Never mind, let’s go find Mr. Ethnic-Authentic.”
Neil tripped over the jugs and a whiff of chitlins damn near knocked me over. A greasy smell from the kitchen had jammed up my breathing before I even got into the place.
“Somebody’s dying,” whispered Neil.
“Soul food,” I gasped, eyes watering.
“What?”
“You wouldn’t understand, my boy.”
The large, jovial woman who shuffled out of the kitchen with what only looked like great speed was obviously Mama Teddy. “Hi, little honey,” she said, squashing me into her bosom. “Little Melanie told me all about you and you’re surely welcome. You too,” she said, swallowing up Neil’s hand in her fist. She hustled us over to a table with cloth and flowers. “Mr. Rider’ll be in directly less’n he’s in his cups. And Miss Isabele’s expected soon. Just rest yourself. We’re going to have a fine Southern dinner. Your folks from here?” she asked me.
“Mother’s from Atlanta and my father was born in Beaufort, South Carolina.”
“Mmmm-huh,” she nodded, agreeing that these were certainly geographically fine folks.
“My people hail from Galway Bay,” offered Neil.
“Well I’m sure they’re mighty fine people too,” she winked. “Now, is it for true,” she whispered, setting the silverware, “you taking Mr. Ham to New York to sing?”
“We’d like to. But he doesn’t seem very interested.”
“Oh,” she laughed, snapping the dishcloth across the table. “All that huffin’ and puffin’ don’t signify. You know what he and Melanie been doing all day? Writing out the songs, the words. She’s very smart, that girl. Make a fine secretary. I bet you could use a fine secretary with all that writing you do. There must be a lot of jobs …”
Neil saw it coming. He slouched in his seat and pushed his glasses up. He sat all the while rubbing his eyes. I fingered the soupspoon, vaguely attentive to Mama Teddy’s monologue. It was perfectly clear what kind of game she was running. And why not? Along with the numerous tapes of chats and songfests, Neil had collected from the Delta and the Carolines a volume of tales that didn’t go into the album catalogues, things he was saving for some sensational book he’d never write. The payoffs, bribes, bargains and deals, interviews in jail cells, drug wards, wino bins. Things apart from the usual folksy atrocity story. The romance had long since gone out of the job. Neil’s first trauma occurred last spring when he finally smoked Bubba Mabley out of a corner. The sixty-year-old cardshark had insisted on taking his “little woman” along to New York. This sloe-eyed youngster of fifteen turned out to be his illegitimate daughter by his niece. It knocked Neil out, though he told it now with a certain rehearsed nonchalance.
“Mr. Rider wouldn’t think of traveling without his family,” the big woman was saying. “They’re a very devoted family.”
Neil had worked his eyes into a feverish red. But I was perfectly content. One good exploitive act deserved another. And what was the solitary old blues singer going to do after he had run the coffee-house circuit and scared the living shit out of the college kids? It was grotesque no matter how you cut it. I wished I was in films instead. Ole Ham Rider besieged by well-dressed coffee drinkers wanting his opinion on Miles Davis and Malcolm X was worth a few feet of film. And the quaint introduction some bearded fool in tight-across-the-groin pants would give would justify more footage. No amount of drunken thinking could convince me that Mr. Lyons could groom this character for popular hootenannies. On the other hand, if the militant civil liberties unions got hold of him, Mr. Charlie was a dead man.
“Here’s Miss Isabele,” the woman announced. She looked real enough to upset Lyons’ plans. She shook hands and sat down, crossed her legs, and lit up a cigarette. She was good-looking in a way—plucked eyebrows, clinging wool dress, scary make-up. You knew she’d been jitterbugging since kindergarten, but she looked good anyhow.
“So you want the old man to sing,” she said, sniffing in the curls of smoke. “Sits in the window sometimes to sing, but that don’t cut no greens, don’t make no coins.” She swerved around in her chair and kicked Neil’s foot. “The man needs money, mister. He’s been needing for a long time. Now what you gonna do for him?”
“We’re going to give him a chance to sing,” Neil said, catapulting a cigarette butt across the room with the tablespoon.
She looked dissatisfied. “He needs,” she said simply, sending up a smoke screen. The image of the great old artist fallen on bad times, holding up in a stuffy rooming house, drinking bad home brew out of a jelly jar and howling blues out the window appealed to my Grade-B movie-ruined mind. “Now, when he gets here,” Miss Isabele instructed me with her cigarette, “you get him to do ‘Evil Landlord.’ That’s his best.”
“Will he bring his guitar?” Neil asked.
“He mostways do.”
“To the dinner table?” Neil persisted.
“To the dinner table,” she said, one eyebrow already on its way to a threatening arch. “And I need a cigarette.”
Mississippi Ham Rider brought his guitar and his granddaughter. He had on a white shirt and had left the greatcoat at home. He mumbled his greetings and straddled a chair, dislocating my leg in the process. “You got a long pair of legs, sister.”
I had no clever retort, so we all just sat there while Mama Teddy heaved big bowls of things onto the table. There were collard greens and black-eye peas and ham hocks and a long pan of corn bread. And there were a whole lot of things I’d never seen, even in my household.
“Bet you ain’t ate like this in a long time,” Rider said. “Most people don’t know how to cook nohow, ’specially you Northerners.”
“Jesus Christ,” said Neil, leaning over to look into the bowls on the far side of the table.
“What’s that that smells?”
“That’s the South, boy,” said Rider. Melanie smiled and I supposed the old man had made a joke. Neil leaned back and got quiet. “I don’t sing no cotton songs, sister,” he said, picking up a knife. “And I ain’t never worked in the fields or shucked corn. And I don’t sing no nappy-head church songs neither. And no sad numbers about losing my woman and losing my mind. I ain’t never lost no woman and that’s the truth.” He sliced the corn bread with a ceremonial air.
“Good,” I said for no particular reason. He looked up and for one rash moment I thought he was going to smile. I lost my head. But he really looked like he was going to work that bony, old, ashen skull in that direction.
“Well, what else is there?” Neil finally asked. “I mean just what kind of songs do you sing?”
“My kind.”
Melanie smiled again and Miss Isabele laughed on her cigarette. But I was damned if I could get hold of this new kind of humor.
After we had eaten, Mama Teddy put coffee on the table and then tended to her customers. I stretched my legs into the aisle and relaxed, watching the old man work up his pipeful. He was impressive, the way a good demolition site can be, the way horror movies from the thirties are now. I was tempted to ask him how many people he had killed in his lifetime, thinking I had at last gotten hold of his vein of humor. But I sat and waited for him to sing. I was sure that on the first job he’d turn the place out and maybe do somebody in, just for the fun that was in it. And then a really weird thing came over me. I wanted to ask him a lot of dumb things about the South, about what he thought of the sit-ins and all. But he had already taken on a legendary air and was simply not of these times. I cursed Mr. Lyons’ fairy-tale mentality and quietly indulged in fabricating figures from whole cloth.
“First I’m gonna sing you my birthday song,” he said, pushing the coffee cups to the side. “And then I’m going to do this number about a little lady with long legs.”
“Then what?” I smiled, putting my cup
down.
“Then I’m gonna get drunk directly and pack my things. My bad suspenders and my green hat,” he said. “One jar of Noxzema and my stocking cap.” Melanie laughed straight out and Neil began gagging on Miss Isabele’s cigarette smoke. “And I gotta get a brand-new jug of Gallo,” he sighed. “I don’t never do no heavy traveling without my loving spoonful.”
“Then you’re coming with us?” I asked.
“We all going to New York and tear it up,” he said.
“Damn,” coughed Neil.
Rider grabbed his guitar by the neck and swung it over the dishes. He gave Neil a terrible look that only aggravated the coughing. “But first I think Mr. Somebody best go catch himself some air.”
“I can take it,” Neil growled, hooking up the tape recorder. He climbed over customers to get to the outlet. “It’s on, man,” he said. “Go ahead and sing your song.” He looked up at Neil and then he did smile. I wouldn’t ever want him to smile at me.
“I can take it,” said Neil again, pushing up his glasses.
“See that you do, boy. See that you do.” He plucked at the strings, grinning from ear to ear.
Happy Birthday
OLLIE SPENT THE WHOLE MORNING WAITING. First she tried shaking Granddaddy Larkins, who just wouldn’t wake up. She thought he was just playing, but he was out. His teeth weren’t even in the glass, and there was a bottle on the bedstand. He’d be asleep for days. Then she waited on the cellar steps for Chalky, the building superintendent, to get through hauling garbage and come talk. But he was too busy. And then Ollie sat on the stairs waiting for Wilma. But it was Saturday and Wilma’d be holed up somewhere stuffing herself with potato chips and crunching down on jaw breakers, too greedy to cool it and eat ’em slow. Wilma’d come by tomorrow, though, and lie her behind off. “I went to Bear Mountain yesterday on a big boat with my brother Chestnut and his wife,” she’d say, “and that’s why I didn’t come by for you cause we left so early in the morning that my mother even had to get me up when it was still dark out and we had a great time and I shot bows and arrows when we got there, and do you like my new dress?” Wilma always had some jive tale and always in one breath.
Ollie tried to figure out why she was even friends with Wilma. Wilma was going to grow up to be a lady and marry a doctor and live in New York, Wilma’s mother said. But Ollie, poor orphan, was going to grow up and marry a drinking man if she didn’t get killed first, Wilma’s mother said. Ollie never told Granddaddy Larkins what Wilma’s mother was all the time saying. She just hated her in private.
Ollie spent the early afternoon sitting on the rail in front of The Chicken Shack Restaurant, watching the cooks sling the wire baskets of chicken in and out of the frying fat. They were too sweaty and tired to tell her to move from in front. “Ruining the business,” the owner used to fuss. Later she stood between the laundry and shoe store, watching some men pitch pennies against the building. She waited for a while, squeezing a rubber ball in her hand. If I can just get the wall for a minute, she thought, maybe somebody’ll come along and we’ll have us a good game of handball. But the men went right on pitching while other ones were waiting their turn. They’d be there for hours, so Ollie left.
She knocked on Mrs. Robinson’s door to see if she wanted her dog walked. It was cool in the hallway at least. No one was home, not even the loud-mouth dog that usually slammed itself against the door like he was big and bad instead of being just a sorry little mutt. Then Ollie took the stairs two at a time, swinging up past the fourth floor to the roof. There was rice all over. Ronnie must have already fed his pigeons. The door to the roof was unlocked, and that meant that the big boys were on the roof. She planted her behind against the door and pushed. She kicked at a cluster of rice. Some grains bounced onto the soft tar of the roof and sank. When Ollie moved onto the roof, the blinding sun made her squint. And there they were, the big boys, jammed between the skylight and the chimney like dummies in a window, just doing nothing and looking half-asleep.
Peter Proper, as always, was dressed to the teeth. “I naturally stays clean,” he was always saying. Today he said nothing, just sitting. Marbles, a kid from the projects, had an open book on his knees. James was there, too, staring at a fingernail. And Ferman, the nut from crosstown, and Frenchie, the athlete. A flurry of cinders floated down from the chimney and settled into their hair like gray snow.
“Why don’t you just sit in the incinerator? You can get even dirtier that way,” Ollie yelled. No one moved or said anything. She expected Frenchie to at least say, “Here comes Miss Freshmouth,” or for Peter to send her to the store for eighteen cents’ worth of American cheese. It was always eighteen cents’ worth, and he always handed her a quarter and a nickel. Big Time. “Don’t none of you want nothing from the store today?” She squinted with her hands on her hips, waiting for the store dummies to start acting like Marbles, Peter, James, and so forth.
Ferman straightened out a leg against the skylight. “Ollie, when are you going to learn how to play with dolls?”
“Ya want anything from the store, Ferman Fruitcake? I’m too big for dolls.” Ollie hitched up her jeans.
Ferman started to say something, but his audience was nearly asleep. Frenchie’s head was nodding. James was staring into space. The pages of the open book on Marbles’ knees were turning backward, three at a time, by themselves. Peter Proper was sitting very straight, back against the chimney with his eyes closed to the sun.
Ollie turned, looking over the edge of the roof. There was no one down in the park today. There was hardly anyone on the block. She propped a sticky foot against the roof railing and scraped off the tar. Everything below was gray as if the chimney had snowed on the whole block.
Chalky, the superintendent, was rolling a mattress onto a cart. Maybe he’d play cards with her. Just last Friday he had, but sometimes he wouldn’t even remember her and would run and hide thinking she was King Kong come down just to hit him in the head or something. Ollie looked past the swings to the track. Empty. Frenchie should be out there trotting, she thought, looking back at him. He was dipping his head. Sometimes she’d trot beside Frenchie, taking big jumps to keep up. He’d smile at her but never teased her about them silly little jumps. He’d tell her for the hundredth time how he was going to enter the Olympics and walk off with a cup full of money.
“Go away, little girl!” Ferman had just yelled at her as if he had forgotten her name or didn’t know her any more. He’s as crazy as Chalky, thought Ollie, slamming the big roof door behind her and running down the stairs to the street. They must be brothers.
It was now four o’clock by the bank clock. Ollie remembered the bar-b-que place that had burned down. But she’d already rummaged through the ruins and found nothing. No use messing up her sneakers any further. She turned around to look the block over. Empty. Everyone was either at camp or at work or was sleeping like the boys on the roof or dead or just plain gone off. She perched on top of the fire hydrant with one foot, balancing with her arms. She could almost see into the high windows of Mount Zion A.M.E. Church. “This time I’m going to fly off and kill myself,” she yelled, flapping her arms. A lady with bundles turned the corner and gave Ollie a look, crossed against the traffic, looking over her shoulder and shaking her head at what the kids of today had come to. Reverend Hall came out of the church basement, mopping his head with a big handkerchief.
“You go play somewhere else,” he said, frowning into the sun.
“Where?” Ollie asked.
“Well, go to the park and play.”
“With who?” she demanded. “I’ve got nobody to play with.”
Reverend Hall just stood there trying to control his temper. He was always chasing the kids. That’s why he’s got no choir, Granddaddy Larkins was always saying. He always chases kids and dogs and pigeons and drunks.
“Little girl, you can’t act up here in front of the church. Have you no—”
“How come you always calling me little girl, but you s
ure know my name when I’m walking with my grandfather?” Ollie said.
“Tell’m all about his sanctified self,” said Miss Hazel, laughing out her window. But when the Reverend looked up to scowl, she ducked back in. He marched back into the church, shooing the pigeons off the steps.
“Wish me happy birthday,” Ollie whispered to the pigeons. They hurried off toward the curb. “Better wish me happy birthday,” she yelled, “or somebody around here is gonna get wasted.”
Miss Hazel leaned out the window again. “What’s with you, Ollie? You sick or something?”
“You should never have a birthday in the summertime,” Ollie yelled, “cause nobody’s around to wish you happy birthday or give you a party.”
“Well, don’t cry, sugar. When you get as old as me, you’ll be glad to forget all about—”
“I’m not crying.” Ollie stamped her foot, but the tears kept coming and before she could stop herself she was howling, right there in the middle of the street and not even caring who saw her. And she howled so loudly that even Miss Hazel’s great-grandmother had to come to the window to see who was dying and with so much noise and on such a lovely day.
“What’s the matter with the Larkins child?” asked the old woman.
“Beats me.” Miss Hazel shook her head and watched Ollie for a minute. “I don’t understand kids sometimes,” she sighed, and closed the window so she could hear the television good.
Playin With Punjab
FIRST OF ALL, you don’t play with Punjab. The man’s got no sense of humor. On top of that, he’s six-feet-something and solid hard. And not only that, he has an incredible memory and keeps unbelievably straight books. And he figures, I guess, that there ain’t no sense of you dying from malnutrition when you can die so beautifully from a million and one other things and make the Daily News centerfold besides. So when Jackson from the projects put it this way: “Punjab, baby, I got this chick in a trick, and her mother’s got my ass in a bind and I gots to live—” Punjab peeled three or four bills off the top with a dry finger (which is his way, dry) and told Jackson what the rates was. Now, you gotta figure Jackson for a dumb dude. All the sharks he could’ve snatched just by standing in front of the hamburger joint for a hot minute—higher rates maybe, but higher regard for your hide—and he goes to Punjab knowing damn well that he, Jackson, is a jive stud and a gameplayer and that he, Punjab, don’t play with nobody. So like I said, this boy Jackson never did have his proper share of sense.
Gorilla, My Love Page 5
