The Motorcyclist

by George Elliott Clarke

  If no lady suits Carl yet, fine: maybe he’s not doing too shabby after all for a railway plebe, a Coloured guy, with only Grade Ten, and a shanty-street—though well-appointed—apartment. In this Jack-Tar-coastal, hillbilly-interior province, he’s emerged—courtesy of Liz II—as a Negro prince: D.H. Lawrence–discoursing and T.E. Lawrence–imitating (sorta).

  But as soon as such Triumphalism rears in his head, he remembers Muriel’s (and his) miscarriage, how vulnerable she was, and irrefutably female, and needing someone for succour and amour. Indeed, Eternity is unthinkable outside of procreation, which mustn’t be thought recreation. Otherwise, the would-be chevalier remains a vulgar centaur, and, soon or late, a drab nullity, rather than a chivalrous, courtly man—father, husband. Besides, the libertine—with gold-plated, ironclad heart, silver tongue, and copper-bottomed ass—is so mixed—brassy—an entity, he is a constitutional fraud, an unsound being, of no firm strength and no sound faith. Are Carl’s own values Bohemian (artist) or Baptist (middle-class and moral) or “black” (to quote Malcolm X)? Or does he manifest a volatile combo?

  Carl’s put off reading Wilhelm’s We Too Are Drifting. He’s amazed that Muriel—a maid—is reading; not only reading, but commanding him to read. A book bout subversive and subterranean (says Kerouac) San Francisco. Shipped to Halifax by what strange sister? Or sailor. A man named Alice? Or a woman named George? Curiouser and curiouser.

  The grisaille novel, Carl discovers, is a grisly drizzle of Lesbian desire in Frisco—all chill and fog and ocean and hills, with trolleys rolling here and there, sliding along like steel roaches. Carl wagers that Muriel favours the novel’s Haligonian atmosphere. Even the Golden Gate Bridge is just a longer—not nobler—version of the Macdonald. Actually, Wilhelm’s novel dramatizes Decision: who to acquire, who to jettison. Carl still disbelieves that Muriel is a woman who likes to suckle on women. Thus, he reads We Too Are Drifting as an extra-gloomy offshoot of True Love Confessions comic book. For all the novel’s chatter of coffee, cigarettes, and clouds, he sniffs out, in its flat-chest heroines, a lemony bitterness that could be rescinded, he thinks, if the right penis (his) could flush out each frustrated, feminine tract.

  Carl throws down the book—its serene muddle. He deems it poor reading: Can’t see how this novel can be art. He prefers the sweaty trysting in Beeline books. Nor does he credit that Muriel, once his woman, should feel manly toward other women. He promises himself to return the miasmic novel and then deliver Muriel the best night in the world. Then, he laughs to himself to realize that his jealousy over Fred Dent and Toe Joe was all in vain: Lola Brown be the true recipient of Muriel’s affections.

  But Muriel’s attitude differs. For her, the first modern Lesbian novel in English, which has passed her way—by sassy sailor and tossing ship—from San Francisco to Halifax, reveals Desire uncomplicated by threats of disease, pregnancy, bastardy, and smegma-smeared, piss-reeking, and wart-callused dicks. A Negress maid with a Grade Three reading level, she’s now the fan of an ethereal, arty story about privileged white Bohemians in dust-bowl, Okie-overrun California. The tale hath opened her eyes to the feasibility of gal-on-gal Romance.

  Then again, Muriel’s suffered too much as a man’s darling, the toy of every would-be Coloured Casanova to set anchor in Halifax and pound his way to her doors and then into her drawers. She’s gotten nought for her troubles but failed pregnancy, a loose reputation, lonely nights, and even “love taps” from vile lugs. She can see that a caring alliance—a tender rooming—with Lola carries no pangs or pains. Moreover, Lola—married once for ninety days (like a prison sentence)—is pleased to feel loved and understood—and to reciprocate.

  As for Carl, he should remember Wilhelm: “Poor little leaves, we too are drifting, someday it will be autumn.” Surely, he feels just as adrift as gilt, august August leaves, leaving gilt, august August leaves.

  Not that his psyche’s in need of a grilling—a third degree. He’s—transparently—a Negro male, of automatic suspect status in Caucasian, British, European, North End Halifax, Nova Scotia, Canada, North America, the Occident, “The Free World.” He’s suspect because police treat him—at face value—as a suspect. Then again, the tonality of his personality is soft speech but hard-hearted behaviour, for he’s never wanted to be vulnerable—in affection—since he was a rat-braining boy in his mother’s barn. Even so, his one anchor is his job—which is his employ because of Mrs. Black’s employ as Beardsley’s belle. So, even in terms of this mooring, Carl is patently adrift—just like August leaves. Autumn be the slum of Summer.

  Friday, August 21

  Carl chums about, times, with one Negro biker, Ervin Johnson, twenty-one, dubbed “Erv the Perv.” Erv dwells by Preston; downtown be to him as a foreign country is for a migrant worker. Both railway employees, Carl and Erv share tastes in “cutie-pies” and “cupcakes.” But Erv’s a talker, not a reader, and more a doer than a talker. Carl deems him an A1 punk with B-movie looks and X-rated slang. In contrast, question marks—grappling hooks—snag and snarl Carl’s fancies. Erv’s voice is gung-ho, gritty, a sort of boozed-up blues. He’s Frankenstein’s Monster—blacked up. Razors rinsed in ice water hived his face bumpy; his eyes look jumpy. So pockmarked, maybe he filled in for the bull’s-eye at a dart tournament. Vulgar as a bugger and lewd as a prude. So? He be a routine prick: “Got a nickel? I’ll show ya the Queen’s beaver!”

  Given his de facto split (tantamount to a fiasco) with Muriel, Carl’s extra proud of bedding Avril, and he boasts about his score in a phone call with Erv: gee, now Erv’s hot to meet the gash. Carl talks up a dance at the Olympic Gardens.

  Carl’s read Shakespeare. He’s as suspicious of Ervin as Othello isn’t suspicious of Iago. Still, he’s not suspicious enough. For his part, Erv knows that his sable skin cuts the female eye sharp when he’s decked in a scarlet suit. He aims to please: he dress for Success.

  The pals cycle from Belle Aire Terrace, west to Robie, then south to Cunard, then west again to Hunter. In the August evening, Liz II flickers like viscous liquid. Erv wheels smooth his Indian machine, tricked out with a radio and a cigarette lighter.

  At the Olympic Gardens, Erv shimmies sly as the Eden snake. The lads guy through a swamp of cigarette smoke, the reek of rum and tobacco and ale and sweat and cologne, sliding along as graceful as bikers-gone-hoofers can. The dance hall is as dark and dramatic as a cinema—and just as unhygienic. Reddish cigarette ends light up faces, demonic, that are soon shrouded in pope-electoral-quality, white-blue smoke.

  Carl means to show Avril, again, his gumption, his suavity, his undeniable class. But Erv, garbed as alarmingly crimson as a fire engine, twists as gaudy as a dervish. He likes to focus a lady’s eyes on his bullish thighs, his Elvis-pelvis, swivelling and pivoting hips. Carl envies Erv’s natchal, instinctual movements. He say to his bad self, Shucks! Rightly so.

  Carl spots Avril. Hey! It’s no technique to grin, to reveal auburn gums and ivory teeth. Avril looks sheer angelic—a collegiate, Nabokov nymphette, swishing a black pleated skirt. A wineskin dangles from her swan-white, swan-lean neck. Meeting “pluscious,” very chic Avril, Erv don’t hesitate: “Ooh-whee! Here’s Venus in velvet and Lana Turner in looks! Carl, ya gots a swell lady here!” His head tilts back, striking a limbo pose. Erv chortles Glee. His feet glide far, farther apart, then snap back—a paramount, James Brown move. With every syllable he utters, his feet and hands seem to cha-cha-cha in lyrical, eye-catchin rhythm.

  Avril blushes—just a little. She welcomes the Lana Turner comparison, except for the sullying matter, a year ago, of the slaying of Johnny Stompanato—Turner’s lover—by her daughter, but it’s unlikely Erv has that nasty situation in mind. So, Avril extends her hand for a kiss. The mouth brushing the back of her hand is hot. She exhales: “A pleasure.” Susceptible is she to a show-off’s jive.

  Erv ejaculates, “Carlyle!” He slaps Carl’s back: “Mind I beg yer charmin lady for the slow dance?”

  Although Jealousy churns his guts as ba
dly as Lust, Carl won’t appear churlish. He mimics Austin Chesterfield Clarke’s Griff. He smiles: “No gropin the goods!”

  Erv licks his chops. Here’s a humdinger chance to steal the white meat. To put the pretty lady to some pretty uses. Stick her ass in bed tonight, kick her ass out tomorrow.

  Avril is ecstatic. She leaps up, pulls off her wineskin, hands it to Carl. To dull his anxiety, he takes a long swig. Gulps dark sweetness: Manischewitz concord wine. Can it kill the honk at the base of his throat? Sweet wine rams and reams his gut.

  Erv steps on the dance floor with this sultry Fraulein. Erv clinches her, and there’s no flinching. He’s as bold as Atrocity. And Avril’s plump curves jiggle and jounce just right.

  Playing? The Platters’ prize waltz, “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes.” Carl eyes Avril and Erv. The two clench in tune and tempo with the ballad. Mississippi curves into Nova Scotia’s arms. No: Nova Scotia—peninsular—pierces Mississippi’s broad plain. Erv’s right hand slides deftly up and down Avril’s spine, lingering even at the sweet spot atop her ass, before palming again the length of her arching back, as their hips mate and their legs mingle in smoky ingenuity. Avril feels tingly; Erv feels kingly.

  Olympic Gardens is as steamy as a Turkish bath. Carl pants—real Anxious—second-to-second. Erv starts kissin on Avril like he’s a gourmet sittin to a banquet. Provocative!

  In every corner now, there are duets of couples, petting, all bunched up, sometimes hunched over. The hall is basically a wall-to-wall stag party, tremulous as electricity.

  Carl figures he should intrude, interrupt this waltz. But such would be uncouth or uncool; he don’t wanna seem too enthralled by—or possessive of—the Miss missy. He chugs wine; a crazy calypso limerick pops into his head:

  There once was a virgin quite green,

  Whose beauty was nothing obscene.

  Asked how pretty her legs,

  Said she, “That’s a question that begs,

  A look at what lies in between.”

  Carl’s heart ticks like an Algiers time bomb (in a French café right now). He eyes Avril’s waist, so voluptuous that he likes to drape his arm upon or grip solidly with his luggage-enlarged hands. But now he watches Erv cup Avril’s backside, to measure—treasure—her fundamental asset. He can’t think straight. He sees Erv already atop Avril. No, the moment is not that bad, but it’s worse than he likes. Yep, Erv’s deviant hands lock onto Avril’s hips as if she’s a glass of rum. Those mitts even flirt with the lady’s bass cleft, and—afore—with her sizzling aperture.

  Carl sees Avril’s April-albescent face cuddled under Ervin’s October-ochre chin. He can’t believe that a Dixie intellectual who reads Dostoevsky can hanker for Erv, who only reads playing cards. Carl should cock his fists, run at Erv. He’s on the verge, but Erv’d be hell to fight. The man resembles a cherry-red-jacketed lawn jockey; but hitting him would be like punching the side of a house. Carl elects to set his matinee-idol face as hard as a case of constipation.

  Now, Avril likes the feel of a different black-boy-body, one that’s like licorice in red wrapping paper. A male refuge in scarlet velvet. She can already picture Erv’s coal-black truncheon, his inordinate blackness, his manifest manhood. In Nova Scotia, she holds a licence to make love that Uncle Sam don’t extend to Uncle Remus and Betsy Ross. Though she savours Carl’s politesse in discourse and finesse in intercourse, there’s much to be said for a man of few words, and his name just might be Erv.

  Formerly, Carl’s cast Avril as a classy lady—educated, elite. Hard to find and good to keep. An elegant chassis. But Elegance is all that’s left when Romance is left to movies, magazines, and novels. Too, Carl has presumed his charisma exceeds other Coloured men’s “beastly” magnetism. Yet, tonight, Avril’s philosophy will prove rearguard, when she’s on all fours, taking a Socratic position in response to Erv’s most pointed and penetrating assertions.

  Carl fears now that tragedies unfold just like comedies, just more rapidly. His venomous Animus is as strident as stink. So, he decides: I still have a chance with Mar. Mustn’t blow it!

  While Avril relishes a salacious prospect, to screw down Erv, and is already salivating into her panties, Marina arrives with her escort, her beau presumptive, Leicester Jenkins, M.D.-in-progress, green Caddy in the parking lot. Carl ogles Mar. He’s jealous over her now—just as he is over Avril. Plus, he looks idiotic: Avril’s wineskin lassoes his neck. Carl tears off the deflated, flaccid vessel and tosses it upon a chair. Now, he must look cool, because Mar looks so darn delectable. Carl wants to press her to his face, ribs, pelvis, thighs, and legs. He worries: Has Leicester also probed the wonders of her lips and tongue?

  Mar senses Carl’s discomfiture. She’d guessed how far Avril had taken her introduction to her—Mar’s—man, and had heard rumours about a white girl the black milkman serving 1½ Belle Aire Terrace had spotted. She’s also seen Carlyle’s Liz II near the Lord Nelson Hotel, at odd hours. She—Mar—is still virgo intacta, but not one iota naive. She’d guessed that a motorcycle ride had made Avril Carl’s “human bicycle,” to be ridden and pumped by him as much as a Southern wanton could want. Now, Mar hopes Avril—sister nurse-to-be—will suffer a comeuppance. Seeing Avril battening like a b-i-t-c-h on dirty dog Erv, Marina spies an “out” for Carl and an “in” for herself: she tells Leicester she’ll dance next with Carl. Leicester harrumphs his inept disapproval, but then seeks out a ginger ale. En route, he’ll survey the hall for any available poontang—easier had (and taken) in Halifax, N.S., than in Halifax, U.K.

  The Orioles warble “Crying in the Chapel.” Mar moves as lithe as a ballerina. Her eyes glitter; the light spanks upon her white pearls, white pumps, white dress. Her hair, hot-ironed straight, brushes her shoulders, and Carl can feel his hot breath, kissing at her brow and nape. During this welcome miracle of waltzing Mar, Carl decides Avril is no more his Godiva, but a zorra, all cunt and no Conscience. Carl throws invisible daggers at Erv and Avril: that his brain allows the conjunction establishes the new coupling. Sho nuff: Erv’s got the hoochie-coochie plunked down on his lap, and his left hand’s squeezin her rump while she titters; his hand be mashin Avril’s bottom soundly. Her tits jitter agreeably—as if she were vaguely nude.

  As Carl dances with gracious—and luscious—Marina, he thinks, acidly, The Devil take Avril. Mentally, Carl crosses Avril off his list of viable lovers. He exhales relief: no more need to sneak about the Lord Nelson Hotel playing delivery boy.

  Avril finds Erv refreshing: He’s as straightforward as an erection. No qualms. Also, no chat. His literacy begins and ends at I; his numeracy is “a 1 and a 2 and . . . 69.” Erv’s scooped up Avril just by cupping her ass. No, he’s not hubby material. His role, in her life, is to tom, to dick, to harry.

  Carl’s hot with devil-may-care bravado. Let Erv swerve Avril to the Lord Nelson and see just how adept he’ll be, in his Santa Claus–crimson suit, facing a purple-faced desk clerk, to finesse his way cross Avril’s threshold and ingress Avril’s snowy drawers. Carl prays that Erv’ll get slugged in the kisser or bounced out the hotel on his keister, but Carlyle’ll not humble himself to fight for Avril. He’s already decided she’s dog food.

  To Avril, Carl seems a morbid jerk. If he cared for her, he’d strive to keep her—not let another Negro claim her by massaging her butt. Too, Avril thinks, Carl is deluded to imagine that Mar is, in any true way, a real woman capable of giving a real man pleasure.

  The dance ends at eleven p.m. Mar waltzes back to Leicester’s purring, sumptuous Cadillac, while Erv offers gallantly (Avril’s term) to motor Avril to the Lord Nelson. Avril accepts: she wants to try riding Erv’s machine. Interpreting Avril’s comment as a sly double entendre, Carl scowls, sucks his teeth, and turns his heels away, to let his back void her existence.

  Sober in his upset, sombre in his anger, Carl commences a lonesome, midnight drive. He can hardly wait to get away from everyone. The whole Dominion has let him down.

  Observe: The highway lunges, spiking da
rkly—like wine stabbing a throat. Carl’s headlight leaps whitely. The bike swishes easily like a snake. He tucks into a seaside nook at Lawrencetown Beach. Atlantic surf brays against sand, shells, and stone. The Atlantic’s silvery turmoil squatters away against the sand. (As starlight pricks, apple-blossom-tinted froth shines like wet steel sunlight.) His sour tears scorch and sear.

  Friday, August 28

  Curious Consequence: Carl enters the Sunrise Café and, shortly, Laura States follows; she sits across from him at his booth. She wears a flared skirt—a crinoline. It’s white, as is her blouse and linen jacket. Her shoes are clear plastic. Her purse is red. She says she’s heard that he and Marina have had “a lovers’ quarrel.” Carl guffaws at the absolute Absurdity. Laura is glowingly beautiful. She sets a small brown leather suitcase on the floor.

  “I’ve been trying to call you.”

  Carl smiles: “Here I am.” He’s not seen her for months. “Why not come up to my place?”

  “When?”

  “Tonight—late.”

  “First, I’d like another ride, please.”

  Too happy to oblige, Carl leads Laura to board his “pretty machine” (as she says), and they’re off, dodging potholes and the crazy-ass dogs that chase and bay after anything on wheels. This bolting about jolts Laura constantly, so she’s shivering against Carl’s back most rivetingly. He can feel the lady is deliciously curvy; her couture is decorous, delicious, sexy.