Every Boy Should Have a Man

by Preston L. Allen

“They are hungry in this neighborhood.”

  “But she loves me, I know it.”

  “She is hungry.”

  “No.”

  “The way she looked at me . . . she says I am worth a lot of money. You know if they sold me for meat how much they would get? You know if they sold me to a circus how much they would get? I play every instrument. I can talk. I should be owned by the wealthy who know how to protect their possessions. In this neighborhood, it is only a matter of time.”

  “So you want me to sell you to someone wealthy? For your safety?”

  “No. I want to stay forever and ever with you. But you should never have brought her into our home.”

  “You’re crazy.”

  “I’m crazy. I’m a crazy man.”

  “You’re my favorite girl,” said he to her.

  “You’re not so bad for an oaf,” said she to him.

  She laughed and went under the bed. He laughed and went to bed. He lay in his bed for many minutes, laughing, laughing, laughing, and thinking.

  His laughter died away, and he took in a deep breath and then let it out. He got up and looked under his bed, where she awaited.

  And her lips met his.

  “Oh,” he said, his heart filling with confusion.

  He went back up to his bed. She was under his bed. Beneath him. His pet. His favorite girl.

  Evening turned to night and night turned to morning.

  For the boy, it was a morning that followed a sleepless night—a night of waking dreams.

  * * *

  In the morning he prepared her favorite meal in her favorite bowl and brought it to her, and she played him a sweet tune on the colored flute, a tune that made him feel as sweet as bright pink melting into light blue.

  “Does it please you?”

  “It pleases me,” he said.

  She did not speak of the kiss, he did not speak of the kiss, but he left for school and he thought of it and nothing else all day.

  After school he worked his part-time hours at the mill.

  When he got home, the authorities were there.

  His mother was weeping. His father was angrier than the boy had ever seen him before. The house was turned upside down. Everything was out of place. All of the larger musical instruments were missing. Most of the smaller musical instruments were damaged, and the small singing harp was completely destroyed.

  “What happened?” the boy asked.

  “Someone burgled us and stole our man,” his father said.

  “I know who did it! If we hurry, we can get her back!”

  The authorities gathered around as the boy told them about the girl with whom he was in love and her brother who had recently been released from incarceration.

  * * *

  The brother denied it, of course, but they traced the missing instruments of music to the hot shops, and the clerks at several of them identified the brother as the one who had sold to them, earlier that day, this instrument or that.

  But the penalty for theft of a man was more severe than the penalty for theft of any other property, so the little brother of the girl the boy loved continued to deny having stolen the female man.

  “I’m really sorry about what I did—but I didn’t steal any man from your house. Maybe she snuck out and ran away. I remember leaving the door open. Don’t they run away all the time? Well, that’s what I heard anyway.”

  They knew that he was lying, but he refused to admit the crime.

  He shrugged. “In a world without thieves, the wealthy become gods,” he said.

  They checked all of the local public kennels, and no one would admit to having purchased a red-haired female man from the brother of the girl with whom the boy was in love.

  When the boy got permission from the authorities to check the inventory of all the local public kennels, he did so, but his female man was nowhere to be found.

  A sympathetic kennel boss took the boy aside. “You have to understand how it is, son. I see that look on your face and I can only imagine the pain you’re feeling right now, but what I’m going to tell you is as true as the day is long. She is in one of two places. She is in the mines or she is with a circus. These days, most missing mans are never recovered. It’s not like before when there were ample mans to go around. A man would run away and someone would find it and bring it home or bring it here. My shop used to be stocked with as many talking mans as dumb ones. But with all of these new laws protecting the natural habitats of the mans and no laws protecting the natural rights of working people to earn a living in the mines, every talking man is worth its weight in silver. Cheap labor is the law of the land. Whoever stole your talking man got rid of her immediately—and a musical man too! Circus or the mines, and I’m betting the mines. Only the wealthy are still using them as pets. People are too hungry these days. I do not have one single talking man in my shop right now. I take in maybe three a week and they are gone within minutes. Your man would have to be pretty dumb and pretty dull to be a pet, but the smart ones—straight to the mines. Thieves know this. Business is good for thieves these days. A curse on all thieves!”

  The boy went home with the horrible vision in his head of his sweet, sarcastic little red-haired female man working in the mines. He wept all the way home. He wept all night.

  “Oh Red Locks, oh my little Red Locks!” he cried in his room that night.

  In the morning he got up and dressed for school and then he left. After school he went to the mill and he worked his part-time hours. After work he and his father got with their mallets and other tools and they tore down the proper kennel in their backyard.

  It was a very long time before the boy courted a girl again. It was a very long time before he loved a girl again. And he never again owned a man.

  It hurt too much.

  5

  Red Man, Red Man, Why Do You Weep?

  War is king of your philosophies. Your harvest of blood fills your belly while infants and orphans wail.

  —Great Scripture

  On the day the red-haired female man arrived at the mines, the boss took the measure of her and liked what he saw.

  He would have preferred that she not be so pale. On the other hand, two years in the eastern mines had made her lean, strong, and clever. He put her to work on the load-and-pull and found that she could do it better than any other man, and so he put her to lead it.

  They told him she was a vicious fighter, that she had the gift of landing the first blow. The winding scar on her arm, they told him, was proof. He checked the scar and decided he may have been deceived. It may have been got from the lash. She was a talking man, and so he asked her.

  “I have been defeated,” she said. “But never by the same man twice.”

  Feisty, he thought, and he patted her head, his lips curling upward in delight. “I shall call you Red Man, for you have red hair.”

  She winced and he took notice. Fearing a man bite, he withdrew his hand.

  * * *

  The boss was first among poets.

  How serious are her eyes, he thought. They are alert and at the same time so weary.

  He peered into her emerald eyes and was afforded a hint of what two years of working in the eastern mines could do to a man—two regular years (six man years) of breaking rock and stone with hammer and club, of hauling the overloaded wheeled carts, of hefting granite, coal, slate, and silver, in the dark bowels of the earth.

  “But,” he said to himself, feeling a sudden surge of compassion, “here in the western mines, it shall not be so.”

  As soon as he said it, he took it back: “On the other hand, there is much silver to be made.” He rationalized, “She is but a man, after all.”

  * * *

  The boss was first among gamblers. He made her his favorite so that in lean times she would not be eaten as others had been. He made her his companion in the planning of strategy against the man who would be sent to meet her in the fight yard behind the food wagon.

  He wo
uld point to the opponent. “Gold Braid does not weigh so very much, but she is tall with sharp teeth.”

  His female man would nod. “I will run against her and knock her to the ground. Then I will pounce quickly and pin her arms. I will twist like so to avoid her teeth, and I will bite with mine. Mine are sharp too, you know?”

  “Good plan, my little red top,” he would say, and then he would clap his hands. “See to it then!”

  That is the way it went in the western mines.

  She lived for the day’s labor.

  She lived for the day’s opponent.

  * * *

  He was called Yellow Fellow, for his hair and his flesh were yellow-hued, and he was the champion.

  Like her, he was a talking man. Like her, he was a man of talent, and his talent was word singing. The boss would watch the mans as they gathered by the fires to listen to the word songs of Yellow Fellow, and he would send Red Man to join him as companion in music. She played on a kind of tinny drum she fashioned out of whispering stones and coal rocks of differing size.

  The word songs of Yellow Fellow were very beautiful, and every man listened with attention unflagging.

  Even the oafs would gather behind them and hum the parts they knew. But when the food wagon was delayed, the hungry ones entered the tents of mans with their long knives and pick-sticks drawn. The chant of Pick one, pick one, pick a nice fat one rang out through the death-still air of the black night, and every man cried out to the great creator for deliverance.

  “Let it not be me! Let it not be me!”

  The red-haired female man cried out for all mans: “Surely, you cannot eat us! We are your mans! We work by your side in the mines!”

  The oafs would have eaten her to silence her cries, which troubled their sleep as well as their minds, but she was spared, for she was a favorite of the boss of the mines.

  When they complained to him, he sucked his teeth. “Leave her be. It is but the cry of a man. Sleep through it.”

  When she entered his tent and blasted her complaints loudly against his ear, he came to understand what the others meant when they said it was a disturbance to their sleep.

  He put the muzzle on her and rolled over with his back to her. It helped but a little. She was his favorite, but as he lay there, a common working oaf, his precious sleep disturbed by the yapping of a man, he hatched a plan to punish her that brought a smile to his lips, if not relief to his ears.

  The plan had much to do with her companion in music, Yellow Fellow.

  * * *

  He had a stout belly and was larger than she was—and he was stronger too, they knew, from his feats in the mines.

  One day the boss watched amazed as Yellow Fellow saved her from a heavy stone that was falling, catching it with one hand and shoving her to safety with the other.

  But outside the mines, he was sluggish and not much interested in the matches, most of which he won by intimidation into submission with his greater size.

  He was not swift. He was not graceful. He quite often stumbled and bumbled into victories. No, he was not a great champion. He was champion by default, and he was the favorite of a lackadaisical and overconfident oaf who needed badly to be relieved of his silver.

  “You are quicker than he is, true. But how will you turn advantage to victory?”

  “His real weakness is his thin legs. I will knock against them, and when he topples I will wrap my arms around his neck. And then his battle is lost. I may not even have to apply my teeth.”

  The boss nodded. “Good plan, little red top. Although,” he suggested, “I think you should apply your teeth regardless.”

  She peered back with eyes that were dangerously weary, as though she wanted to apply her teeth to him.

  “But I guess that is your choice to make.” He sucked in his cheeks and stepped back. “See to it then!”

  They faced off behind the food wagon, everyone in attendance anticipating a great battle. But Yellow Fellow was too slow, too sluggish that day; she fearless and quick. In a flurry of noise and dust, it was over.

  To all watching, the battle was hard fought and hard won, though brief. To the boss’s thinking it could have been harder and longer, but he happily collected his winnings from the gamblers who had wagered on the wrong side. With a wide grin, he relieved Yellow Fellow’s oaf of his burden of coin.

  Then, since his pockets were heavy with silver, he extended the respite between periods of labor and demanded of the musical man a song. Yellow Fellow arose and cleared his throat. Red Man got with her whispering stones and her coal rocks of differing size to join him as companion in music.

  And Yellow Fellow was a great singer of word songs.

  He sang the Word Song of Elber-So-Wadle and the Village of Mans.

  And the bard did sing:

  In days of old, Elber-So-Wadle was betrayed and banished into the wilderness by the treacherous Ti-So-Wadle.

  In the wilderness, the great lord Elber-So-Wadle did wander forty days without food and finally did collapse on the ground.

  On the ground did he collapse.

  He awoke in a bed too short for his legs.

  When up-he-got to investigate, his head he-did-bump on a ceiling too low.

  He bumped his head on a ceiling too low.

  The room was furnished so small he thought he had been made to rest in the room of a child.

  Then down-he-bent so as not his head-to-bump upon entering the grand room of the house.

  He saw therein a couch, two chairs, and a hearth, again befitting a small child.

  Elber-So-Wadle scratched his head in wonder.

  “Perhaps I am still dreaming,” to himself said he.

  “Still dreaming am I perhaps,” he said.

  Then down-he-bent and out-he-went and found himself in surroundings familiar:

  Trees, bush, farmyard, barn;

  Hoss, bovin, chicken, little chickees.

  But the farmer, his wife, and their children were all mans!

  Farmer, wife, children were mans!

  The great warrior Elber-So-Wadle did near faint at the sight.

  The man man farmer said to him, “Ti-So-Wadle has betrayed you and wishes you dead;

  “But this is your rescue from the great creator who knows that you are just and good;

  “And you shall lead his people in right-eous-ness.

  “In righteousness shall you lead them.”

  “But who are you?” the great Elber-So-Wadle asked.

  “I am Zack, the man man farmer, and this is the Vill-age of Mans.”

  “Welcome, great lord Elber-So-Wadle, to the Vill-age of Mans!”

  “The Vill-age of Mans welcomes you!”

  And here the bard did end his song.

  The applause was great from both oaf and man. In admiration, the female man touched the man man’s cheek lightly. Then the companions in music, Yellow Fellow and Red Man, bowed and said their final goodbyes.

  When the bell tolled the end of respite, all went back to the mines and resumed their labor.

  * * *

  At the end of day when they bore him away, she followed as far as they would allow. From the basket where he awaited his fate,Yellow Fellow saw her and the boss heard him say: “I thank you.”

  “For what?” she asked.

  “For the gift of song.”

  “Oh, that.” She looked around first, searching for those who might overhear. Then she whispered, “And I thank you for my victory, sweet one.”

  Just as I thought, said the boss, who had often observed their sneaking off together.

  He ordered her to leave, and she tightened her face to hold back the tears and she left.

  Now we shall see, the boss said.

  When they were finished with him, the boss hid some scraps of man flesh in the flesh of a bovin, and bid her come eat. She preferred, as did most mans who were not feral, a diet of vegetables and grain. In the mines, however, mans were made to eat whatever was put before them, despite th
eir stomach’s revulsion to it.

  She took a bite of what she believed was a slice of bovin, but her stomach reacted to it with a different type of revulsion. She said to the boss: “It does not taste the same as it did before.”

  He burst into laughter. The female man lifted her eyes from her bowl and spied atop the table of the oafs, the well-cooked arms and legs of her great opponent. Her stomach heaved and surrendered all that was in it.

  The boss and his companions around the table shook with laughter at the new champion chucking up the flesh of the old.

  The boss was first among poets and he led them in song: “Great lord Red Man, oh mighty Red Man.”

  The others chanted, “Wel-come to the Village of the Oafs! The Vill-age of Oafs welcomes you!”

  * * *

  And the bard did sing: “Out here in this blackness, this loneliness, this place of barrenness, horror, and stone, the bitter tears of Red Man began to flow.”

  Someone touched her shoulder. It was her companion in music, Yellow Fellow!

  They embraced, and the boss heard the man man say: “It was a joke they played on you, sweet one. Wipe your tears away. Oh, but I’m glad to be alive.”