by Touré
The next morning Hueynewton and his raggamuffin cabal were right back in the fields. Everyone in town suddenly loved Hueynewton and wanted him to quit the Slavery Experience and stick around to protect them, but Hueynewton wouldn’t hear of it. He just couldn’t quit early. His ancestors had done a lifetime. The least he could do was a year.
As they picked cotton in the blistering sun, he led them in a blues.
“Swing low, sweet Cadillac,” Hueynewton sang.
“Comin for to carry me home!” the others answered.
“Swing low, sweet Cadillac.”
“Comin for to carry me home!”
“I looked over Jordan and what did I see?”
“Comin for to carry me home!”
“My Maker’s white Cadillac, comin after me.”
“Comin for to carry me home.”
25
_____
CADILLAC AND Mahogany did not have a good time at King’s Flying Youth Basketball tournament. It was at a court in the Raggamuffin Projects, and though the projects were dark, there were large street lamps illuminating everything. Even though it was noon, it looked and felt like late at night. On the court there were all these little boys dunking, and in the stands Mahogany was seven months’ pregnant, tired, sweating, grouchy as hell, and so large it seemed the baby was as eager to get out as everyone was to have it out. So many people stared that when people didn’t stare it was conspicuous. The Inquirer put a picture of her looking fat and pregnant on the cover. As she walked into the park a girl hissed something about the prophecy. Another called her a slut and said she should move to The City. By the end of the game Mahogany would dump him yet again, even though he’d never known that they were a couple. But he was used to that by now.
They’d been spending lots of time together since she’d gotten pregnant, and though they slept together now and then, their time consisted mostly of Mahogany bitching about being pregnant, dying for a cigarette, and making him sprint like a track star turned manservant. She liked having a guy she could push around, who would tolerate her bitchiness, but every morning, when they woke up in her bed, she reminded him that they were not in a relationship. At least once a week she got mad and dumped him.
He was more than willing to run her errands and feed her grapes because he felt terrible that she’d suddenly become an outcast in her own city because of him. But he also had hope that the baby would indeed know how to fly, though she told him constantly that that was impossible. Sometimes he tuned Mahogany out and just admired her beauty without dealing with her ugliness. And he wasn’t stupid. There was no sex in the world like flying sex. You, too, would put up with a lifetime of bitchiness to occasionally have flying sex. Thus, they were a young version of those old married couples that love to fight. Wherever they went to eat in town she’d say I fucking hate this place and he would delicately remind her that she’d chosen it, and that it wasn’t a bad place after all. He saw Soul City as beautiful and magical. She thought they were a raunchy bunch of strange-acting Negroes a little too happy about being free of The Man. They were both right, and, slowly, they were both learning that.
On the court were little boys in baggy clothes soaring through the air with untied shoelaces dunking though they weren’t tall enough to reach the cookies in the cabinet. They walked on air as easily as other boys climb trees, but sometimes you wished they wouldn’t.
In the finals King and his friends from Honeypot Hill played the mean boys from Niggatown, who they’d lost to in the finals last year. None of them could shoot, but even if they could’ve the shots would’ve had to arc high enough to brush the clouds to avoid being swatted, so they only tried dunks. But they were little boys, so lots of them missed dunks. Boys crashed into each other in midair near the hoop. They’d fall to the concrete and cry over their slightly bloodied knees. One kid tried to dunk and hit his forehead on the rim, got blood all over the place, and had to be taken to the House of Big Mamas. Others made feeble dunks, then hung triumphantly on the rim as they’d seen on TV. It was cute until the end of the first half, when Mahogany’s brother missed a dunk that would’ve given his team the lead and everyone laughed at him because he was her brother.
At halftime Mahogany sat there steaming, upset that she was fat and pregnant, angry that the whole town was mad at her, and furious with Cadillac because he was easy to take it out on. As usual he took all her crap. And then, as the boys came back on the court for the second half, he said, “I love you.”
He’d been wanting to say it. She’d been afraid he was wanting to say it.
“OK, that’s it,” she said. “We’re breaking up.” She pulled out her cellphone and dialed Carrie Cosmopolitan, the top breakup-ceremony planner in the city.
“I’m gonna show you I mean it this time,” she said. “We’re gonna have a breakup ceremony.”
“I didn’t know we were going out.”
In the final seconds of the game King took off from the foul line, floated through the lane, and dunked more like a grown man than anyone had all day. His dunk won the game for Honeypot Hill, but nobody cheered for him.
26
_____
ONE DAY around this time, posters appeared throughout Soul City trumpeting the grand opening of the new Reparations Store on Groove Street. The posters promised a wide variety of reparations options. IT AIN’T JUST 40 ACRES AND A MULE NO MORE! it said. At the bottom was the name of the proprietor: the Reparations Man. The Soul City grapevine snapped into action. Who was this stranger in town, this Reparations Man? Of course, Ubiquity Jones played a leading role in the detective work that followed.
Those curious enough to make their way over to the Reparations Store found the Reparations Man alone in a tiny office with just a chair, a desk, and a cheap laptop computer. He was a caricature of a tiny traveling salesman, with a well-aged leather briefcase, a tattered tweed jacket, and thick glasses that he adjusted nervously twice a sentence. He was humble and yet somehow everyone could tell he was proud of his outfit, which was strange for someone in such plain fashion. Most read him as a con man right away and walked out. A few listened to his spiel.
He told all who’d listen that there were only two reparations options available. You could fill out a form, give him a $500 processing fee, and in a week a check for reparations from slavery would arrive from DC signed by the president, The Man, in the amount of $100,000. Or you could buy a Reparations Pill that would instantly clear up any emotional, psychological, philosophical, or spiritual problems related to the lingering impact of slavery. Everyone headed for the door when they heard that snake-oil pitch. Everyone but Ubiquity. She was too curious. She sat through her entire consultation wondering why she couldn’t read this man’s mind. She’d never met a man whose mind she couldn’t read. She knew darn well she wasn’t going to get $100,000 from DC. But she also knew the Reparations Man had not moved into town and rented this office just to get her $500. And what if she was wrong and did get $100,000? She signed up for his scam, just to see what the scam was.
When she handed him the cash he said the program required you prove you had a slave ancestor. This would take tremendous work, so he’d done all the genealogical research before coming to Soul City. He opened his computer and found the name of a slave she was related to. She’d never heard of the slave, but she signed the form. The Reparations Man gave her a receipt and told her the check would be in her mailbox within seven business days. Word of Ubiquity’s unfortunate investment got around and for a week people snickered behind her back, though quietly, so as not to attract her gossipy wrath. But exactly seven business days after her meeting, a letter arrived from DC, from the office of the president.
Dear Miss Jones,
I am sorry for what our country has done to you people. Please feel better.
Sincerely,
The Man
And there was a check for $100,000 signed by The Man. She bounced right over to the Bank of Soul City and deposited it. Then she ran home and call
ed the bank. Before the deposit her account was -$1,000. Now, the computerized voice sounded surprised as it said she had $99,000. Ubiquity thought, I wish I had more slaves in my family. Then she walked around town making sure everyone knew about her slave check. The next day the line to get into the Reparations Store was six blocks long. People wanted their slave check so bad they risked losing their jobs. Some even bought the pills.
But the next day, when Ubiquity called the bank to hear that big number, the computer voice said she had just $68,000. She thought it was a computer error or a virus or something because she certainly hadn’t made any purchases, not yet. But the following day the computer voice told her she had only $31,000. She told herself, it’s OK. This is what happens when you’re rich. They take money out of your account to give to other people for their withdrawals. They’ll put it all back by tomorrow. But when she called the next morning her account had only $9,000, and by the time she got to the bank the teller said her balance was back to -$1,000. The teller said something was indeed strange because he saw the $100,000 deposit and he saw no withdrawals, but somehow her account stood at -$1,000. He said, It’s almost as though your money has evaporated. Then he laughed. Ubiquity was furious. She read his mind, then said loud enough for the whole bank to hear, “If you really want to feel sexy you should get out of Victoria’s Secret and try La Perla!” Minutes later the poor cross-dresser went for a coffee break and never came back to work. He’d been there fifteen years.
Still, Ubiquity was without her money and this would not do. She went back to the Reparations Store, but now the line was twenty blocks and at least five days long. It seemed all of Soul City were becoming slaves to the check. She stormed into the crowded store and interrupted the Reparations Man in the middle of a consultation to tell him that her money had disappeared. He said he knew nothing about the machinations of her bank account and that if she had a problem she should call the one who signed the check. The Man. So, Ubiquity bounced home and did just that. She called the White House and asked to speak to The Man. She thought DC had taken her money back without telling her and she was furious. She would give The Man a piece of her mind and then read his and get something for the tabloids. Occasionally it worked over the phone.
But Ubiquity got no further than The Man’s third assistant secretary, who was unfortunately a woman. She told Ubiquity that her story about a reparations check made no sense because The Man had never and would never sign a reparations check because he didn’t believe in reparations. Ubiquity dropped the phone. She’d been fooled. It took quite a lot to fool a mind reader. Who in the hell was this man at the Reparations Store?
When she got to the Reparations Store there was a giant scrum in front of the door with angry people fighting to get in. Seems everyone’s $100,000 had disappeared slowly. Even those who’d converted their money to cash had watched that giant stack wither away into thin air. Yet gridlocked within the mob trying to get in and get the Reparations Man, there was a countermob fighting to get in and get their check. Ubiquity couldn’t possibly get inside now. But through the glass she could see the Reparations Man reclining in his little chair, seeming thrilled over the chaos he’d caused. Who was this goddam man? She had to alert Fulcrum.
Now, this would take some diplomacy, which Ubiquity lacked. Ubiquity knew that Dream Negro had taken her bomb quite hard. She’d stayed in bed for two weeks and was still quite depressed and embarrassed over her daughter’s ongoing bliss problem. Ubiquity tiptoed up to the Negro house, knocked on the door, and painted her biggest, sweetest smile across her face. Dream Negro opened the door, saw Ubiquity and her chins, and ran screaming to her bed. When Fulcrum came out from his office he found his wife babbling and hysterical in bed with all her clothes on. Ubiquity was standing at the door, still smiling brightly. His normally infinite patience immediately reached its end. As he closed the door in her face he heard Ubiquity say something about the strange man at the Reparations Store. Even though no one liked Ubiquity she always, somehow, knew everything. Fulcrum thought, Ubiquity is neither God’s most tactful creature nor Her smartest, but she wouldn’t bounce her fat ass all the way over here for no reason. He calmed his wife, then took a trip to the Reparations Store.
When Fulcrum got there they were on the verge of a riot. The crowd parted when they saw Fulcrum, who strolled into the store and instantly recognized the humble traveling salesman as the Devil. His costume was quite good, with the tweed jacket and the slightly broken, cheap glasses. You could tell he’d put a lot of time into it. But the quality of the disguise was ruined by the pride with which he wore it, the way he slumped his shoulders to fit the character, but, on a deeper level, seemed to be sticking his chest out like the kid who just knows he’s going to win the Halloween contest. It wasn’t the costume that gave him away, it was the pride.
The Devil noticed Fulcrum looking at him. Fulcrum couldn’t let him know he knew, and the Devil thought his disguise was so good that Fulcrum wouldn’t recognize him. So they extended hands and shook and both lied that it was nice to meet you. Fulcrum waited a moment, then hot-stepped out.
The Devil doesn’t do long stays on Earth very often because field trips get him really backed up at the office, but after the Jiggaboo fiasco he felt he had to do something. Besides, there was no place on Earth where they enjoyed themselves more than in Soul City, and that burned him. So now he was buying the rights to the souls of various slaves through their relatives. A contact of his at the White House was putting the checks through to The Man, who’d been briefed on the whole scam. The $500 was just so he’d have some throwaway cash, though he had taken special glee in stealing Ubiquity’s money. One of the many reasons he’d personally come to Soul City was, in fact, just to steal $500 from her. He really disliked her. (He couldn’t wait til she died.) The pills actually worked, but the checks were drawn on The Man’s account at the Bank of Hell, meaning you sold your slave ancestor’s soul for money that slipped through your fingers. The civic chaos this was causing was a bonus.
As Fulcrum walked down Freedom Ave he had no idea how they could get the Devil out of town quickly. He knew Hueynewton was too tired to face the Devil himself and Shiftless Rice was too old. He couldn’t just go around telling people that the Devil was on Groove Street. That would cause pandemonium. Then he saw Big Mama Sweetness Serendipity easing her ancient, mountainous body down the street. He knew exactly what to do.
The next day the Reparations Man got a call from Big Mama Sweetness, who said everyone at the House of Big Mamas wanted their slave check, but they were too old to walk to Groove Street. He said he’d be there half an hour after closing time. Meanwhile, Big Mama Afro was sitting outside the House of Big Mamas. She was 297 years old and four-foot-three, with a fro that was heavier than her entire body because she was the weight of a dry sweater. It wouldn’t take long for her little nose to get stuffed up.
An hour later the Reparations Man was sitting on the couch at the House of Big Mamas happily explaining the contract to all the Big Mamas. All save Big Mama Afro, who was kneeling unseen behind the couch, right behind the Reparations Man. The Big Mamas all knew that Death already knew she had a stuffy nose and was at that moment screaming toward the House of Big Mamas. Touching a second Big Mama in under a year would make his century. When Death came through the wall the Devil saw Death zooming right at him and got scared because he thought his disguise was so good that even Death wouldn’t recognize him. If Death touched him the next thing he knew he’d be stuck somewhere in the Styx and it took him two days to get home from there, so he ran right out of the House of Big Mamas and went straight back to Hell.
Death kept on racing toward Big Mama Afro, certain he was about to touch her, but he was in a room filled with Big Mamas and he had no chance. One Big Mama gave the signal and Big Mama Afro danced out of the way. Death went flying past her, and when he turned around the Big Mamas were clapping and chanting in a semicircle around Big Mama Sweetness, who was holding Big Mama Afro by the shou
lders as if Big Mama Sweetness were a matador with a living, laughing cape. Death ran at them and missed again and again, trying to touch them, trying to end their lives, but he was just a snorting, angry bull for them to tease, their entertainment for the evening. He tried to touch the others but they too danced away, taunting him, teasing him, beating him at his own game, life-and-death tag. Finally, he stopped and whined, “I’m just trying to do my job!” They laughed in his face and showed him the door. Fulcrum was already on his way to Hell to rescue the slaves. Ubiquity tried to write a note of apology to Dream, but she just couldn’t do it.
27
_____
ONE NIGHT a few days later Hueynewton was alone in a slave shack, his back aflame from the whipping he’d taken a few hours earlier, watching the world go by without him.
He felt like a prisoner and survived only because he knew he had months left, not a lifetime. He thought of how it would feel to waste your life this way, and a vicarious rage began to boil inside him. Thoughts of whips and chains punctuating his entire life fanned the flames in his heart until a wild fever took hold and he found himself running to The City, running for hours without stopping, straight toward a web he wouldn’t get out of.
