No Matter How Much You Promise

by Edgardo Vega

  One day you spend from sunrise to mothafuckin’ sunset watching Aghdamn sneaking around the bushes, either jackin’ off or trying to find him a goat to fuck. You so pissed off you hit on the idea to get this pasty-ass mothafucka some pussy cause otherwise Aghdamn’s gonna keep fuckin’ the goats, and already there’s some half-boy and half-goat critters been born and they look like hell and all they wanna do is fuck, too, and everybody from the chickens to the mothafuckin’ monkeys in the vicinity’s going around covering up their ass. So you wait till he’s asleep, rip out a rib from his side, and put together a fine-looking mama. You give her some titties, a nice round behind, and then you look at her and she look like some big-ass Barbie doll all smooth between her legs. What am I gonna do now? you say. So you take your ugly ole index finger and you dig her up a pussy snatch and you say: I’ma call this bitch Denise so this dumb-ass Aghdamn can do his hammer some good. And then you change your mind again and say: Denise? That sounds like some poet’s name. What I make this bitch for? For Aghdamn to stop beating his meat and stop fuckin’ my goats, so I’ma call her Evenin so this silly-ass mothafucka can get some sleep cause he’s starting to get on my nerves.

  And you take a look at this mama laying on the ground, still asleep but looking fine, her legs spread where you’d dug her up her pussy snatch and back you go up in there fingering her and you say: Uwhee, that feel good, all soft and gooey. My man Aghdamn’s gonna have him a partee! But that pussy look all red and ugly and you say: I better dress it up. So you take some hair from the bitch’s head, roll it around between your palms to make it curly, and stick it on her snatch to cover it up and then you dip your hand into the sea and bring up some seawater and lock it into the bitch’s snatch and say: There, so this silly-ass mothafucka can smell it and stop thinking about the goats and start thinking about swimming and fishing and create surfing, scuba diving, and fishing shows on TV instead.

  But he ain’t happy, is he, Solomon? No, suh.

  “No, he ain’t,” Billy said, squeezing Butterworth’s hand.

  And Butterworth, his eyes lost in his private vision, went on.

  You get up one morning and Aghdamn’s done fucked Evenin all of two times in ten days and Evenin’s pulling at his johnson and the thing’s taken the day off and don’t wanna hear it. And the next night Evenin’s pulling at him again. Aghdamn? Nothing. The silly-ass white man is oblivious. That’s right. He hears her hummin’ but he ain’t comin and is in a state of total disinteresation. This goes on for a couple of weeks, and Evenin’s fit to be tied, bitching at Aghdamn and making his life so miserable that he goes off and hides on the other side of the garden, and to pass the time he sets to inventing beer.

  The weeks pass into months and pretty soon you start to fret cause these two silly-ass white fools are supposed to procreate and they ain’t doing the thing. So you think and think and think some more and then you say: Let me fuck with these mothafuckas. You go down to the swamp with nasty ole gators and snappin’ turtles and you stick your big ole hand in and from the bottom of the mothafuckin’ swamp you take some of the blackest mud you can find and make yourself a nigger. You give him big ole lips, some nappy hair, and a big dick. You borrow you some mothafuckin’ juice from the goats and stick it up his ass so all he wanna do is dance and fuck and you set him loose in the Garden of Eden. And what you call him? Right. Deuteronomy Jackson so that just like Evenin became Eve and Aghdamn became Adam, the nigger becomes Doit. And he does.

  First time Evenin lays eyes on this big ebony mothafucka with that thing hanging offa him, she say: Oh, baby, baby, baby, and they go at it, starting at sundown and still going at it at sunup and Doit’s hammer still harder than Chinese Algebra and Eve coming so much her orgasm be echoing up in the mothafuckin’ hills.

  So what happens now? Aghdamn see this and gets jealous as a mothafucka and he goes to Eve not with the intention of kicking her ass, but in a conciliatory mothafuckin’ mood and he says: Excuse me, dear, but we got to talk, we got to discuss things, we got to come to some understanding about this here thing, because I strongly feel that there has been a breakdown in communication. And Eve, totally fucked out, but always looking for a thrill, scoped down and saw Aghdamn’s johnson starting to act up, getting thick and long and says, bold as she can be: Aghdamn, cut the shit and let’s fuck.

  And sure as Ritz crackers they go at it for almost twenty minutes. And you know what? Nine months later the bitch has twins. One black as night and the other white as snow. And you look at these two boys and you name them. The black one you call Amabelate, cause lookin’ at him all grinnin’ and squirmin’ around you know all he gonna wanna do is play around and whenever he has to be somewhere he’s gonna be late. And the white one you name Callhimin, cause he look all serious and whatnot, his face all scrunched up like he’s interviewing people to be the head honky. He a funny mothafucka, ain’t he, Solomon?

  Butterworth turned from the ceiling to look at Billy, his eyes sort of closing but then opening up again, then looking back up with his face a mask of anger.

  Fuck you! Don’t tell me I’m blaspheming. Mama, tell him to keep outta this. I don’t give a mothafuckin’ hoot if you a minister. Take your black ass back to Waco or Savannah or wherever you came from and go pick yourself some cotton. Don’t be comin’ around fuckin’ with folks, tellin’ them they’s blaspheming. Yeah, go ahead and go for your belt like you always do, cause I ain’t a kid no more and if you lay a hand on me I’ma take a ax handle and hit you upside your nappy mothafuckin’ head. That’s right. Go ahead and try it and see if I don’t. Yeah, you fulla shit. Oh, kiss my ass, reverend. You the one blaspheming. Talking all that shit on Sunday and the rest of the week you trying to bunghole young girls in barns. Get outta my face, reverend.

  And then, looking beyond his memory and once again berating the Almighty as if he were determined to secure himself a place in the subbasement of Hell, Butterworth resumed his diatribe.

  You had to go do it, didn’t you, you silly mothafucka? Amabelate and Callhimin. Black and white. You coulda stepped in and said, fellas you gotta sublimate your aggression. Here’s a bunch of melons and that there’s a brand-new peach basket I made. You stand a ways off and shoot the melons into the peach basket. I took out the bottom. Whoever get the most melons in the peach basket wins. What you win? The melons, you stupid mothafucka. For what? To eat ’em. They ain’t gonna do me no good layin’ on the ground broke open. But you don’t. You make one white and the other black and let them go at it.

  Butterworth then began going back and forth from one voice to the other, as if two people were having an argument.

  She’s my motha. She ain’t you motha. She white like me. Oh, you skinny ass, pasty-faced fool. Look at her pussy snatch, the hair all black and crinkly like my hair. How come she don’t have lanky blond hair growin down there? Oh, you nothin’ but a black-ass nigger and you ain’t got no motha. And Evenin payin her two boys no mind and just runnin’ around all distracted cause she can’t find her pocketbook with her credit cards so she can go shopping for shampoo and hair spray.

  And that’s how it happen, Solomon. You understand what I’m telling you? That’s exactly how it happen. Exactly how it happen. There wasn’t no snake, you mothafucka. That faggoty-ass Genesis wrote some bullshit with snakes and whatnot. There wasn’t no mothafuckin’ snake that was supposed to be the Devil. That was nearsighted mothafuckin’ Genesis seen Doit’s johnson and said: Aha, it’s the serpent, and made up this silly-ass story about some damn snake tempting Eve with an apple from the forbidden tree. All bullshit. That was the nigger’s johnson, you myopic mothafucka. His johnson. There was no fuckin’ apples involved. That was the nigger’s nuts. Eve just took a liking to Doit’s vampin’ on her vaj.

  So the deal’s that one thing led to another and one day Callhimin got pissed at Amabelate and called him a black, river-bottom, no-count nigger and Amabelate gave his honky brother such a bad whuppin’ that Callhimin went and got him a Uzi machine pistol and went
after that boy. Went after him like a starving man at a chittlins convention. Walked up to him right in the middle of Lenox Avenue and opened fire. All that bullshit about the jaw-bone of an ass. It mighta looked like that, but I was standing right on the fire escape and Callhimin shot Amabelate about twelve times. But you know what? Amabelate survived that shit. That’s right. He got his sorry ass over to Harlem Hospital and they said: Damn, you one holy mothafucka. You look like Fearless Fosdick from the comics you got so many holes in you. And they start stitchin Amabelate up on Saturday mornin’ and they don’t finish till Tuesday night he so fucked up.

  So Callhimin’s happy as a pig in shit cause he done kilt the nigger. He so happy that he start inventin’ things and in one afternoon he invent toilet paper, movies, hair cream, and milkshakes. Damn, Solomon! This is one inventin’ fool, ain’t he? He go into work from nine to five and he just invent till he drop. They ain’t nothin’ on Earth that Callhimin didn’t invent. Damn, he’s good. If shit wasn’t natural he woulda invented that, too. Television, airplanes, Xerox, opera, long pants, checking accounts, and a whole bunch of other useless shit. And one day when he got a headache and can’t think o’ nothin’, he invent rope. And that was the best invention of all cause one day he turn around and the mothafucka thought he was goin’ crazy cause here come Amabelate Jackson, none the worse from lead poisoning, with his sons Jesse, Reggie, Michael, Maynard, Samuel, and their big sister Mahalia and their little sister Latoya, the prettiest niggers you can imagine and all of them smart as a whip. You never heard people talk shit like these Jackson folks.

  And immediately Callhimin’s head start sending him evil fuckin’ messages and he says: Damn, I shot that mothafucka and he still alive and not only is he alive, but he been out fuckin’ some high yeller bitch and she done whelped these pups. So he said: That’s it. No more fuckin’ around. So Callhimin grab him some percale sheets he invented and made some silly-ass uniforms and put on hoods and wrote on the uniform KKK which stand for Keep Kookin Kitty, or Kant Katch Kunt, or Kiss Krist’s Keister, or Keep Kosher Kike, or maybe Kaka Kaka Kaka. And then he talked to some of his white friends who was all good ole boys disguised as rednecks and crackas and he say to them: Boys, let’s have us some fun and string up a few niggers. And Callhimin give himself a title like Grand Imperial Dragon like he a Chinese restaurant somewhere in Alagadamnbama or some fuckin’ place. The thing is that they said: ‘Hey, we invented rope so let’s string up the niggers and that’s the end of it. And while we at this let’s burn some crosses to show the niggers that we ain’t gonna be fucked with. How’s that gonna show we don’t wanna be fucked with, Uncle Callhimin? Joe Bob, don’t test my patience, son. Just build the cross and we burnin’ it. Don’t ask me what it mean. It mean just what I said. Christ died on the cross, so niggers better watch their sorry ass. Can’t argue with that logic, can you, Solomon?

  “No, you can’t, Pop,” Billy said.

  And he let the shit happen, Solomon. He let all this shit happen, didn’t he? Let it happen. And I ain’t talkin’ about the fool that started the whole thing. I ain’t talkin’ about Him. Hell no. He sittin up in white Heaven playin’ Super Mario Brothers or some shit like that and done lost control of the whole thing a long time ago. Amabelate let it happen. You think he’d wise up and see these silly mothafuckas comin’ with the rope and dressed all strange in white robes with hoods, lookin’ like they all playing being Li’l Red Ridin’ Hood and forgot to paint the outfits. You think seeing this he’d wise up and say: Damn, these crackas mean business. I best get me somethin’ to defend myself with. At least a shotgun, but better yet a writ of mandamus to stop these mothafuckas. But hell no. This silly mothafuckin’ Amabelate rememberin’ his ole man’s reverence for the silly mothafucka who made him from river mud, sets to prayin’ and singing hymns and talkin’ about brotha this and sistah that and reverend this and deacon that and just like the mothafuckin’ KKK, he and the rest of the silly-ass churchgoing mothafuckas, they start dressing the women in white. What they gonna do, fool the Klan into believing that they friends, or they just trying to turn the women over to them?

  No, Mama, you can’t tell me to hush. It’s the truth. It’s the damn truth. You just don’t wanna hear it. I’m sorry, Mama, that you and the resta y’all don’t wanna hear this. But I gotta tell you anyway. I got to. If I don’t I’ma die the most unhappiest man that ever lived. These mothafuckas treated me like dirt. Every day of my sorry-ass life they treated me like I was shit. “Nigger” this and “nigger” that and me feeling ugly and thinkin’ maybe it’d be different if I was lighter or maybe if my hair was straight like Cab or my nose nice and straight and white-lookin’ like Lena, but that didn’t make no sense because when I was around the music I felt so good that nothin’ mattered, Mama. Nothin’. I’m sorry I wasn’t a good son, Mama. I never did nothin’ that woulda made you ashamed of me. Maybe I drank a little too much, or smoked some reefer and even snorted some blow or laid up with somebody’s wife, but I never killed nobody, Mama. I never stole nothin’ from nobody, Mama. The only thing I did was turn my back on the church, Mama.

  And you know why, Mama? Cause it hurt us. Oh, Mama, the church hurt us. Believing all that stuff about God hurt us, Mama. Who? Don’t “who” me, Mama! You know who they are. You can’t sit around and blame it on the white man. There’s black folks that don’t give a fuck about you or me or anybody else. They figure this is the land of opportunity so you should be able to make it because there is equality and that’s the important thing. But it ain’t. Equality don’t mean shit if you go there and they look at you and because your skin ain’t the right color they figure you don’t know nothin’ and you an ignorant nigger or a spic or a chink or a feather bonnet or a raghead.

  No, Mama, don’t tell me I got to trust the Lord. The Lord ain’t shit, Mama. And don’t tell me to be careful. I got to tell her, don’t I, Solomon? Mama, he full of shit. Yeah, Mama, I know he calling me, but I ain’t ready yet. No, Solomon, don’t try to shut me up. If I shut up the shit’s gonna go on. I got to tell him, otherwise I ain’t shit. What you want? Yeah, yeah. You’re God the Almighty. You know something. I don’t give a rat’s ass what they call you. They wanna call you Jehovah or Allah or Buddha or Winnie the Pooh, that’s okay with me. I don’t give a fuck, cause you fulla shit. Lying to people like you a used-car salesman and telling them they gonna go to Heaven and stuff.

  There ain’t one mothafucka I know of that done come back from this Heaven and said: Pop, Heaven’s a mothafucka. You like chitlins and some nice turnips greens and a nice piece of barbecue? Man, hurry up and die because they got some serious eats up here in Heaven. Or somebody come down and tell you: Yo, Butterworth, you think pussy was good when you was down there fuckin’ around with them skanky bitches you ran with, wait till you get up here and get your johnson into these heifers. Damn, brother, hurry up and give your soul a rest. No, sir. You wanna hang on as long as you can. One more pork chop or one more reefer or one more drink o’ whiskey or one more dickin’ some fine woman. So why you talking about Heaven? Check this mothafucka out, Solomon. I’m headed for eternal damnation and if I don’t hurry up and die you gonna send some of your most fundamentalist believers to talk sense into me? Man, eternal my dick, you silly-ass fool. You think you look like some Hebrew prophet with that beard, but you look more like a ole, dried-up, shut-tight cunt with gray hair. Fuck you and your threats, punk.

  The following day around three o’clock in the morning Alfred Butterworth, an unknown alto saxophone player, passed away peacefully in his sleep. There was no jazz memorial for him at St. John the Divine, and nothing at the Citicorp Church. The nurses said there was a little smile on his lips, like he had been having a wonderful dream. Mae Wilkerson got in touch with his people in Alabama and had his body shipped there for burial. Billy said a prayer, and thought about his father and Joey Santiago.

  61. Combat Readiness

  The further the summer went along and the closer Fawn got to the date of her ope
ration, the more frightened she became, until she hit a place where the paralyzing horror simply stopped. All she could feel then was a coldness and something similar to a shell developing around her, enclosing her in a hazy uncertainty. She had no idea how she had allowed Vee and Cookie to talk her into going to the beach. She changed her mind at the last minute knowing it was a bad idea. They were two real bitches even if they were her sisters. She was sure they knew about the yinandyango. Sometimes they looked at her and whispered together and laughed. They knew that if she put on a bathing suit the thing would show through, lumped up. Everyone would be able to tell. Big joke, haha. Look at Fawn’s dick. They were so cruel. It didn’t matter before, because she was little and the thing kind of folded next to her thigh, and she always had that little skirt on her bathing suit so nobody could tell anyway. But now they didn’t make that kind of swimwear and she’d seen what it looked like with a regular bathing suit. God, she might as well have a big ole dick hanging from her all bunched up like she was a guy. Everything bulging out, top and bottom. She was a mess of bulges. Her boobs and her bee-hind and hips and the fucking yinandyango hanging there. She hated everything about herself and wanted to dig her eyes out so that she wouldn’t have to see the stuff sticking out of her. Maybe she could ask the doctor to cut everything off and make her a little girl again with nothing sticking out and then she could start over.

  Vee had yelled at her to come back, saying she was sorry and she didn’t have to wear a bathing suit if she didn’t want to, she could just wear shorts—“But come and hang out with us, okay?” She had told Papo she was thinking of going to the beach, but if she didn’t go, she’d meet him over by the Pitt Street Pool. She crossed Essex Street and headed there, walking along Houston Street, the anger making her face hot and her heart beating more rapidly than usual. She was aware of her boobs bouncing as she walked. She looked at her watch. It was nearly eleven o’clock. Walking rapidly around the periphery of the grounds, she looked for Papo, but he wasn’t there so she sat on a bench. Guys came by and smiled at her, but she stared them down like girls in the neighborhood did when they didn’t like somebody. If they talked to her, she just turned her head away and ignored them.