by Ed Bullins
It wasn’t the thing of their being whores that depressed him; he’d bought some and sold some before, he mused; it was because he hadn’t spotted them when they stepped through the door that made him uneasy. It made him unsure of himself.
They looked to him like a couple of the girls he had gone to college with over the past year since he had put down knocking around the country. They just looked so nice and wholesome like little office girls out on a fling, drinking their weekend away, or young married broads who got lonesome in the afternoons while their husbands worked. He gulped down a drink when he thought of that old stereotyped prostitute plying her goodies in the corners of his imagination and memory, the kind he hadn’t seen since the service who still must exist in some seaport towns in the States, right out of yesterday. He felt like such a chump for playing Square John; he felt so uncool.
After that the drinks didn’t seem to matter, and the girls left sometime later, and when the two went prowling out in the heat in their delicate summer frocks, the chirping of their throaty giggles in the air, he drank the cool drinks faster, and awoke that evening on a hospital slab, two harness bulls standing over him, asking him how much had he drunk before smashing his old Ford into their cruiser.
He Couldn’t Say Sex
He couldn’t say sex and he wondered why. Ten years he wondered, fearing to tell himself he didn’t fear to say it—not even to the God he knew that wasn’t.
“If I ever hear you say that nasty filth, boy, under this roof again, I’ll give you a lesson you’ll never forget,” his mother said.
But the word oozed off syrupy July pavements filling his muggy playstreets in asphalt-thick waves. The word was scrawled indelibly across his ghetto-sooted mind; its imagery sloughed off his broiled black sheen in cascades of lust. The word settled in the depths of his hard quick haunches and tight thighs.
Twelve years he spent in alleyways, meeting where gutters congregate, in hungered ravaged backlots, filling out into the craven beast he was named. His music was street sounds:
“Gnash teeth and yowl, cat; knot fist and slash, man.”
They say he’s rhythmic; it’s a fact he’s black, sweat funky; it was seeping through swinging doors of taverns as he lay peering under to glimpse flashes of the whores’ thighs as they squatted across the bar stools.
The word drifted down midnight hallways of tenements, finding him awake in frigid beds envying the couples clawing in the stairwells. It surmounted the whimpered snores of his pregnant, husbandless sister on the first night he cried from fear of his drenched belly. The word mingled with the strained grunts and coughs of his mother and his latest “uncle” in their closed door revelry.
“Sex, sex, sex!” punched at him. He smelled it; he dreamt it; he lived through its discovering paradoxes each moment of his twelfth year. The approach of each long night brought monstrous secrets to him from his black isolated bed.
“Where did you hear that word?” his mother asked.
They seldom directly answered each other.
“Is something wrong with it?”
“Don’t you ever bring that word into this house again, boy, as long as you live under this roof.”
And he never did: not under her roof nor beneath the heavens of the world for many years. He refused to say it aloud, but was twisted into a spiritual gnome with each guilty scream of the word from the unquieted pockets of his brain.
Not even in the following summer heat time did he allow the word to crawl across his tongue. Not ever again as a young lean animal (the last of his cat child days).
It struck him dumb with Doris in their first greasy discovering together. Not with Marie, nor with Reba, nor with Dot in all his rapine pawing did he betray himself. Not eons later in Sicily, nor Genoa, nor Port-au-Prince.
Certainly, he spoke other words: disreputable ancient Anglo-Saxon and Sicilian epithets learned in the gutters of Naples where he lay for so long aging and sodden.
He parroted all manner of family vilifications spoken in hip salty, funky cadences.
“Yeah … Actioncity … all you whoremongering bastards springing from my sweet sweet juices.”
A thousand ports he anchored: clap, brig, and France, but no whisper from his lips of the accursed scourge.
“Why, Mother?” he once asked. “Why should I grow up stunted and phobic? Why should don’t be my creed, because it’s yours? Don’t say God, you say. Don’t be immoral. Don’t; no, never question—well—What was my father like?”
“There’s nothing you would want to hear ’bout your father that I can tell you, boy,” was her reply.
And she remained mum. He wondered, “Why? Why? It’s about why that I want to know. Damn the rest!—give me the mystery of why!”
He made himself an exile searching for truth, the whole big deal about the mighty why.
But why should he suffer from gnawing suspicions after the physical contact of the lay is over? Should he have forgotten it at once and flushed it all down the john or wrapped it in the soiled sheets awaiting the laundry truck? Can he ever flush away part of his Self with the spent sperm and leave the residue of his testosterone to the ministrations of detergents with only a shrug? Does he wish not to be reminded that it is he riding down the drain, his droppings being bleached snowy wonderful? Can he bleach away his desires in the catharsis of drink, drugs, confession, or the bed until sterile as the laundered bedding?
Circumcision and condoms were unmentionable secrets fit only for the trash can in his former dwelling. It took eighteen years and a crib experience in Colon to find the mystery of the hot water bottle hidden in the bottom of his mother’s dresser drawer.
His mother still remains mum (sister has five bastards now).
He must punish girls of twenty, today, by banishing them from his bed before taking them in hand and demonstrating the practicalities of the hot water gadget.
“It isn’t your fault, honey,” he explains to all as his ingrained repugnance rises in his nostrils as the manipulation of the bag, the hose, and nozzle are taught.
His mother’s church banished him (there was no place for a questioner). He raged through adolescence and young manhood in futile quests. Dozen upon dozen of conquests fell under his hammering charges on muslin counterpanes and still he wondered whether it was being done correctly. His fear of inadequacy was cruel.
How many bastards did he need to make himself a man? How many sleepless nights in strange beds spent probing for a Self that didn’t make him puke did he need?
“Are you lying, bed-mates, when you swear I’m good, good, good?” he begs.
“Do you mean I’m as good as your husband? Better!” he questions them all.
He fled to France to learn the how of it—how ignorant he found he was.
What made him go through this hell? Was it his mother? Where was his father; he couldn’t imitate his mother.
“Don’t ever say that word. We don’t act like animals in this family. Don’t say it … good people don’t have dirty thoughts … you dirty boy!”
He listened and feared. Fearing all the rubby dub porkies in the world when they screamed “Don’t!”
Two hundred faces (and lots more) have grimaced up at him from the sheets (and he feared everyone). Two hundred mouths pulled apart in mocking, leering, whiny, blathering nothingness: love, torture, hate (“I hate you, darling, for what you are and what you make me when I’m with you … and I would have it no other way”). Two hundred deadpanned, multi-hued expressions that promised ecstacy and manhood; lied of shame and pride; secured by barter, begging, rape and sodomy.
Two hundred nights and days he feared: Philly, Nice, Venice, Providence, Coco Solo. Two hundred ginsoured, perfumed pepperminted, garlicked breaths, and twice as many pressing breasts. Two hundred lies and ejaculations. Four trips to the man with the needle, nine bastards scattered in the mainstreams (with unsuspecting fathers, he hopes).
Fifteen years 3,000 miles away from mother, home and church, and he’ll no
t return, for he is abandoned. Three million drunks, four loves, and five centuries wondering if three hundred have been made.
Bug-house bait, jail-house prone, slum-seeking, woman-hating, wife-deceiving, respectability-faking, cynic sneering, paranoic (passive aggressive)—an all-American black boy—guilt-ridden, but now vocal.
Now, good and goddamned vocal: loud and hard with teeth gritted vocal. Funky from the diaphragm vocal. Not believing nor caring what it means anymore vocal—for he never found the why.
“Sex, Mother,” he says (Does it make you cringe? Burn a candle for him).
“Sex, Daddy. Was it good to you, Pops?” he mourns farewell (and whoever you were, do you still remember what it was like?).
“Sex, God,” he curses (go sex yourself), and that goes for the whole shot.
“Sex, sex, sex, sex, America,” he roars from his manure pile (with your millions of sexless wonders).
THE RALLY or
Dialect Determinism
Dark eyes shift upon batting bloodshot eyeballs, set in a black face, peering through the narrow door slot. The eyes squint into the darkness where a man stands, and the face pushes nearer the opening, barring the yellowed glare from within. From outside, streetlamps shine against the watcher’s irises, as the splinter streaks of white glow like candle flickers in the widening pupils.
“Good evening,” the visitor says.
With the door’s crack, light scatters the blackness where the figure stands, in a bright rectangle with two shadowy forms bordered by its dark edges.
The door slams behind the man, shooting a whiff of chill air against the nape of his neck.
“Evening, brother!” the guard says as he shoves the man against a wall. The new arrival is shown how to stretch forward, fingertips touching the wall, legs wide apart, body canted with the shoes two feet away from the baseboard; his head, not to sag upon the wall, sits upon a tired neck, straining to center itself between feet and fingers.
“First time here?” the guard questions.
The man nods, bumping his forehead.
“If you’ll just let me—” the man is frisked efficiently by dark busy fingers sliding along his arms and under his coat, briefly beside his crotch and down his legs to crunch and mangle his cuffs.
“Will you please empty your pockets out on that table?” The guard points to a kitchen-size brown table; a large picture of a serene brown man holds most of the wall space above the table. The word PEACE is painted in black letters around the room.
“Now, I’ll have to take these things,” the guard says, sliding the visitor’s wallet, cards, currency and pictures into a numbered box. “You’ll get these back right after the meeting.”
“How?”
“Because you are number one,” the guard says. “Inside, brother,” he points down the corridor.
A dim hallway, painted light green, leads to an auditorium. Twin black runners leading to a wide, darkgreen room meet at the foot of a podium. The room is filled, and a gross speaker stands upon the platform under a huge picture of the serene man. The word is painted upon the walls, ceiling and floor in this room. It is written upon the seat and back of every chair.
Men and women sit upright in folding chairs. There is a predominance of green business suits and chic shifts with exotic patterns. Birds rustle through purple foliage, across dark shoulders, with grape leaves mottling azure and scarlet backgrounds. Many of the men’s ties are orange and slice down the fronts of their grey shirts.
“I call you brothers for we have a common experience,” the heavy speaker croons, “and we will share a common future, for we have common aspirations and common destinies … as I’ve mentioned, so if our fates are shared, then we form a brotherhood, or for those of you who shun the unpleasantness you may find in this word, brotherhood, we will only say that we are here for mutual benefits … brothers … ha ha ha.”
His movements are slow and flashy. A large white handkerchief is used to dab at his puffy lips and mop his forehead; he waves it like a banner whenever the crowd becomes excited.
“You see it doesn’t hurt,” he continues, “to be identified with your own. I mean … it’s not half as bad as some of you newer ones might suspect.” His oval eyes follow the new arrival until he takes a seat near the center of the room.
“TELL US ABOUT IT, BROTHER, TALK ABOUT IT,” a large brown youth in front shouts.
“Yeah, bring it down front, man,” other voices rise.
“Yaasss …” the speaker answers. He draws out the sound of affirmation when he is pleased by his audience. “I see what you mean,” he says.
“GIVE US THE WORD,” the youth shouts.
“Yes, the word!” is echoed throughout the hall.
Large eyes fix upon the newcomer from the front of the room; the speaker smiles while saying: “Well, you know that nationalism ain’t an invention of brother … oh, sorry, I mean of the black man …”
“WHAT YAWHL SAY?” someone yells.
“Let brother speak!” someone says.
“It was with the rise of the European nation-state that nationalism becomes evident in history …”
“That’s right!” the young man says.
“It is,” a girl joins in. “Can’t you hear those big words he’s using; he’s got to be right.”
“Right!” someone yells.
The big man flutters his handkerchief.
“THAT’S RIGHT!” the young man shouts.
“Right!”
“Sho nuf!”
The crowd sways with the wonder of the speaker; it is an inner rhythm rushing up to their heads from their stirring seats, to burst out in explosive enthusiasm. Sitting still, the new man pulls his eyes away from the speaker’s and focuses upon his feet, but his ears swim in the room’s sound.
“Now in unity we have found by looking at history there is strength … in brotherhood there is power, and all we want is power, don’t we, just like everybody else? … So as the most honest people on the face of the earth we don’t have to fool ourselves by sayin’ it’s some sort of holy crusade or just fairness if we get our chance finally to kick the hell out of somebody else for a change …”
“Teach, brother,” a voice shouts.
“THAT’S RIGHT!”
“Right! … we’s de most honest folks … history proves dat,” one of the audience yells.
“Now, brothers, are we really honest?” the speaker says, and before he is answered: “No, we are no more honest than other humans, for dishonesty is a human trait; ain’t it, and ain’t we human?”
“THAT’S RIGHT! THAT’S RIGHT! WE’S HUMAN, AIN’T WE!” a shout goes up.
“Teach, teach, teach, brother.”
With the white handkerchief at his forehead, the large man stares out into the dim room as the new man raises his eyes from the floor and sees the fat shriveling from the heavy man’s frame and the dark suit dissolve into musty brown tones. Whiffs of dead bones and skins waft through the skylight above the stage.
“The reason we don’t have to worry about honesty is because this ain’t our society no way and what’s ain’t yours you don’t have ta care ’bout no way …” the speaker continues.
“THAT’S RIGHT! THAT’S RIGHT! WHAT WE’S HERE FO’ IS TA GET
THE FACTS, THE TRUTH AND NOTHIN’ BUT!” the young man is standing upon his chair exhorting the speaker.
“Shut up, man, and let him talk!” someone yells.
“Yeah, let us hear the word,” another joins in.
The eyes of the speaker point into the crowd; the youth takes his seat, and all eyes join to those two points in the universe except for the new man who trembles from his chair, his hands clamped against the bright scene on stage.
“Now let me tell you something you might not have guessed before,” the speaker says. “You might not have known it but dis ain’t America in the sixties …”
“What you say, brother,” the dark youth yells, jumping from his seat.
“YOU WANTE
D THE TRUTH, SO I’M TELLING YOU THAT DIS AIN’T
AMERICA YOU’S IN … RIGHT! …” the speaker shouts.
“That’s what you said,” another voice in the audience yells, “that’s what you said, brother!”
“Yaasss …” the speaker continues, “now this is really Germany … the Germany of the late twenties and thirties … right?”
“Nawh, brother, nawh, man, we ain’t gonna go fo’ dat,” the young man shouts.
“But, brother, you wanted the truth, so I am confessing that I’m Hitler … right!”
“NO! NO! WE AIN’T GOIN’ FO’ DAT!”
“Ain’t I’s Hitler?” the speaker challenges.
“No, yawhl not no Hitler.”
“Maybe he’s telling the truth,” someone says. “I always wondered what happened to Hitler.”
“Yawhl jivin’ … yawhl shuckin’,” the stranger hollers. He jumps from his seat and fastens his eyes onto the speaker’s.
With a sweep of his hand the little mustached man on the platform smashes him back into his seat.
“And I told everyone I had a book coming out,” the speaker continues. “You don’t know whether I have a book coming out … right?”
“RIGHT!” two hundred voices scream.
“SING RIGHT!” the speaker’s voice rings out.
“RIGHT!”
“Sho nuf!”
The visitor begins to whimper and tremble, but his sounds are ignored by the crowd.
“Ha ha ha … but, comrades, I am really Marx … right?” the speaker says.
