Red Now And Laters

by Marcus J. Guillory

  “Thank you, thank you. I love Prince. My cousin can make a copy,” she said.

  “That’s okay, just keep it.”

  “Oooh, you so sweet.”

  She kissed me again, thinking I had made the holy sacrifice of the Prince slow-jam tape. It was chivalrous and selfless, deserving of more tongue and maybe some booty. Well, at least that’s what she probably thought. Swatch said 7:54. Time to go. I jumped on my skateboard like the cowboy in the Westerns Father watched religiously. She looked on with thankful, desirous eyes as I pushed off into the sunset and the flashing lights of police and paramedics on the corner of Faircroft and Clearway. As I approached the commotion, I saw the black tractor-trailer parked behind Derek’s IROC-Z, parked in front of Marianne’s house. Neighbors began to gather as police hung crime scene tape. I slowed down to find out what happened.

  • • •

  Ever since Thomas Hackford was a little boy, he loved big trucks. On family trips to East Texas he anxiously stared out the window at passing cars, waiting for the Peterbilt or the Mack. And when a diesel did arrive, he would furiously yank his little arm until the truck driver answered with a “honk, honk.” He only hoped that one day he’d be the truck driver answering a child’s request on a long, lonely stretch of road. And as soon as he was old enough, he signed up to be a truck driver. A little boy’s wish come true. He drove all the great routes that connected goods across America. It was an important job, necessary to the vitality of the national economy. He understood its importance and was proud to be a part of Uncle Sam’s great chain of commerce. After years alone on the road he looked for a wife he could love and nurture, someone he could look forward to coming home to. He found Marianne, twenty years his junior. And one night he came home early, having cut time by driving twenty-seven hours straight from Dover to Houston. Unfortunately he didn’t tell his precious wife he would be home for Dynasty. He found her having sex in his bed with another man. He shot and killed both of them, then gave his wife one last kiss before he blew his own brains out.

  • • •

  When I got home, Pork Chop, Booger, and Maurice were sitting in front of my house eating barbeque with Father. Booger raised his hand holding the handlebars from Willie’s bike. He saw the whole thing but didn’t tell the police because he was more interested in ribs.

  Holy Thursday

  Dramatic death as an occurrence has a way of staying with you like chicken pox that no one can see but you definitely can feel. I had never lost anyone close to me. And by “close” I mean someone I saw several times a week. I remembered my grandfather, Mother’s dad. I remembered his old house that he built and the constant smell of King Edward cigars and Juicy Fruit gum. His bathroom and body smelled of Old Spice. He was an old man when I knew him, clinging to his final years of vitality with vigor, filling his days with constant laborious movement to show God that he hadn’t yet thrown in the towel. I imagined that Father’s golden years would be the same way. I did not have such connectedness with Marianne, but I did have her brother’s seat and handlebars. A parting gift. A keepsake from the dead.

  The school day passed without incident, my mind still reeling from the encounter with Royal. Was she my girlfriend now or just a clever merchant? I had my duplicate copy of the Prince slow-jam tape firmly in my Walkman, and all day I relived that cherished kiss. Maybe Father at one time felt the same way after kissing Mother, I thought. Surely some similar magic had existed between them, some innocent attraction acted upon without pretension or embarrassment but wonder and sincerity. I had heard that couples do have their problems from time to time. I guessed that was grown folks’ business.

  When I arrived home Mother was waiting; she had left work early. She had ironed a white dress shirt and laid out slacks, a belt, and socks on the bed. She stood by the door as I commenced preparations. Once again she was quiet and pensive. I started to rush but remembered that Holy Thursday Mass didn’t begin for another two hours. Where’s my Rubik’s Cube?

  This evening would commemorate the Washing of the Feet, when our gracious J.C. took time out of his busy schedule with numbered days to bathe the feet of his disciples, including Judas. Father Jerome had already chosen the twelve parishioners who would be seated at the altar, while newly minted Father Al would be performing as J.C. I, and of course Bobby Le Det, were to assist him as, one by one, he knelt and cleaned their feet with a soft rag and a small basin of water. I didn’t know who would be seated at the altar, and I can’t say that I was pleased to share my throne with so many. Then, there was a knock at the door.

  THOU SHALT NOT BEAR FALSE WITNESS AGAINST THY NEIGHBOR

  Mr. Harris was pissed about the theft of his chrome valve cover caps, and neighborhood gossip led him right to my front door. Of course this was a big surprise to Mother, and when asked where I got the caps, I had only one choice.

  “Booger gave ’em to me.”

  Booger, the eternal team player, even when he didn’t know he was helping out. I knew that there would be no repercussions for Booger; his parenting factor was limited to his mildly schizophrenic mother, who still walked aimlessly from house to house selling imaginary encyclopedias. I woefully returned the caps to Mr. Harris and awaited whatever punishment I could be charged on such a holy evening. Mother’s choices were easy. Belt. Extension cord. She chose the belt and began a beating session that would’ve made Pontius Pilate say “Damn.” In fact, she went overboard, and I could tell that her anger with Father had reared its head in her swinging arm. Never mind that I had to assist in the Washing of the Feet that evening or the dreaded Stations of the Cross the following evening, my crucifixion was happening right now. At least for the next half hour.

  By the middle of Mass I wasn’t sure who was in more pain: me or the porcelain J.C. with the oil-based stigmata hanging on the wall behind me. I turned to get a glimpse of his face to see what type of expression a man makes when he has iron stakes driven through his body, to see the agony that he must feel from terror and pain, to see the ruefulness of betrayal accentuated by barbaric corporal punishment. And you know what I saw? I saw a long-haired white dude who looked as though he had a stomachache after eating a slice of pie. He just hung there doe-eyed, looking at me. And I, of course, squirmed and rocked, trying desperately to find a comfortable position in the chair because my ass was still on fire. He stared at me, mocking my discomfort with so minimal a punishment. And for a quick second I swore I heard our Savior, the mighty J.C., say to me, “Couillon, that ass-whipping ain’t hurt.”

  “What!” I exclaimed aloud, very loud.

  Father Jerome abruptly stopped his homily and glared at me. He wasn’t doe-eyed, nor was Mother or the rest of the parishioners.

  “I said, Jesus knew that his death was nearing; he knew that he’d have to endure great pain for the benefit of all mankind,” Father Jerome repeated tartly.

  I quickly took a page from my Baptist friends. “Amen!” I retorted, and Father Jerome carried on. Bobby Le Det looked at me and snickered. I shot him the finger. A widespread gasp emitted from the pews. Apparently many of the faithful, including Mother, had witnessed my offense. This was just great. She was certain to use the extension cord this time. I looked back at J.C., to offer an apology, and he appeared as though he was laughing at me behind his glossy cheeks and doe eyes. Something wasn’t right. I looked at Father Jerome, a strong, confident black man from Philly. I looked at the parishioners—black people. Then I looked at J.C. hanging above all of us, and I grimaced. At that point I knew there was something wrong, conspiratorial even, about black folks worshiping a white dude with a smile. From the little bit of history I had learned in school, I knew one thing for sure—black folks had no business trusting white folks. Collectively, white folks had mastered their ability and creativity in treating black folks like shit. When we worked for free they treated us like shit, and after the Civil War they continued to treat us like shit. History didn’t lie. And here we were worshiping this guy on a Thursday night, knowi
ng damn well The Cosby Show was coming on TV in five minutes. I felt betrayed and became suddenly ashamed of myself for donning the altar boy robe. Black Jesus popped up next to me on the altar and whispered, “Quit trippin’.” Then he was gone, leaving a hint of Tanqueray in the air.

  THOU SHALT NOT COVET ANOTHER MAN’S WIFE

  The time had finally arrived to wash the feet. I was just happy to get off the chair. I hadn’t noticed before, but Mrs. Humphrey was showing a lot of cleavage. Mr. Humphrey sat proudly next to his beautiful wife with the great tits. You would be proud too if you got to wake up next to those every morning. But Mr. Humphrey was a jealous man, prone to resort to fisticuffs from a mere glance at his wife. He had been involved in many altercations with other men because of those tits and, needless to say, he was the parish champion. Eight KOs, ten wins, and one draw because Father Jerome stepped in just in the nick of time. And on this special night, Mrs. Humphrey wore a dress with a low, revealing top, and lo and behold she was to play one of the disciples. She was number seven. And when we finally reached her, Father Al took his sweet time as he knelt and caressed her bunion-free feet. I stayed focused. On her tits. That dark, inviting crevice between them seemed to call me, and the pain in my ass was gradually becoming a lump in my crotch. I didn’t even notice. But just as Fate had decided to show its ass on Thursday, Luck would have it that Mother had picked out extratight polyester slacks for me to wear, which waited until Mass to betray me.

  This woody was something to be remembered. Mrs. Humphrey smiled knowingly. Father Al returned the smile, thinking his Aqua Velva aftershave was working until he turned toward me to be greeted by my hard-on. Oh, and Mr. Humphrey wasn’t too thrilled either. Years of keeping an eagle eye on his wife had developed his superhuman vision. He saw the whole thing, and his proud smile quickly vanished. And Mother saw too. After my outburst and then shooting the bird, she was conducting intense surveillance from the pew. What could I do? It wasn’t like I wanted any of this to happen. Like I said, shit can get really complicated when you’re twelve years old.

  During the ride back home, Mother didn’t say a thing. I knew she was planning my crucifixion.

  Good Friday

  Fear is a tricky and misleading emotion. It fools you into believing that opportunities for relief exist when rational thinking clearly prescribes certain doom. I couldn’t think about anything the entire day but the horrors that awaited me when Mother would return home. My ass had whelped, I’d lied on Booger, and I flunked the spelling quiz. The more I thought about the recent turn of events, the more I realized there wasn’t a damn thing good about this particular Good Friday.

  I returned to an empty house and passed time with my Rubik’s Cube, twisting and turning the plastic cube with commitment, seeking to achieve nothing but the passage of time before my impending death. Death. On Good Friday. I laughed out loud, recognizing the similarity between me and J.C. I only hoped that when it was over I too would be raised from the dead.

  Mother came home, went to her bedroom, and retrieved her mother’s set of Rosary beads. The judgment? Novena. All night. I went to my room and stared at the hardwood floor. It laughed at me. So there I was. And there I’d be for the next hour. On my knees, saying Rosaries. She went to the kitchen to start dinner. Catfish court bouillon—Father’s favorite. I guess they had made up.

  Our Father, who art in heaven . . .

  What was “art”? Did God finger-paint and draw robots like me?

  Hallowed be Thy name . . .

  Tap, tap, tap.

  Booger was at my window, and I was certain he was going to jump through and whip my ass.

  Tap, tap, tap.

  If I didn’t hurry up and answer, then Mother surely would come in. I stood up, still mumbling prayers, and opened the window. And there he was. Booger. The eternal team player with tears in his eyes. Mr. Harris had called the cops. The cops visited Booger at home. His mother tried to sell them imaginary encyclopedias. They gave him a warning and left. He wasn’t angry but hurt. He told me that I was the best friend he ever had because I would play with him and I didn’t tease him about his momma. And that I shared my Now and Laters with him. And that I always picked him for my team. Kickball. “I got Booger.” Basketball. “I got Booger.” Football. “I got Booger.” And he had been a good friend too. He helped me fight Joe Boy last summer. He shared his Frito pies and moon cookies with me. He’d let me play with his toys if he had any. He had practically procured every part of my new bike with only one request—to let him ride it once in a while. He only wanted to know why I’d lied on him, and as much as I wished I had the answer, I didn’t. He waited with desperation, needing to understand the betrayal. He asked me what he did wrong, how he had failed me as a friend to cause such a deception. As he stood there, I could hear his heavy breath still heaving with sorrow. I remembered the story of the Last Supper and shamefully realized that I was, in fact, Judas. He slowly walked away more saddened, stopping periodically to look over his shoulder with hope that I’d offer some justification for my actions. I offered none.

  Saturday

  Good Friday had passed and the pain from my ass had relocated to my knees. Nine Rosaries on the hardwood floor. Both Mother and Father were in great spirits, all night praising God as their headboard rapped against our adjoining wall. Mother explained to me that my penance was served and I was to report to altar boy duty bright and early for Easter morning. She mentioned that a girl named Royal had called but I was on phone restriction for a week. That was all that was said and none of it mattered to me. I took leave for the backyard, disgusted with myself. I found my sparkling bike, the bike that Booger helped build, waiting for me. I grabbed the black spray paint, took a painful knee, and began painting. It would take a full day to dry before I could ride it.

  There was a garden in the place where Jesus had been put to death, and in it there was a new tomb where no one had ever been buried. Since it was the day before the Sabbath and because the tomb was close by, they placed Jesus’ body there.

  Easter Morning

  For some reason, when I awoke I felt invigorated, born anew. I had decided that I would tell Mr. Harris the truth with Booger by my side. Sure I’d get my ass whipped and maybe have to say a few more Rosaries, but Booger was a real friend and worth it. Mother had bought me an Easter basket filled with chocolate eggs and bunnies wrapped in foil, knowing I had passed the age of such pomp. For her, it was a reminder of my youthful innocence, which was fleeting at every passing moment. The only thing I wanted to do was take my new bike for a spin before Mass. She said no and I begged. Father walked into the disagreement wearing a suit. He was going to church with us. Wow. He never went to church with us, and then it all made sense. The barter. Catfish court bouillon and sex for an Easter Sunday church visit. Prince slow-jam tape for some tongue. How amazingly mercantile the world operates, I marveled.

  Father convinced Mother to let me take one spin around the block. Plan set. Take a spin, then go to Mass. Come home and straighten out the business with Mr. Harris and Booger, then ride my new black bike to Royal’s house to see about an Easter kiss (Side B would certainly guarantee it). My own personal resurrection was occurring right before my eyes. I practically bunny-hopped to the backyard. I’d do a wheelie. An endo (or stoppie). Burn rubber. Jump off the curb. I had made it through the most unholy of Holy Weeks in one piece.

  REMEMBER THE SABBATH DAY AND KEEP IT HOLY

  But my bike was gone. Stolen. I couldn’t move at first, then I trudged to the front yard and sat under the chinaberry tree. I knew he’d take it, but I pretended for a whole week that he wouldn’t. He only needed a reason and my dumb ass gave him one. Booger. The eternal team player. I didn’t make any noise or groan because I was now a man. Coochie. Pussy hole. And when Mother yelled that it was time to go to Mass, I didn’t move. I just cried silently and vowed never to attend church on Easter Sunday again.

  twenty-two

  yanvalou for bad catholics

 
; Basile, Louisiana, c. 1879

  At dusk the wind blows gently through fields of cane, singing to Azaka,1 reporting to concerned lwa as the red sky begins its journey to dawn. It feels like Heaven, against a back wet from hours of cutting cane.

  The first sugarcane plant was brought to Louisiana from Saint-Domingue and stuck deep into the rich Gulf Coast soil. Sunshine, water, and dirt. Triametrically opposed, maybe. Taken for granted, yes. Left to rot or drown. But intention is the greatest architect and prayer becomes the Prime Mover. In 1751, Jesuit priests planted the first cane in New Orleans near Tchoupitoulas Street, but it only produced syrup. Many planters were still struggling with the failure of indigo. A choice would have to be made. Indigo versus sugar. But in 1794, Étienne de Boré cracked the cane code. Sugarcane would flourish in Louisiana, flourish in the remnants of the indigo industry and bring sweetness to the harsh pioneer days of the burgeoning Louisiana Territory. Soon enough, the tall cane rose high in the low-lying parcels west of the Mississippi, competing with cotton and rice, competing for sunshine, water, dirt, intentions, and prayers. Some would argue that the introduction of sugarcane in les États-Unis was part of the lwa’s commitment to protect their followers in foreign lands. With roots literally planted in Louisiana ground, the lwa would also flourish in the tumultuous early days of La Louisiane, allowing Those-That-Understood access to the mysteries of the Dahomey and Kongo, transforming fields of cane into proud pito mitans2 connecting the spirit world of ancient Guinea to the corporeal world of sunshine, water, and dirt.

  Thunk, thunk.

  I could hear the unmistakable sound of cutting cane on the Fontenot parcel a mile away. The thin blade of the cane cutter sounded like heavy plunks in an empty tin bucket. Le sucre sacrée.3 In the name of the Sun, Water, and Soil.