“And I ain’t gonna be doing none of this anymore. Tu comprends?” I continued.
Sonnier shrugged, then held out his hand. I gave him the gun.
“And I ain’t making no deals with you either. You ain’t even supposed to be alive,” I continued.
Sonnier put the gun on the ground and continued chewing on the cane, taking his sweet time if you will, then without looking at me he managed—
“Who said I was alive?”
I let that sit in the air, waiting for him to turn to smoke or vanish like he’d normally do, but this time he just stayed put chewing on cane, so I left.
I headed down Hippo Hill, leaving Nonc Sonnier with his sugarcane and the gun. I’d never see him again until years later in New Orleans, and then he acted as though he didn’t know me. Fuckin’ family.
I promised myself I wouldn’t tell anybody about Nonc Sonnier, but I figured nobody would believe me anyway. I mean, you don’t have to believe me. You can believe in crying statues or Bigfoot or something. But if you don’t believe me, then ta hell with all y’all.
(Hot, humid air settles on pinecones above. Quiet. Still. A red cicada watches from a branch. A police siren moans far off. Hot, sticky bayou air lingers.)
Still walking as an olive fog greeted me in MacGregor Park, I wasn’t fatigued.
The green street sign read: “Martin Luther King Jr. Blvd.”
Almost home. Keep walking.
Nigga hot. Humidity left a greasy film on my face as I emerged from the olive mist and tall pines of Third Ward, headed to the forgotten, abandoned battlefield of South Park. Headed home. Walking under the 610 Loop overpass, I reflected on Father carrying me through the brown murky murk on that precarious night; a night wet with death, life, hope, struggle, surrender, and the low voice of a stranger—all mixed into a big stockpot, heated and stirred until it smelled familiar and tasted appropriate. There are no apologies in this pot, no explanations or laments—only the soft whisper of Those-That-Know saying, “Lâche pas la patate, mon cher.”1
We don’t get to determine how we’re born or to whom. We play the cards we’re dealt. Sometimes we trick the dice for advantage, other times we accept Fate without question. Either way, we continue into the unknown with delusions of certainty as a safety blanket and a hope that the next day will be kinder than the last. And if you have red nigger witch blood in your veins, well . . .
I continued walking as a light rain fell on the oil-slick, potholed streets of MLK. And like the Median Man, I continued down this boulevard that promised nothing but life continuum. One step after the other, I made my way home. Walking toward the woods.
* * *
1. “Don’t let go of the potato, my dear”—colloquial Creole saying that means “Keep the faith.”
Acknowledgments
I am deeply grateful to my editor, Malaika Adero; my agent, Charlotte Sheedy; my parents, John Oran Guillory and Lois Marie Carmouche Guillory; Kelly Carmouche; Joseph M. Carmouche; Helen Mouton; Roselia Guillory; Evelyn LeBlanche; Louis Guillory; Roy Guillory; Wanda Kennedy; Quincy Troupe; Dr. Marvin Hoffman; Wolf; Sostan Lemelle; Maurice Williams; Dr. Eric Perkins; Bill Summers; Father Joseph Bell; Louis Benjamin; Anthony Hall; Craig Kennedy; Rey Alton; Brian Simmons; Angelbert Metoyer; Roger Pliakas, Esq.; Rob Walker; Sister Eva Regina; St. James Episcopal School; St. Philip Neri Catholic Church and School; Jesse H. Jones Senior High School; Timmy Chan’s Chicken & Rice; Paul Deo; Tish Benson; Shelli Harris-Blackshear; Faith Gibson; Dr. Barry Ancelet; Joe Teisan; Christophe Landry; Garth Trinidad; Mateo Senolia; Kim Alston; Osunlade (Yoruba Records); Dr. Ysamur Flores-Peña; Michelle Moore; Yusef Davis; Ava K. Jones; Jonathan Mannion; Les Brun; Wood Harris; Taz Arnold (TI$A); Emily Etling; S.H.A.P.E. Community Center; the city of Houston, Texas; the city of Opelousas, Louisiana; the city of Basile, Louisiana; the city of New Orleans, Louisiana—my estranged mistress; Love 94 FM; Majic 102.1 FM; KTSU; AstroWorld; the Guillory family; the Donato family (Opelousas, Louisiana); the Fontenot family; the Carmouche family; the Alexander family (Breaux Bridge, Louisiana); my boys from South Park—Llyarron “Muscle” Greer, Brian Smith, Lil’ James, Booger John, Ronnie, Joe Boy, Calvin, Boobie, Rodney, Maurice, Charles Henry, Scooby, Dwayne, Eddie and Haywood Dean, Tim, Benjamin “Frank” Leviston, Xavier Williams, K-Rino, Ganksta N-I-P, Lil’ Fry, B-Rock, Sean DeVaughn, Doug, Paul Brown, and all the little black boys off MLK Boulevard—you have a voice; anyone I failed to mention, believe it was not intentional, much love.
MARCUS J. GUILLORY was born in Houston, Texas. He writes and produces films, television shows, documentaries, print media, and music. He resides in Los Angeles, California.
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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2014 by Marcus J. Guillory
Poem excerpt page 157 from Cane by Jean Toomer. Copyright 1923 by Boni & Liverwright, renewed 1951 by Jean Toomer. Used by permission of Liverwright Publishing Corporation.
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Designed by Kyoko Watanabe
Jacket design by James Perales
Author photograph by Kawai Matthews
Cover artwork by Angelbert Metoyer
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Guillory, Marcus J.
Red Now and Laters / Marcus J. Guillory.
pages cm
1. African American healers—Fiction. 2. African American rodeo performers—Fiction. 3. Houston (Tex.)—Fiction. 4. Domestic fiction. I. Title.
PS3607.U48555R43 2013
813’.6—dc23
2013000901
ISBN 978-1-4516-9911-1
ISBN 978-1-4516-9912-8 (ebook)
Red Now And Laters Page 32
