Tragic Magic

by Wesley Brown

  “You looking for me?” she asked.

  “I was just wondering where you were. I can only take so much of Otis and Pauline.”

  “That’s good. I saw how you handled those women a little while ago. I was wondering how long you were going to go for their shit.”

  “I’ve been wondering how long I’m going to go for yours.”

  “I can’t believe you, Mouth. You’re fighting back.”

  “You like to fight, don’t you?”

  “Every chance I get. That’s why I like Pauline. She fights all the time.”

  “Yeah, but she ought a lighten up sometimes.”

  “She only eases up on people who take her on.”

  “What you thinking about?” I asked after a lull.

  “I’ve been trying to remember how it felt the first time I went to bed with someone, but I can’t. That’s probably because I didn’t know what I was doing, which was about the way it was the last time I went to bed with someone. I don’t even remember who either of the people were. What about you, Melvin? Do you remember the first person you had sex with?”

  “Yeah. It was with a girl named Marcy Jones. And I didn’t know what I was doing either. Do you remember her?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I was about seventeen and I invited her over my house during the Easter break. So she comes over and I put on some sides. I tried to be slick and put on The Heartbeats. You’re a Thousand Miles Away. Well, before I had a chance to close the gap, Marcy grabs my hand and says, ‘Let’s dance.’ We finally ended up in my bedroom but I didn’t feel like I had anything to do with it. I knew I was a slow starter but it didn’t look like she was going to allow me to participate in the activity at all. I was just a hitchhiker going along for the ride but never getting a chance to drive. That wasn’t my idea of the way to lose my cherry.”

  “You’re lucky, Melvin. Most men have never experienced the other side of the ‘Wham Bam, Thank You Mam.’”

  “Oh, yeah? What’s that?”

  “The Bang Bump, Thank You Chump!”

  “Well, I wish somebody would bump this chump off again cause I’d definitely say you’re welcome!”

  “Oh, so you’re one of those men who don’t want to do it all by themselves.”

  “While I was away, an old man once told me, if a woman likes you, she’ll let you. But if she loves you, she’ll help you.’”

  “So?”

  “I need help.”

  “What time is it?” she asked.

  “It’s almost four.”

  “You want to come over my place?”

  “What?”

  “Didn’t you hear me the first time?”

  “I heard you. It’s just that it surprised me. I didn’t think you wanted to be bothered.”

  “I don’t mind being bothered. It’s getting involved that I worry about.”

  “Are you afraid of getting involved with me?”

  “Yes. Does that surprise you?”

  “A little.”

  “I don’t know about you, Melvin. Why can’t you accept the fact that I see something in you I like? I don’t know which is worse—a man who assumes I want him or someone like you who can’t believe I would be interested in him at all. What I’d like from you, Melvin, is a little less opposition. Don’t worry. I know what I’m doing.”

  “I bow to your superior knowledge,” I said.

  “Why don’t we go back inside and tell Pauline and Otis we’re leaving.”

  The congestion in the apartment was beginning to break up as people left. I didn’t have to go far to find Otis. He was pulling on me almost as soon as Alice and I were back inside.

  “Where you been, man? I got to talk to you.”

  “Alice and I are getting ready to split,” I said.

  “It’ll only take a minute, Mouth!” He looked high but there was desperation in his voice.

  “You go ahead,” Alice said. “I’ll go look for Pauline.” We went out into the hall and through the door leading to the staircase.

  “What do you want to rap about, Otis?”

  “It’s about those John Wayne flicks I was telling you about.”

  “Hey, man, I told you I wasn’t getting into any of that.”

  “Look, Mouth, I’m not gonna burn anything up. All I want to do is show you something. It’ll only take about an hour.”

  “Can’t we do it some other time?”

  “You don’t understand, Mouth. I need to do it now. Do you remember Audie Murphy? The cat that got all those medals in World War II? Well, after he got out of the service he slept with a German Luger under his pillow. I didn’t understand why until after I got back from the Nam. He was caught up cause he’d been to hell and back. And he found out that a hero ain’t nuthin but a sandwich. That’s why he started makin movies. That was probably the only thing he felt safe doin. Well, I been hellified, too. And when it really gets bad, like now, seeing those old John Wayne flicks is the only thing that gets me back together. But I don’t wanna go by myself tonight. Just come with me for about an hour. Don’t worry, you won’t blow the pussy.”

  “Fuck you, Otis! I’m not worried about that. I just don’t want to get busted.”

  “I told you, all I want to do is watch a few film clips.”

  “I don’t see why you’d want to see those flicks anymore after the way they jammed you around.”

  “What you don’t understand is that when losing my hand starts to get to me sometimes, it’s because I’m pissed off that the war wasn’t like the movies. But once I watch a few John Wayne pictures I’m all right. All I want is an hour of your time, Mouth. An hour!”

  Alice and Pauline were waiting in one of the front rooms with their coats on when I came in.

  “You want to stop at Wells’ for some chicken and waffles?” Alice asked.

  “That sounds good. Would it be all right if I met you there?”

  “Oh, you have something else planned?”

  “No, it’s just that Otis is sort of flipped out. He’s going through a thing about his hand. I think I ought to stay with him for a while. I’ll meet you at Wells’ in about an hour.”

  “Melvin, if you want to get together some other time, that’s all right with me.”

  “Unh, unh! I’ll be at Wells’ in an hour.”

  “Would you listen to him?” Pauline said. “Now, ain’t this some shit!”

  On the way down to the television station I wondered if it was wise to go with Otis, no matter what he’d said. He seemed coherent, but so had Cecil Pendergrass, a black lawyer I’d gone to see before my case came up for trial. He had an office in the Hotel Theresa on 125th Street, and was known for his handling of political cases.

  “Come in!” an annoyed voice yelled when I knocked on the door. The office was a wreck of legal books and papers strewn over chairs, desk, and floor. Pendergrass sat behind the desk, almost an oddity amidst the volumes of bound words. White hair rose from his head in one wild shock. He looked at me with two nail heads that almost eclipsed the whites of his eyes. “Yes, what is it?” he asked.

  “I was told you take draft cases.”

  “Are you a draft evader?”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Melvin Ellington.”

  “Aren’t you going to ask me who I am?”

  “Well, I assume…”

  “Never assume, young man. If you are what you purport to be, I trust you didn’t arrive at your conclusions about the armed forces through assumptions. However, in this instance you assumed correctly… and I take it since you came to me you’re not going to leave the country but are staying to face the music? Is that correct?”

  “Yes, but that was an assumption on your part, too.”

  “That’s what lawyers are trained and paid to do: transform assumptions into unmitigated fact, which is why people such as yourself seek us out. And now if you’re through trying to match wits with me, we can get down to the business at hand.�
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  “All right,” I said, securely put in my place.

  “Well, as you can see,” he said, pointing to photographs on the walls of himself and famous black political figures, “I’ve represented the spectrum from Malcolm to Rap to Huey… So the only thing I want to be sure of is: Are you prepared to go to jail?”

  “Well, I don’t want to, but if it comes to that, I will.”

  “If it comes to that!” he said incredulously. “Look, why don’t you tell me the grounds on which you refused induction, because if your position is really an attack on the system, you can forget about any hope of getting off.”

  “Well, I filed for conscientious-objector status on the grounds that an analysis of America shows that the armed forces are an instrument used to extend the American empire.”

  “Ahhh, I like that!” he said, leaning back in his swivel chair. “Most of the C.O. cases I’ve come across have been strictly on moral grounds. But yours has broader political implications. It even parallels an argument I’ve been developing. Your case could be the opportunity I’ve been waiting for to launch my thesis.”

  “How much time do you think I’ll get?” I asked.

  “Time? Oh, well, depending on how strong my attack on the entire American socioeconomic system is, you could luck out and get the whole five years.”

  “Luck out?”

  “That’s right. You see, the political capital gained from being a political prisoner is proportional to the severity of the sentence. Human beings are creatures of extremes and are not given to sympathizing with anyone who has not been given the maximum punishment. Most people will indulge any excess. Whether it’s luxury or degradation doesn’t make any difference. It all runs together. To paraphrase Martin Luther King, longevity has its place if the sentence you receive is harsh enough to make a political point…

  “But let me get to the real business and explain to you the line of argument I’m developing that relates to your case.” He searched frantically through the piles of papers on his desk. “Ahhh, here we are,” he said, holding a legal-size pad in front of him and leaning into his presentation. “Now, my position is based on a reinterpretation of the rule of law which says a citizen must accept the result of a decision rendered against him, even if he considers it immoral. It’s my position that the rule of law represents the interests of a privileged class, which means that not only blacks but most Americans have never been involved in the process of codifying the rules for their security. Concomitantly, the most heinous crimes by America against its own citizens are not represented by laws…

  “Let me give you an example. There was a case of a black man from Harlem who was arrested for throwing garbage into the street around the City Hall area. When the police questioned him about it, he said he had volunteered his services to the City of New York as a garbage recycler. When the police tried to humor him by asking how long he’d been on the job, he told them since the anti-litter campaign when Mayor Lindsay came up to Harlem and started things off by picking up the first piece of litter. The mayor then handed the trash to an aide, who handed it to another aide, who passed it on to another, until it ended up in the hands of—you guessed it—our boy, who threw it back out into the street. As a result, he kept on throwing garbage into the street, but only around City Hall. He said he didn’t think he was breaking any laws, since he was only trying to keep pace with the garbage the city was handing him…

  “He got thirty days, but the point he made was absolutely brilliant. There are laws against littering but none against the conditions of the poor, of which littering is only a symptom. So the rule of law we pay homage to is an abstraction used to divert our attention from the fundamental ills of this society, which that black man was attempting to dramatize by violating the sanctity of the law. Your case is similar, in that your breaking of the law was not directed against other victims but against one of the primary exporters of the American empire—the armed forces…

  “Since you’ll be going to jail anyway, we should build a case that will get you the most time. So what I’d like you to do is write me a two- or three-page statement of your position and let me do the rest. And if you were willing, I could give you some scenes to act out that are guaranteed to get you a few contempt charges and bound and gagged, Bobby Seale style. How about it?” His bronze face glowed as if he were imbued with not only the revelations from the burning bush, but also from one that had been barbecued. “You don’t know how glad I am that you came in. This case could put me back into the front ranks of advocates of lost causes.”

  “Lost?” I asked in disbelief.

  “I mean that figuratively speaking, of course.”

  I told him I’d be back, but I didn’t return, content to take my chances in court as my own advocate. So far, I had been one of the principals in doing myself in. I don’t believe I would have ever forgiven myself had I relinquished my top billing in my own undoing for a minor supporting role in Cecil Pendergrass’ scenario.

  BELOW SAN JUAN HILL between Tenth and Eleventh avenues was the building that housed the film footage on the dominant male image in America for over thirty years.

  “The last movie ends about three, so the projectionist should be gone,” Otis said, as he opened the door on the side of the building. On a screen in one room an unattended projector showed a fuzzy picture with a scratchy soundtrack.

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “It’s film static. This is what you see when a station goes off the air. The projectionist puts it on when he leaves. It runs for a couple of hours until the station comes back on again. It’s weird how they make it. The picture is really a swarm of gnats trapped in a fish tank. The sound is recorded snatches of old Conelrad tests, telephone dial tones, needles sticking at the end of records, rain, and improvised breathing. Once or twice a year they film new static to replace the old. They got hundreds of feet of film just on static alone.”

  “Get the fuck out a here!”

  “If I’m lying, I’m flying.”

  The film library was a seven-tier, walled-in jungle gym. Each tier had shelves stacked with films in large silver discs. A staircase spiraled through the middle of each tier to the bottom.

  “The Westerns and war movies are on the last two levels. Don’t talk too loud and don’t walk too hard. This place is wired for sound. An alarm system goes off if the walls or floors absorb over a certain number of decibels.”

  Passing from one tier to the next, I spotted the names of movies I’d seen, and for an instant, a memorable scene would frame itself in my head… Paul Muni on the lam at the end of I Am a Fugitive from a Chain Gang, retreating from his woman and into the night as she asks him, “How will you live?” And Muni answering with a desperation that has always made me believe that he is still out there somewhere hiding out, “I steal!” Martha Vickers in The Big Sleep expressing to Humphrey Bogart on the occasion of their first meeting that she thought he was taller. And Bogart saying, “I tried to be.” Gloria Swanson at the end of Sunset Boulevard confusing her arrest for murder with a press conference announcing her comeback into motion pictures, with the camera blurring her face as she says the film’s last line, “I’m ready for my close-up!” Spencer Tracy as Stanley looking for Dr. Livingstone in Stanley and Livingstone coming to an East African village where it is rumored that a white man has been seen. Unfortunately, it isn’t Dr. Livingstone but an albino. When Stanley’s sidekick asks one of the tribesmen if the albino is a black-white man, the tribesman says, “No, he’s a white-black man!”

  “Here’s the John Wayne section,” Otis said when we reached the last level. “They got everything the Duke has done since 1939 when he made Stagecoach. That’s when he really started to work his show with that yippy-yi-yay shit. Look, here’s They Were Expendable, The Fighting Seabees, Back to Bataan, and Sands of Iwo Jima. That’s the one that really fucked me around.”

  When Otis had all the prints he wanted, we went back upstairs to one of the projection rooms.r />
  “You need any help?” I asked as he struggled to put a film on the projection reel with his left hand.

  “No, it’s more fun this way… You know, when I was in the Nam there was this village called Ben Sue that was rumored to be sympathetic to the VC. But army intelligence was never able to prove it. So they finally ordered the destruction of the village. Bulldozers came in and leveled Ben Sue to the ground. There wasn’t even a trace that it ever existed. These flicks did to my mind what them bulldozers did to Ben Sue. The funny thing is, I can’t stop watching them. There’s something in me that still wants to believe that the Nam was like what we used to see in the movies… You remember A Walk in the Sun?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I run this scene over and over because a this dude, the one pointing up at the plane and saying ‘Look!’ See how he got it in the mouth? Right in the middle of a word. That’s the way it was in the Nam. The VC didn’t wait around for you to finish a sentence before they interrupted your train of thought with a mortar…

  “Lemme run this clip of Sands of Iwo Jima… Remember this part where they makin the invasion of the island… Oh shit! Blew that Jap pillbox up… Check this part right here… Got damn… Uh-oh, there they go with the flag… Ira Hayes is the last one in the back… Look—he never even got his hand on it…”

  “Otis!”

  “This is where John Wayne gets it… Check the Jap playin possum! You gotta give it to the Duke, though. He played the good part. He gets it right after he lights up that cigarette. Blew that sucker away! See that bullet hole burnin in his back right below where it says ‘Sergeant Stryker.’ Watch John Agar empty a whole clip in that Jap… He definitely gave him a Japanese rupture—One Ball Hung Lo!”