by Paul Beatty
"I started to call the ASPCA," Nonnie whispered.
"I'll handle this mother," I said.
"Please be careful."
"Sure thing." An old proverb crossed my mind: Bravery is a luxury;
avoid it at all cost. "Take the gun," I said to Nonnie.
"Oh! Les . . ."
"Take it."
A terrified Nonnie reached for the spear gun. "I'm praying as fast as I can, Lester Jefferson."
"This is gonna be child's play," I said. "Hell. I thought he'd come on like a tiger," and just then, before I could get into a quarterback position, the rat bit my left big toe.
"The sneaky son of a bitch," I yelled, hopping on one foot.
"Are you wounded?" Nonnie cried.
"No. I got tough feet."
The rat moved back. He had a meek Quaker expression and the largest yellow-green eyes I've ever seen on a rat.
"He's the lily of the valley," Nonnie said, foolishly, I thought.
"Shut up," I warned and knelt down and held out my hand. "Here, rattie, rattie," I crooned. "Come here, you sweet little bastard. Let's be pals."
"Call him Rasputin. They love that," Nonnie advised.
"Rasputin, baby. Don't be shy. Let's be pals, Rasputin."
Rasputin lowered his head and inched forward slowly.
"That's a good boy, Rasputin," I said.
And the little bugger grazed my hand lovingly. Rasputin's fake chinchilla fur was warm, soft.
"That's a good little fellow," I smiled sweetly and clamped my hands so hard around Rasputin's throat that his yellow-green eyes popped out and rolled across the parquet like dice.
"Oh, my gracious," Nonnie exclaimed. "You killed him with your bare hands. Oh, my gracious!"
"It was a fair fight."
"Yes, it was, Lester Jefferson. You killed the white bastard with your hands."
"Yeah. He's a dead gray son of a bitch," I said happily.
"He's a dead white son of a bitch," Nonnie insisted. "White folks call you people coons, but never rat, 'cause that's them."
"I didn't know that."
"It's a fact. I should know. They got plenty of rats in New Orleans. But none in the Garden District, where I was born."
"Well, well," I said. "You never get too old to learn." Seizing my rusty Boy Scout knife from my patched hip pocket, I began skinning Rasputin I. "Do you think the others will be afraid to come out because they smell the odor of death?" I said.
A delighted cackle from Miss Swift. She lifted her skirt and displayed rose, well-turned knees. "Let'm come. You can handle'm."
"You're right for once."
Nonnie walked over to me, like a fifty-year-old cheer-leader. She touched my shoulder lightly. "Your true glory has flowered," she said. "Samson had his hair and, by god! you got your Wig."
Modesty forbade me to answer Miss Swift, but her voice rang sweetly in my ears. I would have kissed her, except my hands were soaked with blood.
"Are you ready, warrior?"
"At your service, Ma'am."
"That's the spirit," Nonnie said. "I'll get the coal shovel and bang against the wall. Then I'll close my eyes. I don't want my baby to be born with the sign of a rat on him."
Waiting for Nonnie's overture, I stood up and stretched. The blood had caked on my hands, making them itchy.
"This is gonna be more fun than a parade," Nonnie said. She spat on the coal shovel for luck.
"I'm ready when you are," I said, bracing my shoulders and sucking in my belly.
"Here we go," Nonnie cried, and banged the shovel against the wall three sharp whacks.
Lord! Eight rats bred from the best American bloodlines (and one queer little mouse) jumped from holes in the chinoiserie panels. Nonnie had her eyes tight shut and was humming "Reach Out for Me." Or were the rats humming? I couldn't quite tell.
Fearless, I didn't move an inch. Images of heroes marched through my Wigged head. I would hold the line. I would prove that America was still a land of heroes.
Widespread strong hands on taut hips, fuming, ready for action—I stomped my feet angrily. If I'd had a cape, I'd have waved it.
The rats advanced with ferocious cunning.
Perhaps for half a second, I trembled—slightly.
With heavy heart and nothing else, Nonnie Swift prayed. Through the thin wall, I heard Mrs. Tucker wheeze a doubtful, "Amen."
Then, suddenly feeling a more than human strength (every muscle in my body rippled), I shouted, "All right, ya dirty rats!"
My voice shook the room. Nonnie moaned, "Mercy on us." I could hear Mrs. Tucker's harvest hands applauding on the other side of the wall. The rats had stopped humming but continued to advance.
And I went to meet them, quiet as Seconal (this was not the moment for histrionics)—it would have been fool-hardy of me to croon, "Rasputin, old buddy."
Arms outstretched, the latest thing in human crosses, I tilted my chin, lifted my left leg, and paused.
They came on at a slow pace, counting time. The mouse shrewdly remained near the wastebasket, just under the lavabo.
"Yes!" Nonnie cried out.
I didn't answer. The rats had halted, a squad in V-formation. Connoisseurs of choice morsels—of babies' satin cheeks, sucking thumbs, and tender colored buttocks—they neared the front for action.
"Come a little closer," I sneered.
"Oh, oh," Nonnie cried. "I can't wait to tell him about this moment! I am a witness of the principality!"
She was obviously nearly out of her mind, so I said only, "Patience, woman."
"Yes, my dear. But do hurry. He's beginning to kick. We're both excited."
I stood my ground. The rats seemed to be frozen in position, except for one glassy-eyed bastard, third from the end.
He broke ranks and came to meet me.
I flung my Dizzy Dean arms, made an effortless Jesse Owens leap, lunged like Johnny Unitas, and with my cleat-hard big toe kicked the rat clear across the room. He landed on Nonnie's caved-in sofa.
But I'll hand it to the others: they were brave little buggers, brilliantly poised for attack.
Strategy was extremely difficult. I had to map out a fast plan.
"Les, Les . . . are you all right?"
"Yeah," I breathed and started to close up ground.
One rat, a second-stringer, made a leap but I crotched him with my right knee. He nose-dived, his skull going crack on the floor. Another zeroed in on that famed big toe, but I was ready for him too. Kicking wildly—because four were sneaking from the left flank—I could only knock him unconscious.
Now the four and I waltzed. One-two-left. One-two-right. One-two-left, one-two-right. One-two-left, one-two-rightonetwoleftonetwo—and then the biggest son of a bitch of all leaped as if he'd had airborne training.
I hunched down fast and he sailed right over my head. I spun around just in time to land a solid right in his submachinegun mouth.
Panting hard, I watched him go down slow, his head bobbing in a kind of ratty frug.
I felt good.
"They at war!" I heard Mrs. Tucker yell. I looked over at Nonnie. She was backed against the door, mesmerized with admiration.
When I turned to face the enemy again, two rats were retreating.
Pursuing as fast as I could, I slipped on the waxed floor and fell smack on the remaining three. But I fell easily and was careful not to damage the fur.
I lay there briefly, rolled over, and scouted for the deserters. Two were making a beeline for the wastebasket, which was brass and steel and filled with empty Fundador bottles.
I was decent. I waited until they thought they were safe, only to discover that they were actually ice-skating on the brandy bottles.
I knelt down and called, "Rasputin, Rasputin." They raised their exquisite heads and I put my hands in the wastebasket, grabbed both by the neck—I squeezed, squeezed until the fur around their neck flattened. It was easy.
"You can open your eyes, Nonnie," I said in a tired voice.
> "A Good Man Is Hard to Find," the gal from Storyville sang.
I was tired. I made a V-for-victory sign, winked, and started skinning rats.
Someone knocked at the door.
Nonnie was excited. "Oh, Les. The welcoming committee has formed already!"
"Wanna sub for me, cupcake."
"Delighted."
Another knock. "It's Mrs. Tucker, your next-door neighbor, and I couldn't help but hear what was going on . . ."
"There ain't no action in this joint, bitch," said Nonnie.
"I just wanted to offer my heartfelt congratulations to young Master Jefferson."
"Is that all you wanna offer him?" said Nonnie bitchily.
"Now that's no way to talk, Miss Swift, and you a Southern-bred lady."
"You're licking your old salty gums," Nonnie taunted. "You smell fresh blood. If you're hungry, go back to yo' plantation in Carolina."
"I will in due time, thank you." Mrs. Tucker withdrew in a huff.
"Go! Go!" Nonnie said, and turned abruptly and walked over to where I sat on the floor. "I guess you know those skins ain't tax-free," she said.
Engrossed in my job and thinking of The Deb, I did not answer.
"I could report you," Nonnie went on. "You don't have a license for rat killing."
"But you invited me over. You were afraid they'd kill you!"
"That's besides the point," Nonnie said sharply. "There are laws in this land that have to be obeyed."
"You didn't mention the law when you were trying to break down my door."
"Smart aleck! Ambitious little Romeo. I want a percentage on every perfect skin!"
"But I'm not gonna sell them," I said clearly.
"Listen, conkhead! You'll put nothing over on me."
"Never fear, cupcake."
"You try to outsmart me and I'll see your ass in jail if it's the last thing I do."
I looked up at Nonnie and laughed. Rat killing was a manly sport and there was always the warmth of good sportsmanship after the game. I split open the belly of Rasputin number nine. The rich blood gushed on the parquet and I thought of the long red streamers on a young girl's broad-brimmed summer hat.
"At least you could give me some for broth," Nonnie cried. "Don't be so mean and selfish. I'm only a poor widow and soon there'll be another mouth to feed."
I wasn't really listening to Nonnie; in my mind I saw the tawny face of The Deb, saw her rapture upon receiving the magnificent pelts. We would talk and laugh and later make love. My penis, which I have never measured, flipped snakewise to an honest Negro's estimate of seven-and-a-half inches.
BOB KAUFMAN
abomunist manifesto
1965
ABOMUNISTS JOIN NOTHING BUT THEIR HANDS OR LEGS, OR OTHER SAME.
ABOMUNISTS SPIT ANTI-POETRY FOR POETIC REASONS AND FRINK.
ABOMUNISTS DO NOT LOOK AT PICTURES PAINTED BY PRESIDENTS AND UNEMPLOYED PRIME MINISTERS.
IN TIMES OF NATIONAL PERIL, ABOMUNISTS, AS REALITY AMERICANS, STAND READY TO DRINK THEMSELVES TO DEATH FOR THEIR COUNTRY.
ABOMUNISTS DO NOT FEEL PAIN, NO MATTER HOW MUCH IT HURTS.
ABOMUNISTS DO NOT USE THE WORD SQUARE EXCEPT WHEN TALKING TO SQUARES.
ABOMUNISTS READ NEWSPAPERS ONLY TO ASCERTAIN THEIR ABOMINUBILITY.
ABOMUNISTS NEVER CARRY MORE THAN FIFTY DOLLARS IN DEBTS ON THEM.
ABOMUNISTS BELIEVE THAT THE SOLUTION OF PROBLEMS OF RELIGIOUS BIGOTRY IS, TO HAVE A CATHOLIC CANDIDATE FOR PRESIDENT AND PROTESTANT CANDIDATE FOR POPE.
ABOMUNISTS DO NOT WRITE FOR MONEY; THEY WRITE THE MONEY ITSELF.
ABOMUNISTS BELIEVE ONLY WHAT THEY DREAM ONLY AFTER IT COMES TRUE.
ABOMUNIST CHILDREN MUST BE REARED ABOMUNIBLY.
ABOMUNIST POETS, CONFIDENT THAT THE NEW LITERARY FORM FOOT-PRINTISM HAS FREED THE ARTIST OF OUTMODED RESTRICTIONS, SUCH AS: THE ABILITY TO READ AND WRITE, OR THE DESIRE TO COMMUNICATE, MUST BE PREPARED TO READ THEIR WORK AT DENTAL COLLEGES, EMBALMING SCHOOLS, HOMES FOR UNWED MOTHERS, HOMES FOR WED MOTHERS, INSANE ASYLUMS, USO CANTEENS, KINDERGARTENS, AND COUNTY JAILS. ABOMUNISTS NEVER COMPROMISE THEIR REJECTIONARY PHILOSOPHY.
ABOMUNISTS REJECT EVERYTHING EXCEPT SNOWMEN.
heavy water blues
1967
The radio is teaching my goldfish Jujutsu
I am in love with a skindiver who sleeps underwater,
My neighbors are drunken linguists, & I speak butterfly,
Consolidated Edison is threatening to cut off my brain,
The postman keeps putting sex in my mailbox,
My mirror died, & can't tell if i still reflect,
I put my eyes on a diet, my tears are gaining too much weight.
I crossed the desert in a taxicab
only to be locked in a pyramid
With the face of a dog
on my breath
I went to a masquerade
Disguised as myself
Not one of my friends
Recognized
I dreamed I went to John Mitchell's poetry party
in my maidenform brain
Put the silver in the barbeque pit
The Chinese are attacking with nuclear
Restaurants
The radio is teaching my goldfish Ju Jutsu
My old lady has taken up skin diving & sleeps underwater
I am hanging out with a drunken linguist, who can speak butterfly
And represents the caterpillar industry down in Washington D.C.
•
I never understand other peoples' desires or hopes,
until they coincide with my own, then we clash.
I have definite proof that the culture of the caveman,
disappeared due to his inability to produce one magazine,
that could be delivered by a kid on a bicycle.
When reading all those thick books on the life of god,
it should be noted that they were all written by men.
It is perfectly all right to cast the first stone,
if you have some more in your pocket.
Television, america's ultimate relief, from the indian disturbance.
I hope that when machines finally take over,
they won't build men that break down,
as soon as they're paid for.
i shall refuse to go to the moon,
unless i'm inoculated, against
the dangers of indiscriminate love.
After riding across the desert in a taxicab,
he discovered himself locked in a pyramid
with the face of a dog on his breath.
The search for the end of the circle,
constant occupation of squares.
Why don't they stop throwing symbols,
the air is cluttered enough with echoes.
Just when i cleaned the manger for the wisemen,
the shrews from across the street showed up.
The voice of the radio shouted, get up
do something to someone, but me & my son
laughed in our furnished room.
CECIL BROWN
from the life and loves
of mr. jiveass nigger
1969
One spring day him and Reb let the school bus leave them. They walked along the road kicking an old tin can. Then they went over to Heads and Tails to buy some liquor. They walked into the living room and George told Head he wanted a pint. Don't you boys 'spoze to be in school, Tail said. Tail was Head's twin brother. They were around forty and had drunk so much rot-gut liquor which they made themselves that both of them had the reddest eyes you ever saw. The house was filthy and stinking with dog shit. They had an old rabbit dog they called Lightnin'. But he was the laziest ass dog in the county. He had red eyes, too, and was probably the same age as Head and Tail. Man, what you talking about school fer, Reb said. Shit, you never went to school. Hell, I quit school in the first grade, Tail said, laughing. What the fuck you talking about then, Reb said. Head came back with the pint. George gave him a dollar. That pint
is a dollar and a quarter, Head said. Man, I'll give it to you sometime. Now come on and gimme my quarter, boy. I ain't got no mo' money, Head, I swear 'fore God, you kin search me, George said and held up his arms. Go to hell, Head said. Reb put the jar to his lips. Gimme a swig of that, Tail said. Give this fat motherfucker a drink, George said. I didn't say anything about your mother, did I now, Tail said. He took the jar from Reb. You better not, I beat the lard outa your fat ass, George said. You better go beat your old man, Head said. Ah shet up, nigger, George said. What happened, his old man kicked his ass, Reb said. Stomp a mud-hole in his ass, Head said. Tail said, shor did. I thought he was gonna kill that po' boy. Oh, man, he just hit at me and I ducked, George said. You ducked all right, you ducked the wrong way, and man, he was on your little narrow ass like a streak of lightnin' and a bowl of heat. Sheet, George said. Reb was laughing. No, he didn't, did he, Reb said, bent over. These niggers lying, George said. Now why would I lie, huh? Both of us saw it. Ole George was coining around the end of the field with that fast-back mule, which one is that, Georgie boy, you know, and old Willie said now I told that boy to be careful with that drag and old George was whipping the mule with the lines but he didn't know Willie was watching him, and he came flying around that curve and the drag went one way and 'bacco went another and Willie went to Georgie boy's ass. Man, he turned that nigger's ass every way but loose. R e b was down on his knees, laughing. The jar was in Head's hand. George reached over and got it. Sheet, he said. Now, didn't he kick yo' ass, Georgie boy? Now, didn't he? Come on, tell the truth, ain't no sense in lying, now wasn't yo' old man kicking yo' ass down that 'bacco patch like he was driving a tractor, Head was saying. Sheet, George said. He took a swig, a great big one, and began to chuckle to himself. R e b was slapping his hand on his knees, breaking up. O h man, git the shit up off that flo' 'fore I kick your ass. He kicked that po' boy's ass so bad that he ruined a whole half acre of'bacco, Tail said. A whole half acre of 'bacco, Reb howled from the floor, not a whole half acre, not that much! It was almost a acre, Head said, and they all burst out laughing. George had to laugh a little bit himself. Head took the jar and took a swig. Man, get up from that flo', 'fore I start talking 'bout yo' old chicken-eating pappy, George said. Reb got up from the floor, brushing off his pants. Lookit there, got dog shit all over 'im, George said. Where, man, where, Reb said. Oh, that nigger just lying, he mad 'cause his old man kicked his ass in front of everybody, Head said, laughing. Reb started to fold up on the floor again. Sheet, George said, you niggers done drink up all my liquor. Gimme a drink, Reb said. Give you shit, nigger, George said, and took a swig big enough to finish it, but there was still a corner left, so he hand it over to Reb. Niggers drink up all the liquor, Reb said, licking his lips. Hey, Head, I want you to give me back a quarter, George said. Fer what? Fer what? Fer drinking up my liquor. That's what! Your liquor, Head said, hell I just drink the part you didn't pay for. Shit, I paid for all of it, George said. Hey, look you niggers ain't gonna start that shit in my house, Tail said. Man, you call this shit-hole a house, Reb said, with dog shit all over the place and chinches walking around in broad daylight. Git the shit out of'er, Head said. C m on let's go. George said, you some crazy motherfuckers, selling people liquor and then heping them drink it up. C m on let's go, Reb.
