by Paul Beatty
They walked out the alley, and Reb asked George what he wanted to do and George said he wanted to go somewhere and read and Reb said shit man that's all you ever think about is reading. Then George said, shit he didn't care what they did. You wanna hitch down to Armour, Reb said. George said O.K. They went out to the highway and caught a ride with a young cracker in a '55 Ford.
Where you boys going, the cracker said.
Just down the road a piece. We'll tell you where, Reb said.
My name is Richard, the cracker said, what's yours.
My name is Byron, George said, and this here is Shelley.
Reb looked over at George, surprised.
Them's some mighty strange names, the cracker said.
We come from up North, George said, we just come down here to visit wit our relatives.
You did, that's very inneresting. I use to live in New York City, the cracker said.
That's where we from, George said, from Harlem.
Well, I'll be, I been to Harlem, once.
It's a very inneresting city, George said, looking out the window. He felt Reb's leg putting pressure on his.
Is that so, the cracker said, glancing over at the boys.
It's a inneresting city, but we rather live in the South, 'cause in the South you kin always get something to eat, see. But sometimes in Harlem you kin go for weeks without a mouthful to eat. I had a brother who went up North, I mean to say, we wuz already living up there and my brother starved to death because he couldn't get no food.
Is that so, the cracker said, you sho' can always get enough to eat down in the South, can't you. There is some colored folks we use to have to feed. We use to live in Bladen County then. Then we move to Wilmington in the city and there ain't no colored around, so my grandmother she goes all the way over across town sometimes to give food to some colored people who used to work for us on the farm back in Bladen County. At first they say they don't want our food, but then they start to coming to they senses and now we git along right nicely.
I know they really appreciate that food, George said, there's a lot of people in the North, like the white people, who have a heart.
Is that so, the cracker said, let me ask you boys something. Y'all had any breakfast?
Breakfast? George said. We ain't have no breakfast in a long time.
Y'all wanna stop and git some?
We as hungry as we can be, but . . .
But what, the cracker said, looking over at George.
We just don't think it right to be eating with white people, George said, we don't wanna eat with white people and we don't want nobody forcing us to. Not even white people.
The cracker didn't say anything. Just stared at the road.
Y'all don't wanna eat with white people, huh, he said.
No, we don't think it's right, George said.
Y'all don't think it's right, huh, the cracker said.
No, we don't think it's any more right for colored to be eating with white people, George said, any more than it's right for white people to be eating with colored people.
I swear, you boys the funniest Northern colored boys I ever met, the cracker said, tell you what I'm gonna do—
At that point George looked out the window, out past the railroad track, and saw his father and mother and the hired hands hoeing in the field. He could tell by the color of the clothes which speck was his mother and which was his father. Dumb motherfuckers always digging in the dirt. Like animals. Niggers always working in the soil like woodchucks.
—tell you what I'm gonna do. 'Fore I let you boys off, I'm gonna give you some money so you kin get a decent meal. And when you go back up North, up there in—
Harlem, George said.
—When you get up there in Harlem, you kin tell them colored people they better come back down here and get something to eat.
I shor will tell 'em, George said, I think I'm gonna be a writer one day and if'n I do, well, I'll just write a book about it; the name of the book'll be called, All the Starving Colored People of the North, Come Home to the South, Supper's on the Table.
Ha, ha, ha, the young cracker laughed, you shor is a smart rastle, ain't you.
What's yo' name, George said, I'll put it on the first page of the book.
My name is Jim Morgan, I got a middle name too. You better use that, 'cause they maybe some other Jim Morgans around, though maybe not in these parts, and it's Melvin. Kin you remember all that?
Let me write it down, George said. He got out a pencil and scribbled in his notebook: Jim Dumbass Cracker Morgan.
You kidding about that book?
No, I ain't kidding, you'll see.
The cracker chuckled.
We gonna get off at the next road, Reb said weakly.
We really appreciate the money, George said.
I ain't give it you, yet, the cracker said, obviously pleased with himself. The car pulled to the side of the road, and the cracker took out two dollars from his pocket.
You boys buy some food with this money, and don't fergit me.
We won't ever fergit you, and when we get back to Harlem, I'll tell everybody about you.
Ha, ha, ha, the cracker said. He had yellow hair and a large, knife-like Adam's apple. They slammed the door and the car drove off Goddamnit, Reb said, why'd you tell all them lies.
Shit, how'didya think we got this money? He wouldn't give us shit if'n he knowed we're from here.
But you just start lying before that, you were just lying for the fun of it.
Oh, I don't know, George said, it just comes natural with me. I jive people if I don't trust them, see. I jive that mother-fucker because I don't feel right with him, you dig my meaning. That white cracker ain't no friend of mine, so I jive him.
And where you get them names, what was it you call me?
I call you Shelley and me Byron. They're poets, man. They were friends, though, because they were into two different things, see. They were rivals.
What's that.
Rivals, you know. They were always doing battle on each other if they met in the street. They're dead now, though.
They white?
Yeah, George said. They crossed the highway and were now walking into the woods.
Why you wanna call me white, man?
I just said that, man, I mean Byron was just like me, man, he was a jive too. And you serious just like Shelley, see.
What you mean by jive, man, you mean he told lies like you?
Reb, everything is a lie. Life is a lie. But people don't know that, see. Only smart people like me know that.
You jiveass nigger, Reb said, laughing.
No, I'm telling the truth.
You jiveass nigger, get away from here.
Well, shit I guess you right, Reb. I am jiving because jiving is the truth, and I'm the living truth.
You the living shit if you don't give me my dollar.
Let's get some wine with it.
No, man, I wanna grease with mine.
What you mean "mine," shit, you ain't got none unless I decide to give you some out of the benevolence of my heart.
What does that mean, Reb asked.
It means the same thing as goodness.
Bee-nevo-LENSE, like that, Reb said.
No, it's Be-NEV-olence, the accent is on the second syllable.
Be-NEV-olence, Reb repeated over and over quietly to himself.
George knew Reb was going to use the word as soon as he got an audience, just to show off. George didn't care. Reb was his main man. They followed the woods around until they could see the high school from between the trees. They sneaked across the road over to the candy store and got some potato chips, two poor boys, and two Pepsis. They had fifty cents left and they went behind the shop and bought a gallon of wine from Jabbo's Uncle Mose. By the time it was three o'clock, they were high off the wine. They went out to catch the school bus back home. They got to the bus, but Buddy Boy who was driving wouldn't open the door. Don't let 'em i
n, Flossie Belle was shouting from the back window, they didn't go to school t'day, and they half drunk too.
Shit, Reb said, you motherfuckers better open up this here door before I kick your ass out of the benevolence of my heart.
STEVE CANNON
from groove, bang and jive around
1969
Annette Duffs: But, Oh, What a Nutty Trip
Seventy - two hours after having dropped the coins in the juke at the Gumbo House, excusing herself from Dip and heading for the john, Annette was further away from home than she'd ever been before. Fine, dandy, together and down, so ran her feelings; she was ready to take on the world, the whole universe, give love a chance and do her own thing.
Bookbag in hand, purse thrown over her shoulder and clutching the red handkerchief tight in her fist, she tipped up the ramp on her way away from home.
Images of Marie lying in the coffin filtered through her mind as she felt something hard inside the handkerchief. But she never gave it a second thought.
She hurried through the cardboard and plastic passengers with frowns on their faces, their children, little monsters, and headed for the gate.
A sign overhead screamed out to be read:
GATE TWELVE . . . 12 . . . STRAIGHT AHEAD
She hurried underneath the sign. A pink face, grey hair, eyes and dull grey teeth in a reversed collar, black shirt and suit waved at her. Max. He was back into his priest's bag.
"I was so worried," he started, grabbing her bookbag and kissing her embarrassingly on the cheek. "I thought you weren't going to make it."
"What's this?" She pulled back away from him, wiping the saliva off her cheek. He smelled like garlic bread blended with King Bee tobacco. "Some kind of super-sad joke?" His rags turned her around.
"Sssssh!" He put his index finger to his lips, blew air through his teeth and glanced around to see who was listening.
Two brats in harnesses slapped palms, got their jollies; one cupped a hand over its mouth, the other to the ear, and pointed to Max.
He felt like two cents. "No, this is what I do for a living," he whispered. He was really scared she was going to put him down. Real hard. Call him a no-count, faggoty, pussy-sucking toothless Jesuit with a bad case for black eyes and vampire plans—a schemeless sissy who didn't know where dick was at.
Annette dug it. The words flowed through her mind, but she kept her thoughts under wraps. Her head was into duffing, getting away from New Orleans, she had had it. All of it!
Max hurriedly led her through the swinging doors into the cool air-filled night. A burning star turned red, then black—vanishing into the darkness as they mounted the portable steps, leading to the plane.
Annette saw a dead bird on the plane's wing—a hawk.
Max was so busy talking he saw nothing but her. "I was lucky. The Governor's plane was just stopping down here to refuel; you know he just returned from a tour of our South American colonies and I hitched this ride. That's why I wasn't able to meet you, but sent the car instead."
Annette said nothing. Her eyes were on the woman holding a clipboard in her hand, next to the door of the plane. Virginia Dare. A tall metallic blonde with lips painted orange, skin the color of sandalwood, showing pearl molars. As they entered the ship she checked off their names.
The interior of the plane was designed like a conversation pit in a slick townhouse. The color scheme was white on blue in red. It contained a bar, kitchenette, lounge chairs, phones, a three-inch-TV screen, earphones and a bubble gum machine.
The Governor, his two aides—a Mexican and a Cuban—Reverend Afterfacts and his wife, a big Swedish broad with volley-balls for breasts and big fine thighs, sat around in white lounge chairs, all looking very important. Dignified!
Annette cupped a hand over her mouth. The thought occurred to her—from the Gumbo House shithouse to this? She cracked up. So this was how the other half, the sedate types, acted. Too much!
Max introduced her around, saying she was an orphan who had not only lost her parents, but also her home. He was taking her to Heaven (that was his metaphor for West Hell) and put her in his Church.
Annette looked at him kind of curiously but said nothing. Her thoughts were into thinking . . . once in the city, the Big City, she was going to cut him loose.
They settled in two lounge chairs opposite Reverend Afterfacts (a tall lean spade preacher with a Castro beard and mod sunglasses) and his wife. Annette squatted near a window. She had a thing about planes. (But this was her first trip, you say? I know, but she still had a thing about 'em.) She didn't trust 'em. Max got her bag and threw it atop the luggage rack.
"As I was saying," Max settled in his seat and glanced around at the others, "did you see Marie or her mother before you left?"
"No, just Charles," Annette cut him short. Images of Marie in the coffin with black candles flickering rushed through her mind. Outside a priest, inside a thief, attending Voo Doo ceremonies just so he could get a nut. Annette sized him up.
"You know, they're some marvelous people. Simply marvelous."
"Yeah, I know, they turned me on to a whole woop of shit, especially about the way you mothers are playing it."
Max let that one slide. Afterfacts grinned but didn't say anything. His wife frowned.
Green neon lights in the front of the plane blinked on:
NO SMOKING FASTEN SEAT BELTS
The big plane taxied up to the runway sounding like a Cecil B. DeMille epic of the Second World War, got take-off instructions from the tower and, like some technological thingamajig about to give birth, it moaned, groaned, revved its four engines—the wings tremblin', rattlin' and shakin' like they were about to break, straining under its own weight like trying to take a constipated shit—and with enough noise to make you think the whole globe had exploded, it started slowly down the runway, gathered momentum and was in the air, circling the city after at least ten minutes of all that bullshit.
Annette unlocked the safety belt. The pilot's voice filled the belly of the jet, sounding as though he were speaking from the plane's substructure or was down in hell, his voice cracking through the metallic walls.
They were flying on Statecraft One and were due to land in Heaven at 0500 hours in the morning. The captain's name was Buck Rogers, his copilot's name was Miles Standish. And the stewardesses were Susan B. Anthony and Virginia Dare. Flight engineer aboard was Estavanico. Little Stephen to some. The Dap Daddy.
Annette and Reverend Afterfacts exchanged broad grins at the word that a brother from way back was plotting the course. Can you dig it?
His wife pouted. She didn't know what dick was all about. Just that the whole mess was tricky.
Virginia Dare, blonde with blue eyes, and Susan B. Anthony, red hair and green eyes (could have been a stand-in for Rita Hayworth any time) passed out pillows and blankets, leaning over everyone asking if they cared for anything more.
"Max? Do they have any grease on this heap?" Annette snapped. "I'm so hungry I could eat a nation of pigs."
"Sssssh." Max turned red as this page, lips turned blue; he glanced around at everyone present, then looked again at Annette. "Call me father, honey," he pleaded. "Don't let on we're equals."
Annette's eyes popped. She honestly thought he'd lost his marbles. She pointed to herself. "What? Me? Fool! You? Father? Must be nutty as a fruitcake." Then she loud-talked him. "Back at Marie's when you were giving me all that head, you damn near called me mother, you jive-time cracker. I met you as Max, think of you as Max, and I ain't gon' change now, no matter what you ax."
Max's face went through the whole spectrum of colors; from black to blue, green yellow purple white—and tightened up on red.
Everyone in the plane snickered except for Afterfacts. He clapped his hands, pounded his feet, slapped his knees and haw-haw-hawed. Lawd, he couldn't hold it back. "She got you that time, Max. Put all your business in the street."
Max sat there with his eyes downcast. He was feeling so bad, he couldn't help but bl
ush. Then he went into fits of coughing like he was having spasms or something.
Susan B. was standing directly behind his chair. She'd heard the entire conversation. Nervously, with Scotch on her breath, she asked, patting his back, "Do you need a tranquilizer, Father? What is it?"
He felt like he'd been turned inside out. Asshole in his mouth, mouth in his balls, purple blue and red outside.
Rev Afterfacts busted out laughing a second time.
Annette was sitting there clenching her little fists, madder than ten Nixons caught in a nigger trick. Call him father, ain't that a blip? And he sucks hind tit.
Max was still coughing, his hand up to his mouth, bent over at the waist, clutching his stomach, his face beet-red. A spider slowly crawled down from the side of the plane and dropped down his back. He jumped up and did a fan dance, trying to get it out of his shirt.
