The Box: Uncanny Stories
Page 14
I felt that hating pick up tempo in my guts again
“I don’t know anything about it,” he replied
“I only know you’ve lost someone
“You’ve told it to me with your horn a hundred times.”
I felt evil crawling in my belly
“Let’s get this straight,” I said
“Don’t hype me, man; don’t give me stuff ”
“Listen to me then,” he said
“Jazz isn’t only music
“It’s a language too
“A language born of protest
“Torn in bloody ragtime from the womb of anger and despair
“A secret tongue with which the legions of abused
“Cry out their misery and their troubled hates.
“This language has a million dialects and accents
“It may be a tone of bittersweetness whispered in a brass-lined throat
“Or rush of frenzy screaming out of reed mouths
“Or hammering at strings in vibrant piano hearts
“Or pulsing, savage, under taut-drawn hides
“In dark-peaked stridencies it can reveal the aching core of sorrow
“Or cry out the new millennium
“Its voices are without number
“Its forms beyond statistic
“It is, in very fact, an endless tonal revolution
“The pleading furies of the damned
“Against the cruelty of their damnation
“I know this language, friend,” he said.
“What about my—?” I began and cut off quick
“Your—what, friend?” he inquired
“Someone near to you; I know that much
“Not a woman though; your trumpet wasn’t grieving for a woman loss
“Someone in your family; your father maybe
“Or your brother.”
I gave him words that tiger-prowled behind my teeth
“You’re hanging over trouble, man
“Don’t break the thread
“Give it to me straight.”
So Mister Pink leaned in and laid it down
“I have a sound machine,” he said
“Which can convert the forms of jazz
“Into the sympathies which made them
“If, into my machine, I play a sorrowing blues
“From out the speaker comes the human sentiment
“Which felt those blues
“And fashioned them into the secret tongue of jazz.”
He dug the same old question stashed behind my eyes
“How do I know you’ve lost someone?” he asked
“I’ve heard so many blues and stomps and strutting jazzes
“Changed, in my machine, to sounds of anger, hopelessness and joy
“That I can understand the language now
“The story that you told was not a new one
“Did you think you were inviolate behind your tapestry of woven brass?”
“Don’t hype me, man,” I said
I let my fingers rigor mortis on his arm
He didn’t ruffle up a hair
“If you don’t believe me, come and see,” he said
“Listen to my machine
“Play your trumpet into it
“You’ll see that everything I’ve said is true.”
I felt shivers like a walking bass inside my skin
“Well, will you come?” he asked.
Rain was pressing drum rolls on the roof
As Mister Pink turned tires onto Main Street
I sat dummied in his coupe
My sacked-up trumpet on my lap
Listening while he rolled off words
Like Stacy runnings on a tinkle box
“Consider your top artists in the genre
“Armstrong, Bechet, Waller, Hines
“Goodman, Mezzrow, Spanier, dozens more both male and female
“Jews and Negroes all and why?
“Why are the greatest jazz interpreters
“Those who live beneath the constant gravity of prejudice?
“I think because the scaldings of external bias
“Focus all their vehemence and suffering
“To a hot, explosive core
“And, from this nucleus of restriction
“Comes all manner of fissions, violent and slow
“Breaking loose in brief expression
“Of the tortures underneath
“Crying for deliverance in the unbreakable code of jazz.”
He smiled. “Unbreakable till now,” he said.
“Rip bop doesn’t do it
“Jump and mop-mop only cloud the issue
“They’re like jellied coatings over true response
“Only the authentic jazz can break the pinions of repression
“Liberate the heart-deep mournings
“Unbind the passions, give freedom to the longing essence
“You understand?” he asked.
“I understand,” I said, knowing why I came.
Inside the room, he flipped the light on, shut the door
Walked across the room and slid away a cloth that covered his machine
“Come here,” he said
I suspicioned him of hyping me but good
His jazz machine was just a jungleful of scraggy tubes and wheels
And scumpteen wires boogity-boogity
Like a black-snake brawl
I double-o’ed the heap
“That’s really in there, man,” I said
And couldn’t help but smile a cutting smile
Right off he grabbed a platter, stuck it down
“Heebie-Jeebies; Armstrong
“First, I’ll play the record by itself,” he said
Any other time I’d bust my conk on Satchmo’s scatting
But I had the crawling heavies in me
And I couldn’t even loosen up a grin
I stood there feeling nowhere
While Daddy-O was tromping down the English tongue
Rip-bip-dee-doo-dee-doot-doo!
The Satch recited in his Model T baritone
Then white man threw a switch
In one hot second all the crazy scat was nixed
Instead, all pounding in my head
There came a sound like bottled blowtops scuffling up a jamboree
Like twenty tongue-tied hipsters in the next apartment
Having them a ball
Something frosted up my spine
I felt the shakes do get-off chorus in my gut
And even though I knew that Mister Pink was smiling at me
I couldn’t look him back
My heart was set to knock a doorway through my chest
Before he cut his jazz machine
“You see?” he asked.
I couldn’t talk. He had the up on me
“Electrically, I’ve caught the secret heart of jazz
“Oh, I could play you many records
“That would illustrate the many moods
“Which generate this complicated tongue
“But I would like for you to play in my machine
“Record a minute’s worth of solo
“Then we’ll play the record through the other speaker
“And we’ll hear exactly what you’re feeling
“Stripped of every sonic superficial. Right?”
I had to know
I couldn’t leave that place no more than fly
So, while white man set his record maker up,
I unsacked my trumpet, limbering up my lip
All the time the heebies rising in my craw
Like ice cubes piling
Then I blew it out again
The weight
The dragging misery
The bringdown blues that hung inside me
Like twenty irons on a string
And the string stuck to my guts with twenty hooks
That kept on slicing me away
Rone who could have died a hundred different times and ways
Rone who died, instead, down in the Murder Belt
Where he was born
Rone who thought he didn’t have to take that same old stuff
Rone who forgot and rumbled back as if he was a man
Rone who died without a single word
Underneath the boots of Mississippi peckerwoods
Who hated him for thinking he was human
And kicked his brains out for it
That’s what I played for
I blew it hard and right
And when I finished and it all came rushing back on me
Like screaming in a black-walled pit
I felt a coat of evil on my back
With every scream a button that held the dark coat closer
Till I couldn’t get the air
That’s when I crashed my horn on his machine
That’s when I knocked it on the floor
And craunched it down and kicked it to a thousand pieces
“You fool!” That’s what he called me
“You damned black fool!”
All the time until I left
I didn’t know it then
I thought that I was kicking back for every kick
That took away my only brother
But now it’s done and I can get off all the words
I should have given Mister Pink
Listen, white man; listen to me good
Buddy ghee, it wasn’t you
I didn’t have no hate for you
Even though it was your kind that put my brother
In his final place
I’ll knock it to you why I broke your jazz machine
I broke it ’cause I had to
’Cause it did just what you said it did
And, if I let it stand,
It would have robbed us of the only thing we have
That’s ours alone
The thing no boot can kick away
Or rope can choke
You cruel us and you kill us
But listen, white man,
These are only needles in our skin
But if I’d let you keep on working your machine
You’d know all our secrets
And you’d steal the last of us
And we’d blow away and never be again
Take everything you want, man
You will because you have
But don’t come scuffling for our souls.
’Tis the Season
to Be Jelly
Pa’s nose fell off at breakfast. It fell right into Ma’s coffee and displaced it. Prunella’s wheeze blew out the gut lamp.
“Land o’ goshen, Dad,” Ma said, in the gloom, “if ya know’d it was ready t’plop, whyn’t ya tap it off y’self?”
“Didn’t know,” said Pa.
“That’s what ya said the last time, Paw,” said Luke, choking on his bark bread. Uncle Rock snapped his fingers beside the lamp. Prunella’s wheezing shot the flicker out.
“Shet off ya laughin’, gal,” scolded Ma. Prunella toppled off her rock in a flurry of stumps, spilling liverwort mush.
“Tarnation take it!” said Uncle Eyes.
“Well, combust the wick, combust the wick!” demanded Grampa, who was reading when the light went out. Prunella wheezed, thrashing on the dirt.
Uncle Rock got sparks again and lit the lamp.
“Where was I now?” said Grampa.
“Git back up here,” Ma said. Prunella scrabbled back onto her rock, eye streaming tears of laughter. “Giddy chile,” said Ma. She slung another scoop of mush on Prunella’s board. “Go to,” she said. She picked Pa’s nose out of her corn coffee and pitched it at him.
“Ma, I’m fixin’ t’ask ’er t’day,” said Luke.
“Be ya, son?” said Ma. “Thet’s nice.”
“Ain’t no pu’pose to it!” Grampa said. “The dang force o’ life is spent!”
“Now, Pa,” said Pa, “don’t fuss the young ’uns’ mind-to.”
“Says right hyeh!” said Grampa, tapping at the journal with his wrist. “We done let in the wave-len’ths of anti-life, that’s what we done!”
“Manure,” said Uncle Eyes. “Ain’t we livin’?”
“I’m talkin’ ’bout the coming gene-rations, ya dang fool!” Grampa said. He turned to Luke. “Ain’t no pu’pose to it, boy!” he said. “You cain’t have no young ’uns nohow!”
“Thet’s what they tole Pa ’n’ me too,” soothed Ma, “an’ we got two lovely chillun. Don’t ya pay no mind t’Grampa, son.”
“We’s comin’ apart!” said Grampa. “Our cells is unlockin’! Man says right hyeh! We’s like jelly, breakin’-down jelly!”
“Not me,” said Uncle Rock.
“When you fixin’ t’ask ’er, son?” asked Ma.
“We done bollixed the pritecktive canopee!” said Grampa.
“Can o’ what?” said Uncle Eyes.
“This mawnin’,” said Luke.
“We done pregnayted the clouds!” said Grampa.
“She’ll be mighty glad,” said Ma. She rapped Prunella on the skull with a mallet. “Eat with ya mouth, chile,” she said.
“We’ll get us hitched up come May,” said Luke.
“We done low-pressured the weather sistem!” Grampa said.
“We’ll get ya corner ready,” said Ma.
Uncle Rock, cheeks flaking, chewed mush.
“We done screwed up the dang master plan!” said Grampa.
“Aw, shet yer ravin’ craw!” said Uncle Eyes.
“Shet yer own!” said Grampa.
“Let’s have a little ear-blessin’ harminy round hyeh,” said Pa, scratching his nose. He spat once and downed a flying spider. Prunella won the race.
“Dang leg,” said Luke, hobbling back to the table. He punched the thigh bone back into play. Prunella ate wheezingly.
“Leg aloosenin’ agin, son?” asked Ma.
“She’ll hold, I reckon,” said Luke.
“Says right hyeh!” said Grampa, “we’uns clompin’ round under a killin’ umbrella. A umbrella o’ death!”
“Bull,” said Uncle Eyes. He lifted his middle arm and winked at Ma with the blue one. “Go ’long,” said Ma, gumming off a chuckle. The east wall fell in.
“Thar she goes,” observed Pa.
Prunella tumbled off her rock and rolled out, wheezing, through the opening. “High-speerited gal,” said Ma, brushing cheek flakes off the table.
“What about my corner now?” asked Luke.
“Says right hyeh!” said Grampa, “ ’lectric charges is afummadiddled! ’Tomic structure’s unseamin’!!”
“We’ll prop ’er up again,” said Ma. “Don’t ya fret none, Luke.”
“Have us a wing-ding,” said Uncle Eyes. “Jute beer ’n’ all.”
“Ain’t no pu’pose to it!” said Grampa. “We done smithereened the whole kiboodle!”
“Now, Pa,” said Ma, “ain’t no pu’pose in apreachin’ doom nuther. Ain’t they been apreachin’ it since I was a tyke? Ain’t no reason in the wuld why Luke hyeh shouldn’t hitch hisself up with Annie Lou. Ain’t he got him two strong arms and four strong legs? Ain’t no sense in settin’ out the dance o’ life.”
“We’uns ain’t got naught t’fear but fear its own self,” observed Pa.
Uncle Rock nodded and raked a sulphur match across his jaw to light his punk.
“Ya gotta have faith,” said Ma. “Ain’t no sense in Godless gloomin’ like them signtist fellers.”
“Stick ’em in the army, I say,” said Uncle Eyes. “Poke a Z-bomb down their britches an’ send ’em jiggin’ at the enemy!”
“Spray ’em with fire acids,” said Pa.
“Stick ’em in a jug o’ germ juice,” said Uncle Eyes. “Whiff a fog o’ vacuum viriss up their snoots. Give ’em hell Columbia.”
“That’ll teach ’em,” Pa observed.
�
�We wawked t’gether through the yallar rain.
Our luv was stronger than the blisterin’ pain
The sky was boggy and yer skin was new
My hearts was beatin’—Annie, I luv you.”
Luke raced across the mounds, phantomlike in the purple light of his gutbucket. His voice swirled in the soup as he sang the poem he’d made up in the well one day. He turned left at Fallout Ridge, followed Missile Gouge to Shockwave Slope, posted to Radiation Cut and galloped all the way to Mushroom Valley. He wished there were horses. He had to stop three times to reinsert his leg.
Annie Lou’s folks were hunkering down to dinner when Luke arrived. Uncle Slow was still eating breakfast.
“Howdy, Mister Mooncalf,” said Luke to Annie Lou’s pa.
“Howdy, Hoss,” said Mr. Mooncalf.
“Pass,” said Uncle Slow.
“Draw up sod,” said Mr. Mooncalf. “Plenty chow fer all.”
“Jest et,” said Luke. “Whar’s Annie Lou?”
“Out the well fetchin’ whater,” Mr. Mooncalf said, ladling bitter vetch with his flat hand.
“The,” said Uncle Slow.
“Reckon I’ll help ’er lug the bucket then,” said Luke.
“How’s ya folks?” asked Mrs. Mooncalf, salting pulse-seeds.
“Jest fine,” said Luke. “Top o’ the heap.”
“Mush,” said Uncle Slow.
“Glad t’hear it, Hoss,” said Mr. Mooncalf.
“Give ’em our crawlin’ best,” said Mrs. Mooncalf.
“Sure will,” said Luke.
“Dammit,” said Uncle Slow.
Luke surfaced through the air hole and cantered toward the well, kicking aside three littles and one big that squished irritably.
“How is yo folks?” asked the middle little.
“None o’ yo dang business,” said Luke.
Annie Lou was drawing up the water bucket and holding on the side of the well. She had an armful of loose bosk blossoms.
Luke said, “Howdy.”
“Howdy, Hoss,” she wheezed, flashing her tooth in a smile of love.
“What happened t’yer other ear?” asked Luke.
“Aw, Hoss,” she giggled. Her April hair fell down the well. “Aw, pshaw,” said Annie Lou.
“Tell ya,” said Luke. “Somep’n on my cerebeelum. Got that wud from Grampa,” he said, proudly. “Means I got me a mindful.”
“That right?” said Annie Lou, pitching bosk blossoms in his face to hide her rising color.