by J. J. Murray
"You all right, Mr. Farmer?" I asked.
He stopped shaking for a moment. "That my Penny?"
He always called me that, saying that "a good penny always turns up "" I smiled. "Yes, Mr. Farmer."
"I been better, Penny." He started shaking again.
Naomi knelt next to him and held his wrist, shaking her head slightly. "We'll probably need an ambulance this time, Ruth" She unbuttoned the top button on his red flannel shirt and fanned her hand around his face.
"Be right back, Mr. Farmer," I said, stepping into Hood's where it wasn't much cooler. I addressed Mr. Hood, the white owner who charged too much for everything he sold to the folks in the 'hood. But since most folks couldn't get out with out taking a bus or a cab-few folks owned reliable working vehicles on Vine Street they had to pay his ridiculous prices. "Y'all call an ambulance yet?"
"What for?" Mr. Hood said. If any man on earth looked like an overgrown billy goat, it was Mr. Hood: white hair parted down the middle, tufts of hair jutting from his chin and ears, the smallest little mouth with the smallest little teeth. Man probably ate rusty cans for breakfast and asked for seconds.
I pointed through the front window. "Don't tell me you can't see Larry Farmer lyin' out there"
"Who?"
"Larry Farmer. That's his name"
"You mean Bag Man"
"Whatever."
"He's done it before"
"Well, he ain't liable to get up this time."
"He'll be all right. Just buy him a soda"
Buy him one? Some people have no souls. "He gonna need more than a soda today, Mr. Hood" I tapped the counter. "You make that call." Mr. Hood only rolled his eyes. "Be a shame if that black man died outside your door, Mr. Hood. Wouldn't be good for future business with your black customers, now would it?" He reached under the counter and pulled out a phone. "Think the number's nine-one-one." I waited till he pressed those three buttons and asked for an ambulance before returning to the hot sidewalk.
"Ambulance is on the way, Larry," I said.
"Oh, y'all goin' through too much trouble."
"You need to see a doctor, Mr. Farmer," Naomi said. She pointed at his legs, and I nodded. It looked like he had gangrene or something, the skin all blotchy and tight on his ankles.
"Jes' gimme a drink, an' I'll be on my way, Penny."
I squatted down and put my hand on his forehead. "Not this time, Larry." He was as hot as an iron, but he wasn't sweating. Lord Jesus, he has heat stroke. "We gonna take care of you."
Larry looked up at me and smiled that gap-toothed grin. "I guess I could use me a little rest. Thank you, Penny." Then his shaking stopped, and his eyes closed.
I looked at Naomi, who still held his wrist. "Is he gone?"
She placed her hand on his chest. "I think so ""
I closed my eyes, and when I opened them, I saw more of my people weaving around us. That's when I lost it completely. "Do you not know that you are your brother's keeper?!" I shrieked at an old crow who walked away a little faster without looking back. "You better not look back! You'd turn into a pillar of pepper!" A pair of shoppers, two old biddies, were staring at me from the front step of the store. "What you two good Samaritans lookin' at?" They scuttled into the store like two little blue crabs.
"Ruth, please," Naomi pleaded, tugging on my arm.
Mr. Hood stuck his goat head out the door. "Why are you screaming at my customers? You should be ashamed, scarin' 'em like that!"
I shook Naomi away and stalked toward Mr. Hood. He wisely shut the door and locked it. "Oh, we wouldn't want to be scarin' no one!" I yelled. "Nah, we can't have that on Vine Street, can't have that in front of Hood's Grocery!" I pounded on the door, making Mr. Hood jump back.
Naomi dug her nails into my arm this time. "Please, Ruth. Let's get out of this heat"
"Nah, we can't have no Yellin' on Vine Street!" I shouted as she led me across Eleventh. "But we can have black men dyin' in the street!" I whirled toward the crowd that had finally formed around Larry Farmer. "Oh, now you see him! Couldn't see him before, huh? You all ought to be ashamed!" Naomi grabbed at my arm again, but I swatted it away. "If any of you decides to fall out in front of my house, I'm gonna call the sanitation department and have your mother- fuckin' asses hauled away!"
"Ruth," Naomi whispered, "let it go"
"Nah, I know. I'll call the po-lice and have your asses arrested for trespassin'!"
By the time I got back to the apartment, I was shouted out. I felt like two hundred thirty pounds of steamy sweat. Naomi and Tonya ran me a bath to cool me off, and I soaked for a time, sipping some more iced tea. I heard the ambulance when it approached, sirens blaring, but I didn't hear it go away. Larry's really gone. Man never hurt no one. All the man needed was a little drink of water, and here I am sippin' tea in a cool bath. I poured my tea into the tub. Then I caught pieces of whispered conversations from the bedroom ... "another breakdown ... her doctor ... which pills? ... a shame"
A shame. World's goin' to hell, folks have no souls, I'm on drugs, I'm a prime candidate for diabetes, stroke, heart attack, already got a broken heart, Larry's on his way to the morgue... "LORD JESUS, WHY DON'T YOU DO SOMETHING!"
Tonya and Naomi peeked in. "You all right?" Tonya asked in the smallest voice I've ever heard come out of her big-lipped mouth.
"I been better," I said, and I stood, water cascading off me. They both looked away. "Don't you avert your eyes from me!" I got out of the bath tub. "Skinny-ass bitches! If I sneeze from here, y'all both gonna go down like dominos."
Naomi looked up and held out a handful of bottles. "Which one do you need, Ruth?"
I looked at the puddle forming on the floor, then stared her down. "All of them"
Naomi snatched her hand back to her chest, her hands and the pills shaking. "Oh, come on now, Ruth-"
I held out my hand. "Give them to me"
"She trippin'," Tonya said.
I took a step forward, my foot slapping on the linoleum floor. "Just one of my legs outweighs the two of you combined, and if you want me to break bad on you, you trippin'. Give me the pills."
Naomi handed them to me. "Ruth, please don't-"
I held up a hand. "Now, I want y'all to watch."
"I'll go call an ambulance-" Tonya started to say, but I cut her off with a grunt.
"Bitch, just shut the fuck up and watch."
I opened the first bottle, the nasty sleeping pills, and rattled them around ... then poured them into the toilet. "Don't need y'all no more. I'm gonna sleep just fine from now on "" I heard Naomi and Tonya sighing behind me. I opened the next bottle, something for my nerves, and dumped them into the toilet. "Don't need y'all no more. I want to feel every little thing from now on" I opened the next two bottles and watched them plop into the sea of pills. "I don't even remember what y'all are for, but I hope it wasn't for my memory. I don't need y'all no more" I looked at the label of the last bottle, the one for my high blood pressure. I opened it, dumped it, and tossed the empty bottles into the trash. "Don't need y'all no more neither. I'm gonna get back to normal without you"
I turned to my friends. "Come here" Both of them had tears running down their cheeks. "I said, come here" They slipped over, Tonya stepping around the puddle. "Put your hands on my hand" They did. "Now help me flush this shit." We pressed down on that lever together, then watched the pills go round and round till only crystal clear Calhoun city water was left in the tank.
"We just fucked up about a million rats," Tonya said as Naomi tried to hug me.
"Don't you skinny bitches be huggin' on me yet," I said, walking past them, still naked, to the kitchen. I stood in front of the refrigerator, took a deep breath, then yanked open the top and bottom doors. I stared at the food that I loved that didn't love me back: the pork chops, the ham, the ground beef, the fatback, the ice cream, the sour cream, the cheese, the sodas. Y'all got to go. "Stand back and get ready to catch"
I emptied that bitch of a refrigerator in less than five
minutes, leaving me some celery, some lettuce, a couple carrots, and a pitcher of water, while Tonya and Naomi ran around behind me filling garbage bags and grocery bags. I closed the doors. "Don't y'all ever let me buy this shit again. Promise?"
"Promise," they said together.
I tore off some pizza coupons taped to the refrigerator door. "This shit either."
Tonya smiled. "Glad you're back"
I let Naomi hug me. "It's good to be back. Now get your narrow, no cellulite, never-had-a-stretch-mark asses out of my sight. You makin' me feel bad"
After they left, I wept ... and ate some stale-ass, rubbery celery.
And I loved every shitty bite.
dour
But in the morning, I was weeping in pain and could not move. My stomach and chest felt like they had lead weights on them, I had trouble breathing, and my heart was pounding. I thought I was having a heart attack. I managed to call Naomi, who called Tonya, and the two of them showed up in a hurry-but I couldn't get out of bed to answer the door because of the pain.
"Break down the damn door!" I yelled, but they went and found the supervisor in apartment one, who opened the door for them. And that's when I pooted and felt so much better.
Shit. I ain't dyin'. I just got me some gas.
"Oh, my Lord!" Naomi yelled as she raced into the bedroom and grabbed my wrist.
"It ain't my wrist that hurts," I said, pulling my wrist away. "It's my stomach"
Tonya felt my forehead. "Girl, you got a fever, too. I already called an ambulance."
"What'd you do that for? I just got some bad gas is all."
"You're probably having a heart attack," Tonya said.
"Or a stroke," Naomi added. "Just like your grandma and mama, girl. They say it runs in families."
"Ain't nothin' runnin' down there, y'all. I just got me some gas" I let loose another string, and they winced. "See? It's all that old celery I ate last night. Call off the-"
"Comin' through!" a male voice yelled.
"Oh, shit," I said, and in seconds, two paramedics and two firemen, all white, burly, and sweaty, came stumbling into my bedroom with all their gear, and me wearing two-day-old bloomers, footies with holes in the toes, and a gray T-shirt that read "I'M TIRED, I'M CRANKY, LEAVE ME ALONE" I had died and gone straight to hell in my own apartment.
"Look, y'all-" I tried to say, but one of the paramedics attached a blood pressure sleeve to my arm while the other took my pulse. Hmm. Man holdin' my wrist kinda cute. Do I mind if a white man holds my wrist? Just hope I don't poot. Lord God, please keep all my gas inside till they leave!
"What's your name, ma'am?" wrist-holding paramedic said.
"Ruth. What's yours?"
"Bob." He looked like a Bob. Kind of the generic, allAmerican white boy with blond hair and bushy eyebrows. "Do you have a history of heart trouble, Ruth?"
"Yeah, but it don't have nothin' to do with my body." Blood-pressure-pumping paramedic stopped squeezing that little bulb. "I just have some really bad gas, fellas. Honest. When I called my friends, it felt like a heart attack. It's just some gas from some bad celery."
"Pressure's kinda high," BP-Boy said.
"Cuz I'm overweight and black," I said. "You have to believe me. I'll be fine"
BP-Boy shrugged at Bob. Bob shrugged back and pulled out his stethoscope. "You mind if I listen?"
Do I mind if an all-American white boy puts his strong, hairy hand inside my shirt? Decisions, decisions. "No, just warm up that thing first, Bob."
He put the metal part on me ... but not under my shirt. Damn! He bounced it around a bit before shrugging again. "Sounds fine"
That was when the biggest poot escaped, and I felt ten pounds lighter. "Told you that was all it was" Tonya and Naomi left the room laughing. The firemen left the room laughing. The paramedics, though, left the room gasping. Damn, what just a little bit of bad celery can do!
Naomi returned with a table fan, the kind that turns back and forth, and set it on high. "Won't do no good," I said, finally able to sit up without pains shooting into my gut. "Girl, that celery is just cleaning out my colon or something."
"That's all you ate?"
"That's all I had. Shit, I probably got food stuck up in me twenty years old. You'd be stank, too, if you was locked up inside someone's intestines for twenty years."
Tonya breezed in fanning the air in front of her, a huge Ijust-got-a-phone-number smile on her face. "Guess what?"
"You got one of the firemen's numbers," Naomi said wearily, opening the window wider.
"Both," Tonya said. Nobody spoke for the longest time. "What?"
"Girl, haven't you got any pride left?" Naomi moaned.
"What's pride got to do with it?" Tonya said. "Those two boys is paid, and I hear they only work three days on, four days off, and I intend for one or both of them to be on me when they're off."
"They're white," Naomi said. "You'll only get hurt. Again."
"You ain't my mama, Naomi," Tonya said.
"Remember the last one?" Naomi asked. "The one who made all those promises?"
Tonya bounced up and down on my bed. "So?"
"Wasn't he married?"
"And your point is?"
I stared at both of them (while stifling another poot) and wondered how we all ever became friends: Tonya the sexy she-devil who sometimes came to church, Naomi the black nun who got none, and me, the black Cinderella, the pumpkin girl who would never be changed into a beautiful carriage because she was already the size of the carriage. All it took was a young adult Sunday school class twenty years ago to bring us together.
I decided to let that poot fly to shut them up, and it was the squeaky kind, like lettin' air out of a balloon real slow. "That's what I think of y'all, now get the hell out"
"But--2' Naomi said.
I stood and shut her up with my hand. "Bringing four sweaty men into my apartment when it's lookin' like shit with me lookin' like shit, Naomi, it just ain't Christian. And you know they'll charge me for the visit, and I ain't got the money. Gonna show me some Christian charity then?" I stared at Tonya. "And hookin' up with two white firemen cuz I got some gas you ain't got no self-respect, Tonya. Now, I'm gonna take a shit, and when I get out, y'all best be gone"
Tonya rolled her eyes. "I'll, uh, just take the battery out of the smoke alarm."
Naomi smiled. "And I'll call the gas company and tell them that there isn't a leak. It just smells like one"
Another poot rolled out, and they scattered.
One thing I can say for gas-it'll prove who your friends are every time.
TART TWO
The storm Zs Over
mow
dive
All of that happened just yesterday, and now it's a new day. Any day is a good day to start over. Check that: every day is a good day to start over. I'm through being where I've been. Got my comfortable traveling shoes on, gonna start a new journey. Don't know where, don't care. Long as I'm going, I'll be fine, just fine. This day, unfortunately, is another typical Sunday at Antioch Church with Reverend JonASS Bore-'em in the pulpit, so my journey begins with a little mountain to climb.
In the Amen Corner, wrinkled brown men in freshly ironed black suits yell "Tell it!" to the Fan Ladies in flowered and laced hats toe tapping in the first pew next to Tony Richards, the pianist, caressing the keys, his eyes closed, a thin black tie dangling from his starched collar, in front of the swaying choir of women in golden robes singing "When We Reach the Blessed Homeland" while I add the bass (and an occasional poot) as Jonas hops and struts like a stiff white man behind the pulpit, the microphone pressed to his thinass lips, children standing on the pews in the middle rows, their parents wide-eyed, hands in the air, shouting "Yes Lord!"
The people of Antioch Church know that God is in the house this morning. All their tears have been wiped away. They're running and winning that blessed race, calling and falling out, these, the fire-baptized and sanctified, testifying of God's miracles, shouting, "Hallelujah,
Jesus!"
It makes me want to puke, but I play (and poot) on.
Then a heavyset white man blasts through the oak church doors, stumbles down the aisle, and slumps over the altarcall railing. Silence fills the sanctuary save the weeping of the white man.
This shit has never happened before. I cannot remember a white man, much less a white person, entering this church during a service. Oh, sure, they come on other days of the week to collect overdue bills, but they never come during a service. I keep holding my chord, even pull out a few more stops, and in a moment, my chord is the only sound in the sanctuary ... except for the white man's weeping. Damn, that weeping sounds familiar. It's the echo of my own these past few months.
Jonas looks at me like he used to when something went wrong. I shrug my shoulders and roll my eyes as if to say, "It ain't my church no more, JonASS. I just play the organ, Little Man. You still playin' with yours?" He turns to the congregation, mouths, "Sing something," and joins the man at the railing. They kneel together, heads touching, Jonas's bony arm barely reaching around the man.
Mrs. Winnifred Poindexter, the oldest Fan Lady with the largest hat, begins to hum "Ain't Nobody Can Do Me Like Jesus," and I start to play along with her. I'll bet that old Winny is also worrying that the man crying in front of her will later be double-dipping his celery into her onion dip, using his finger to gouge the icing off her famous devil's food cake, or worse, eating her secret-recipe chicken with a fork at the potluck following the service. Old Winny thinks that only people of color have proper table manners.
One by one, the other Fan Ladies join in humming, blending alto, contralto, and soprano, each probably wondering why the man's wife let him go out of the house wearing a wrinkled blue suit, scuffed brown shoes, and white tube socks. Tony finally finds the right key, and I know he's staring hard at the man's no-name-brand shoes, his Sears polyester suit, and his K-Mart blue light special maroon-and-black paisley tie. Mr. Otis Saunders, lead Amener from the Amen Corner, adds a deep rumble of bass, most likely hoping that the man will get himself straight with God soon since Otis is planning to testify a long, long time today like always. His record is forty-five minutes, leaving Jonas with only a seven-minute sermon on the topic of sin. The choir swishes and sways, each woman, like me, astonished at the man's uneven, shaggy hair, my own fingers twitching with the need to either edge him up or shave him bald.