Ain’t she gon go to the concert with us on Sunday?
I don’t know.
So when will I get to meet her?
Hatch fanned his hands, propelling smoke through the open window. Soon.
Soon?
Soon.
She that ugly? Bowwow?
Man, just bust that tape.
Abu clicked in Spin’s new tape, Hip Hoptaplomeres. Shadows trembled, greyhounds awaiting release. Sound gradually filled the hollow speakers, water in a tub.
I really meant to pick up those tickets yesterday, Hatch said, but, like I said, I got tied up at my grandmother’s house.
Why didn’t you get them today?
I didn’t feel like doing nothing. I was like, Let me jus chill.
Well—Abu toked. It’s all good. We can get them tomorrow. He passed Hatch the hot joint. Who sposed to open fo Spin?
Goy Boys. Hatch sucked to the depths of his lungs. The joint was a proboscis drawing in the smoky night. Smoke lifted, forgot the joint from which it ascended.
Goy Boys?
Yeah, you know. That Jewish crew.
Ain’t what I heard.
Well, that’s what the ad said.
Heard it sposed to be Southern Cross.
Them born-again rednecks?
Abu nodded.
No way. You heard wrong.
Abu curled his legs in, Buddha-fashion. He formed a pyramid of rising fat. How you know?
I know.
I know this, whoever gon open, they gon be live.
Word.
Spin don’t associate wit no busters.
Word.
And you know he can flow.
Way above the top.
You know Spin.
Hatch did. From the first flash of consciousness, he had consumed a daily staple of stories about the Hairtrigger Boys—Uncle John, Spokesman, and Spin—tales that sweetened his ears by day and nurtured his dreams at night. A year ago, Spin’s Noosepapers had made it into the top ten. Accompanied by his military crew FNG (Fucking New Guy), Spin toured and twisted the world. Opportunity darted across Hatch’s vision. Hatch decided to reacquaint himself with Spokesman. (How long had it been?) Spokesman. The one on whom nothing is lost. You could ask him anything and he’d answer you, cause he spent all of his time in book and knowledge joints: the Woodson Library, the Museum of Science and Industry, the Field Museum, the Biblical Conservatory, the Cultural Center, the Shell Aquarium, the Armory Museum, the Planetarium. Uncle John drove him to Symmes Electronics—in the Underground—where Spokesman worked. Why you wanna see Spokesman after all these years? Uncle John said. His face was perfectly clear, sharp and defined. Spokesman was bald as a thimble and just as bright. Through walrus teeth, he talked, half laughing, with money in his voice.
Spokesman discussed the almanac he had been working on the past four or five years, writing and rewriting the same ephemeris over and over again. (In bulging, badly packed envelopes, he mailed Uncle John, Lucifer, and Spin samples of his sweat-stained words.)
Scared or not, anxious or not, the electric air made Hatch light-headed. His head balloon-bobbed. Hey, he said, you heard from Spin?
Spokesman drew his head back, as if lip-deep in shit.
Music sawed the silence in half. Moved in the room with them, between and beyond.
Let us cross over the river and rest under the shade of the trees
Be born again in our BVDs
Turn it up, Hatch said. I can’t hear it.
Abu turned it up.
I am an Antichrist
I am an Antichrist
That’s blasphemous, Abu said. He clapped his palms over his ears.
Don’t know what I want
But I know how to get it
Stop actin like a Christian, Hatch said.
I am a Christian.
I know. Hatch knew. Abu was a son of the church.
Went to the river to be baptized
Stepped on a root and got capsized
The river was deep and the preacher was weak
So (hear me, nigger!) I’m Walt Whitman with an AK-47
I went to seventh heaven at eleven from
the bottom of the goddamn creek geek
Always trying to be sarcastic, Abu said.
Hatch didn’t answer. In the dark, sitting apart, Abu was no more to him than a voice.
Air spun into itself. Blinds sucked in and out by an open breeze. Dusky windows like sluggish eyes. The room blue-glowed, Mrs. Harris’s China luminescent in the dark.
Hatch took a hit and passed Abu the joint. Abu accepted it with one hand, the second hand guarding his chaste ear.
Hatch lay back on the floor. Hard floor planks pushed wood hands through the Persian rug and against his back. Iron fibers raked his neck. Yes, once plush, this Persian rug was now tattered and rough. When Mrs. Harris gon buy a new one? Here, years earlier, Hatch and Abu had wrestled—Hatch had the physical advantage, his height and strength making Abu’s limbs and skin elastic, and always won in a matter of seconds—when they had free run of the house. The Persian rug magic-carpeted them through every room of Mrs. Harris’s house, bumping into this item and crashing into that one. They would hear Mrs. Harris banging clusters of keys outside the front door—her WELCOME mat greeted all visitors at the back door, where she made everyone, including Mr. Harris, enter to prevent them from tracking mud or dirt on her Persian rug—and they would smooth the rug in seconds flat. Caught, they would flee the wings of Mrs. Harris’s fluttering hands.
Abu, hear that? Hatch’s fingers popped the song’s beat. It’ll fit right in with our new mix, Eve of Adam’s Destruction.
I don’t know if I’m down wit that mix. Abu toked—the tip glowed red—in his parents’ absence. Bathroom attendants, they worked nights downtown, shining shoes and passing out towels and cologne for heavy tips. Abu passed Hatch the joint like the Olympic torch.
Jus listen. It’s only a song. Stop being such a Christian.
I am a Christian. Abu wiggled his chimpanzee ears.
Well, least you ain’t one of them Muslims. Knocking yo fohead against the ground a hundred times a day. Hatch stubbed out the joint in the Persian rug. There, now she would have to buy a new one. He looked at Abu with Uncle John’s eyes, a measuring look. (This always reduced him.)
Abu turned away.
Hear that beat in between the beat? The words rose above Hatch’s face and drifted into Abu’s space. The words watched Abu, fat, earthbound.
I hear it.
Ah, if he would only listen. One might as well plow a field with butterfly wings as try to teach him music. His fat seemed unfit for molding. Hatch had turned him on to jazz. Funny cause back in the day, Hatch and Abu would trip on Mr. Harris’s listening to his jazz. In his den, Abu’s father kept the largest collection of jazz records Hatch had ever seen. Decks and decks of them. Perfect for the mixes. Cave after cave of albums to dig through and explore. Hatch and Abu would spy through the den peephole, see Mr. Harris sitting between the decks—his skinny insectlike head bowed, his eyes closed—rocking to the sounds.
Didn’t they play that one in The Flintstones?
Nawl. Mr. Magoo.
Nawl. Mannix.
Nawl. That was Plan Nine from Outer Space.
They would laugh until their bellies hurt.
Did you hear what I said? Abu said.
Learn something about chords.
Why? I’m a drummer.
Forget it. Why explain? What was the use? Hatch was tired of carrying Abu on the cuff. When they had both played clarinet—Mr. Stingley, the red-faced band teacher, wouldn’t allow a drum or guitar in his band; This is a marching band; you should be able to handle that one clarinet. When I was a boy, we had four. A, B-flat, C, and E-flat—in the school band, Mr. Stingley had to keep at Abu. Abu, what note is that? A quarter note? Then why are you playing a half? Mr. Stingley stood above Abu and struck his own leg with his plastic baton to the rhythm of the score. Camptown Races?
I should kick you to the curb and make that move to New York, Hatch said. Leave yo ass here.
Go on then. You jus talkin shit.
Try me.
The music gushed and bumped and hissed.
Ain’t Uncle John jus go to New York?
Nawl, Washington. To stop the war. Then he sposed to swing through New York and holler at Spin.
Wish we was opening for Spin Sunday.
Word.
Maybe Uncle John could hook us up.
Look, Hatch said, my Uncle John ain’t no messenger boy.
Abu watched Hatch, swaying a little. I ain’t say he is. That don’t mean he can’t put in a good word or two. Won’t cost him nothing.
And it don’t cost nothing to take a shit either.
Abu’s breath came out straight and sharp.
In the dark, on the floor, Hatch guarded his secret hope: Uncle John will put in a good word or two—hell, a whole library of praise—and Spin will be the Jawbone to break Hatch into the business. Hallelujah!
I seen some of his new video.
Ain’t it the hype?
Way above the top.
Spin’s henna-painted face red-blinks in and out of focus. Congeals into a dotted map of gook hearts.
Slammin.
This is Spin and I’m back again like the wind
Cause I’m in my sin my friend and then
If you want to go far, square, somewhere
Get out of your punk ass chair (on the dare)
Word, I’m gon put something cool in the air
Hatch listened to the music that swelled the speaker, listening but not hearing. Words is like spots on dice. No matter how you roll em, there’s times when they won’t come. Carried Spin’s words like a captured bird. Birthed his own rhyme.
This is Genuine Draft
Master of graft and craft.
I’m blowing on and on and on (won’t stop)
Step to me wrong, strong
You get shot and end up in a Ziploc
Damn, Abu said. What’s up with that?
Something wrong?
Yeah, something is wrong.
You don’t like my rhyme?
Nigga, you stole it. You stealin.
Stealin? Hatch said. No. Spin’s words traveled to me. He nodded to the sea’s sound.
Traveled?
Yes, traveled. Long ago, Hatch had faced the ugly truth that he couldn’t sing. Though he savored each note twice, the words came out bitter-tasting. His recorded voice never sounded like himself—thin, a sewing string vainly attempting to vibrate sound—how he heard himself inside.
Redball, don’t resist (pump yo fist and twist)
It’s on, I’m kicking up a storm like a communist
So he studied Spin’s music, made mental pictures of each song. Words came. Phrases came. Visions came. He learned to sketch the thing itself before it was a thing. Travel inside himself and discover secrets in the silence.
You stealin. Plain and simple. False prophets follow heavy on the heels of true prophets.
Now you gon church me?
Maybe you need some church.
The smooth, clear music moved on undisturbed, waterlike.
Put in our tape, Hatch said.
Abu squelched Spin’s song. He clicked in the requested tape. Third Rail.
Now, new music rose, an unexpected match flaring up in the dark. Abu point-blank on the wheels of steel, backtracking the whacked, doctoring measured doses of beats. Both hands buck wild on two turntables, working the discs in opposite directions. Telescopic grooves. (Yes, Hatch had produced the mix—looped it to tape—and Abu cut it.) Ah, here was the next song. Abu’s hands flickered once or twice, then died. His rhythms fell away from the fullness of the song. A scratched record, repeating the same beat, jumping on the same groove, no mix no mission. Listen to your heart. No. Not like that. Listen to your heart. Notes floated, aimless, chaotic. It’s like exercise. The heart changes. That beat in between the beat. Fast, then slow. Fast. Fast. Slow. Fast. Slow. Hatch’s ear strained to bring the pieces together.
You hear that?
Hear what? Abu said.
That.
Abu said nothing.
Can you play it?
Abu breathed in the darkness.
Abu? What are you playing? Mr. Stingley said.
Nothing, sir.
Nothing? I can see that. I can hear it too. My ears are too old for this.
Sorry, sir.
Notes of the same key respond to each other.
Yes, sir.
And if you wet your reed you will blow better. You can’t blow anything with a dry reed.
Can’t I jus bend it?
Bend it? Wet it! What do you think I’ve been saying to you? I must be talking for my health. You can’t play anything with a rigid reed. Can’t I bend it? What is Mr. Nelson teaching you in that science class? Nothing in the universe is perfectly rigid.
You jus think you better than me cause you had more theory.
Theory? Nigga, I read the same books you do. Indeed, they shared books, creasing a page with two sets of thumbprints. We were here! Folded both page corners (top and bottom), two dog ears for double listening.
So. You read more.
No, that’s not the problem. See, you need an eye single to the music.
Don’t try to sound smart. You had more instruction.
Not as much as you. Abu had trained under the most refined drum teachers.
You had better instruction.
Memory sounds in the slowness of the pause. Ripens to red visions.
Hatch’s one guitar teacher had been Hank Hazlett. Listen and bounce it back. Hank taught Hatch the basics. See that’s your tonic, your dominant, and your subdominant. Music got to have that or it won’t swing.
Okay.
And when you bend a note, you try to hit the notes that ain’t there, the missing notes of the scale. That’s the blues.
How’d it get up here? I mean, the blues, how’d it get all the way up here?
The music followed us here. Cause the ‘Sippi River ain’t nothing but one long guitar string. Hank was an old man. A belt of white hair circled his head, squeezed out wrinkles in his face and neck. He had led a trio in his short career as a professional musician—
We played our first gig downtown … a Chinese restaurant.
What?
Baby, them chinks love them some jazz.
—and harbored a trunkful of stories.
But I was talkin about the junkies. Baby, most of them cats were junkies. Hank leaned in close and put distance between the words and his wife’s pious ears. And H makes you all constipated. Imagine Trane digging up his crack, trying to pull out a rock-hard lump of doo-doo.
Ah, man.
And thieves. H makes you steal. Bird would steal your mamma’s draws, brown stains and all. Steal the flea collar off a dog’s neck. Bird only looked after himself. He used to say, This is a solo flight and you may take no one with you. Talkin in that phony British accent.
I never heard nothing bout that.
Had to put on airs cause that H had taken everything else he had. Why you think he played a plastic horn?
Creative. He wanted to be—
Miles used to have to loan him a suit to play in. Skinny old Miles and fat old Bird. You know he was lookin silly. Sleeves too short and flood-high pants. But Miles took the H train too. And you know Bird and Miles were sissies.
Come on, Hank. I know Miles was on the H. But I never heard—
H, horn—he and Bird would toot anything, if you know what I mean.
Hank—
H brings out the fag in you. Make you do things you wouldn normally do.
Hank—
And Billie, you know she was a mess. She would kiss a roach for a quick fix. And she would eat anything for a buck. And I do mean anything. The joke was, she had sensitive teeth. Get it? Sensitive. S-i-n. Sen-sen.
Hatch laughed, belly-hard. Then his laugh caught in t
he mitt of his throat. He spoke to himself: I shouldn’t be laughin about Billie, Lady Day. Show some respect, he told himself. Respect. R-e-s-p-e-c-t.
And she had this little dog named Melody. Billie’d come in the club and sit down at the bar with a stiff drink—you know how that alcohol ate up her voice. Used to sing so sweet. Billie’s bounce. Well, she come into the club and sit down at the bar with a stiff drink and spread her legs. She never wore no draws. That dog start to lickin her and lickin her like greasy chicken.
Hatch shook his head. Now, why’d you want to tell me something like that? Hank, you talkin bout Lady Day, man, Lady Day!
By the way, she didn’t like to be called Lady. (Prez called her Mamma. Bless his soul.) She said, Lady, that’s the name for a dog.
The pinnacle of his career, Hank shook hands with Charlie Christian. Yeah, we were workin this gig and Charlie came in as we were leaving. Ole Charlie was tough. Lots of cats used to copy his style. Convert their style to coincide with his.
After Hank gave up the life, he put in thirty years at a paint factory. I played a gig here and there. Man, I used to work with all those cats when they came to town. Prez, Monk, Bird, Miles, Trane—I used to buy all those guys hot dogs. I still can’t understand it. Why do a guy want to be a junky to play a horn? a guitar? That’s why I gave it up in 1945. I was afraid to go on the road. The paint had wrecked his body. He stood reed-thin, knees squeezed together like a girl needing to pee. Took him ten minutes to quit a room.
Face to face with Hank, Hatch’s mind often drifted, trying to image two persons in one, the young Hank, the hepcat—cuff-linked shirt, suspenders, painted tie, patent-leather kicks, and a sky red as autumn day—in the old Hank. The language was there—I had this long cord. The longest in the world. Made it myself. I’d leave the stage and go table to table, running riffs and hustlin in tips. On Sunday nights we’d go down to Lamb’s Cafe when the symphonic session was on. We going to church. But most nights the cats hung out at the Red Onion. The P.I.’s wore these big diamonds, big as dimes. Seen a few bigger than a quarter. And the hot women wit those big behinds. That was the place for cats to jam. But people wasn’t paying much mind to what was happening onstage. Then the cats in the band would start to mess up. I used to ride the drummer for not playin the sock cymbal on the afterbeat. Mop-a! Like that. Mop-a—but the flesh was long gone.
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