Did I ask you to sign in?
THE COMMUNITY CENTER was a small round checker of a building centered in the massive grid of Red Hook. Hatch cracked the silence of the faraway metal door with the barefaced window. A desk beckoned to his immediate left. Desk or table? Who can tell? The room fluttered white. He heard it and saw it, a window raised on rusted strings. Four white wings veiled Hatch’s peeping eyes—had to peep (no fresh open sight), his pupils carrying the outside light inside. White doves.
Yall want this bread, yall better come get it. Damn if I’m gon chase you. The man held up two stubs of white bread. A gorilla head man with bear feet. What kind of animal? His body enveloped a leather chair in a shapeless mass of flabby flesh, a collapsed parachute. A black-tipped (rubber) brown (wood) cane slanted across his body, the curved head looping the circle of his lap. Hurry up, too. I gotta get back to the desk. The doves settled light onto the limbs of his thumbs. The man’s bowed head raised quickly, as if he’d been kicked in the chin. Yes, his eyes had caught the shadow of Hatch’s approaching shoes.
What you want? The voice thundered. The birds fluttered into white flight. You must be in the wrong place. This the Community Center. His eyes watched Hatch. Strained vision. Red overworked vessels. And yellow, possible jaundice. But more than red and yellow. Two globes of color. Dyed eggs.
You Pool Webb?
Yeah. Who you?
Aw, my name Hatch.
Who?
Hatch. Hatch Jones.
Don’t believe I know you.
I come here about Lucifer.
Lucifer?
Lucifer Jones. You know, Blue Demons.
The man watched.
The basketball team.
What?
Blue Demons basketball team.
Oh, the team.
Lucifer coach—
Oh, Lucifer. Pool Webb smiled in recognition. Lucifer Jones. He extended his hand. Hatch accepted it, amazed at the tension of energy coursing beneath the skin, a secret torrent that bore no relation to the flabby torso, the rubber-band legs in crisp, pressed trousers. Does he press them? With those hands? Ain’t heard from him in a while. How is he?
He fine.
He some kin to you?
Well, he my Uncle John’s brother.
What?
John Jones. He my uncle.
Webb watched, questioning eyes.
Lucifer my father.
Oh, I see. So you want to join the basketball team?
No. I don’t care much for sports.
Just visitin?
I guess. I heard a lot about you.
From Lucifer?
Hatch nodded his head.
He sho is a quiet one. Get more words out of one of these birds. And they ain’t even parrots.
Hatch’s face closed. He warmed to the joke, outer sun radiating upward from his inner belly. He released a delayed, high-pitched laugh.
I didn’t even know he had a son.
Hatch said nothing.
How is he anyway?
Fine, I guess. You already asked me that.
That’s good. He know we got a game Saturday.
I don’t know if he know.
Bread-free, bird-free, Pool Webb rested his hands on the half-loop of his cane handle. Look, I gotta get back to the desk. Webb bowed forward—resting his full weight on the cane—kneeled, a sprinter preparing to drop low on his hips and haunches. The cane’s black rubber foot pressed into the carpet. The wood shaft vibrated. Hatch thought he heard it hum. He extended an arm to assist Webb, but the arm wouldn’t reach. Webb rose to full height. He same size as me; maybe a little taller; can’t tell with those legs. Sit down right here.
Hatch dropped into Webb’s still-warm leather seat.
I be off in fifteen minutes. Want some bread?
What?
Some bread. To feed them birds.
No, that’s okay.
Pool Webb guided his cane, his knees projecting away from one another as if they were scared to touch. Yes, the O of his knees and bandied legs made him stoop and roll when he walked. His thick head bowed, watching his long arms and big fists. Hatch thought he heard a knuckle or two scrape the concrete. Hatch thought what he hated to think. Pool Webb look like a gorilla.
A NOISY VACUUM OF ELEVATOR sucked them in. Inner steel, cold, silver, and surgical. The doors banged shut. The elevator lurched into motion. The spirit of gravity, Spokesman said, dancing, floating, freedom above things. The vacuum sucked at Hatch’s insides. Sucked out the butterflies. The elevator worked in pain. Breaking pain that gave a final push to open the doors.
Hatch followed slow Webb patiently down the hall. Should I help him? Webb pulled noisy keys from his pocket on a loop of steel chain and unlocked all three locks. The chain pulled the keys back into the darkness of his pocket. He pushed the door open and Hatch followed him in. Don’t let the door slam, Webb said.
Hatch caught the heavy steel door. Closed it quietly. Locked all three locks.
The apartment was more window than wall. Four wide boxes—yes, not picture windows cause they were more square than rectangle—that filled the green-gray space with dust-flecked light and polished the furniture with sky-sharpened shine. A single space of room opening into other rooms. Webb’s bed—puffed pillows and ruffled sheets, waiting—held parallel to a concrete veranda. And beyond the veranda, Tar Lake in the distance.
Nice veranda.
You mean the terrace. We all got that overhang. The senior citizens. In a slow, stooping motion, Mr. Pool Webb rolled across the room in round gorilla movements. Make yourself comfortable. You at home.
Thanks.
Pool sat down on the bed. Pulled off his slacks. Heavyweight boxer shorts over bantamweight skinny legs. The carpet was a black sticky swamp. Hatch guarded his steps. Pulled back the aluminum kitchen chair—parallel to the wall, parallel to the veranda—and sat down. A garden colored the veranda—terrace, it’s a terrace—rows and rows of plants in rusted coffee cans. Tomatoes, collard greens, and peppers.
Wait a minute. Sit in one of those wood chairs there. They hold your weight.
Hatch did as instructed. A portable radio, a deck of playing cards, bottles of hot sauce and ketchup, a container of laxative, and a pencil or two were neatly arranged on the wide windowsill. Hatch saw other buildings, dead-white, stained by bird shit. So they gave you a hard time?
Hell yes. That was my last job. Worked there seventeen years.
I see.
Superintendent at Red Hook. Sixteen buildings. Ninety-six hundred families. Nine thousand and six hundred. Hundred thirty-four men worked under me. Custodians. But I couldn’t take all that pressure. Told the doctor, I can’t work no mo. He gon tell me I can. Fuck that. See my legs?
Hatch couldn’t miss them.
I got rubber veins here and here. Webb pointed out long lengths of scars, yellow lines running up (and down) the brown skin of each leg. From when I had a stroke. And that doctor talkin bout I could still work. Fuck that. I told him, See if I work.
SO HOW YOU LIKE SOUTH LINCOLN?
I can live with it.
Is it as bad as they say it is? I mean, South Lincoln?
Just like anyplace else. You got yo bad spots.
And Red Hook?
We got more security here, in the senior citizens building. Now Buildin Six, down on Federal. Webb shook his head. I wouldn live there for free. And Buildin Nine on Wells. Couldn’t pay me to live there. They snuff you in a minute.
Damn.
But a lot of these young guys in South Lincoln just plain stupid. Smalltime. If you can make corn whiskey, fix up a still in the backyard. That way you can bribe the sheriff. But if you cook it on the stove …
Hatch nodded. Make sense to me. It really did.
Yes, I seen a lot of shit in my day.
Centered on the dresser, a photograph of Pool Webb’s son? grandson?—a fat-faced boy about Hatch’s age—and daughter? granddaughter?—probably younger—equally healthy in th
e face. This a eatin family. And his grandchild—so Hatch assumed—with a black-skinned, white-bearded, and red-costumed Santa Claus.
Those yo grandkids?
No, that’s my son and daughter.
Hatch saw a young, uniformed Webb—his sly eyes and mean pouted mouth—posed with a comely woman with a haughty face.
That your wife? She look West Indian.
Wife? Nawl. That’s my mamma.
Hatch chanced a second look at the photograph. Yes, the heavy face, one sign of the aged, the same heavy face that Pool also bore.
She from Tennessee just like me.
I see.
Me and my mother used to have a helluva time. I called her Sister. Sister and I go get drunk. We come home. She clean the kitchen before going to bed.
Yeah, she died here in the city. Nineteen fifty-seven. I was ready though. I knew it was comin. If a bird flies into someone’s house, someone will fly out.
A KNOCK ON THE DOOR roused Hatch’s heart.
Who is it? Webb screamed.
Lee.
Shit. Hatch, let her in.
The floor was swiftly waiting to Hatch’s feet. He freed the locks and drew the door open. Lee’s breasts greeted him.
Hi, young man.
Hatch’s tangled tongue came unloose. Hi.
Lee followed her breasts through the door. Hey, Pool.
Hey, Lee.
Hatch closed the door behind her. She was a good deal older than Hatch but a good deal younger than Pool. He was bad at tellin age.
I jus fed her. She sleep. Thought I’d come down here and see what you up to.
Jus waitin for you.
I know, honey.
Oh, Lee—Pool pointed at Hatch—this Hatch, my cousin.
Hatch almost spun his head at the word. My cousin. Why had Pool lied?
Hi, honey.
Hi.
Lee’s breasts reached for him.
BUT MY GRANDMOTHER RAISED ME. My grandmother and my uncle. We did all the work on the land. The three of us. My grandfather worked at a sawmill. The steam fried his eyes. He went blind. He passed when I was five.
My grandmother made root tea from the woods.
Drowned roots from a drained swamp.
Sassafras tea, Lee said.
Castor oil, Hatch said.
Nowadays, they got castor oil you can’t even taste.
WHEN I WAS SIXTEEN, I left town to work on the railroad. Webb spoke in a fat preacher’s voice. But I didn’t come to the city until after the war.
I came to the city for pussy I had met when I was stationed at Fort Square.
I came to the city in 1947. That’s when the city was the city. You could have roof parties. Sit in Circle Park all night.
See, I got married in 1938. My wife messed round with every Tom and his dick.
Your wife musta had some good stuff, Lee said.
Nawl. She was just hot in the ass. One of those Creoles. Everybody but me knew she was hot in the ass. They say Pussy and she say Present. My wife’s best friend told me how to catch her. I came home from work and caught her in the bed with a man. I put my gun on them. The man jumped up out of that bed and jumped out the window, dick whipping like a blind man’s cane. I put the gun on him.
Pool, my wife said, why you gon shoot that man?
I put the gun on her.
Pool, please don’t shoot me.
I put the gun in my pocket and left town that night, and that’s how I got here. Nineteen forty-six.
Yo wife’s best friend told, Lee said.
Yeah.
You know women are evil, Lee said.
The gospel truth.
Yo wife’s best friend told all right. That’s because she was gettin some of that big dick too, Lee said. Men with big dicks go from woman to woman. Mothers, daughters, sisters. My best friend I covered up for many times. But I ain’t want none of her men. I wouldn’t spit on a big dick man if he was on fire. It’s not the size of the man’s business that matters, but the service it renders.
I got service.
Pool, you bad. Ain’t he bad, honey?
Hatch smiled, unsure about what to say.
I went back home and asked my wife for a divorce. She talking bout she ain’t gon give me one. I put my gun on her.
Soon as I get back to the city, that woman throws me out. I done bought all of her furniture and I hear she got a new man enjoying it. I took out my knife and cut her across her stomach. Her girdle saved her.
See, I don’t take no mess. Once I was at the movie theater with my wife—
Whites sat on the first floor and blacks in the balcony, Beulah told.
—and there was this son of a bitch cursing behind us. So I asked him, Mister, can you please watch yo mouth. I’m here with my wife. He leaned forward right next to my ear—
You musta smelled his breath. Popcorn.
—and started cursing all in my face. Called me everything but the Son of God. Then he put his knife to my throat. Nigga, I’ll cut yo throat. He took the knife away and went back to cursing.
I told my wife, Let’s go.
I want to see the other two movies, she said.
Three movies for a dime, Beulah told.
So I waited til that last movie was almost over and took my wife outside and found me a brick. See, my arm was in a sling.
Why? What happened?
I hid that brick behind the sling and waited for that son of a bitch.
Pool, please, my wife said.
Just stand out of the way.
That son of a bitch came out and saw me. Nigga, you want some mo? He reached for his knife. I threw the brick and hit that son of a bitch in the head. That son of a bitch fall right out, blood gushing from his head.
These two ladies come from the shithouse. Mister, you done killed that man.
Pool, Lee said, you bad. Ain’t he bad, honey?
Hatch smiled.
See, I never took no mess from white folks either. Once I was in this bar and this half-drunk white man called me a nigga then kicked me. I grabbed him by his hair like this. Pool demonstrated. And beat his ass til I got tired.
Naw, naw. Them white folks woulda got you.
Think them white folks messed with me? See, they thought I was crazy. Boots, they say. They called me Boots. Boots, you crazy.
I worked with him. It rained the next day. He come up to me. Boots, we can’t haul wood today. Let’s go hunting. I went too.
What? Hatch said.
No you didn’t, Lee said.
Yes I did. I had my rifle and he had his.
Why’d you do that? Hatch said. Why’d you go hunting with him?
WELL, I BETTER GET BACK TO WORK, Lee said. Time fo me to feed her her lunch.
You leavin already?
A woman got to work, Lee said. Ain’t that right, honey? She winked at Hatch.
That’s right, Hatch said.
Pool grabbed Lee’s pointed tiddies. Lee, I may be old, but I can still shift the gears.
Lee retracted her titties. Pool, you bad.
Here, look at this. Pool worked his hand under the sheet.
Is it ready?
It’s ready.
Well, Pool, you send that young man over to tell me when it’s ready.
Hatch lowered his eyes.
YES, THAT LEE. Webb’s old body laughed, an avalanche of spasms that began at his head and ended with his feet.
A snake bout the only thing I’m fraid of. Once I went hunting with this white man and he picked up this snake.
Pool, he says, I’m gon put this snake on you.
You better not, I says.
He threw it on me.
I shot him in the arm.
I HAD THIS COUSIN who killed him eight crackas. He was out on this little island in the middle of the lake, hiding in this woodpile. Every time a cracka raise his head, he blow it off. They sprayed the island with a plane.
ONCE, MY WIFE CALL THE COPS ON ME. Four cops. They say, Your wife say you p
ulled a gun on her. I tell em, Take your hats off in my house. They say, Where’s the gun? Don’t put your hand on it. I tell them, Sit down. Don’t stand over me.
I BOUGHT MY HOUSE in Crownpin. White folks look at me but I just look at them back. The first night, the man next door come ring my bell. He says, I’m not like them. I’m not prejudiced. I slammed the door in his face. We were best friends after that.
THE EL STOOD ON WOOD ARMS above downtown Central, the Loop. Fire engines roared down State Street, curved wings of red water onto already wet sidewalks. Wooden horses—knee-deep in water—dammed-off streets that imitated rivers. Cops helped lay black roads of fire hose. Firemen waded in high black fishing boots. Aimed eel-thick hoses. Other firemen floated, red rubber duckies.
Divers had been inspecting all twelve rivers. The first reports suggest that wood pylons broke through the freight tunnels. The freight tunnels run twenty feet beneath the rivers.
The freight tunnels were used to cart messages and materials from building to building. Then streetcars were housed there.
The mayor has formed a team of engineers. They want to plug the tunnels with sandbags, then stick a rubber bladder in each. Work may begin as early as midnight tonight.
All subways are closed. Expect partial service on the Els by morning.
The mayor has declared a state of emergency. CE has shut off all power in the area. Firemen are relying on small generators. Water threatens the structural integrity of many of the buildings in the Loop. The Underground is completely underwater. Small colored fish swim there.
Well, Pool said. Ain’t that a mess? I guess you better be getting back.
I can wait a while.
Wait? Look at that mess. Webb nodded at the blinking blue screen. If you don’t leave now, no telling when you might get back. What you gonna do, fly over all that water?
Hatch said nothing. He thought about it. I still got to get through Central, he said. They shut the subway down. I’ll have to take the bus. Think I can make it with all those streets closed off? He wished that he could answer the question for Webb. No. You won’t make it. No was the answer he needed. A question had brought him here. Webb was close to answering it. He was sure.
Maybe, if you leave now.
It’ll be dark soon. It’ll be dark soon but I can still try.
You can try it if you want.
Rails Under My Back Page 45