The bomb.
Hatch held the heavy green canvas bag to his chest and patted it like a burping baby. I brought some joints I want you to hear.
Cool …
They continued down the hall.
Your folks here?
No.
They at work?
No. Darnell here.
Darnell?
Abu nodded.
In all the years Hatch had known him, Abu hadn’t spoke more than ten words about his father. Darnell traveled the country selling sports gear from his car trunk at rock-bottom prices; he came to the city once every two years or so, bringing Abu a pile of jerseys, T-shirts, caps, warm-up suits, gym shoes, you name it, bringing the old, scarred broken words of his life.
The long hall opened into the living room, where Darnell lounged on the couch with his woman (a girl really, Hatch’s age or a little older), a baby snug in her lap. Darnell was just as Hatch remembered him. Youthful face. Thick arms and a tree-trunk neck protruding from a Cubs T-shirt. A tight Bulls baseball cap trying to contain his thickly wrinkled, near-bald head.
Hatch, what’s up? Darnell rose from the couch.
Hey, what’s up.
Don’t I get a hug?
Sure. Hatch leaned in for the hug. Darnell squeezed him powerful and tight.
Darnell pulled back and opened the circle of his arms. Son, how bout another hug?
Abu gave him one, like a sigh, no force behind it. Darnell slapped him heartily on the back with his big-ass hands.
Hatch, it’s so good to see you. You look good too.
Thanks.
Giving the women hell, I bet.
Hatch smiled. So when you make it in?
We arrived in town last night. Stayed at the Zanzibar.
Oh yeah? How you like it?
It did the trick, cause we went there for only one thang.
Darnell, stop, the woman said.
Damn. How was it?
Well, round one went quick. That first nut always quick. Niggas lyin talkin bout they went two hours. Yeah right, two minutes.
How many rounds yall go?
Well, round two, she had me on the ropes—
Darnell, you so nasty.
—but I came back, wit one of these and one of these. Motioning and twisting his hips. Now, round three—
The woman held up the baby to shield her embarrassed face.
—she got the better of me. I tried to run, but she wouldn’t let me out of bed. She said, Come back here.
You got any children? Hatch asked, changing the subject, immediately realizing that he’d asked a stupid question.
I got more than Moses.
Hatch forced a laugh.
Let’s see, I got six by my first wife, five by my second, three by my—
Damn, Hatch said. Darnell glowed like a mythical being in his eyes.
—third. And Junior. Darnell nodded at Abu.
Abu, Abu said with clear malice.
Abu there.
Thanks, Abu said, his fat lips forming a sarcastic pout.
Least those the ones I take care of. See, my first wife had two from another—
Okay.
Well, and this other one I don’t even count.
Why not?
Cause he got a stupid mother. I go over there to visit him and she talkin bout, I ain’t gon let you see him cause all you gon do is have him sittin up round yo other woman. I say, So goddamn what? Then she call me at work, Darnell, I jus got outa jail.
Jail?
Yeah, jail. Police arrest me cause Jim ain’t been in school. He didn’t have no shoes to wear to school. I tell her, What good that nigga you messin wit? She talkin bout, Bring me some money or you never see Jim. So I told her, Fuck you, fuck Jim, fuck yo mamma, fuck yo daddy and yo whole fucking family.
Hatch, Darnell, and the girl all started cracking up with laughter. Abu remained quiet.
Whose baby is that? Hatch said, settled now, directing the question to both Darnell and his woman.
The woman grinned.
His father dead, Darnell said. He’s a bastard.
The woman cocked her eyes. Don’t call my baby no bastard. You no good rotten—
Girl, keep yo panties on. Don’t you know the meaning of the word?
She sat there, eyes smoking.
See, I’m honest wit her. Darnell nodded at his woman. She know I ain’t gon leave my wife for her.
The woman smiled.
My oldest daughter called me the other day. Seventeen. She been going wit this boy for a while. So I tell her, You jus finished school. You doing well. I be glad to have him as a son-in-law. She say, Daddy, I don’t know about him.
Why not?
He ask me for some.
What?
He ask me for some.
So I say, Damn, baby. Give him some. Yall been going together now for—
She live here? Hatch said.
No. In Yazoo.
Yazoo, ‘Sippi?
Yeah.
My folks out of Houston.
I know where that is.
I jus came back from there.
Well, I hope you had a good time.
Microphone check one two
represent
Microphone check
represent represent
Microphone check one two
represent
Microphone check
represent represent
Three four
Open up the door
Kid Attack is back and black so open up for more
I say I’m all that
Smooth and phat,
Lyrically developed, I’m like John Henry droppin the funky tracks
You can’t sweat me
but you might catch me
See me perspirin
No I ain’t cryin
See me flyin high like my man Flight Lesson
Don’t mean to brag but you should see me confessin to all
these bytches I be stressin
Ah um
Listen to this lesson:
honeys be scheezin, honeys be weavin, honeys be schemin
The honeys who be abstract be givin up the ave
That’s pretty good, Abu said.
It’s a little something I been workin on.
What about your guitar? You got some new phat licks? I bet you ready to tear—
Not really. Man, I ain’t played in days. Hatch wiggled his mute fingers. Don’t feel like it either.
Abu thought about the words with a disbelieving look. You’ll be back. You’ll play again.
Hatch said nothing.
The whir of wing in sudden flight. Birds lifted to the sky to join an eternal black stain that circled the horizon.
I been thinking, Abu said. Thinking. We should change the name of the band.
Oh yeah?
Yeah. How bout—
That’s good.
The yellow day opened before them. They walked, their unlaced athletic shoes flapping about their ankles. Defeated, Abu took a while before speaking again. So what’s up with Elsa? You talked to her since you got back?
Here, Hatch said. He shoved Mr. Pulliam’s green army bag into Abu’s chest. Carry this for a while.
Damn!
Yeah, I know. It’s heavy.
They descended into the breathing subway. Enclosed behind a lengthy picture window, a subway map glowed like a great magical web. Steel rivers, red, yellow, blue, black, green. Sticky magnetism, spinning above, below, and through the city. Fast train wind blew loose flyers down the platform like racing horses.
DO YOU WANT TO DIE OVERSEAS?
GIVE PEACE A CHANCE
END U.S. IMPERIALISM!
HELL NO! LET YOUR MAMMA GO!
MOTHERFUCK THE WAR!
Hatch hummed a melody and swayed, fire-blue depths.
You’ll get it back, Abu said.
A mouse scuttled into a crack of the tiled wall.
Ever notice something? Hatch said.
How a mouse look like a Tampax.
Nigga, sometimes you think of some weird shit.
Seriously, his tail look jus like the string. And his body—
Okay, I get the picture.
YEAH. THERE WAS THIS LADY WIT NO HANDS AND NO FEET DRIVIN A CAR.
Nigga, you lyin, Abu said.
Straight up. One foot on the gas pedal. One foot on the steering wheel.
You lyin.
On the TV. In West Memphis.
No way.
They can do shit like that down South. On this other show, this man wit no hands and no arms was playin the drums.
Impossible.
That’s cause you ain’t never been down South.
Sure. Anything you say.
A trickle of water rolled down the train window. A second trickle staggered down as the train sped through the black tunnel.
You’ll be back, Abu said. Hatch turned to see the other studying him with true concern in his eyes. Abu leaned over his stomach, leaned in close. You’ll be back, he said. He lifted an invisible glass into the air, toasting to many more talented days.
Hatch allowed his eyes to travel the car. Look at that old motherfucker, he said, nodding at a white jackal who sat across the aisle intent on his newspaper.
Abu said nothing, clearly shocked at the swift shift in subject.
Man, jus look at him!
Ah, he’s old.
Yeah, but I bet he’s done a lot of damage.
At the next station, more jackals boarded the train, a pack, foul with the bowels of hell. Hatch pinched his nose.
What’s up with that? Abu said. Why you pinchin your nose?
I can’t breathe with all these jackals, Hatch said, nasal. He continued to pinch his nose.
Many of the jackals exited the train at the next station.
Good, Hatch said. He released his nose. Now we can breathe.
You too much, Abu said. Too much.
A nigga bopped onto the train. He walked stiffly on bowed legs, a cardboard skeleton, hinged limbs moving limply from side to side. He sat down and immediately fell asleep. The train pulled into squealing shaking speed.
That’s No Face the Thief! Hatch said.
Where?
Over there.
That ain’t him.
That’s him.
Hatch recognized the black eye patch. Pin-striped like his tailored pinstriped suit.
He sure is funny-lookin, Abu said.
Yeah, Hatch said. He studied the sleeping No Face, nervous inside with secret knowledge.
The train slowed to a stop. Union Station. The doors ripped open.
This our stop, Abu said. He bounded to his feet.
Hatch remained in his seat, studying the snoring No Face—the eye patch a target, a map destination—between open spaces of the detraining commuters.
Come on! Abu said.
Hatch was still watching No Face, thinking, weighing.
Come on!
Abu’s command pulled Hatch to his feet. A sea of arms pushed them onto the subway platform, their legs hardly moving. Hatch rooted himself on the crowded platform while Abu continued. The train began to pull away. No Face the Thief opened his one sleeping eye and winked at him. He shuddered, shocked. Watched the speeding train disappear into the curving tunnel.
A CLUSTER OF BRIGHT SHOPS branched about them. The Underground. Their rubber heels made dull bouncing sounds on the escalator’s steel stairs. Hatch looked with hatred at the happy shoppers. Look at them, he said.
There you go again, Abu said.
I bet you they all Jews.
Now you gon start that Jew stuff.
They like mushrooms. Wherever you piss, they sprout up.
Abu shook his head.
Many jackals paraded outside the shops of Circle Square, spears rising like spokes from their snapped briefcases. Calling him. Mocking him. Defying him. Challenging him. Bums begged on the concrete sidewalks in the open heat, like lizards baking on a rock.
Kind sir, could you—
Not today, Hatch said.
Light breaks, red and pure. Night comes quickly. The sun falls like a cannonball and a red moon takes its place.
I knew we came the long way, Abu said.
Suspended on iron stilts, the elevated train led its passengers through the promised land of perspective.
I told you, Abu said. See, I told you. We should have taken the El.
So what, Hatch said. Stop bitchin.
You jus hate to be wrong.
Sabine Hall stuck up above the horizon like a needle point, downtown behind it. Buildings stacked up and arrowing toward the sky like chevrons. And Red Hook in the far distance, both splendid and monstrous, red bones glowing beneath its transparent skin.
A haze moved slowly in toward the horizon. Glazed it over, white sight.
Let’s go.
I told you.
Hatch and Abu moved on through the shape-shifting night. A block or two later angry words came pouncing up the street to greet them.
What’s going on? Abu said.
I don’t know.
They continued.
Holy shit!
Abu and Hatch stopped, stood, and surveyed the scene before them.
Blue wood horses shaped the street into a massive boxing ring with demonstrators boxed off inside it. Cops in beetlelike armor crawled about the perimeter.
Come on, Hatch said. In one swift clean movement, he ducked under a horse. He would not be denied. He had paid an honest price.
Wait, Abu said. Wait.
Come on. Don’t be a punk.
Hatch and Abu waded into the wet mob. Hatch left off thinking and let his body do the work. He tried to push forward—Excuse me. Excuse me. Coming through. Excuse me—push through the mob, push on to Sabine Hall.
Wait, Abu said, following behind him. Wait. Where are you going?
Faces turned to watch them with angry curiosity. Bodies closed around them. They could go no further.
Damn! Hatch said. Fuck! He stood sorting the city and Sabine Hall from his eyes, from the air, the night.
Dressed in colored spangles, the demonstrators knock him about, unbalanced, unsteady, left right, bell, pendulum. Their commands and demands on walls, windows, hands, backs, faces, bobbing in the air, spit into ghostly acts on the night.
The cops open their mouths to say, Come on, come through me. Their teeth are gates.
Hatch feels air damp with anticipatory sweat.
God cannot lie, Abu says. He stands trembling like a terrified tourist in a big, notorious city. God has no reason to lie.
Moonlight falls with a tarnish. The moon (or the fallen sun) holds like a red bull’s-eye. Patterned stars dangle weblike in shafts of moonlight. Clothe bodies in subtle threads.
The demonstrators open their lungs to dark fire. One short rebel runs forward, throws a burning something, then darts back. The cops do not move or react, their foundation built of fire-resistant materials. Hatch wonders at the beauty of their blue bodies in the black night. Blue bodies proudly bearing new uniforms with blue crossed suspenders.
The demonstrators move forward without fear. The days cannot touch them. Hatch hears anger and repeats its sound. He absorbs the beautiful scent of standing, belonging, purpose. A light goes on in him, somewhere, inside. His call of discovery.
The lead officer shouts health-giving words through a bullhorn, voice crackling with feedback. The demonstration leader answers in words seasoned with salt. Hatch follows it all, enjoying himself, chuckling, taken from high moment to high moment.
Cops red-stain faces with straight-beamed flashlights. Blinded, Hatch brings language rightly to his tongue. You fucking pig!
The blue wood horses gallop off into shadows. The blue cops scuttle forward. The square street breaks into shapeless chance. Hatch stands silent and even, breathing in and out, staring at waves of cops. Uncertain. Possibilities flying apart at the speed of thought.
&nbs
p; Butcher-fashion, a cop chops downward at Hatch with his billy club. Hatch meets the hatchet with Mr. Pulliam’s old army bag. The nightstick recalls its circle and sets out again. Hatch can see the cop clearly before him, gnats crashing into his glass face mask. His eyes turn into stars. Hatch keeps his shield high and searches about him, searches, needing, hoping, wishing for more invisible darkness.
Abu!
He waits for Abu’s returning touch.
Abu!
The crowd is half running, half flying like chickens. Pecking at the cops. Scratching. A nightstick settles red like a bird on some guy’s face.
Hatch stumbles through the dizzy dark. Lives tumble into him. The doors go shutting in the distance, knocking like bowling pins. All the windows are webbed over. The city opens around him. The earth hanging in nothing.
55
SHOULDA SEEN THAT dog come flyin outa that burnin buildin. One of those ugly pit bulls, runnin red and wild and fast wit a fiery leash round its neck. Barkin flames. White foam drippin from its fangs like beer on tap. But Birdleg didn’t run. Couldnah run even if he’d ah wanted to. Damn cripple. Nawl, he didn’t run. Hell, he didn’t even walk. He jus stood there framed by fire. Jus stood in his window looking out, calm, unmoving, unhollering …
You approached the closed casket, cautious, keeping your distance, your body refusing to get close. You stood, your mind moving, telling you what you had to do. Pay respect. Pay homage to a fallen flyer. You took one step, two steps, and another. Closer now. You felt faint heat, like the warm hood of a recently run car. A sugar smell lingered in smoke scent. You leaned forward and placed your palms on the closed casket. Fire moved through the touch lines. Traveled up your arms. You pushed the casket open. Rising steam drew you back. He, the remembered, the departed, sloshed around, a soup of ash, shit, and blood.
Night birds cut the air to rags. He walks, breathing in the broken spaces, the memory that was more than memory, the image that was no longer image, sealed up tight inside him like preserves in one of Lula Mae’s mason jars.
Voices around him like crickets. Strollers here and there, soft, fuzzy, out-of-focus flowers in the galloping world. And cops with snail-like faces retracting inside helmets.
He makes no attempt to hide himself. Safe in something better, greater than himself.
His clothes sag with the weight of blood. I’m here, he says, wanting to hear the sound of his own voice.
He sees stars lensed in perfect stillness. He can see clearly the way his invisible wounds are shaped. Shaped in the light of the likeness. Birdleg.
Rails Under My Back Page 62