The alligators came right down the aisle to Kowalski’s bed; the little baggy one carrying a yellow pad on a writing board. They had been talking to each other very calmly and happily about something. Probably about man-eating tigers or the possibility of whores on Mars. But their faces quickly changed and reset when they got to the end of the row, and stood before my derelict’s bed. “Hey,” the red-faced man said, “hey,” at Kowalski who was sleeping or by now pretending to sleep, “Hey, you Kowalski?” He shook the old man’s shoulder, getting him to turn over. Kowalski shook his head in imitation of sleep, frowned and tried to yawn. But he was still frightened. Probably confused too, since I’m sure he’d never expected to see cops in a place the Geneva Convention states very specifically is cool. In fact he wiped his eyes convinced, I’m certain, that the two police officers were only bad fairies, or at worst, products of a very casual case of delirium tremens. But, for sure, the two men persisted, past any idea of giggling fantasy.
“Hey. You Kowalski?”
The old man finally shook his head slowly yes, very very slowly, yes. Pulling his sheets up around his neck like a woman or an inventive fag, in a fit of badly feigned modesty. The cops looked on their list and back at Kowalski, the tall one already talking. “Where’d you get the stuff, Kowalski? Huh?” The derelict shrugged his shoulders and looked cautiously toward the window. “We wanna know where you got the stuff, Kowalski, huh?” Finally, it must have dawned on the derelict that his voice was gone. That he really couldn’t answer the questions, whether he wanted to or not, and he gurgled for the men, and touched his throat apologetically. The red cop said, “Where’d you get the stuff, Kowalski, huh? Come on, speak up.” And he put his head closer to the bum’s, at the same time shaking his shoulder and finally, confronted by more gurgles, took the derelict’s pajama shirt in his fingers and lifted the man a few inches off the bed. The little today man was alternately watching and listening, and making checks on his yellow pad. He said, “Comeon,” once, but not very viciously; he looked at me and rubbed his eyes. “Comeon, fella.”
The large cop raised his voice as he raised Kowalski off the bed, and shook him awkwardly from side to side, now only repeating the last part of the question, “Huh? Huh? Huh?” And the old bum gurgled, and began to slobber on himself, his face turning as red as the policeman’s, and his eyes wide and full of a domesticated terror. He kept trying to touch his throat, but his arms were bent under his body, or maybe it was that he was too weak to raise them from where they hung uselessly at his side. But he gurgled and turned redder.
And here is the essay part of the story. Like they say, my point of view. I had the book No More Parades, all about the pursuit of heroism. About the death and execution of a skyman, or at least the execution, and the airless social compromise that keeps us alive past any use to ourselves. Chewing on some rich lady’s candy, holding on to my ego, there among the elves, for dear god given sanctified life. Big Man In The Derelict Ward. The book held up in front of my eyes, to shield what was going on from slopping over into my life. Though, goddamn, it was there already. The response. The image. The total hold I had, and made. Crisscrossed and redirected for my own use (which now sits between the covers of a book to be misunderstood as literature. Like neon crosses should only be used to advertise pain. Which is total and final, and never really brief. It was all I had. Like Joe Friday, or César Vallejo, in a hopeless confusion of wills and intents. To be judged like Tietjens was or my friend in the hallway watching his wife or breaking his fingers against an automobile window. There is no reasonable attitude behind anything. Nuns, passion killers, poets, we should all go out and get falling down drunk, and forget all the rules that make our lives so hopeless. Fuck you Kowalski! Really, I really mean it. St. Peter doing his crossword puzzle while they wasted another hopeless fanatic. It fits, and is more logical than any other act. Ugly Polish tramp).
Till finally I said, “That man can’t speak. His voice is gone.”
And the tall man, without even looking, wheezed, “And who the fuck asked you?”
It is the measure of my dwindling life that I returned to the book to rub out their image, and studied very closely another doomed man’s life.
The Screamers
Lynn Hope adjusts his turban under the swishing red green yellow shadow lights. Dots. Suede heaven raining, windows yawning cool summer air, and his musicians watch him grinning, quietly, or high with wine blotches on four-dollar shirts. A yellow girl will not dance with me, nor will Teddy’s people, in line to the left of the stage, readying their Routines. Haroldeen, the most beautiful, in her pitiful dead sweater. Make it yellow, wish it whole. Lights. Teddy, Sonny Boy, Kenny & Calvin, Scram, a few of Nat’s boys jamming long washed handkerchiefs in breast pockets, pushing shirts into homemade cummerbunds, shuffling lightly for any audience.
“The Cross-Over,” Deen laughing at us all. And they perform in solemn unison a social tract of love. (With no music till Lynn finishes “macking” with any biglipped Esther screws across the stage. White and green plaid jackets his men wear, and that twisted badge, black turban/on red string conked hair. (OPPRESSORS!) A greasy hip-ness, down-ness, nobody in our camp believed (having social-worker mothers and postman fathers; or living squeezed in lightskinned projects with adulterers and proud skinny ladies with soft voices). The theory, the spectrum, this sound baked inside their heads, and still rub sweaty against those lesser lights. Those niggers. Laundromat workers, beauticians, pregnant short-haired jail bait separated all ways from “us,” but in this vat we sweated gladly for each other. And rubbed. And Lynn could be a common hero, from whatever side we saw him. Knowing that energy, and its response. That drained silence we had to make with our hands, leaving actual love to Nat or Al or Scram.
He stomped his foot, and waved one hand. The other hung loosely on his horn. And their turbans wove in among those shadows. Lynn’s tighter, neater, and bright gorgeous yellow stuck with a green stone. Also, those green sparkling cubes dancing off his pinkies. A-boomp bahba bahba, A-boomp bahba bahba, A-boomp bahba bahba, A-boomp bahba bahba, the turbans sway behind him. And he grins before he lifts the horn, at Deen or drunk Becky, and we search the dark for girls.
Who would I get? (Not anyone who would understand this.) Some light girl who had fallen into bad times and ill-repute for dating Bubbles. And he fixed her later with his child, now she walks Orange St. wiping chocolate from its face. A disgraced white girl who learned to calypso in vocational school. Hence, behind halting speech, a humanity as paltry as her cotton dress. (And the big hats made a line behind her, stroking their erections, hoping for photographs to take down south.) Lynn would oblige. He would make the most perverted hopes sensual and possible. Chanting at that dark crowd. Or some girl, a wino’s daughter, with carefully vaselined bow legs, would drape her filthy angora against the cardboard corinthian, eying past any greediness a white man knows, my soft tyrolean hat, pressed corduroy suit, and “B” sweater. Whatever they meant, finally, to her, valuable shadows barely visible.
Some stuck-up boy with “good” hair. And as a naked display of America, for I meant to her that same oppression. A stunted head of greased glass feathers, orange lips, brown pasted edge to the collar of her dying blouse. The secret perfume of poverty and ignorant desire. Arrogant too, at my disorder, which calls her smile mysterious. Turning to be eaten by the crowd. That mingled foliage of sweat and shadows: Night Train was what they swayed to. And smelled each other in The Grind, The Rub, The Slow Drag. From side to side, slow or jerked staccato as their wedding dictated. Big hats bent tight skirts, and some light girls’ hair swept the resin on the floor. Respectable ladies put stiff arms on your waist to keep some light between, looking nervously at an ugly friend forever at the music’s edge.
I wanted girls like Erselle, whose father sang on television, but my hair was not straight enough, and my father never learned how to drink. Our house sat lonely and large on a half-Italian street, filled with important Negroes. (Though it is
rumored they had a son, thin with big eyes, they killed because he was crazy.) Surrounded by the haughty daughters of depressed economic groups. They plotted in their projects for mediocrity, and the neighborhood smelled of their despair. And only the wild or the very poor thrived in Graham’s or could be roused by Lynn’s histories and rhythms. America had choked the rest, who could sit still for hours under popular songs, or be readied for citizenship by slightly bohemian social workers. They rivaled pure emotion with wind-up record players that pumped Jo Stafford into Home Economics rooms. And these carefully scrubbed children of my parents’ friends fattened on their rhythms until they could join the Urban League or Household Finance and hound the poor for their honesty.
I was too quiet to become a murderer, and too used to extravagance for their skinny lyrics. They mentioned neither cocaine nor Bach, which was my reading, and the flaw of that society. I disappeared into the slums, and fell in love with violence, and invented for myself a mysterious economy of need. Hence, I shambled anonymously thru Lloyd’s, The Nitecap, The Hi-Spot, and Graham’s desiring everything I felt. In a new English overcoat and green hat, scouring that town for my peers. And they were old pinch-faced whores full of snuff and weak dope, celebrity fags with radio programs, mute bass players who loved me, and built the myth of my intelligence. You see, I left America on the first fast boat.
This was Sunday night, and the Baptists were still praying in their “faboulous” churches. Though my father sat listening to the radio, or reading pulp cowboy magazines, which I take in part to be the truest legacy of my spirit. God never had a chance. And I would be walking slowly toward The Graham, not even knowing how to smoke. Willing for any experience, any image, any further separation from where my good grades were sure to lead. Frightened of post offices, lawyer’s offices, doctor’s cars, the deaths of clean politicians. Or of the imaginary fat man, advertising cemeteries to his “good colored friends.” Lynn’s screams erased them all, and I thought myself intrepid white commando from the West. Plunged into noise and flesh, and their form become an ethic.
Now Lynn wheeled and hunched himself for another tune. Fast dancers fanned themselves. Couples who practiced during the week talked over their steps. Deen and her dancing clubs readied avant-garde routines. Now it was Harlem Nocturne, which I whistled loudly one Saturday in a laundromat, and the girl who stuffed in my khakis and stiff underwear asked was I a musician. I met her at Graham’s that night and we waved, and I suppose she knew I loved her.
Nocturne was slow and heavy and the serious dancers loosened their ties. The slowly twisting lights made specks of human shadows, the darkness seemed to float around the hall. Any meat you clung to was yours those few minutes without interruption. The length of the music was the only form. And the idea was to press against each other hard, to rub, to shove the hips tight, and gasp at whatever passion. Professionals wore jocks against embarrassment. Amateurs, like myself, after the music stopped, put our hands quickly into our pockets, and retreated into the shadows. It was as meaningful as anything else we knew.
All extremes were popular with that crowd. The singers shouted, the musicians stomped and howled. The dancers ground each other past passion or moved so fast it blurred intelligence. We hated the popular song, and any freedman could tell you if you asked that white people danced jerkily, and were slower than our champions. One style, which developed as Italians showed up with pegs, and our own grace moved toward bellbottom pants to further complicate the cipher, was the honk. The repeated rhythmic figure, a screamed riff, pushed in its insistence past music. It was hatred and frustration, secrecy and despair. It spurted out of the diphthong culture, and reinforced the black cults of emotion. There was no compromise, no dreary sophistication, only the elegance of something that is too ugly to be described, and is diluted only at the agent’s peril. All the saxophonists of that world were honkers, Illinois, Gator, Big Jay, Jug, the great sounds of our day. Ethnic historians, actors, priests of the unconscious. That stance spread like fire thru the cabarets and joints of the black cities, so that the sound itself became a basis for thought, and the innovators searched for uglier modes. Illinois would leap and twist his head, scream when he wasn’t playing. Gator would strut up and down the stage, dancing for emphasis, shaking his long gassed hair in his face and coolly mopping it back. Jug, the beautiful horn, would wave back and forth so high we all envied him his connection, or he’d stomp softly to the edge of the stage whispering those raucous threats. Jay first turned the mark around, opened the way further for the completely nihilistic act. McNeeley, the first Dada coon of the age, jumped and stomped and yowled and finally sensed the only other space that form allowed. He fell first on his knees, never releasing the horn, and walked that way across the stage. We hunched together drowning any sound, relying on Jay’s contorted face for evidence that there was still music, though none of us needed it now. And then he fell backward, flat on his back, with both feet stuck up high in the air, and he kicked and thrashed and the horn spat enraged sociologies.
That was the night Hip Charlie, the Baxter Terrace Romeo, got wasted right in front of the place. Snake and four friends mashed him up and left him for the ofays to identify. Also the night I had the gray bells and sat in the Chinese restaurant all night to show them off. Jay had set a social form for the poor, just as Bird and Dizzy proposed it for the middle class. On his back screaming was the Mona Lisa with the mustache, as crude and simple. Jo Stafford could not do it. Bird took the language, and we woke up one Saturday whispering Ornithology. Blank verse.
And Newark always had a bad reputation, I mean, everybody could pop their fingers. Was hip. Had walks. Knew all about The Apple. So I suppose when the word got to Lynn what Big Jay had done, he knew all the little down cats were waiting to see him in this town. He knew he had to cook. And he blasted all night, crawled and leaped, then stood at the side of the stand, and watched us while he fixed his sky, wiped his face. Watched us to see how far he’d gone, but he was tired and we weren’t, which was not where it was. The girls rocked slowly against the silence of the horns, and big hats pushed each other or made plans for murder. We had not completely come. All sufficiently eaten by Jay’s memory, “on his back, kicking his feet in the air, Go-ud Damn!” So he moved cautiously to the edge of the stage, and the gritty Muslims he played with gathered close. It was some mean honking blues, and he made no attempt to hide his intentions. He was breaking bad. “Okay, baby,” we all thought, “go for yourself.” I was standing at the back of the hall with one arm behind my back, so the overcoat could hang over in that casual gesture of fashion. Lynn was moving, and the camel walkers were moving in the corners. The fast dancers and practicers making the whole hall dangerous. “Off my suedes, motherfucker.” Lynn was trying to move us, and even I did the one step I knew, safe at the back of the hall. The hippies ran for girls. Ugly girls danced with each other. Skippy, who ran the lights, made them move faster in that circle on the ceiling, and darkness raced around the hall. Then Lynn got his riff, that rhythmic figure we knew he would repeat, the honked note that would be his personal evaluation of the world. And he screamed it so the veins in his face stood out like neon. “Uhh, yeh, Uhh, yeh, Uhh, yeh,” we all screamed to push him further. So he opened his eyes for a second, and really made his move. He looked over his shoulder at the other turbans, then marched in time with his riff, on his toes across the stage. They followed; he marched across to the other side, repeated, then finally he descended, still screaming, into the crowd, and as the sidemen followed, we made a path for them around the hall. They were strutting, and all their horns held very high, and they were only playing that one scary note. They moved near the back of the hall, chanting and swaying, and passed right in front of me. I had a little cup full of wine a murderer friend of mine made me drink, so I drank it and tossed the cup in the air, then fell in line behind the last wild horn man, strutting like the rest of them. Bubbles and Rogie followed me, and four-eyed Moselle Boyd. And we strutted back and forth
pumping our arms, repeating with Lynn Hope, “Yeh, Uhh, yeh, Uhh.” Then everybody fell in behind us, yelling still. There was confusion and stumbling, but there were no real fights. The thing they wanted was right there and easily accessible. No one could stop you from getting in that line. “It’s too crowded. It’s too many people on the line!” some people yelled. So Lynn thought further, and made to destroy the ghetto. We went out into the lobby and in perfect rhythm down the marble steps. Some musicians laughed, but Lynn and some others kept the note, till the others fell back in. Five or six hundred hopped-up woogies tumbled out into Belmont Avenue. Lynn marched right in the center of the street. Sunday night traffic stopped, and honked. Big Red yelled at a bus driver, “Hey, baby, honk that horn in time or shut it off!” The bus driver cooled it. We screamed and screamed at the clear image of ourselves as we should always be. Ecstatic, completed, involved in a secret communal expression. It would be the form of the sweetest revolution, to huckle-buck into the fallen capital, and let the oppressors lindy hop out. We marched all the way to Spruce, weaving among the stalled cars, laughing at the dazed white men who sat behind the wheels. Then Lynn turned and we strutted back toward the hall. The late show at the National was turning out, and all the big hats there jumped right in our line.
Then the Nabs came, and with them, the fire engines. What was it, a labor riot? Anarchists? A nigger strike? The paddy wagons and cruisers pulled in from both sides, and sticks and billies started flying, heavy streams of water splattering the marchers up and down the street. America’s responsible immigrants were doing her light work again. The knives came out, the razors, all the Biggers who would not be bent, counterattacked or came up behind the civil servants smashing at them with coke bottles and aerials. Belmont writhed under the dead economy and splivs floated in the gutters, disappearing under cars. But for a while, before the war had reached its peak, Lynn and his musicians, a few other fools, and I still marched, screaming thru the maddened crowd. Onto the sidewalk, into the lobby, halfway up the stairs, then we all broke our different ways, to save whatever it was each of us thought we loved.
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