I shall set my brother free.
Aba, this bone is thy sea.
I’m steady watchin. The priest is holdin a scroll over his head and I see some oil fallin from it. It’s black oil and it soaks into Headeye’s shield and the shield turns dark green. Headeye ain’t movin. Then the priest pulls it off.
“Do you have your witness?”
Headeye, he is tremblin. “Yes, my brother, Fish-hound.”
The priest points at me then like he did before.
“With the eyes of your brother Fish-hound, so be it?”
He was askin me. I nodded my head. Then he turns and walks away just like he come.
Headeye, he goes over to one of the fires, walkin through the bones like he been doin it all his life, and he holds the shield in till it catch fire. It don’t burn with a flame, but with a smoke. He puts it down on a place which looks like an altar or somethin, and he sits in front of the smoke cross-legged, and I can hear him moanin. When the shield it all burnt up, Headeye takes out that little piece of mojo bone and rakes the ashes inside. Then he zig-walks over to me, opens up that fence and goes up the steps. I have to follow, and he ain’t say nothin to me. He ain’t have to then.
It was several days later that I see him again. We got back that night late, and everybody wanted to know where we was. People from town said the white folks had lynched a nigger and threw him in the river. I wasn’t doin no talkin till I see Headeye. Thas why he picked me for his witness. I keep my word.
Then that evenin, whilst I’m in the house with my ragged sisters and brothers and my old papa, here come Headeye. He had a funny look in his eye. I knowed some notion was whippin his head. He must’ve been runnin. He was out of breath.
“Fish-hound, broh, you know what?”
“Yeah,” I said. Headeye, he know he could count on me to do my part, so I ain’t mind showin him that I like to keep my feet on the ground. You can’t never tell what you get yourself into by messin with mojo bones.
“I’m leavin.” Headeye, he come up and stand on the porch. We got a no-count rabbit dog, named Heyboy, and when Headeye come up on the porch Heyboy, he jump up and come sniffin at him.
“Git,” I say to Heyboy, and he jump away like somebody kick him. We hadn’t seen that dog in about a week. No tellin what kind of devilment he been into.
Headeye, he ain’t say nothin. The dog, he stand up on the edge of the porch with his two front feet lookin at Headeye like he was goin to get piece bread chunked out at him. I watch all this and I see who been takin care that no-count dog.
“A dog ain’t worth a mouth of bad wine if he can’t hunt,” I tell Headeye, but he is steppin off the porch.
“Broh, I come to tell you I’m leavin.”
“We all be leavin if the Sippi keep risin,” I say.
“Naw,” he say.
Then he walk off. I come down off that porch.
“Man, you need another witness?” I had to say somethin.
Headeye, he droop when he walk. He turned around, but he ain’t droopin.
“I’m goin, but someday I be back. You is my witness.”
We shook hands and Headeye, he was gone, moving fast with that no-count dog runnin long side him.
He stopped once and waved. I got a notion when he did that. But I been keepin it to myself.
People been askin me where’d he go. But I only tell em a little somethin I learned in church. And I tell em bout Ezekiel in the valley of dry bones.
Sometimes they say, “Boy, you gone crazy?” and then sometimes they’d say, “Boy, you gonna be a preacher yet,” or then they’d look at me and nod their heads as if they knew what I was talkin bout.
I never told em about the Ark and them bones. It would make no sense. They think me crazy then for sure. Probably say I was gettin to be as crazy as Headeye, and then they’d turn around and ask me again:
“Boy, where you say Headeye went?”
BUTTA’S BACKYARD BARBECUE
Tony Medina
(2000)
My man Ra-Dizzap was bustin a move on Drainpipe. Pipe was freaked. Couldn’t do shit. Looked like a deer in headlights, watchin D wax the floor with that ass—even tho he wasn’t on no linoleum or cardboard, but on grass! DJ Pimpstripe’s hand was movin so fast sparks jumped up off the turntable, torchin his girlfriend’s weave. She didn’t hardly notice, tho, since her ass was practically standin inside the speaker. If it wasn’t for her doorknocker earrings—big ass suitcases, at that—the sparkles in her hair, and the 8-track tape what got her shit on lockdown holdin it together, she woulda went totally bald, bout to look like a 8-ball in this piece. But with all those contrapments, she held her own. They only had to roll her around in the dirt a few times to put out the fire. Nonetheless, Pimpstripe played on. And Ra-Dizzap persisted to try and make his way clear through to China with a non-stop leg propeller 747 type backspin, holdin his legs up to his chin, scratchin his ass every now and then to spite Drainpipe. Fuck that shit, Pipe yelled, trying to lasso the attention of every wide eye and open mouth that watched Ra-D spin himself into a dirt nap. The music shook the leaves off the branches of the tree, but Pipe was determined to out do Ra-Dizzap. So he climbed up the tree, saying, Check this out, right, check this out. He said it enough times to get about two or three people to peep him out. Then he did a Kristi Yamaguchi meets Greg Louganis meets Bruce Lee in heaven type shit by running to the edge of the thickest branch, jumping and somersaulting two or three times, coming down in his best Bruce Lee extended arm and leg running punch and kick. Real jujitsu type shit. Only Pipe was not moving forward beatin dumb motherfuckers’ ass. He froze in midair for what seemed like two months, three days and a hour. I coulda swore I smelt shit and saw his face turn white when he commenced to unwittingly introduce his dumb ass to gravity. He came down on the turntables and mixer like a ton of bricks, sending all of Pimpstripe’s records flying—even the ones in the milk crates. The albums flew out in rapid succession soundin like a Uzi or a submachine gun as it hit its target. Heads thought it was a drive-by. They flew in all types of directions: up trees, in the swimming pool, over the neighbors’ fence, crashing through the backdoor window. Before you knew it Five-O was all over the place. Motherfuckers sent a SWAT team for our ass. But Drainpipe lived up to his name. He out did Ra-Dizzap. He drained the entire party of its participants. All that was left was DJ Pimpstripe baffled, crying and in handcuffs. Drainpipe was six feet under, takin a dirt nap and braggin. As Drainpipe began to boast and brag, Ra-D uttered his last few words in what sounded like a Miles Davis voice. Not so fast, he whispered, extending the thumb and forefinger of each of his hands into the sign of the gun, which in hip-hopology is the ultimate Run DMC-inspired photo-op and Yo-I’m-a-bad-motherfucker pose. The crowd watched on in amazement. Even Five-O had to stop beatin ass to peep this shit out. They all stared at what looked like a big ass ghetto porcupine: Ra-Dizzap, frozen in his tracks, reduced to an inanimate object, a fossil, a relic, a Polaroid snapshot, a paralyzed projects poster boy, a new millennium hip-hop museum piece, for that matter. No one could make sense of him—of it—of what he had become. He just stood there in the middle of the grass, in the backyard, frozen in a spinning break dance move, his entire body riddled with the phattest albums.
FUTURE CHRISTMAS (EXCERPT FROM THE NOVEL THE TERRIBLE TWOS)
Ishmael Reed
(1982)
It was cold and frosty. They were dining in a restaurant which was lit up like an interrogation room. Joe Baby was dressed flamboyantly. He was wearing snake-skinned red cowboy boots, a mink coat, and a mink-brimmed hat. His partner, Big Meat, was got up the same way. He was Joe Baby’s shadow. They lived together. They sat across from a short man who weighed three hundred pounds. He’d just polished off some white “country fresh” eggs, five slices of Virginia ham, nine pieces of whole wheat toast, and three cups of orange juice, and he was waiting for a New York steak. Joe Baby was coughing. He pulled out a white handkerchief and sneezed some phlegm into it. Big Meat took out his pills and
counted three for Joe Baby, who gulped them down.
“Don’t you ever stop eating?” Joe Baby asked Snow Man.
Joe Baby touched the rim of his glasses.
“Thin people are the ones who die in an emergency,” Snow Man said. “They don’t have any reserve,” he said, after chewing on some ham. “Suppose a famine occurs. I have enough energy to see me through. You guys wouldn’t last a week.” Snow Man had arctic-blue eyes. Under his overcoat he wore a conservative suit and striped bow tie.
“Hey, man. I don’t think that be too cool. Joe Baby just got out of the hospital.”
“Don’t tangle with him, Meat. He’ll blow your brains out and think nothing of it. That is if he can’t bump you against the ceiling like a pancake. I saw him sit on a dude. It was like a steamroller rolling over on somebody.” Joe Baby began to cough in such spasms that patrons at other tables turned around and stared.
“Do we deal or not?” Snow Man asked.
“Too steep.”
“Ten thou is not steep, my friend,” Snow Man said, staring blankly at Joe Baby, who was sitting across from him. “You’re asking me to drop a Bishop.”
“Give him the money, Meat.” The black man sitting next to Joe Baby had enough grease in his hair to fry a catfish. Some of the grease spotted the collar of his camel-haired coat and his white silk scarf. He took out a white box tied with a red ribbon and slid it toward the Snow Man.
“I’ll bring you his head in a box,” Snow Man said. “Gift wrapped.”
“You’d better,” Joe Baby said. Big Meat smiled. He took out his comb and styled his hair. The two left Snow Man in the restaurant. Outside, they climbed into an old black Cadillac Seville limousine and drove off.
Snow Man looked down at the newspaper as he took in mouthful after mouthful. There had been huge headlines for weeks. The Soviet Union was putting down rebellions in Estonia, Latvia, and the Ukraine. The rebellions that had begun in Riga had spread. Its ally, the United States, was having its share of bad luck too. Things had come to a head between the United States and an African power of unpredictable motives. The government claimed that the President was in constant consultation with his aides. At the end of the week the Secretary of Defense was found dead, a possible suicide.
On the editorial page, there was a letter to the editor. It was one of many letters which had been coming in for five years, complaining about a decision handed down in a California court awarding exclusive rights to Santa Claus to Oswald Zumwalt’s North Pole Development Corporation.
It happened in 1985. The court reporters, bailiffs, guards, news vendors could tell their grandchildren about it. All of these men, scores of them, dressed in red suits, big black belts, typing-paper-white beards, blue eyes, ruddy cheeks, conferring with their lawyers. Some who tingled little bells were told by Judge Swallow to cut it out. His face was flushed. The hearing was held after lunch. Oswald Zumwalt’s lawyers were there, too. There were Salvation Army Santa Clauses, department store Santa Clauses, Santa Clauses from the V.A. and children’s hospitals. There were Christmas pageant Santa Clauses, and charity Santa Clauses, and Santa Clauses who entertained the very rich. There were black, red, and white Santa Clauses.
Judge Swallow dismissed the class action suit and it stood that Oswald Zumwalt owned the exclusive right to Santa Claus, as well as his aliases, Kris Kringle and Saint Nick, and even Old Nick. All of the department stores, candy manufacturers, toy executives, and other components of a billion-dollar industry would have to deal with him.
Zumwalt was now getting a bill through Congress which would give him twenty thousand acres of land at the North Pole for his Christmas Land, to which consumers from all over the world would fly, Supersaver, to celebrate Christmas. A multibillion-dollar city under a dome as well as a space station where future Zumwalt Clauses would fly to earth.
What became known as the Santa Claus decision was based upon the Lone Ranger decision, which prevented the original Lone Ranger, Clayton Moore, from wearing the Lone Ranger mask he’d worn for many years. This remarkable California decision was handed down about eight months before another California decision which outlawed the naturalistic novel.
About a year after the Lone Ranger decision, Clayton Moore, now wearing what the newspapers referred to as his “ubiquitous dark glasses,” attended the funeral of Jay Silverheels. The company that won the Lone Ranger trademark couldn’t wait until Jay Silverheels was cold in his grave before they began casting about for a new Lone Ranger and Tonto. This Tonto had trouble saying “kemo sabe.”
The aging thespian whom Zumwalt hired to play Santa Claus became so popular with the children that their wrath at the Zumwalt decision—eggnog trucks were overturned, geese were cooked—turned to love for the new Santa Claus. After hype and P.R., they would have no other Santa Claus but Zumwalt’s Claus.
Zumwalt began the season on the last Saturday in November. Saint Nicholas is the Big Apple’s patron saint; a town of give and take, of people dishing it out and people on the receiving end. On that day, the Zumwalt party would move into Manhattan from a hidden estate on Staten Island called Spain because of its hacienda style. The next day they would mount a barge and float across the river to Manhattan Island, accompanied by water-spouting tugboats.
Zumwalt stood in one of Spain’s lavish conference rooms. “And over here,” Zumwalt said, pointing to the map, “we plan to build forty-eight restaurants, eighteen bars, and there will be a village of Bethlehem which will stretch to about eight hundred acres. We’ll have the Church of the Nativity over there. We’ll charge five bucks to get into that; in the rear of the church, we’ll build a coffee shop and souvenir shop. Everybody’ll want to see that. And up here, Congressman, will go the North Star. With the computer we have to run Christmas Land, we’ll be able to brighten it or dim it whenever we wish.” Zumwalt was in pinstripes and black shoes. The Congressman’s rattlesnakeskin cowboy boots were stretched across the coffee table which held the map. His Stetson was on the floor.
“This is one great project, Mr. Zumwalt. I got to hand it to you. You pulled it off. Now I have some concrete proposals to make to the committee. One thing, though.”
“What’s that, Congressman Kroske?”
“Well, we got some beechnuts on the committee who seem to be getting a lot of Jew money from the Northeast. They’re worried about what’s going to happen to the wildlife up there. What shall I tell ’em?”
“You tell those fuckers that we’ll keep their precious little ecosystem intact. We won’t harm a single penguin. It’s the Eskimos who are getting in our way.”
“That ought to please them. And, Mr. Zumwalt, thanks for inviting me over here. They’re all waiting for you tomorrow. Why, Bowling Green Park is packed. Some are carrying their sleeping bags and have been waiting for several days. Everybody’s waiting for tomorrow. The schools are closed. There are lights up and down Fifth Avenue. Carol-singing in Central Park.
“There are traffic jams in the snow. People are pouring into New York from all over the country for the festivities. The hotels are full. You can’t get a reservation.”
“We’ll give them a show, Congressman. Why don’t you come over for the cocktail reception at Gracie Mansion. I’m sure the Mayor would like to see you. He’s going to black-up and entertain the private dinner with his imitation of Al Jolson.”
“Sorry, Mr. Zumwalt, but I think I’ll be heading back to Washington. The situation isn’t so hot in our nation’s capital these days.”
“I’ve been following the papers. What’s the latest?”
“I saw the President last week. He was signing a bill that Adolf Hitler be given posthumous American citizenship. He looked pretty bad. You wouldn’t believe he was the most famous model of the eighties, his face adorning thousands of billboards. I hear he’s soaking up bourbon like it was water. The skin on his face hangs like a bloodhound’s. His eyes look like two Japanese flags. Things look bad. The economy looks real bad. A loaf of bread costs fifty dollars.
”
“We have a great Christmas campaign this year. It ought to give the U.S. a full stocking. We expect billions in sales.”
“That sure will help things, Mr. Zumwalt. I’ll try to get down to the annual Christmas Eve celebration at Madison Square Garden.”
“I’ll leave a couple of tickets for you and the missus, Congressman.”
“Thanks, Zumwalt. I’d appreciate that.” The Congressman rose and shook hands with Zumwalt, now on his feet. Jack Frost picked up Zumwalt’s Stetson and handed it to him. They headed toward the door. The Congressman turned to Santa Claus.
“And thank you, Santa, for signing those autographs for the kids. You’ll soon be in your new home at the North Pole if everything works out. The kids talk about you all the time. You really are a moral force, because it’s at Christmas when people bury the hatchet and spread good cheer.” Santa smiled.
“And don’t worry about the bill,” the Congressman said, turning to Zumwalt. “Once it’s out of committee, it’s as good as through. I don’t expect a fight in the House or the Senate. The North Pole Development Corporation has friends in both houses. You can count on your friends, Mr. Zumwalt,” the Congressman said, winking.
Jack Frost: black suit, shirt, sequined tie, shiny wet black hair pinned to scalp, bad eye, helped the Congressman into his deerskin jacket.
“By the way, Congressman,” Zumwalt said, “Merry Christmas.” He handed the Congressman a gift-wrapped box. The Congressman’s eyes widened.
“Thank you, Mr. Zumwalt. Thank you.” The Congressman left. Arms folded, Jack Frost leaned against the wall. Zumwalt turned to S.C.
“You did it again,” Zumwalt said.
Santa Claus was puzzled.
“Oh, don’t play coy with me. I heard about it. At the Macy’s reception downstairs. You were seen talking to a young lady. A buyer. You’ve forgotten that the contract requires you only to say ‘ho-ho-ho.’ And ‘What would you like to have for Christmas, little boy?’ Or little girl, or little person.”
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