Bassment Deep

by Curtis Bennett

  “But isn’t that what progressive democratic programs have always pushed for in their efforts to help minorities?”

  Ma’Kentu’s mind seemed to wander for a second although his smile stayed in place. “Dependency seems to be the mindset of our people as a result of government handout programs.”

  “You don’t seem to think these programs are beneficial, do you?”

  “No, not really. A few but not most.”

  “Yet you’re saying that what’s being said and portrayed about Republicans isn’t true?”

  “It’s all bullshit propaganda!” he added, as he brushed away a small piece of lint with his hand. Now, I warned you not to get me started on politics. Didn’t I?” he smiled.

  “Yes, you did,” she chuckled lightly. Sensing she had stumbled upon another passion of his, she decided to spar a few more rounds with him. “What are your thoughts on the Civil Rights movement? That was a democratic issue.”

  “My thoughts on the Civil Rights movement,” he echoed. “But why?”

  “Because it’s rare that I encounter a Black conservative and on top of that I need to get some more intriguing info for this article. Now, tell me something I don’t know about the conservative movement. Educate me,” she pleaded in an attempt to set up the knockout punch. She knew that he had already figured her for a card punching democrat.

  “Well, the civil rights movement was largely promoted by the Democrats in the sixties. And that’s good. But the party of Lincoln did it long before that. Needless to say, the issue was a moral issue and the right thing for all Americans to do. But mind you, it was Southern Democrats who opposed the movement and the civil rights bills and quite fiercely in the sixties. They were called Dixie Democrats. Little is it known or acknowledged in the Black community that it was the conservative vote that countered this resistance and help get this legislation through.”

  “The conservative vote?”

  “Look it up, since you want to be educated. The 1964 Civil Rights Bill passed with 80% Republican support and only 63% Democrat support. That you will not read in your history books.”

  “So, you’re quite a history buff,” she said with admiring eyes.

  Leaning forward he chuckled. “I’m on the road a lot so I have a plenty of time to read as well as write and compose songs.”

  “I see,” Margo said, thoughtfully. “You seem to be well-informed.”

  “I try my best to be, though most people are not,” he said with heavy irony.

  “You just may have a point there,” she murmured. “Look, you’re a conservative. Why are you not a member of the Republican Party?”

  “I was, up until two years ago. I became an Independent because I felt that the Republican Party had missed a great opportunity to reach out to minorities and to address minority issues. Understand that conservatives no longer run the party but establishment Republicans do. These are middle of the road type folk. Moderates they love to call themselves.”

  “I see,” she uttered.

  “I must say that you have a lot of passion in this area.”

  “That’s because I hate to see what’s happening to our people and this great country.”

  There was a pause.

  Gazing at him, she saw not only a man of intelligence and conviction. He was a man who was articulate and politically savvy. Such an interesting and complex man, she thought, even if his views were different from her own. Yet, she was not quite ready to reject his views outright. In an intellectual way, he was making a valid case for his beliefs. It was the best explanation for Black conservatism she’s ever heard up until now.

  Leveling her eyes, she asked him about the NAACP comments. The article had been nagging at her since she came across it. “One last question on this subject, if I may,” she began, sizing him up.

  “Then can we get back to the subject of my music?”

  “I promise,” she smiled. “There was a news article covering your success written by the national chairman of the NAACP, Dr. John Fatima. Referring to you, he said that Blacks reared in middle-class homes have little or no understanding of what Blacks reared in the ghetto, have to go through. That such privileged children tend to be more conservative than liberal and unresponsive to the suffering and needs of the poor. How do you respond to that?”

  “Yeah, I read that article. He assumes that I was born middle class. I may have been raised in a middle-class home, thanks to the hard work of my mother and her business success, but we started out poor just like a lot of other success stories. I had little to wear growing up and I ate as much collard greens, cornbread, fried chicken and pinto beans and fat back as any Black leader out there. And I’ve been subjected to racism and discrimination as any other minority member. The bottom line is, my political views don’t make me any less Black. What it provides me with is a better understanding and respect for the system we live in, which allows an avenue for even the downtrodden to rise above the confines of poverty. That is, if they choose to.”

  “That certainly rings true.”

  “Now, you promised that we could get back to my music.”

  “I know. Just let me just finish writing this down first, please,” she said smiling, as her hand danced away.

  “Sure thing,”

  “Quite an interesting interview,” Margo injected, looking at him briefly, still writing.

  “You know what else is interesting?”

  “What?” she asked.

  “My music,” he reminded her.

  “Boy, don’t I know,” she murmured with a light chuckle.

  “Now, are you ready to change gears?”

  “I suppose so,” she professed.

  Setting the laptop down on the coffee table, she leaned back into her chair and gazed at him. She was nearly lost for words, especially since he had presented himself so eloquently. “You articulate your views so well,” she told him.

  “I try my best to,” he said, prompted by her statement. “When I get involved, I get passionately involved. Politics is no different.”

  “I see… and what about the band members?” she injected. “What are their political views?”

  Ma’Kentu ran his fingers through his hair, then smiled into her eyes. “I don’t know. And don’t care to know. What I do know is that in our world, music is our politics. Music is the common thread that unites all musicians. Music influences our every thought.”

  “Every thought? You’re sure about that?” Margo grinned with raised eyebrows.

  “Well, nearly all of them,” he managed to blush.

  There was a pause.

  “One last thing, I promise. Do you think OJ did it?”

  “OJ Simpson? Damn right I believe he did it,” he replied. “Without a doubt.”

  “I see,” she murmured. “I guess that’s all I have to ask you, right now.”

  “Hey! What about my music?”

  “I know but I forgot I need to make an important phone call,” she answered. “Please, I’d love to pick up where we left off later.”

  “Well, as long as we don’t have to discuss politics.”

  “I promise,” she said.

  Rising up, he was mindful to compliment her fabulous outfit as the two left the lobby together with a better understanding of each other, especially in the arena of politics. For now, it was back to the matter-at-hand…tonight’s concert.

  Margo was waiting anxiously in her seat when the curtains went up and the colorful stage lights came on. In her hand she held her small purse and a program. Glancing up, she took into view the Eu’Tabee Jazz Ensemble as they began to play. Almost immediately, the audience around her stood up, clapped and danced in place. Though she had enjoyed the band’s unique performance several times before, each performance was like the first time all over again. In an effort to see, she stood up too. Subconsciously, her wide eyes followed every move Ma’Kentu made.

  Winding down a sentimental Thelonious Monk tune, the group paused long enough for Ma’Kentu to
lay down his string bass and strap on his bass guitar. With a huge color projection screen behind the band showing clips of the 1984 mini-series Shaka Zulu, a movie about the great South African warrior, portrayed by the actor Henry Cele, the ensemble broke out with their soon-to-be released CD Zulu Nation Groove. They followed this with Ma’Kentu’s original urban jazz tune, Bassment Deep. After a thunderous round of applaud the Eu’Tabee Jazz Ensemble exited the stage. A local jazz ensemble immediately replaced them. Ne-Kay Parker and his musicians followed later.

  Backstage, Margo found Ma’Kentu moving around the area shaking hands solemnly with other dignitaries and music world business-types that were eager to meet this promising new star. When she caught up to him he was standing with Al and Little Maceo talking. He paused to greet her. After several introductions, he took her aside.

  “My, are you gorgeous or what!” he mused loudly, while scanning her sensuously dressed form with obvious approval. She had chosen to wear an elegant dark blue suit, sporting a low cut blue blouse and matching blue skirt. Draped around her neck she wore a gold Herringbone necklace. “Thank you! You’re mighty stylist yourself, I must say, Mr. Bassman,” she replied. “Well, thank you, too, Ms. soon-to-be Journalist of the Year,” he said sporting a generous smile.

  “Remember, it’s not a sure thing,” she reminded him. She had told him earlier about her nomination for the Hitchcock-Prescott Award. Drawing closer, he said, almost confidentially, “Look, I don’t care what any of them say. I think you’re Journalist of the Year, regardless.” She lifted her head and gazed up at him. “You really think so?” she asked. “Baby, I know so,” he answered, bending his head to press a light kiss to her cheek. The two traded stares.

  Though she had tried hard to disguise her interest, she still dreamed of being crushed by his embrace, kissed by his hungry lips and caressed by his eager hands. Just the thought of his eagerness for her drove her wild with excitement. Being a woman, who found herself the object of this man’s interest and desire, this was turning out to be an intense turn on, she realized. And turned on she was. But prudence guided her every move and right now she was not quite ready to commit her feelings until she had some more time to explore her emotions. It was also important for her to find out if he slept on his side or on his back.

  Chapter 4

  Margo took a hot shower then headed off to the bedroom. Lying across the bed she watched several minutes of the local news, then reached over and turned the lamp off. In the darkness of the night she thought about her wonderful night out with Ma’Kentu and the wonderful sensations he caused her to feel inside and pondered where it was all leading to. There was so much she did not know about him but felt she was making progress with, thanks to the interviews. She did know that she felt on top of the world whenever he was around. Bubbly, one might say.

  Gnawing at her, though, was the stark reality that she had but a few more days to spend on the tour before she would return to Jacksonville, Florida. And then what, she thought? Would they ever see each other again? Covering herself with the blanket, she grabbed the extra pillow and hugging it, she fell asleep.

  Ma’Kentu stood in the doorway of the bathroom, clad only in his plaid boxer shorts, calling out to Al. It was Al’s early morning wake up call. Stirring, he gave an acknowledgement, though slow to emerge his head from the mountain of blankets. A night owl, Al had never been the early morning type. Closing the bathroom door Ma’Kentu returned his attention to the hot refreshing shower that awaited him. Rising along with the warm mist were thoughts of Margo. He just could not get her off of his mind, not that he really wanted to.

  Known as a dapper dresser, he put on a pair of brown nylon socks, permanent pressed brown dress slacks and a beige rib knit top. He then slid into his recently polished brown shoes. After Al wrapped up his morning ritual, the two went out for breakfast.

  Ma’Kentu took a sip of orange juice, then faced Al, saying, “You know, I’m not sure if I’m moving too fast or moving too slow with Margo. She’s only got a few more days with us and I’m just about to go out of my mind over her.”

  “I figured that, my friend. The attraction between you two is apparent. Just out of curiosity, have you kissed her yet?”

  “Well, I came close the other night but no cigar,” he revealed. “The woman is so fascinating. Al, she’s a dream come true. Yet, she’s just as elusive.”

  Setting his fork down, Al replied, “I can see you’re really serious about her. Until now, I didn’t know how serious things were between you two. But it’s definitely serious!”

  Ma’Kentu cleared his throat. “Like you said before, this one is different.”

  “Different indeed. And I have no doubt she has it really bad for you, too.”

  “You think so?”

  “Everyone in the band can see that some’n is cook’n between you two.”

  Chuckling, Ma’Kentu said, “Damn, everyone?”

  “Everyone!”

  After a solemn gaze, he added, “Ain’t that something. Anyway, she’s leaving soon. So it really won’t matter, now will it?”

  Downing the last of his grapefruit juice, Al set the glass aside, then said, “Look, just because Margo is leaving doesn’t mean it has to be over before you two even get started. Let’s face it, sooner or later you’re going to have to let her know how you feel about her.”

  “Believe me, I’ve been trying to,” Ma’Kentu answered back.

  “You two got anything planned for today, before rehearsal this afternoon?”

  Glancing down at his watch, he said, “I’m supposed to meet Margo in an hour so she can resume her interview. That’s about it.”

  “Well, make the most out of it,” Al replied, wiping at his mouth with his cloth napkin.

  “I plan to,” Ma’Kentu chuckled lightly.

  “Look, it may not be a bad idea if you do a little interviewing of your own. Get my drift?”

  “Hey, that’s not a bad idea Al. Not a bad idea, at all.”

  “Well, I’ll see you at rehearsal around three,” Al said, leaving a crisp five-dollar tip by the plate.

  “I’ve got the next tip,” Ma’Kentu said, thanking his friend.

  Rising from the table, the two men paid their bill and parted company.

  Ma’Kentu kept his gaze on Margo as the two strode along the riverfront, her lively, curly hair blowing in the wind, her shapely figure accentuated by the form fitting hunter plaid sheath button chemise she wore. Though the day was cool and overcast, her smile was all the warmth and sunshine he needed.

  “Enjoying yourself?” she asked, her face alight with tenderness and love.

  His smile was compelling. “More than I can ever express with words.”

  She looked over at him and beamed. “You know, I have to say that you’re the most interesting person I’ve ever interviewed. It’s just something about you that draws people to you. Charisma, charm, your warm personality, perhaps? I don’t know. But you certainly have it.”

  “I’m not sure what draws people to me. I would like to believe it’s my music.”

  Reaching out, she touched him lightly on the arm causing him to pause. “Without a doubt, your music draws people to you…yes. But so does your magnanimous personality.”

  “Wow! I likes that term…magnanimous. Tell me, is that what draws you to me?”

  She was about to respond when her cellular phone rang.

  Dammit! He cursed silently. In times like these, he despised cell phones. They were too intrusive, too impersonal and too inconsiderate.

  Excusing herself, Margo withdrew the phone from her purse then walked a few paces away. Out of hearing range, and with her back turned to him, she gestured animatedly as she talked softly into the phone. Minutes later, she restored her phone and rejoined him. She apologized for the brief interruption and the two continued their walk. All the while, she said nothing about the caller or the nature of the call. Thoughtful, Ma’Kentu became quiet, slightly withdrawn.

  The t
wo came upon a wooden park bench facing the wide flowing river and sat down. It was mildly cold. In time, a sunbeam reached down, bathing them in its warmth. Positioning her laptop on her lap, she looked over at him and gave him a warm smile. For some odd reason, she sensed that her charm had suddenly lost its effect on him. Probably tired, she reasoned. After all, the night had been long for him.

  “Are you ready to begin?” she asked him.

  Barely nodding, he said, “Sure, why not?” Sitting back, he crossed his legs.

  Once again, the sun peeked out from behind several passing clouds as the two raised their hands to shield their eyes. Once the sun retreated behind a colossal cloud, Margo began the interview.

  “I know I’m getting off the subject of music but I just have one or two political questions I would like to ask so kindly of you”

  “Hey, I thought we were going to talk about my music this time around?” he said, mildly exasperated.

  “We are…I promise,” she replied, turning her eyes away momentarily. “I just want to wrap up my notes on your political views…that’s all.”

  “Look, I’m going to hold you to this. Okay?”

  “You have my word.”

  “What’s your question?”

  “Would you define the Conservative Black Movement for me?” she recoiled.

  “You want me to define the Conservative Black Movement?”

  Margo bit her lip. “Would you, please? You’re educating me, remember.”

  “I’ll be short and straight to the point.”

  “That’s fine, with me.”

  Uncrossing his legs, he reluctantly began, using his hands to emphasize certain points, “…In a nutshell, conservatism is the belief that less government is better government, just like the Founding Fathers envisioned. It is pro-America and it is the belief that anyone can make it in America if they are willing to work hard at it. And for the record, countless African-Americans have made it here. It’s not just an Asian and European immigrant thang.”