Forward to Glory

by Brian Paul Bach

Her announcement revealed a strain of gravitas he had not seen before.

  ‘Of –’

  ‘You know, wacky!’

  ‘I want you to say it…?’

  ‘Yes, yes. Oh yes…’

  ‘I just want you to…’

  ‘For Sure-Love! I can say it now!’

  ‘You’re that close?’

  ‘Oh yeah, yes!’

  ‘So am I.’

  And she was gone, on location.

  So now, he was doing what he wanted, what he needed to do, keeping devotional vigil. Not from her private chambers, where he had no right to be – yet – but at the gate to their future.

  Da GardzADaBody were reserved in their demeanor, out of principle and pride, but splendid in their benevolence, keeping him in simple but effective comforts, at his location just past the corner gate’s pilaster.

  In the first period, they tended to cluck over him, especially the chix in Da Gardz. They slung their Uzis to their hips while making sure the packets of soul-fude and tins of Moulton Creim were passed through the chamfered bars of the fence. Vonda’s favorite tubs of Malabar sauce and plugs of Maby’s hot-hotter-hottest horseradish garnished every repast. In this way were the food and sex of Vonda conjoined by proxy in his mind.

  Shunning any offers of BurlBleep or Gobbo hardware in order to keep in touch with his dame, he chose a more contemplative endurance of the time span, getting his mind into an unprecedented bastion-position of discipline and strength. Then again, it reminded him of his focusing on dialogue memorization, which he spent some time every hour reviewing. The harshness of his previous events seemed to fade, while the possibility of progress in his own desires reappeared, though without conscious discernment quite yet. He was, after all, on the verge of –––

  Thus, he was rather pre-occupied. In any case, he did not turn down Da GerlGardz’ gift of a porta-DVD player and assorted platters, so that he could experience ‘A Raisin in the Sun’ (Columbia, 1961) and ‘Cedric the Entertainer at DoDo’s Rib Joint’ (Kulurd Parsons Shows, 1998) in moments of obvious restlessness.

  This particular day was somber but temperate, like several of recent vintage. Here was Butterbugs, doing his urban camping trip, which was pretty much what he’d done since before he’d first ventured into this metropolis. Only now, not only was he on a greater physical elevation than he’d ever been – up here in the Mulholland Drive districts – but he was similarly ascended, for what reason he knew not, from the considerable bathyspherics of Yniguez Terrace, not to mention the Russel Arms.

  Why?

  Was it sheer luck or subjective strategy?

  Not that he was pondering such concepts right now. Pure and simple camp life was the subject of prominence, viz: over to the PortaLoo which Da Gardz had insisted be installed for him on Vonda’s property. This, under the premise, fixed with the county by Urk-Uh, one of the foremost GerlGardz, that Butterbugs was doing some remodeling of the pilaster sets that kept the VVVDD as a stronghold against the world. And there was tent tending and dooryard maintaining to do, and a bit of grooming before grub. (Butterbugs had made a comeback into the realms of gal-appeal, though Vonda had never had a problem with the boring-but-acquired-taste quality of his street chic.) All in all, it was a not unpleasant time in many ways. Vonda’s absence only made his heart grow ‘fonda’, and he went through his simple hours with that very calculation ever present in his mind.

  Then, a motorcar approached from up Flowertown Lane, providing sound and motion to the stillness. It was not Vonda Van Den Dell, however. Not yet awhile.

  Out of the black Facel Vega Typhoon stepped patent black oxfords of pronounced and attentive style. Above the shoes, the form was haberdashed to the nines. Only one style was represented. Only one man could it be. It was TABP, making the scene at VVVDD. On his own business, on his own time. On his own. Unannounced.

  The superstar, choosing not to have given a phoned-in heads-up to Da GardzADaBody, because he found their turbo-seriousness tiresome and overdone, instead approached the portal on foot, as any commoner in the uncommon position of being on foot in this here neighborhood would do.

  Spotted and instantly recognized, Da Gardz made the expected move to escort TABP on in, but, curious about the hutment hard by, he waved them off and they retired invisibly behind the great fence.

  TABP drew nigh to the tent, and with his walking stick, raised the drape of the tent’s door with it.

  ‘Man, what you doin’ at Miss Vonda’s portal? Fanatical fan, or what?’

  Butterbugs came forth and stood straight in front of the imposing inquirer.

  ‘I am devoted to her, yes.’

  ‘I heard about you.’

  ‘I am he whom she selected.’

  ‘You Butterbugs?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Yoe, I heard about you, all right. The lady done chose you, all right.’

  ‘She did.’

  The devotee was referring to the pick-up on Sta. Monica, nothing more.

  ‘And… this?’

  He gestured to the modest tent (as provided by – Da GardzADaBody, naturally).

  ‘From these quarters I await her return. After which I am ready to serve her.’

  ‘All right, all right.’

  He seemed pleased, and managed a near smile.

  Butterbugs remained at attention. Because of the stranger’s bearing, and the lack of real legitimacy attached to his unconventional approach to a starry romance, the young actor defaulted to an almost military behavior, as strict politeness and carefulness might serve better in the case of anyone’s disapproval of his presence.

  (Subjective influence of Da Gardz, naturally.)

  TABP scrutinized him.

  ‘Do you know who I am, Devotee?’

  Butterbugs could not help but focus on the bright chartreuse clerical collar.

  ‘I would think that you are my lady’s confessor, though I did not know she might genuflect towards Rome…’

  ‘In a way, I am.’

  Significant pause. A source of light, formed by the sun on the far side of the cloud-cover way above, seemed to gather in one spot.

  ‘I am The Angry Black Priest.’

  ‘Oh, sir, I did not know.’

  TABP had an interesting tendency to alter the style and even the accent of his speech, given the requirements of the given rapport he happened to be facing at the given time, whether mid-sentence, or even mid-word.

  ‘’S all right. You’re jes a country boy, by the looks of yo.’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘So ’m I. Uh, if you’re allowed to stay here, must mean Da GardzADaBody are cool with it.’

  ‘They are my friends. They have been most kind. I believe they follow her instructions from afar.’

  ‘I know they do, brother. Otherwise you’d be sent back to Chuckletown in a FedEx body bag.’

  ‘Carstairs.’

  The country boy was not intimidated.

  ‘Yeah, OK.’

  ‘They all have my total respect.’

  ‘That’s cool.’

  ‘I will serve her.’

  ‘Yeah, well, from what she said to me, she’s gonna be the one to do the servin’. Shit man, don’t you know she’s wiggin’ crazy about you?’

  Butterbugs stood there with incredulity on his face. Was he worthy of this, or was it even a case of self-esteem? Certainly his modesty looked pretentious. First of all, the man saying it was due some consideration.

  TABP did not think it pretentious at all. Vonda was not a person to be taken lightly. Not that he ever had. There was nothing to question. If she had something for a Caucasian-oid country boy from Carstairs, what the hell did it matter what he thought? It would be cast in vanadium and woven by fibers of carbon. Until further notice.

  TABP took a good hard look at Butterbugs whilst he was doing his daily duty of camp maintenance, displaying humble, even Gandhian sensibilities and simplicity. Just from this brief interview, TABP sensed something really quite extraordinary a
bout this kid – this newcomer to his Vonda’s world, where at times precarious states of affairs were varied and plentiful.

  ‘Apparently’, TABP thought, ‘my Vonda is his Vonda, too…’

  Quietly, the SuperPackager of Wrap backed off, leaving Butterbugs to his finely focused chores. For various reasons, TABP naturally carried a collective weight of issues (most of them on the negative side of things), concerning the presently-ruling race in this country. While he was an extraordinary musical genius, performer and philosopher, certain aspects of his attitudes regarding race were of the everyday variety, and there was much to be ‘everyday’ about. ‘Angry’ was part of his moniker, but he left it to those who listened to his work to judge the degrees that race was a motivational force within him – or not. Generally, he was not forthcoming as to the source of any anger, unlike more banal minds that were always keen to ascribe art with easy explanations.

  TABP was not only complex, intellectual, and cool, he possessed a heart that could melt faster and more purposefully than any butter-based product or concept.

  As he withdrew, he could find no explanation as of now, either easy or complex, as to why he suddenly felt, within his pliable heart, that there was somehow the possibility of not feeling the ache of anger of any kind. And not just for the presumed race of this Butterbugs, but for other worldly woes as well. It was not a mystery to be solved, just a notion of great power and subtlety.

  When TABP moved further away, as if on cue, the point of solar concentration directly above finally became mature enough to emerge from the weakening cloud cover. And when it did, a gentle shaft of spot-lit sun shone down on them, widening, or so it seemed, as the distance between them increased. Then it grew, as a tale in telling, and it spread, until the entire city below was bathed in clarity and gold.

  This natural phenomenon might have started over an LAX runway, or a parking lot in Downey, or 500 miles into the Pacific past Catalina Island. But this time, it happened to be right here, outside the portal to the Villa Vonda Van Den Dell.

  The next time TABP showed up, it was obvious that he knew that Vonda was still on location. He’d brought a little folding camp chair which he took out of the Typhoon’s trunk and set up himself, right in front of Butterbugs’ tent.

  They talked about stuff.

  ‘My dear Devotee, you is in the minority hereabouts, you know that?’

  ‘Race is an ever-present issue with peoples, depending on where you go and who you talk to.’

  The line was in a play he’d read somewhere, but it was so banal that there was no reason to credit it.

  TABP smiled.

  ‘You’re catchin’ on, brother. You already caught on. Somehow.’

  It was clear to Butterbugs that TABP, if he had not taken a liking to him, was at least intrigued with this young curiosity.

  But Butterbugs could not sustain the roll wherein TABP would continue to respond in such a benign manner.

  ‘Sometimes I don’t know what the big deal is.’

  TABP’s eyes narrowed.

  ‘What big deal?’

  ‘Why race has to be such a big deal.’

  ‘Spoken like a true cracker, man. Other euphemisms might apply, as well…’

  ‘That’s what Vonda called me. Well, ‘cracker-ass’, really.’

  ‘She did? Sounds like that’s what you just might be.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I do not follow you, The Angry Black Priest.’

  ‘You can say that, because it’s not a big deal to you. That’s typical of your race.’

  ‘I suppose – it is…’

  ‘I ought to know.’

  ‘Was it hard, over the years?’

  ‘It’s always hard, baby.’

  ‘Spoken like a true angry black person.’

  After Butterbugs uttered this line, he realized what he’d done, and fully expected to be punched right in the throat. But that was the effect that TABP had on him: to distill the truth in all things.

  TABP spun out a competent snort-laugh of mockery. Then his mind realigned and he smiled.

  ‘Don’t looka me that way, brother. I’m not gonna cut your balls off. Vonda’d have me boiled in Booker T. Washington-approved groundnut acid. OK! We’re here for the Serious Truth!’

  Butterbugs knew he could relax. If he’d made it this far, he reckoned his approval was holding up. Besides, who knows what Da Gardz would have to say about argumentative brawling so near their jurisdiction. Even a biggie like TABP could possibly end up as a puddle of liquefied cells if anything concerning Vonda Van Den Dell was even threatened. Uzis and Dennison RapidTorch hardware were plentiful in the immediate vicinity, and could do terrible things.

  ‘I am right sorry for the insult, sir. But I would think, you having achieved the mega-success, that you would be beyond –’

  ‘Beyond! Would that it were so! I live in the state of my mind, and that mind is embedded in the truth. I know no other way. The truth remains something that becomes difficult when it is expected on too high a plane. Yet, I must dwell there. Not unlike you, here, in this place which is set aside – but on this elevated level. Physically elevated, but what about mentally? Attitudinally? Just over there, you can walk to the edge and see what you are, above. But what lies below? Up here we can talk about states of mind. Down there – we have to talk about truth.’

  ‘But your mega-success –’

  Then did TABP display a tiny sample of his stored wrath, un-regrettably unleashed when points must be made. His chromed clerical collar veritably gleamed. In other circumstances, he would not waste the effort on such an audience, but there was no question here if Butterbugs wasn’t worthwhile. Now he could raise the curtains on the gallery of sorrow that could prove his point. The point that, despite mega-success, black folks still get screwed over in big ways. As if nobody knew! Mega-success – or in some cases, simply fame – must be turned into notoriety somehow. Or failure, whether it be shot down or via open martyrdom. The whole gamut. Elimination from the scene, rather than tragic exits. Removal without dignity, without respect. As if they had never existed.

  ‘Is it really like that?’ queried Butterbugs.

  ‘Michael Jordan’s old man! Bumped off. Richard Pryor! Got sick. Michael Jackson! Sick puppy. Tupac! Bulleted. Condi! Discredited (some of us don’t exactly mind what happened to her! Especially she being an artificial Negroid; an android and all…) O.J.! (yeah, yeah, shut the fuck up…). Jesse Jackson! Scandal. Jesse Jr.! Worse! Janet Jackson! Exposed by a honky. Jeffrey Sterling! CIA set him up for a fall. Jack Johnson! Systematically phased out. Whitney! Downward spiral. ‘Bowell’ Powell – the flawed figure of Shakespearean-tragic proportions! The Hurricane! Reverend Doctor King! His own mama! Mike Tyson! Kobe Bryant! Mal X! Rodney by-god King, the motorist! Miss Anita Hill! Mrs. Obama roasted by church chickens! Not to mention half of the black gentlemen currently inhabiting our jails! Way more than half! I can quote the exact stats if you want. Oh, and those folks who tried to ‘break dance’ through Queens Katrina, Rita, Moana, and hell itself, my Wondering One! Carnage everywhere, baby. Cosby…? Hmm. Subject for further… research. Sainthood has nothin’ to do with war. You want me to go on? How ’bout the brothers and sisters who achieved fame by their own un-fucking-conscionable deaths? Trayvon. Mike Brown. Uh, a place called Ferguson, maybe? Mr. Tamir Rice. Age: twelve. Carrier of gun – as toy. Shot dead for playin’ with it. Well now. Consider Walter Scott. And I don’t mean the Sir. Didn’t have a working brake light, so he got one installed, right in the back. So to, uh, speak. Sardonicism’s a pretty fuckin’ poor substitute for rage, isn’t it? Freddie Gray. Eric Garner. He died for his cigs, and he died for you! You heard of Samuel DuBose’s distinguished name? I do say. Died for having only one license plate on car. Don’t believe me? Sandy Bland. Died for turn signal ‘failure’. If I continue, my under-control rage will emerge as overt. Rather a normal response, no? The effrontery is positively psycho-epidemic. Incredibly, these aren’t no cheap-ass cop show scenarios, neit
her. And another: the slaughter of the innocents in Charleston. You know, Mother Emanuel? Holy effing mama of God! More names, most we don’t even know, but can imagine. Don’t know any of ’em? Look ’em up! Think about it. It’s too obvious for anyone to admit. The price to be paid. And the tears, the woe-fucking tears at the end.’

  ‘Victims of –’

  ‘Hellfire, boy. Not victims. It’s way past victimization. I hates that word. Befo you even get to the first stop towards persecution, you tagged for suspicion. And befo you have a chance to prove yo-self, you pre-fried on the griddle of judgment. You threaten, jes by bein’, and you pan-fried even though you ain’t died. That’s the disempowerment. That’s not victimization, that’s havin’ yo balls hacked off. Lynching updated. The fruit gets stranger ’n’ stranger, man. And you will note that I don’t cite Clarence ‘Long Dong’ Thomas in my ‘itemized list’ of representative figures to illustrate my point. He ain’t no Uppity Negro, that’s for sure. I just hope you can recognize the grievous theme behind my rather bitter sarcasm in relating this shit to you in the here and now.’

  ‘I…’ Butterbugs’ voice cracked. ‘…dig.’

  ‘I daresay, super-boy. I daresay you do.’

  ‘I would never –’

  ‘I daresay, you’d never, is right. You not one of them. You more like us. I can tell by lookin’ in yo face. It’s not the face of judgment. It’s the face of peace, man.’

  Butterbugs was suddenly overwhelmed with warm emotions.

  ‘Thanks…’ was all he could get out.

  ‘I dish out the truth, man. That’s why half the globe’s afraid of me. The other half: they know what’s up.’

  ‘But you know,’ Butterbugs started to say, ‘there are so many other –’

  ‘Yeah, I know. What you’re about to say, newcome. All the others. Non-black injustice. I know all about ’em. Probably more than most non-blacks, too. And it is my official policy, inviolate, to care. It wasn’t just the Jews who perished in the Auschwitz, I, and now you, know. But these workin’ hands are full most of the day, honorary brother. So I cover my peoples first.’