by Wesley Brown
But I wasn’t about to change. Too much had happened. I had been through too many schemes of desperation of my own to go for one of Otis’.
While I was in prison, a group of students from a local college came once a month to visit those of us who were conscientious objectors. The fact that I was the only black at the first session I attended was a reminder of the static I got from blacks in the joint who believed refusing induction was something only whites did. At that first meeting all the whites greeted me with a variety of black power handshakes, complete with tricky grips.
“How are you, brother Ellington?” one said. “I’m Jason Rich. I’m a C.O., too.”
“How you doing?” I said, shaking his hand and noticing his fingernails were mutilated from biting. His body seemed lost in the bagginess of his khaki shirt and pants. Below his confused display of black hair was a face rioting with bumps from some disturbance going on underneath the skin.
“How much time do you have?” he asked.
“Three years.”
“They gave me a nickel. I’ve already done two years. When I went up before the board, they told me to bring it all. I refuse to do any work because they don’t pay a minimum wage. Some of us have been trying to organize the other inmates around that issue. We’ve had a difficult time trying to relate to the blacks, so when we heard you were here we wanted to get with you as soon as possible.”
“Oh, yeah? Why’s that?”
“You’re one of the few black C.O.’S that’s ever been here. And in terms of what we’re trying to do, your help would be invaluable.”
“How’s that?”
“We’d like to use you as a liaison in our work to get the brothers to see the connection between Vietnam and the prison system. We take the position that the Domino Theory must be transferred from Southeast Asia to the penal system in this country. And this can be accomplished by creating as many Atticas as possible.”
Hearing that convinced me that Jason’s general appearance of neglect was also bound up with his thought processes. “Wasn’t one enough?” I asked.
“No. Attica was only the model. In order to heighten the contradictions within the prison system, other prisons must follow Attica’s example.”
“Are you serious?” I asked, dumfounded, looking at everyone in the room. No one said a word. They all caved in out of deference to Jason. “You expect me to run what you just told me to other blacks in here?”
“Since you’re the only black political prisoner here, you could make our position more credible to the brothers.”
“I doubt it, since it ain’t even credible to me.”
“That’s too bad. It’s sad to see a brother not use his black yoga.”
“Black yoga?”
“Yeah, you see, black people have a way of crossing their legs and folding their arms.” When he said that, I immediately assumed the position. “It’s a kind of natural meditation,” he continued, “that gives you a daring that most white people don’t have. I believe it comes from knowing that the ground you walk on can become a welcome mat one minute and a deathtrap the next. It gives you a looseness to maneuver, where the less gifted rhythmically would fall.”
“All this is new to me. I wasn’t aware that blacks had all this power just by going through a few mannerisms.”
“Most whites who have become politically aware would give up their white-skin privilege in a minute for some of your black yoga.”
“Oh, so you’d trade all your advantages for some black yoga. Well, if it’s as valuable as you say it is, I don’t know if that’s such a good bargain. I mean, that would make me like you, wouldn’t it? Sounds like to me you want the goods without going through the changes that created them. That’s why you don’t mind letting blacks be in the vanguard, doing the funky robot into the sights of those guards in the gun towers. And I don’t blame you. Why should you get wasted if you don’t have to? But what you don’t understand is that I don’t want to be you. I want to be in your place!”
“Wait a minute, Ellington! You’re twisting everything around!”
“That’s right, but I guess that’s some yoga that’s a little too black for you.”
“LOOK, OTIS,” I SAID, finally fed up with all his futile talk of revenge, “I’m not going to start throwing bricks at the penitentiary my first day out of jail.”
“All right. You ready to split to La Magnifique?”
“Yeah.”
We hailed a cab on Lenox Avenue.
“Fiftieth and Broadway,” Otis told the driver. He was as wide around as a beer keg and had a head that sunk between his shoulders as he peered at us with owl eyes.
“I usually don’t pick up men who’re together at night,” he said. “Especially on weekends. I figure on a Friday night a man should be with a woman. Two dudes together this time a night ain’t up to no good. They either faggots or tryin to rip somebody off.”
“You don’t have to worry about us cause we ain’t hardly into none a that,” Otis said.
“You two look all right but I wanna warn you right now, I’m not gonna stand for a stickup or any freak shit in my cab. So let’s be clear about that from the git, cause I’m givin up neither money or bootie!”
“Hey, I can understand that,” Otis said. He turned to me.
“You gonna try and cop from Alice?” he asked.
“I don’t know. I hadn’t really thought about it.”
“Don’t gimme that shit. Your dick’s probably been harder than a desert bone all day. Lemme tell you somethin about Alice, though. That’s a strange broad. She’s been death on dudes since her marriage broke up. Most cats that hit on her don’t even come away with a fantasy. You may end up beating your meat before you get any a that.”
“What do you think I’ve been doing for the last two years?”
“I guess you youngbloods are out to do some serious womanizing,” the driver said.
“You got that right!” Otis said.
“Well, what you doing for the women these days?”
“I got em takin much dic-ta-tion!”
“Solid on that! Are they takin it all down?”
“You mean, are they takin it all in, don’t you, Pops?”
“All right! I hear you, youngblood! Do you ever go down South with the ladies?”
“Damn sure do. I stays in the Dixie Cup.”
“Good to hear that you fess up to bein well traveled. A lotta bloods don’t wanna admit they spend a lotta time below the Mason-Dixon line… But tell me this, youngblood, are you built for comfort or for speed?”
“I’m all comfort, Pops, slow but sure on every turntable I’m a spindle for. Everybody calls me L.P. for short.”
“You pretty swift with the words, too.”
“Hey, my rap always downshifts on Friday cause I steady spends the weekend in the passing gear.”
“What about you? I’m talkin to you.”
I looked into the rearview mirror when Otis didn’t say anything.
“Who, me?”
“Yeah. You don’t seem to have too much to say.”
“That’s because I’m not doing too much to speak of.”
“Don’t worry about it. Ain’t nobody else doin much more than scratchin.”
He definitely had that right. It reminded me of a dude in the joint named V.D. who would always ask me to write letters for him.
“Here’s a flick of the broad I want to write the letter to,” he said.
“She’s nice.”
“Yeah, she’s a friend of Jubilee’s woman. I wanted somebody to write to, so before Jubilee split he had his woman get her address for me. At first, writin her was just part of my bit. But then I figured since I was goin up for parole this year, she might be able to do somethin for me. So I put her to the test.”
“What did you do?”
“I sent her this card sayin how much I appreciated her writin me. And that I would a sent her some candy but I didn’t have enough scratch. So the next letter I g
ot from her had some money in it.”
“What do you want me to write?”
“Tell her I got to have those letters from people offerin me jobs for my parole hearin next month. I figure even if I don’t get a play from the board, I’ll be gettin out in eighteen months anyway. She ain’t no star or nuthin, but at least I’ll have somebody to lay up with when I get out. I feel kind a sorry for her. She tells me all her problems, and I been tryin to help her get herself together… She sent me some short heist pictures of herself. I showed em around in the dorm and some lowlife muthafucka ripped em off. If I catch the muthafucka that did it, I’m gonna bust his ass. I can’t have nobody disrespectin my woman.”
“Hey, Ellington, I hope you didn’t believe none a that shit V.D. told you,” Hardknocks said later.
“Why?”
“Don’t you know why everybody calls him V.D.?”
“Unh, unh.”
“It’s cause he’s Very Doubtful. Jubilee never gave him no woman’s address. V. D. got a sister who’s whipped in the mug and ain’t got nuthin better to do than write him letters like she’s his woman. All his homies know about it. But they don’t say nothin cause they figure if he don’t mind makin an ass out a sportin life, then that’s his business.”
A faraway howling wind kicked up in my ear, became a growl, and then shaped itself into a human voice.
“Come on, Mouth, let’s go! What you waitin for?” Otis said.
“Don’t worry, youngblood,” the driver said. “You’ll get over with the ladies. Just remember, if you can’t cut the mustard, you can always lick the jar.”
LA MAGNIFIQUE WAS BELOW street level in a complex of office buildings. It was strange after two years in rural Pennsylvania to be looking up into an unnaturally grown forest of steel. Once inside, Otis and I were dipped into a color scheme of blues and reds, with strobe lights jabbing white flashes. The manslaughter of trees provided the all-wood decor of the bar, tables, benches, and columns rising to the ceiling. The air was husky with the smell of reefer. Smoke and lights cut through the glut of undulating bodies on the dance floor. The record ended and the voice of a disc jockey came over a loudspeaker.
“Okay, y’all. We gonna stop beating around the bush now and get into the wicked thicket with a little Jungle Boogie from Kool and the Gang.” The music began again and dancing moves burned a mean path south of the waist. Hips shimmied and backbones turned into gyrating snakes. Legs went frantic. Arms tripped into abracadabra branches and performed tricks. Necks did the camel bend and turtle duck before the side ended with dancers going into a tailspin.
“Okay, groove merchants, now that you’ve put out your feelers to the person you want to hit on, we gonna change up the pace with a little slow hip shifter by The Escorts called I’ll Be Sweeter Today Than I Was Yesterday. But before y’all make contact, women: beware of the third leg between bowed legs; and men: watch out for those righteously thrown thighs that have left many a young man circumcised.”
“I don’t know about you, Mouth, but I’m going to lock up with one of these hammers.” Otis moved away from me and into the fray. Accompanying him were a bass guitar, horns, a harp, and then…
Male and female were slung over one another as if they’d been wounded in action, each thinking they were in the arms of a medic. Dudes began to test the spines of women to see how far they would go back. And women, spotting a beanstalk-shaped blood, would get the vibration from his snake charm and curl their way around his body. Hands surveyed their partners’ limbs for guidance, and mouths staked out claims in necks.
All this reminded me of my first excursion into the new math, where fingers discovered figures. I saw a woman sitting alone in a corner of the room. I walked over to her and extended my hand.
She looked at my hand and then at me. “No, thank you,” she said. This had happened to me many times. With her refusal, my hand was left out there, lost in space, a missile with no place to touch down. In the past I would make a quick recovery and move on to another woman. If I got a nay there too, I would continue asking women to dance; after each refusal I would make like a visiting dignitary, thanking them for making my stay a pleasant one. When I’d had enough, I would snap my fingers, trying to give the impression that I’d just remembered some urgent business, and then make my getaway out of the room. This time I just put my hands in my pockets and stood there with a silly grin on my face.
“Now, ain’t this some shit.” It was Pauline, with Alice. “Damn, Mouth,” Pauline needled, “you standin there like an Indian with reservations. I know you tryin to get yourself together, but you stand in that spot too much longer and somebody’s going to mistake you for a coatrack.”
“…Before we continue,” the disc jockey said, “I’d like to take a brief pause for the cause. And the cause this week for all you up-and-coming freaks is who can come closest to dressing like that baddest bone among the dry, the brittle, and the weary: Slick Swanson, disc jockey for WHIP. Now, we have our spotters on the floor to see who is sportin the meanest threads. And the one who is chosen will be freak for a week, courtesy of WHIP. So profile for a while, y’all, and remember that style is character…”
“How’s everybody doin?” Otis asked.
“Hi, Otis,” Alice said.
“What’s wrong with you, Pauline? Can’t you speak?”
“Noddin ain’t enough for you?”
“Hey, don’t do me any favors.”
“You ain’t gotta worry about that. If you was on fire, I wouldn’t even spit on you!”
“Come on, Alice. Let’s dance,” he said.
“So how does it feel bein with your ace boon coon?”
“I don’t know,” I said.
“Well, it shouldn’t be too hard for you to become his shadow again.”
“Look, Pauline, get off my case, okay?”
“Why should I? Gettin on folks’ cases is how I get my cookies. I ain’t just heavy. I’m like sight. I’m everywhere you look!”
Pauline had gotten on my last nerve. I found relief in the bathroom. Leaning into the urinal, I wondered if Alice’s body had any of the same bends and twists of the trees I watched while I was away to remind me of the shape of a woman’s body. If we ever got together, I’d want to watch her in the morning when she yawned, and see her arms pull the skin taut over her bones as her spine buttoned her lengthening back. I’d follow the pit of her arm down as it dipped in at the waist and swayed back into her hips and around her behind. I was treed just by the thought of Alice’s shape. I flushed the urinal and realized that my chaser to what went down was an emission of jism juice.
“You all right?” Otis asked.
“Yeah, I’m cool.” At the mirror above the sink, I watched Otis tighten up his image: carefully adjusting his shirt collar and going through a series of leaning, ducking, and feinting maneuvers.
“I wanna ask you somethin, Mouth.”
“What’s that?”
“How did you deal with not gettin any pussy all that time?”
“I jerked off from a political perspective.”
“What the fuck’s that supposed to mean?”
“Well, I used to think about how much a nut and a nation had in common. And I realized you couldn’t have a good one unless you remembered the sensation of almost getting one. So I would go off into a suspended nut, somewhere between almost and being there, and imagine that I was doing the pa-changa, and take one step into coming and then two steps back to almost… I did a lot of jogging, too. But usually after a few laps around the track I’d feel like I was getting down with a woman. When I got my second wind I’d really be fired up. By the time I finished my kick on the last lap, I’d already come in my sweat pants.”
“You need to get yourself together. With all that funky hand-jivin between your legs you lucky your brains ain’t scrambled no more than they are. I hope you get over with Alice. She ain’t half-bad. If it wasn’t for you not gettin no nookie in two years, I’d try to cop myself.”
> “Don’t do me no favors.”
“Hey, don’t get the ass with me, Mouth. You know for yourself that the only reason you’ve ever been able to get over with a woman in my presence was if I didn’t want her. You remember how I used to pull broads. Shit! So just cause I’m minus a wing don’t mean I still can’t fly!”
I could hear it: a vote of no confidence sucking at his words. I’d been waiting for this. But the scare in his voice didn’t make me want to grand on him. Instead, I tried to bail him out.
“Hey, Otis, remember when we used to sing in the bathroom at school?”
His face came up from down in the mouth when I hit second tenor, and he joined me on the note below. We carried on like a pair of ad-libbed splibs, making a mean harmony boomeranging off the bathroom walls. And we were bad enough to have put the glass inside window frames and horn rims on notice to the shattering factor of our doowah.
I DANCED WITH ALICE on the next record. It was slow and our legs were a sneaky alternating current between each other’s thighs.
“You come here a lot?” I asked.
“Sometimes.”
“By yourself?”
“No. I usually come with Pauline.”
“You and Pauline tight?”
“Not really. We both just like to cruise.”
“Cruise?”
“You don’t know about cruising? It means not buying, just looking, thank you. That way I avoid sleeping with men who run out of cigarettes at three o’clock in the morning and realize they might have to talk.”
“Are you cruising tonight?”
“Always,” she said, giving me a strong thrust with her thigh.
“What was that all about?”
“Don’t worry about it. When it means something, I’ll let you know.”
“Look, Alice, if you’re worried about letting somebody get next to you, all you have to do is let yourself get fat like Pauline and your problems will be over.”
She stiffened, closing off the peak between her legs. “What do you want to do, Melvin, dance or lead?”