The Nigger Factory

by Gil Scott-Heron

  ‘Yeah. About three or fo’ hundred of ‘um.’

  ‘Ralph,’ Sheila giggled, warming a bit. ‘She’s not that fat.’

  Baker lapsed into silence. He was thinking about Victor Johnson, the skinny, bespectacled editor from The Statesman. He had left the MJUMBE meeting and gone directly to The Statesman office. Along with Johnson he had put together the issue that would greet the community when the sun rose. He had felt that he had done a good job in pointing out the things that had to be done at Sutton. He had even tempered his words to appeal to the lackeys and eggheads that he despised. He didn’t particularly care for political diplomacy, but he knew that he had lost the election because there were so many soft-hearted Toms on Sutton’s campus who daily sold their asses for a diploma and that he didn’t dare do otherwise. Now, in Sheila’s room, with copies of the paper being run off in the basement of the Trade Building, he wondered if he had done the right thing. Maybe Speedy Cotton had been right when he pointed out what kind of spot Baker’s article was going to put MJUMBE in. Baker had snorted that it was time for some people to get on the spot. Now he wasn’t sure if a Victor Johnson editorial and the pictures of Thomas in one corner and the MJUMBE meeting in the other wouldn’t have been enough.

  Sheila interrupted his thoughts by coming up behind him and wrapping her arms around his neck.

  ‘Look! I’m bizzy. All right?’ Baker snapped.

  Sheila looked as if she had been kicked. She was turned off.

  ‘Look, I didn’t mean it like that . . . I’m uptight. Okay?’

  ‘That’s what I thought I was for . . . I mean, when things were bothering you and like that.’

  ‘There ain’ nothin’ an’ nobody who can do anything ‘bout this. It’ll all be taken care of tuhmaruh.’

  ‘Will it?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Sheila turned the flame down under the coffee and poured two steaming cups from the pot. She poured a little milk and sugar in her cup and handed Baker his black. They drank for a second in silence.

  ‘What’s going to happen?’ Sheila asked suddenly.

  ‘I wish I knew,’ Baker said rubbing his bald head. ‘Things went all right today except for a few things.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Well, we called Thomas to take the things to Calhoun, but his line was busy. So we decided to carry the ball ourselves and Calhoun wasn’t home. Then we got ahold of Thomas and he took the things over there.’

  ‘That’s bad?’

  ‘Not really bad,’ Baker admitted. ‘Things just weren’ clickin’ like I thought they would. There was too much confusion. Everybody was restless. It’s a whole different thing when you ain’ in fronta the crowd no mo’. They come to the meetin’s an’ clap an’ carry on, but it’s just a different set when you’re by yo’self.’

  ‘You worried?’

  Baker laughed. ‘I been waitin’ fo’ this fo’ three years. I’m jus’ impatient to git it on.’

  ‘You hate Calhoun?’

  ‘Naw. I hate bullshit. Sutton could be a beautiful place fo’ Black studen’s to come an’ get their minds together, but what happens? Fo’ years a bullshit an’ then ill-equipped people go back home an’ ill-prepare another set to continue to merry-go-round. It’s gotta stop.’

  Sheila laughed a little. ‘You’ll never change. You always want to be the one . . .’

  ‘Somebody has to be the one,’ Baker said.

  ‘Well, I hope it’s over soon, because I’m not use to you bein’ uptight.’

  Baker put down his coffee cup and went to sit next to Sheila on the bed.

  ‘I thought you were goin’ to work,’ Sheila smiled as he reached for her.

  ‘I was,’ Baker admitted.

  ‘And now?’

  ‘Well,’ Baker said untying his shoes, ‘I had this idea that I was gonna sit at the desk an’ jot down notes an’ stuff and the nex’ thing I knew it would be mornin’.’

  ‘An’ now?’ Sheila persisted.

  Baker held her around her waist and turned her until they were both flat out on the bed facing each other. His hand was in her hair and their mouths were pressed tightly to each other, tongues sucking deeply. Baker’s huge hands were fondling and squeezing, running down her side and between her heavy thighs. Sheila was gasping, scratching the small of his back with her nails and running her tongue in and out of his ear sending shivers down his spine.

  He could feel her wetness, the sticky fluid of her womanhood moistening her pubic hair. He bit her on her neck and felt her jump and squeeze his hand between her legs. She tightened her hold around his neck even as he twisted her slightly to remove her robe and pajama top.

  As Baker bent to kiss her breasts Sheila shivered and felt for the rising lump between his legs. She squeezed him hard and he wriggled away. She reached for his belt and unlocked it, breaking the button that secured his trousers. With impatience she unzipped the front of his trousers and lowered them so that she could gain a sure hold on his swelling manhood.

  Baker groaned and teased her breast with his teeth. He could feel the pressure mounting in his loins as she stroked him up and down and sighed and moaned in his ear. Sweat was beading at his hairline and dripping onto her face. Sheila was tossing and turning under him; rising to meet him as he strained to move away from the grip of her hands. He scooted down and away from her and kissed her stomach, kicking his pants off as he moved. He pushed his tongue inside her navel and she squirmed and wiggled more frantically beneath him. Her hands left his organ for a second to grasp his testicles and tickle the hair of his lower stomach.

  Baker straightened up in a kneeling position between her thighs. She was breathing heavily, eyes closed, thighs spread apart waiting for him. He teased her opening gently, allowing only a small portion of himself to lodge between her legs. She groaned and sobbed a small cry and reached for him, digging her fingernails into his buttocks, pulling him forward. With a crushing certainty he entered her. He felt a lightning flash of pain-pleasure as he eased inside her. She called his name, and wrapped her thighs around his waist; thrusting herself up to him, impaling herself totally. Baker felt a rush coming from his thighs as he moved within her. He crushed her to him and heard her groan. Their rhythm and speed increased as he strained to hold off against the surging flow of his orgasm. She screamed as she shared his liquid fire until she was left spent and exhausted.

  She clung to him tightly, wanting to lie there with him and allow the heat of their bodies to smother them and shelter them. Baker withdrew slowly and pressed his head to her bosom. She squirmed closer to him, kissing his heavily muscled arm. Their heavy breathing subsided. The sweat was cooling them as it traced crooked paths down the lengths of their bodies. Sheila hooked a leg across Baker’s flat stomach and fondled him between his legs, pressing it to her thigh. Baker inched away.

  ‘Ralph,’ she began tentatively.

  ‘Yes?’ he replied, sitting up on the side of the bed and looking around for his shoes.

  ‘Ralph? Are you leaving?’ Sheila asked as though frightened.

  ‘Yeah,’ the reply came hardly above a whisper.

  Sheila rolled away from Baker’s side of the bed. She felt hurt again. She had known what he was going to say somehow. She had known all the time that things weren’t right. She had sensed it. But there was no way to stay away from him when he held her in his arms like a doll and crushed her to him.

  Baker was struggling for something to say. He knew that she was hurt. He knew why. He was berating himself for feeling that he had to leave. All through the act of love he had heard the words from the Last Poets’ album banging into his mind: ‘All over America bitches with big ‘fros and big asses were turning would-be revolutionaries into Gash men . . . Gash needs man. No experience necessary . . . Gash man. Gash man . . . Come on, daddy. And he came. Every day he came . . .’ Baker shook his head. He wasn’t thinking straight. That was why he was leaving. He needed some sleep. If he stayed Sheila would crawl all over him all night
long and he would respond; grabbing her pillow-soft breasts, running his hand between her thighs, squeezing her firm ass. All night long. All night long. He would fuck as though he were inventing pussy and the next day he would be useless, drained, out on his feet. He knew he had to be sharp when the sun came up. That was why he was leaving. He watched Sheila out of the corner of his eye as he put his shoes on.

  She was lying on her back searching the corners of the ceiling, acid tears springing from salty wells in her mind, a sick emptiness jerking at her stomach.

  ‘Why won’t you stay?’ she called. ‘I know I shouldn’t be raising my voice an’ gettin’ upset an’ cryin’ or anything, but I shouldn’t be doing a lot of things like laying in bed with you or waitin’ up all night for you. I wait an’ wait sometimes Ralph and you don’t come or call. I feel like Ralph Baker’s private whore.’

  ‘You’re wrong, baby,’ Baker said in monotone. ‘You’re wrong again.’

  ‘Am I?’

  ‘Yeah. You wrong. Tomorrow night I be by an’ we’ll talk about it.’

  ‘Tomorrow night? I’m sick an’ tired of waitin’ for tomorrow nights that aren’t comin’. You don’t have to say nuthin’ special. A woman can tell, Ralph. I knew all the time, but I thought I was gonna make you love me. Well, I give the hell up. You don’t give a damn ‘bout nothin’ an’ nobody but Ralph Baker. It’s always been that way. You have to be the head of everything; the king of everything, the leader. When you can’t get it one way, you get it the other. All I was was the key to the damn office! An’ now that you have all the papers an’ things I hope you’re quite through with me.’

  ‘You’re wrong, Sheila,’ Baker said sadly.

  ‘Get out! Get out of here and leave me alone!’

  Baker had wanted to say something special then, but the words he needed were nowhere to be found. He finished dressing quickly and left. The last sight he had of Sheila was a sad picture. She was lying in a heap on the bed, her bathrobe open exposing the glossy brown texture of her breasts, jerking as she sobbed and cried.

  It hadn’t done much good to go back to the room. Jonesy had been in bed fast asleep. Baker showered and fell heavily into his bed, but sleep was a stranger far into the night. He found himself turning over the day’s events and the events of his life with Sheila as far back as he could remember. He had really come to like her. He had come to appreciate her and enjoy her company. He had come to love her. No. That was a lie. He didn’t love her. But it wasn’t the sort of plot that she thought it was. That had been a coincidence. An unhappy one at that. No. He didn’t love her. But he missed her. He missed having her change the records and fix coffee.

  Ben King came through the door to the cafeteria. Baker waved and King came over to the table and set his tray down.

  ‘Git me another coffee, brother?’ Baker said.

  King nodded and went back to the line where the coffee was being handed out. He turned with two cups and sat down opposite the MJUMBE spokesman.

  ‘So whuss happ’nin’?’ King asked.

  ‘Everything, man. You seen anybody?’

  ‘Man, I’m so ready it don’ even make no muthafuckin’ sense. You git a look at Thomas?’

  ‘No. Did’joo?’

  ‘No. I seen Abul. His shit is togethuh too.’

  ‘I figgered that.’

  ‘He got his shit on!’ King laughed.

  ‘The gol’ dashiki?’

  ‘The brother is layin’ tough.’

  Both Baker and King were wearing black dashikis with gold trim.

  ‘Hi many dudes you got lined up if we haveta boycott?’ Baker asked.

  ‘Shit! I got the whole football squad an’ half the players on every othuh team near here.’

  ‘You git any static?’

  ‘You kiddin’?’ King asked as he gulped down the scrambled eggs. ‘I heard a lotta “you goin’ ‘bout this the wrong way” type shit, But I thought I wuz gon’ hear that shit.’

  ‘You listened?’

  “Course I listened. I din’ tell no punks ‘bout the plan. I jus’ don’ wanna hear no shit when the real deal go down.’

  ‘Right.’

  King ate in silence for a moment. Baker drank his coffee thoughtfully. The cafeteria was filling up again. A glance at his watch told Baker that it was almost eight thirty.

  ‘I got to go,’ he announced standing up.

  ‘Fo’ you do,’ King said, ‘tell me somethin’.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘What’choo rilly think gon’ happen?’

  Baker looked down at his big backfield mate and friend.

  ‘I think we gonna haveta close this mutha down fo’ a helluva good while.’

  ‘Good,’ King said. ‘Thass jus’ what I wanna do.’

  13

  Evaluation

  ‘Did’joo dig whut wuz happ’nin’ outside?’ Odds asked, as he blasted into the SGA office on the first floor of Carver Hall.

  ‘You mean wit’ there not bein’ any classes an’ all?’ Lawman asked.

  ‘Yeah!’

  ‘Somethin’s cookin’. Where’s Earl?’

  The question was no sooner out of Odds’s mouth than Earl came into the front from the file room in back with a handful of papers in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other. The SGA president took a seat at his desk while Odds hung up his raincoat in the closet.

  ‘What’choo think’s happ’nin’?’ Odds asked through his nose.

  ‘Me an’ Lawman wuz gettin’ ready t’take a look at the deman’s again an’ see what kinda changes everybody is gonna go through. They havin’ a faculty meetin’ at ten o’clock. I tried ta see ‘bout gittin’ in there, but they ain’ lettin’ nobody in but faculty an’ administrators.’

  ‘Where the papers at?’ Odds asked sitting down.

  Earl pulled a folded copy of the demands out of his desk drawer. He handed the sheet to Lawman and sat back with his coffee. He looked tired and felt the same way. He had not slept well. From the looks of things neither had Odds or Lawman.

  ‘Numero uno,’ Lawman began. ‘The Pride of Virginia Food Services be dismissed.’

  ‘Relevant, man. I had a stomach ache for fo’ damn years. I’ll be glad to graduate jus’ to git away from this grit.’

  ‘I had taken a long look at that,’ Earl said. ‘The company’s workin’ on the third year of a three-year contrac’. When they had the boycott at the beginnin’ a las’ year the SGA secretary took notes at the confrontation meetin’. They said mos’ly a whole lotta bullshit. Their real source of income comes from the canteen at night. The percentage of profit from the meals iz only ‘bout two per cent . . . y’know it wuz the same ol’ bullshit. You cain’ please everybody an’ ya can only prepare certain types of food for a lot of people an’ ya cain’ season food to suit everybody.’

  ‘But the question is . . . what is Calhoun gonna say?’ Lawman asked.

  ‘He’s gonna quote from the same damn thing I been readin’ an say the same shit.’

  ‘No new food services,’ Lawman deduced and put a check mark.

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Number two is that Gaines Harper be dismissed,’ Lawman said.

  ‘Thass tricky,’ Odds said. ‘Why they wanna git rid of him? ‘Cuz he’s a whitey or what?’

  ‘I guess.’

  ‘Thass prob’bly why Calhoun will turn it down. The primary student complaint against the man is that he’s a drunken devil.’ Earl laughed out loud. ‘They tired of goin’ over there an’ havin’ him puff cigar smoke in their face an’ treatin’ what they consider a serious problem as though it didn’ mean shit.’

  ‘Whuss the real charge?’

  ‘It can’t be incompetency,’ Earl admitted. ‘I guess it’ll have to be that the man doesn’t relate to the students in terms of the job that he’s doin’ which is s’pose to be a personal student service.’

  ‘No new Financial Aid Officer?’ Odds asked, looking over Lawman’s shoulder.

  ‘No,’ Earl said.
r />   ‘Three and four are new heads of the Chemistry and Language Departments respectively.’

  ‘Accreditation,’ Earl sighed. ‘Everybody knows that Beaker and Ol’ Royce shoulda been gone. Calhoun iz gonna rap ‘bout not bein’ able t’git anybody wit’ the proper credentials to take their places. You have to have a Ph.D. in those departments.’

  ‘What ‘bout Phillips in Chemistry? He’s a Ph.D. Why can’t he take Beaker’s place?’

  ‘Thass the student argument,’ Earl said. ‘An’ Connoly in French has at least a leg on his Ph.D. He’ll have it by the time school convenes again in September . . . I mean, the people they got in here gonna haveta finish this year anyway. They may as well be plannin’ on gettin’ somebody for when all these oldies fall the hell out an’ die.’

  ‘The students can get numbers three an’ four?’ Odds asked.

  ‘Uh-huh. Not without Calhoun rappin’ a lotta shit ‘bout tenure an’ alla that action, but maybe.’

  ‘Number five. The thing about the Security Service leavin’ their guns an’ shit in the guardhouse.’

  ‘Yeah. Thass in the bag,’ Earl said confidently.

  ‘I’m glad somethin’s in the bag,’ Odds sighed.

  ‘You thought we wuz gonna get shut out?’ Earl asked laughing.

  ‘It wuz lookin’ that way.’

  ‘Each and every one of these things coulda been worked out in time,’ was Earl’s comment. ‘I been over damn near alla them. If we, and I mean the formal SGA, had been given time to present workable plans in terms of alla these things . . . I mean like an alternative an’ a formal plan for alla these things, everything woulda been all right. Keep readin’ an’ I’ll show you what I mean.’

  ‘Well, six, seven, and eight would give the SGA supervision over the Student Union Building, the book store, and the Music and Art Fund.’

  ‘Dig it. If we had drawn up statements that documented how much better for students things would have been if we controlled these things and sent copies to the alumni an’ the Board of Trustees . . .’

  ‘An’ na it’s too late?’ Odds asked.

  ‘Look, brother,’ Earl said. ‘If you can spring a sudden thing on Calhoun an’ hit him where he’s weak, you can git over. But every time you go after the man an’ don’ make it, it gives him a chance to shore up whatever spot it was you wuz after. Then you haveta try somethin’ else.’