My scientists were supposed to have transferred every memory. Every detail was to have been at my immediate disposal. It was the only way I could convincingly take on the life of the CEO. I had dates, times, where he and others stood at various moments, details he could never have pulled to the surface. As I relived the memory of the beating the CEO took as a boy, I realized there are memories and there are memories. Seeing his father popped the lid on a charred crusty pot that had been quietly boiling for decades.
***
The Librarian
As you know, the juiciest parts of the CEO’s life never made it to the script for the biopic I was assigned to write. For example, it wasn’t until the trial that we found out that the CEO’s father had not been randomly assigned to clean the hotel where his son was being honored. The father asked for the assignment to clean that building. He hadn’t been in contact with his son for years but saw him in the newspaper, one of those local-kid-is-rich-so-now-we-love-him stories. The father started bragging to his coworkers about his son, the big shot. Naturally, they felt even sorrier for him. Only occasionally was he truly sober, and even then, he had winding, untenable stories to tell.
He managed to trade building assignments with a guy that owed him a favor. He wanted to be there when his son spoke and made all those bigwigs bow down. What he somehow hadn’t counted on was being too busy to get to the ballroom where the event was. But, no matter, he and his “son” were indeed reunited.
***
The CEO
He did not see my face until it was too late. I had watched him wheel a pail of soapy water into the men’s room. He’d put a barrier at the door to indicate it was closed for cleaning. I went in and latched the door behind me. His smile lasted perhaps a second before he stumbled backward over the toilet, voiceless in his horror as I tried to speak. But the instrument held my tongue and I realized he could see it protruding from my mouth.
I had wanted to tell him the exact time of day that he’d beaten me, what we were both wearing, the rooms where I’d left blood on the walls, how I’d almost knocked myself out as I ran from him looking backwards and rammed my head into the edge of an open door. I wanted to ask him why he’d dropped the coat hangers he had been using to beat me. But, in the oddest moment, I suddenly thought the wires would leave cuts that would be visible in the short sleeves I would soon be wearing, whereas his fists had struck me mostly beneath my clothes, or maybe the wire had begun to cut his hand. Did he remember how many days it would take me to get out of bed afterward, to say nothing of being able to walk to school?
Those thoughts and inquiries spun and raced inside me but I could utter nothing. Our mouths were joined. I heard small, rhythmic, involuntary sounds that may have come from him, from me, or the two of us grinding together. The instrument had parted his lips, broken his front teeth, and probed his insides, searching for internal organs to disconnect them like reluctant, unripe fruit being snapped from a tree.
***
The Librarian
Another thing revealed at the CEO’s trial was that the original, (all) human CEO only consented to the transformation because he thought certain memories would be wiped from his head.
***
The CEO
I took his key and discreetly locked the restroom door behind me. It was the next day before anyone tried to open the room and later still before his body was discovered. It was in a stall far from the door, face down in the toilet. The person who’d come to clean thought he may have drowned, somehow, until he saw the skin shrunken around the skull.
The son had rarely spoken of his father or any family. All printed biographic material began with his rise in Detroit. The father’s years of desperate drinking had obscured much of his physical resemblance to his son, so no one made that connection. Their worlds had come apart.
The death became news only after I was back in Detroit and even then was only local. That gave me much relief at that time. Identifying the body or acting bereaved would have required more resources than I have. The mere sight of even his corpse may well have caused the instrument to swell. This was the only murder to which I wanted to confess and found myself somehow unable to do so. It was as if there was another instrument, an instrument of the psyche that refused to own the act as a crime, refused to let me to speak the truth of it, even as the words darted within me and clawed for release.
***
The Girl
While the Librarian was busy with the trial, I wandered the apartment and found some diaries, dozens of notebooks. At first, I thought they were hers and then I realized how old they were, referencing the ’67 riot and the Renaissance Center being built. Actually, there were lots of things in them that didn’t exist anymore. It was not that long ago, but it felt so old. I almost wanted to go through them and add notes in the margins about what had changed or had not happened as she thought it would.
It was clear whoever had written them worked in the factory and was deep in the union. It seemed like she had two jobs. She was busy and the entries were sporadic.
She found a man passed out drunk who fell out of an abandoned car. She wrote some pretty mean things about him even though she was on drugs at one time herself. She did help save him from being drunk all the time. She’d had no one to find her and take her into a safe place like she did for him. She dropped drugs Miles Davis–style, cold turkey, locked away in a room in the house of a true friend; used what was left of her will to close off any escape routes or tunnels; and, unlike Miles, she never went back. The room was bigger than the walls.
There is a diary entry about Belle Isle, a picnic, a family reunion. I could not tell from the words how old she was, but not very. But she was swinging on a playground close to twilight. Did she know how dark it was getting? Who knows? But, on her way back to everyone else, she lost her way or ran into a man she thought she knew or both. He said her family was looking for her. She thought he was taking her back to them. But once there was no one else around, he slowed down, began walking too close, and was on her with a suddenness that snatched her breath away. He asked her strange questions like why had she walked with him in the dark? The question and the pain of the rocks at her back finally made her cry out, though he’d threatened to kill her if she did. A group of men, not long off work, still in their security guard uniforms, playing cards by headlights on the other side of some bushes came around and through the bushes. He didn’t run. They had to pull him off of her and fought over whether or not to beat him bloody.
***
The diaries reminded me of my father. I don’t think he ever spoke a complete sentence. The words, commas, and periods were usually in the right places. But there was always a silent part that needed to be filled in. It was not the gaps between the times that he spoke or the days between diary entries. It was the words he spoke and the entries themselves that hold the spaces. Before they were married, my mother’s job was to help him. She was not there so much to fill in the spaces but to help him realize they were there, where he’d left something out and had continued on as if everything was in place. My father never really got over the death of his brother or the deaths of his friends in the factory during a shooting incident. It was my mother that showed him how empty space connected those things and the space behind the sadness that never seemed to leave after my uncle died. The gaps in the union lady’s diary have that sadness. She is raped. Then she spends a lot of time in church. Then she gets a job in the factory and discovers beer and other drugs that become her new church. Finally, she locks herself away for days. Food and water are placed in the room when she’s asleep. Only the tiny bathroom window remains unsealed.
***
The Union Representative
While I was away, locked in the room, shaking like an old car on a bad road and throwing up everything I ever ate, they fired me. At first, I begged for my job. I agreed to meet one of the foremen at a bar to talk it over. Big mistake, not only did I almost accept his offer for a drink, b
ut, even after I refused, he tried to snuggle up close to me in the booth. I stared dead into his face, pulled out the stiletto my daddy gave me and snapped the blade out. Then I used the knife to cut the meat on my plate. The foreman slid away and called for the check.
***
I went to the union hall today, like Justine told me to do a while ago. I met with this old Polish guy whose last name I couldn’t pronounce if they put a gun to my head. He kept calling me honey, but he calls everybody honey or sister. Anyway, he had me fill out a bunch of papers while he was on the phone. Every call started with, “I got this colored girl over here they fired and I need to get her back.”
***
I almost end up near 12th and Clairmount the other night, about two blocks from where everything jumped off. The news is driving me crazy. Not even the one black reporter (working serious overtime) knows anything about the places he’s talking about. Passing judgment and dodging bullets and that’s the ones who got the short straw and ended up on the street. Let’s not even talk about the ones at their desks. But I can’t stop watching or listening to it because I have to know what’s happening besides folks calling to tell me what’s going on. I thought this mess would be over after a couple of days. Damn fools burning their own damn places. Where the hell we gonna shop? My father called and said he was going to come get me but called back about fifteen minutes later and said he kept getting stopped by the police and turned back to the house. Just as well. I’m as safe here as I am there. Though I would love to sit down and let them fix me something. Some honey-baked chicken with some macaroni and cheese and cornbread from the pan and I wouldn’t care about nothing for a minute.
***
Stan, the old Polish guy, got put in a bit of a trick bag today. His white friends were teasing him about me in front of his wife, man old enough to be my damn granddaddy. But he speaks up for folks on the floor and in the union hall and they can’t stand it, especially since the riot. He’s pushing for Bernard and Calvin who should have been in skilled trades long-ass time ago and everybody knows it, just don’t want to let black men move up, even when they do right. People have started saying shit right out in the open, acting like every black person is a sniper and these supposed to be our union brothers.
***
Another bad day, near miss at the plant handing out literature. I had to lay into one of those crackers trying to talk shit like it was the good old days in the south. I thought I was going to have to slap him but his friend, or somebody I thought was his friend, jumped between us. Young and looked like Paul Newman but skinny as hell. He kept staring at me and trying to smile but seemed like he was afraid. Then I recognized him.
***
Stan finally gave it up today. His oldest called me to the hospital. The sun was out for the first time in days and when I opened the door to the hospital room it blinded me for a second. Everybody was there, even the new foreman. I was so glad all the tubes and wires and machines were gone, even if he didn’t look like himself. His grandson and wife couldn’t stop crying and that was really sad.
I drifted back to the time me and him played cards in a vacant lot over on the east side. He went with me to talk with some of the hospital security guards I knew from the attack on Belle Isle, trying to get them to start a real union. Stan must have been the only white man in miles that wasn’t a store owner.
I touched his hand before I walked out of the room. I would have give my arm to hear him call me honey.
***
I almost don’t believe it, but they voted me into Stan’s slot today. And guess who it was working with Justine to get the Mexicans and the Arabs to vote with the black folks? I may have misjudged the guy, even after the lunchroom incident. I still can’t feature me and a white guy going out together, especially this white guy. I don’t like folks staring. He was surprised to find out I’m in recovery. I can tell he’s new to the meetings because a veteran would know I show all the classic signs, flaring and working too much. It’s hard to let go.
***
I had to get on Justine today about all her teasing about being with a white guy. I told her she just wanted to make an Oreo. It was a joke and she laughed but it was a hard, sharp laugh and then she said I was sick. I laughed that off but it hurt me. It hurt me deep. I drove over there after work and we talked about stuff that hadn’t come up for years. I finally told her everything was really good but that he still seems young. Justine just smiled and asked, since when is that a problem?
***
Everything’s changed now, more real. It happened. That’s all I know. It was one day but it was more than a day. Everything really turned when we kissed. Nothing meant anything anymore. I know that sounds bad. The problem is I want to write about this thing but I can’t, not really.
It started with us both deciding to skip church even though neither of us said it out loud. Looking back, I know it was just me. Lately, going to church meant driving fifteen minutes trying to find somewhere to park. The people were nice, but there were too many of them to know who they really were.
Anyway, it was the kiss. He always had nice lips, especially for a white boy. But that morning, after we had suddenly stopped getting dressed, I felt his hand stroke my cheek. His skin was rough but his hand was gentle and cool to the touch. When I looked into his eyes, I couldn’t help but close mine. They were closed when we moved together, when our lips touched. It felt like we were having sex right at that moment. When we did, everything rushed together. Something came to me. It felt like what happens sometimes with the music at church, I’m dancing outside of my body and my voice is gone. This time, it was the silence even though I could hear everything. It was bright even with my eyes closed. The sheets on the bed felt different. I could smell the sun in them like when mama used to take them off the line in the summer. I stopped thinking. All the words disappeared from my head. I was only making love at that moment in that room and even that was fine because the room didn’t really hold me anymore. Nothing was outside of me. I didn’t have to look at the sun or sky or river or know what the birds sang. I was there.
***
It’s almost like when I was using, only instead of being blurred, everything is clear. Even so, I almost ran into a moving hi-lo the other day. I used to feel like I was dying waiting for the weekend. But the names of weekdays are just names now. The sun comes and goes like it always has. I know when I’m supposed to be at the plant, but time is one long river.
***
Is it my fault? I have given up trying to explain to him why I don’t have to go to church, why no one has to go. It’s all inside (and outside for that matter). I thought he’d be happy since he doesn’t really know God, he just fears God. Like work, he only goes because he’s afraid not to. These days, he’s either at work or church. He’s taking every bit of overtime he can get and doesn’t have any time for us. He tracks every penny. Making money takes time and you’ve only got so much time. I remember when my father started working like that. It wasn’t long before he had a heart attack, and even if he hadn’t, he and my mother had started fussing. You need time, not just to talk, but to sit and say nothing.
***
I finally convinced Justine that we had to make that move, go to the newspapers with the story to force them to hire more black men into skilled trades. Even if we only get in the Chronicle, we can’t wait on the union another second. It’s so in our face. My folks think I am not as concerned because I don’t yell anymore but I got everything uptight. I can see where the cracks are. I know what lies management’s going to tell before they tell them. I feel like I am around the corner before they know it’s time to turn.
***
He may be coming around to his old self. I would be in heaven then. He brought me proof that management lied about not getting Jimmy’s doctor’s notice before they disciplined him. Justine asked how he got that info. I don’t want to think about it.
***
I finally learned how to do the honey-bak
ed chicken he likes. So I cooked a whole bird even though he’s MIA and it just made me think about him all the more. It’s the closest I’ve been to being truly sad since that day everything opened up after we made love. I’m afraid of what’s going to happen to him once work and church can’t pass the days for him anymore. It’s good and bad that he’s not on the shop floor. Even before everything became clear, I knew people weren’t made to be in the factory. But at least there you make something besides money.
The last time we were really together, he tried to pretend the problem was me not going to church, not being my old self. All of a sudden, a question jumped to the front of my brain and, before I knew it, I almost shouted: “What the hell is an ‘old self’?”
The Antecedent Blues
1. One Such Bird or What’s Really in There?
Once, there was a bird whose call was the sound of the human chest cavity being cracked open, a sound usually heard by heart surgeons and those who worked with them. That sound was followed by, or seemed connected to, sometimes, very rarely, the sound of sloshing that was the movement of liquids in the body on the operating table when the breastbone had been particularly thick or stubborn, and the body had to be wrestled with a bit, thus causing its various liquids to slosh about both inside and outside the body depending, of course, on the width of the chest opening. That sound was followed by a slightly more melodious sound. Though, indeed, virtually anything would seem slightly more melodious in comparison.
In any event, that other sound, the second or third sound, depending on if it was followed by the sloshing, was a cackling, whistling sound, or at least that is how lay people described it, because ornithologists had a very long and scientific description that no one else used. The cackling, whistling second or third sound also could have been someone speaking very quickly, repeating the question, “What’s really in there? What’s really in there?”
The Official Report on Human Activity Page 9