Hokum
Page 33
Susan B. rubbed the Governor's head with one hand, sighed a couple of times, grinned and waved at V when she passed, but was quiet mostly. She called the Governor her little ninnie and treated him as such.
The rooster's head still lay on the table, eyes open. A mouse crawled out of a hole in the side of the plane and headed toward the table. Virginia's eyes caught it in her peripheral vision and she thought she was seeing things. She kept going toward the kitchenette; she wanted something to drink. Anything. The mouse, its long tail sticking straight up in the air, jumped out on the table, stood on its hind legs and bared its teeth.
V almost had conniptions. She shrieked. At that instant the plane hit an air pocket and dropped two thousand feet, banked twenty degrees to the left, straightened out, rocked and rose four thousand feet, only to drop down two thousand a second time, straighten out and get back on course. V fell back on her ass, rolled over on her side, grabbed at the table and almost touched the mouse. Her face was an inch from the little creature's paws. Her skin crawled, goose pimples the size of forty-five slugs popped out on her flesh and she almost collapsed from fright.
The mouse did four steps of the new dance in town—called popcorn—stepped back and shimmied for a minute, then went over and picked up the bleeding rooster head.
Virginia collapsed and fainted on the floor from sheer exhaustion mixed with fright.
Susan B. had lost her drink during all the commotion. The Governor's head had banged her in the stomach, spilling her drink and knocking her against the wall; she lay spread like a cooked goose on a dining room table—legs jackknifed, head staring at the ceiling and arms outstretched, as the Governor continued to work out between her thighs, beating his own meat.
Reverend Afterfacts and wife, Annette and Steve, had rolled with the rocking and the falling of the plane, didn't miss a beat and had busted their nuts.
Annette clung tightly in Estavanico's arms, kissed him on the neck and chin and slobbered on his lips. He worked his joint up and down in her crotch, lowered her to the floor and continued to jab. She rocked up and down, twisted and turned, shouted bloody Marys when her nut came. She started climbing the walls of the ladies' room, her body shaking with convulsions—images of Dip, Willie, the Jive Five. Now this heavy stud, big dick and all, exploded her vagina and gave her womanhood. She lay after a while, panting on the floor, tears of joy running down her face.
Max, who had been left out of the whole episode, was thrown on the floor when the plane lost its balance. His head lay in V's smelly cunt. He grabbed her fine suntanned thigh, stuck his head between her legs, and went down after it, his tongue directly aimed. Virginia was exhausted; she had had her share of screwing. She kicked him in the head and on the shoulders and started yelling, "No, Bishop, no! Go on in the ladies' room and get your young friend."
Max was too far gone on the reefer and the liquor. He lay dead on the floor for a few seconds, feeling up her soft thighs anyhow, rubbing her knees and kissing her feet.
Virginia was so tired, she let him have at least that satisfaction.
SUCH A FLIGHT IT WAS!
When Pancho and the gusano—who really was a Chicano in disguise—entered the cockpit, Buck was reading a copy of eight-pages about TV's Hugh Downs and Barbara Walters and, instead of pictures about discussions, poverty, pollution and resolutions, they were heavy into orgies. Barbara was down on her knees blowing a male guest, while another was giving it to her up the ass. Hugh was stroking her back and feeling hanky-panky, winking through the cartoon picture at the audience and pulling on his dong. Buck was so excited by what he saw—really, his mind was into nothing since the machine flew itself—his dick in hand, he milked the same.
Miles was looking over the pages while playing with the controls, his head almost all the way down as if to suck Buck's Johnson.
The warning light blinked emergency when Pancho and the Chicano entered, guns drawn, and demanded a change in flight directions.
Miles saw the nozzle of the thirty-eight shoved towards his face, then the mustache and fat face of the Mexican, and almost had a nervous break—he mistook him for Marlon Brando in some strange movie south of the border. It just had to be a joke, but he wasn't that certain.
Chavez, the Chicano, looked so much like Sirhan Sirhan, Miles could hardly believe his eyes. With a forty-five in one hand and a shiv in the other, someone was gonna have to apologize. And it wasn't gonna be the third world, you kin bet your sweets on that, tootsie.
Miles sounded the buzzer. It went off in Estavanico's quarters. But he wasn't there to get it.
He tried the intercom. Nothing.
The stewardesses: Virginia and Susan B. Where were they?
He didn't know.
Panic-stricken, he pressed the button on the closed-circuit TV. He was shocked out of his wits. Bits and Tits!
Was it real? The reel? Virginia on the floor, the Bishop's head up her cunt. The Governor giving Susan B. some head while in the aisle. And the guests on the plane: the colored girl and the preacher's wife, being screwed something god-awful by two burly black men!
Miles got so mad all he could see for the next five minutes was red. Even the cockpit, the instrument panel, the people in the cockpit, Buck's pink dick—everything was red. Even the black sky outside was a deep, deep maroon. From where Pancho was standing, he even looked red, but his lips were white.
Miles' hands began to tremble. His body shook. He was sore down around his asshole and his balls blued. He wanted to get his hands on those two colored fellas in the back fucking those dames. Miles wasn't originally from the South, but had been to the Delta so many times and had heard fantastic tales concerning the size and complications of Smokey's joint; he knew once they (Western man's sex symbol, white proud plastic cellophane!) had had it, it was over for the "white" man. Images of lynching niggers and cutting out their nuts danced inside his head. Which way World? He pondered. Hard!
Suddenly remembering the Mexican and Cuban standing behind him with guns drawn, he quickly unfastened his safety belt and with that constant pain in the ass, he got out of the chair and swung wildly with both fists, knocking them both out his way, and started towards the conversation pit. Mad. With the ass.
Pancho let go a rocket from the thirty-eight; it flew past Miles' head and lodged itself in the doorframe. That stopped him. Miles dropped his hands to his sides, then got up, trying to grab stars.
Buck, who had come out his act when the commotion started, glanced at the closed-circuit TV, got it confused with the eight-pages in his hands, lost his hard-on when he heard the gun report, looked around, and saw Miles standing there, red all over.
Chavez hopped into the driver's seat, his gun aimed at Buck Rogers, whose limp joint hung between his thighs, and popped: "You want to blow?"
Buck's eyes bucked and his teeth began to chatter, not because he was afraid of Chicanos but he had a thing about guns. He deuced in a sad, super-sad, high tenor voice: "Please, sir . . . er . . . put that away. I'll suck your dick, kiss your ass, let you fuck me in the ass. Anything."
Chavez checked out Pancho, Pancho checked out Chavez, they slapped palms with their free hands. POW! and cracked.
"Kneel, yanqui! Kneel, you artifact, fractured bastard. Come blow my Nixon." Chavez unzipped his fly and a big fat, roly-poly, like-every-girl-who's-ever-been-to-Mexico knows, reddish-pink carrot popped out.
Sweat popped out on Buck's brow. "You mean your Johnson?"
Slap! Pow! Chavez hit him side the head with the back of his hand. "He evicted. Johnson. Evicted. Understand. Nixon I say. Suck."
Ding-dong went the marbles inside Buck's skull. He closed his eyes and the saliva—because of the fear he was enduring and the sight of Chavez's big red dick—thickened in his mouth, his tongue got heavy and his stomach growled. Obediently he got down on his knees, stuck his head between Chavez's legs, grabbed the member in his hand and stroked it a little, then licked all around its head, stuck it in his mouth, felt it buck, jerk and get
good to him—a baby bottle's nipple.
Miles Standish was up against the wall, looking into the barrel of Pancho's thirty-eight. "Senor, I would advise you not to try any more funny shit. You might end up pushing daisies sooner than you think."
Smooth as a feather, the big plane flew through the darkness averaging four hundred and eighty knots, with networks of white light far down below, and oceans gleaming gems on their surface as the plane banked, swerved, and floated past what seemed to be stars.
Estavanico sensed that the plane had changed directions. But he still had his dick inside Annette. She smiled with delight, hoping there was no end.
Afterfacts and his wife had given the whole thing up. He stepped over to the face bowl to clean himself off.
His wife got up off the floor, grabbed a towel off the rack, wiped between her thighs, then did his face—using the same towel. Afterfacts fell backwards; then suddenly it dawned on him as he grabbed at her body, grinning.
She held him off at arm's length, spreading juicy come all over his face.
He got the word, the reason for her actions. But she didn't have to worry about him trying to get some other broad; he was all hers. Not other women. Her cunt was big, fat, pink and juicy enough to last him three eternities. He just loved every moment, lying between those big fat thighs.
Afterfacts haw-hawed, washed his face a second time, licking his lips, and said: "Baby, you know I'm yours." Put on his grey-striped pants and frock coat.
"I was making sure," his wife answered, twisting into her drawers, the skirt, blouse and coat (gaucho suit), and they pranced—hand in hand—back to the conversation pit.
The Governor was asleep on the floor with his head up Susan B.'s crotch. She lay reading a copy of N.Y. Screw about hostesses on American planes who loved to finger-fuck. Balls.
Afterfacts and his wife walked on by. . . . The bantam rooster, headless but still alive, stood by the door of the cockpit flapping its wings, trying to shake off sudden death.
Max was still down on the floor with his nose up V's smelly box. He came up for air as Afterfacts and his wife passed, smiled, then went back to work, gnawing and biting like some huge rat. Virginia was totally relaxed—as if he wasn't really there. She looked up at the ceiling and wondered about the Spanish music coming out the speakers. She sensed something had to be wrong. Different.
She pressed down on Max's skull, moved her fine luscious thigh to her right, got up, straightening out her mini (she didn't have on any drawers, they were back in the John—lost), and strolled past Afterfacts and his of lady, towards the cockpit door.
The Reverend and his wife took seats in the white lounge chairs, their elbows on the table. "Hey, V, as long as you're up, bring us some more port. Two glasses. Haw! Haw! Ha!"
Virginia looked back at him like she was some strange bitch witch, eyes all wide and scary-looking, hair all entangled and stringy, lipstick smeared and clothes on all crooked. A sight! Her eyes caught a glimpse of the mouse doing the funky chicken with the rooster's head. She lifted her skirts. Her bare ass showed.
Afterfacts cracked.
Immediately, Virginia changed her mind about going into the cockpit (the bantam was still dancing before the doors), and went instead to the bar and got Afterfacts' order.
"Thank you, honey. Haw! Haw!" She placed the tall glasses before them. "Now how about a couple bombers so's I kin relax and contemplate the Scriptures?"
She sat opposite them and silently rolled the joints. But her mind was still in the cockpit. And she remembered that she hadn't seen Pancho and Chavez.
Afterfacts watched her: "Baby, that sure was some other shit yaw'll had going on in the ladies' room." He paused. "Yaw'll do that often? Haw, haw, haw."
Virginia slipped him the joints without saying a word. She sat with her hands on the table, fingers intertwined.
"Wasn't that something, honey?" Afterfacts nudged his wife in the ribs. She smiled but continued to give V the eye.
V's paranoia was slowly getting the best, or what was left, of her. She wanted to go into the cockpit, find out what was happening, but her fears about the headless rooster were keeping her out. "Would you do me a favor?"
"What's that?" Afterfacts eyes got biggggg, he rolled them like Sambo and inhaled deeply on the joint. Signifying.
"Move that fucking rooster out of the way. I think something's wrong in the cockpit."
Afterfacts gave V one of his Dracula smiles. The pot had gone to his head. "For a price."
His black face shined in the neon light. It looked sinister to Virginia, as if he were Satan's double. Price? She'd never heard of such a mess. But decided to play it for what it was worth. "What's the price? Listen, something is definitely wrong inside the cabin. Where are those two wetbacks?"
"Your head in my lap." Afterfacts grinned. His wife panned, but still eyed Virginia, her long tan thighs, slender hips, flat ass and all.
Virginia gave him a sneer, as if to say, up yours, and watched Estavanico and Annette dance out of the ladies' room and up the aisle. Annette wore her yellow bell-bottom trousers, the black cat bone on a string around her neck; the goofer dust and note from Marie were still in the red handkerchief which she earned in her left hand, her purse in the right.
Little Stephen was stepping as if there were no tomorrow, dancing through the conversation pit on his way back to the navigator's place. They had their arms around one another and fell out laughing when they spied the Governor on the floor, fast asleep, his head still in the pussy—and Susan B., drunk but trying to read an Olympia book.
Virginia smiled up at Estavanico and winked at Annette, hoping that he would do the trick. As the rule goes, if one blood refuses to work for a white woman, get yourself another. Afterfacts had a price. She popped the question as they passed.
But Estavanico was too busy cracking up over the mouse with the rooster's head, doing the funky butt. Suddenly a spider tripped hurriedly across the table and stood on its hind legs, its tongue sticking out at Virginia's face.
She shrieked. Afterfacts cracked. So did Annette. The Governor yawned and shifted his position. Drunk in the hole. Max, his collar off, his black shirt all soiled and pants open, tried to get up off the floor when he heard all the commotion. But he was too stoned to move very far. He grabbed his cock and snored some more—still on the floor looking like Christ's father, the old man in the game.
Virginia stood before them. Latin soul music blared from the speakers. "Stevie, I think something's wrong in there." She pointed towards the cockpit.
Estavanico saw the dead rooster, gave Annette a sly grin and answered: "Naw, baby, in there, everything is everything—under control. Dig?"
Virginia stepped aside, watched them as they disappeared down a flight of stairs, still grinning, and thought about what he had said. Da-Da-Da. Da-Da-Da. Everything is everything. What did it really mean?
Annette followed Little Stephen into the navigator's control center. He turned on the audio-visual radar, the closed-circuit TV and dug the action in the cockpit: Miles' hands were tied behind his back and a gag was stuck in his mouth. Buck leaned back in his seat, panting, reading the instrument panel, checking the amount of fuel on board.
Estavanico looked over at Annette. They both smiled, knowingly.
In the conversation pit, Afterfacts sat reading the story of David and Goliath to Virginia and his wife. V sat rubbing her hands, listening, but thinking about Da-Da-Da, Da-Da-Da, and watching the black candle flickering on the table.
As drunk as she was, Susan B. had thrown a blanket over the Governor, and moved over to sit next to Max. He wanted to complain about Annette. "Tricked," he said. "Bamboozled."
Susan B. read Max's palm. Telling him like it is: Beware of young foxes from Gumbo, they will trip you up every trip.
Estavanico called Chavez on the intercom. "You got it now, baby."
"Got it," Chavez echoed. "A three-sixty turn, heading due north, then south, east and landing in the west. O.K.?"
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br /> "That's it, my man." Estavanico checked out the dials on the computerized flight plan, the stars, then added. "We'll be there, in Oo-bla-dee, in less than an hour. Fifty-nine-fifty-nine minutes, seconds. Right off!"
"Whee, baby!" Chavez shouted into the mike, grinning at Pancho. "On time. And on schedule. Straight ahead."
Buck banked the big bird twenty degrees, did a three-sixty, called Oo-bla-dee's tower and got landing instructions: Wind. Temp. Cloud cover. And barometric pressure.
Estavanico pulled out some fried chicken, potato salad, Falstaff beer, sloe gin and vanilla ice cream, and he and Annette scarfed all the way to the set.
FRAN ROSS
from oreo
1974
1. Mishpocheh
First, the bad news
When Frieda Schwartz heard from her Shmuel that he was (a) marrying a black girl, the blood soughed and staggered in all her conduits as she pictured the chiaroscuro of the white-satin chuppa and the shvartze's skin; when he told her that he was (b) dropping out of school and would therefore never become a certified public accountant—Riboyne Shel O'lem!—she let out a great geshrei and dropped dead of a racist/my-son- the-bum coronary.
The bad news (cont'd)
When James Clark heard from the sweet lips of Helen (Honey chile) Clark that she was going to wed a Jew-boy and would soon be Helen (Honeychile) Schwartz, he managed to croak one anti-Semitic "Goldberg!" before he turned to stone, as it were, in his straight-backed chair, his body a rigid half swastika, discounting, of course, head, hands, and feet.
Major and minor characters in part one
of this book, in order of birth
Jacob Schwartz, the heroine's paternal grandfather
Frieda Schwartz, his wife (died in paragraph one but still, in her own quiet way, a power and a force)
James Clark, the heroine's maternal grandfather (immobilized in paragraph two)
Louise Butler Clark, the heroine's maternal grandmother (two weeks younger than her husband)
Samuel Schwartz, the heroine's father