In the Light of You Page 7

  “Evening, ladies,” Richard said casually. The two of them stared at us for just a moment, mouths agape. Terrified, they huddled together, eyes darting every which way for a possible escape. Queenie squeaked out a pitiful “No” just before we rained down Hell and God’s wrath upon them.

  The girls had a ritual of their own whenever a stomp was underway. Half of them would laugh and the other half would pretend concern, giving us a finger wag and some vague “now now, that’s not very nice” attitude. Who played what role was fluid and ever-changing. That night it was Suzi’s turn for the latter. Sherry didn’t cop to either, however. She was as blank and uninvolved as if she were standing on the curb waiting for the Metro. Like nothing much was going on at all.

  Somehow or another the shrieker became mine and mine alone, the rest of the boys working over the bland foreigner who had rolled himself into a ball begging, “Please … to be leaving us … now alone, please.” Something about the loud one brought out my rage, and the more he pleaded for mercy, the more he sobbed and howled, the greater my contempt grew. Slam. Smash. No matter how hard I beat him, though, he wouldn’t surrender the act. Crunch. He would not lower his register. Freak! Fucking freak! He wouldn’t drop the pose. Sick! He screamed like a woman, cried like a little girl, and all the thrashing in the world would not turn him back into a man.

  “Faggot,” I muttered as my boot slammed over and over into his abdomen. “Fuck, FUCK him, faggot.”

  “Please,” he whimpered, his lipstick-smeared face awash with blood. “Please … don’t … hurt … my baby.”

  “FUCK HIM!” I yelled, and buried the steel tip of my left boot deep into his ribcage. His forehead smacked the sidewalk and he fell unconscious, still quietly murmuring incoherent pleading, still in a high girl-squeak. A crowd of people several blocks north began charging down toward us, and we darted off, back to the wagon.

  It was an unusually somber ride home. I don’t know for sure what accounted for the spontaneous contemplative mood. Perhaps Anne summed it up when the silence became more than she could bear and she blurted out, “Fag bashing is God’s work. It’s holy duty. Everybody knows that it is the nature of every man to want to stick his cock inside every woman he sees and inseminate her. Queers violate that number one rule of nature. It’s sick and it’s an abomination.”

  Something about the word “inseminate” burrowed a hole into my skull and laid eggs there. I don’t remember if I had ever wanted to stick my cock inside Anne, but after hearing “inseminate” drip from her lips like sour bile I never wanted to again. She may as well have grown a boil-and-tumor-ridden tentacle from her forehead for how unattractive I found her after that. Inseminate. Inseminate. No, thank you all the same.

  By the time we had gotten home most everyone was rowdy again, laughing and mocking the two queers with fairly spot-on impersonations of their cries for help and pity. Suzi chuckled a little bit. I guess I did too. Richard did not. Sherry seemed oblivious even then that anything had happened.

  As we climbed into bed Suzi said, “I don’t feel like having sex tonight. But I’ll suck on you if you need me to.” “Suck on you” nestled into my brain real snug right next to “inseminate.” It was a rather tight and uncomfortable fit. I kissed her quickly and silently and rolled over, bullshitting immediate slumber. Within a minute I heard her fall asleep for real. Girl could fall out on a dime. Must have been all the blows to the head.

  I lay there for close to an hour. My muscles twitched and throbbed, locking and unlocking, as the adrenaline drained from my system. I felt the familiar and inevitable emptiness that follows after a hard rush has faded. It’s a hollow despair, entirely synthetic, only chemical.

  As I walked out to the kitchen I was bombarded with “OH RICHARD! FUCK ME PLEASE! HARDER! HARDER!!!” I ran to the bathroom and heaved into the toilet.

  Rolling onto my back on the tiled floor I stared directly into the naked light bulb protruding from the ceiling. Shivering with cold muscle shakes. I felt gummy and white, like a chunk of beef jerky with the juices sucked out. Like a chlorinated open wound.

  After what was certainly far too long to be lying on a bathroom floor, I stumbled back out into the kitchen. There I found Richard leaning against the sink downing a can of beer, doused in sweat, completely stark naked.

  “Dude, my bad!” I said, retreating back into the bathroom.

  “Hey Mikey,” he said casually, “you have fun tonight?”

  Whatever, I thought. If he wasn’t bashful I figured there was no reason for me to be. Well, I see what all the screaming is about anyway.

  “Yeah, sure,” I said, coming out to the kitchen. He offered me a beer. I waved it off and he cracked it open and drank it himself.

  “That’s cool,” he said. “Then maybe you can explain something to me. Beating up faggots. How exactly does that advance the revolution?” I didn’t have an answer. He continued, “Are queers creating half-breeds? It seems to me that they are not. So how are they a problem? I mean, I don’t really care one way or the other, but this isn’t a game. I’m serious about this cause. Are we revolutionaries or thugs?”

  “They spread fatal diseases,” I offered.

  “Good! I fucking applaud that! Look who’s exterminated from that disease campaign. Niggers, drug addicts, the flab of the human race. I thought we were in favor of that sort of thing, or was there a meeting I wasn’t invited to.”

  I should have seen this coming. Richard was known for his peculiar perspectives that occasionally flew in the face of the party line. His support for the state of Israel was the most egregious of these points. His devotion to the Republican Party was another sore spot, particularly as anti-government sentiment was on the rise within the movement. “This is no longer the party of Lincoln,” he informed a group of bemused elders. “Hell, it’s no longer the party of Goldwater or Nixon. You will alienate yourselves from this new rising power at your own peril, gentlemen.” I often worried that this sort of thing would ultimately get us blackballed, but no one ever really debated Richard. They did grumble behind his back, old washwomen that they were.

  “You said campaign,” I told him. “Are you buying into the whole government plot theory?”

  “This is all I’m saying,” he replied, “Something that is destroying the scum of humanity is fine with me, whomever is responsible for unleashing it. Take that for what it’s worth. Hell … I don’t give a fuck. If you all get your jollies by beating down a bunch of sissies I’m not going to get in your way. Just don’t lose sight of what really matters.”

  “I don’t get it, Rich.”

  “What don’t you get?”

  “You love the fucking GOP but you hate the military worse than you hate fags.”

  “I don’t love the GOP, first of all. I just recognize allies when I see them. And I don’t hate the military either.”

  “But we’re always fighting with soldiers. You’re always calling them ‘sheep.’“

  “Tough love. I’m getting them strong for the real war.”

  “Ah …”

  “And all those corporations that you loathe so much?”

  “Yeah?”

  “We’re gonna take them over. We’ll do the right thing for a change.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Good night, Mikey. Stay focused. You’re my man.”

  And that was that.

  8.

  EXTRA credit. That was the only reason Sherry went to Brownard Auditorium that evening. Her Twentieth-Century American History prof was offering extra credit to anyone who attended the special “Civil Rights” hippity-dippity who-hah that evening, and given her less-than-stellar grades in that class, she needed all the bonus points she could scrounge up.

  On the bill were a couple of old, local “freedom riders” there to regale the crowd with their harrowing tales of riding desegregated buses through the sixties South. Also on the program, a student was to be honored with a special award for outstanding-community-civil-rights-liber
al-activist-whatever. I don’t suppose I have to tell you who she was, do I?

  Things briefly threatened to get interesting when a platoon of very frightening-looking uniformed black men entered the hall and stood in a solid line along the back wall. Apparently there was a black fraternity on campus that was kicked out some time in the late 1980s for some sort of overly militant activity. They reformed offcampus and remain a fearsome presence to this day, often showing up at open campus events. I believe they are called Black United! or Black Unchained! but I may have that all wrong. Their chapter head, or Minister of Whitey Killin’ or what have you, was none other than childhood chum of Jack Curry, Senbe Shabazz. By then their feud was in full swing. (Had they remained enemies … what would my life be like today? Perhaps it’s best not to ponder that sort of thing.)

  As soon as Niani and Jack and their rainbow coalition arrived there was immediate tension radiating from the back wall. Curry said something under his breath toward the perfect line of black power, baiting them in some fashion. Niani quickly grabbed him and dragged him away.

  What the ancient bus people had to say was probably interesting, but they mumbled, and they were too quiet, and Sherry was bored and didn’t really pay any attention. Few others did either, and the collective indifference toward these speakers apparently stuck in Ms. Shange’s craw.

  Some ridiculously overdressed black preacher served as master of ceremonies.

  Now, don’t get me wrong, Sherry said. I had spent pretty much my entire life up until that point faithfully attending church every Sunday. I considered myself a fairly devout Christian lady. But try though I did, I could not understand half of what this fat, sweaty blowhard was yammering on about.

  Really it was just a grand show with a lot of histrionics and casting about, and most of what grunted through his lips was pure gibberish. “… and if we just put our faith in Jesus Christ, our Savior, we shall have no fear. Praise the Lord.” The audience clapped and someone shouted Amen! and Sherry stared at her watch as the second hand clicked along. He continued, “I would like now to introduce to you all a most outstanding young lady. A woman whose tireless efforts, both on campus and in our community, have kept the work, the memory, and the spirit of the Reverend Doctor Martin Luther King Jr. alive for us today. Ladies and Gentlemen, it is my honor and my privilege to present the Martin Luther King Christian Student Achievement Award to Miss Niani Shange.”

  The crowd applauded enthusiastically. Niani calmly stood and walked to the stage. People smiled warmly to her as she was handed her plaque. She took to the podium, smiling politely.

  For a brief second, though, Sherry said, I swear her eyes got all sharp and steely … and Jack-like …

  But then she softened again, smiling at the audience.

  “Thank you everyone,” she said. “Thank you. And let me say what an honor it is for me to just hear my name mentioned in the same sentence as Dr. King’s. And I am thrilled beyond words to be sharing the stage with all of these American heroes this evening.” Polite applause from the peanut gallery. “I don’t see courage like theirs much these days, and that’s unfortunate, but we all benefit today from their sacrifice, and for that I thank them all. In keeping with the spirit of the evening, I hope you all would not mind indulging me for just a brief moment …”

  Niani began to recite a poem from some old black writer Sherry had never heard of, Count Somebody, she thought, and neither was she terribly interested. Niani proceeded to talk about “Pagan hearts” and “shadowed places” and the like …

  “‘Not for myself I make this prayer …’“ And so on, and so on, and so forth. Sherry went about absently doodling in her notebook. This had better pay off, Sherry thought.

  But, at some point … Sherry couldn’t help but sit up and take notice of the fact that the well-dressed Christians around her were not appreciating the performance all that much.

  “‘For me, my faith lies fallowing, I bow not ‘til I see,’“ Niani recited, then indicated with a sweep of her hand the audience before her, “‘but these are humble and believe, bless their credulity …’“

  A collective squirm began to resonate throughout the hall, and Niani went on. And on. There was no missing the murmur grumbling beneath the surface. She had their attention. No denying. And the vibe was getting ugly.

  Sherry was not quite sure what all this talk about “black sheep” and “bastard kin” was about, but it seemed, as best as she could surmise, to be a fairly head-on “fuck you” to the crowd. Why would she do this? Sherry thought, torn halfway between sneaking out while the sneaking was still good … and wanting to see what might be going down. Why is she trying to piss off the people that are here to honor her? It just didn’t make any sense. It reached a point where it didn’t even matter what Niani was saying anymore. It was how she said it. Pointed at least. And incongruously venomous. But still …

  Niani finally ended with an, “Amen.”

  Nothing in return. “Amen?” She said again. One lone, nervous cough was heard from somewhere. “AMEN!” she shouted.

  Dead silence. Long, agonizing, and thick as a cold fog. Niani looked out and smiled, oddly satisfied.

  “In conclusion,” she said after a while, “I would just like to say that it will be through perseverance and dedication, NOT blind faith and self-congratulatory complacency, that we will one day reach the promised land. The struggle continues. Thank you.”

  And with that she left the stage in silence. Wow. What a bitch! Sherry thought.

  It was hard not to be intrigued, though.

  As Niani walked toward the back of the hall there were a few scattered claps. Jack Curry met her in the middle aisle. He hugged her and they turned to leave. People rustled in their seats. A few got up to leave. The reverend rushed to the mic for a bit of spin control. “Thank you Miss Shange for that spirited … provocative … blah blah blah … genius of the Harlem Renaissance … vigilant and steadfast …” and so forth.

  “Assalaam-Alaikum, Sister Niani,” said Senbe Shabazz as Niani and Jack walked past.

  “Valaikum-Assalaam, Brother Senbe,” she replied politely.

  “What, no ‘ma lick’em’ for me, Arnold?” Curry said, sour faced, feigning hurt feelings.

  “Hello, Mr. Curry,” Shabazz said through his teeth.

  “Goodbye, Mista Lincoln,” said Jack with a dainty wave. (He even managed to make a sarcastic flip o’ the wrist into something hideous and creepy.) And with that they left, leaving the Afro-militants behind. Shabazz tightened his lips in anger. The other men remained statues. Sherry exited quickly, not wanting any more to do with this situation. Credits be damned.

  “Could you at least try to be civil sometimes?” Niani asked Jack as Sherry headed in the opposite direction.

  To which he asked the posse, “Hey, do y’all think if he had read three books he’d have given himself three names?”

  I had a feeling right then, Sherry said, that I would be getting to know that man very well very soon. He possessed what I wanted. What I couldn’t live without.

  Meanwhile, Suzi and I had found ourselves in that corner of Relationshipville called “that odd place.” Big surprise. Couples always talk about traveling through “that odd place.” We ‘re going through that odd place right now. And everyone nods knowingly, as if it weren’t a completely pointless and ridiculous sojourn. Suzi would say she “wanted more” from our relationship, but would never tell me what that was. “If you don’t know, I’m not going to tell you,” she’d huff. Her shtick was to stay away for days at a time and not call. When I would do likewise she would break down and cry, “How can you just not call me?!?!” I’m no good at mind games, I’d tell her. You win. Occasionally she would accuse me of only wanting her around to fuck, which honestly was not true, but it’s a hard charge to protest when you’re a seventeen-year-old guy. That’s just the way it is.

  As a result I often had the joint to myself most of the evening when Richard was at the factory, which was a-oka
y with me. Despite repeated promises never to do so, we’d both started to entertain notions of attending college. Sherry had been on Richard about re-enrolling for some time and it was beginning to take hold. “He’s just so smart,” she’d say. “I hate seeing him squander that. And you’re smart too, Mikal.” For whatever that’s worth. So notions were at least wined and dined. Mine were fairly abstract, whereas Richard was really getting into the idea of exposing college professors for the Marxists he assumed they all were. When I mentioned that perhaps that was a flimsy reason to shell out such an obscene amount of money he replied, “I can’t destroy and rebuild the system from the inside if I’m not inside. I’ve been to university before. It’s not like it’s difficult. I gotta get realistic if I’m gonna go big.”

  “How big are you planning to get?” I asked.

  “All the way, my man. All the way. If that pants-shitting retard David Duke can make it, it’ll be a cakewalk for me.”

  “What about all them tattoos you got? You’re staring down the barrel of a helluvalotta laser work. How you gonna explain all that scar tissue to your potential constituency?”

  “Two words: Agent Orange.”