The World Doesn't Require You Page 16
Nigger Jim, who now sat with his back flat against the seat and his eyes closed, mumbled, Man, you forgot to tell Ricks about the funeral.
Oh, yeah, that’s the best part. So there had been all this commotion about him wearing blackface and shaming our people and all that shit, but that’s just how he was.
What you mean?
His face. He ain’t have no makeup on it, no burnt cork, no grease, no lipstick, no nothing, that’s what the nigga really looked like. That’s who he was.
What? You shitting me, man.
I kid you not, jack, James-my-man said, reaching for the glove compartment. He took out three photographs. In them a man in a tuxedo lay in a casket, his arms resting across his chest. White gloves covered his fingers, and his face was black as newly laid tar, his lips red as fresh-spilled blood, with a smile as wide as a watermelon slice.
I keep this shit in here to show people, James-my man continued. I be telling folks, but don’t no one believe me. See with your own eyes, though.
Rick took the photos into his hands.
This ain’t real.
You should have seen his kids, Ricks. They looked just like him. His wife too. Eyes all bugged out and shit. It was the craziest thing. She said that’s just what people look like where they’re from.
Stop fooling around, Rick said. Be serious.
I am being serious. I wouldn’t believe it either if I ain’t seen it myself, but look at the photos.
This is ridiculous.
It was more than ridiculous. It was sad, really. He was the only income that family had. That man just did what he knew how to do. Some Negroes was like good when Coon got shot, but damn, that’s some cold-blooded shit to say when you look at them little tar-faced children.
Man, get this shit out of here! Rick said, throwing the photos to the floor. You expect me to believe this? You must think I’m a fool.
It’s true, Ricks, James-my-man said with a wink. Every word of it. Even the parts I made up. Especially the parts I made up.
When they got to the party, their joints felt stiff. Music played in the distance. Nigger Jim adjusted his straw hat and wondered aloud if this was the place to get some good brain. He said: Some brain’ll help relax our joints, right? James-my-man smiled and nodded, kicking at the yellow dust beneath their feet and dropping a fistful of pills into their open palms. They walked in the direction of the plantation and its glowing rich-green cotton field.
Let these vitamins take away your drowsiness and pain, James-my-man said. My friends, here we are in the promised land. A place to get some love for a creaky heart and some cranium on the side. Now to find the Lizard.
Rick’s limbs felt heavy, and if he rested them, he would sleep the whole night. He popped some pills into his mouth and chewed as James-my-man had done over and over. Rick lit a cigarette to blunt the bitter taste and offered Nigger Jim one.
Nigger Jim swallowed his pills, screwed his mouth into a disgusted frown, and shook his head at Rick.
What I look like, smoking them things? Nigger Jim said. Nasty-ass tobacco, he mumbled and then paused. We used to pick it, now they want us to smoke it?
Our ancestors used to pick cotton too, Rick replied.
I don’t wear no damn cotton.
As he stood near the bursting cotton buds, the world began to shift and rock for Rick. The cotton spoke to him, but that was absurd, so he didn’t listen. Music blared from speakers. People in glistening blackface and shimmering red lips passed and greeted him with wide coon smiles. Are they wearing makeup, Rick asked himself, or is their blackface natural like Coon Calhoun’s? But that was a silly thought, so he let it escape from him. He looked all around, his expression changing from amusement to shock to horror. One coon, a woman, handed Rick a large forty-ounce bottle of malt liquor, Crazy Ninja. He smiled and took the heavy bottle into his hand, wondering if, this time, he’d drink it all, or would he surrender somewhere in the middle, right where the alcohol, as usual, filled his bladder to capacity? Rick began to feel tired, so he popped a few more pills into his mouth and swallowed, washing them down with the malt liquor. Soon he lost track of Nigger Jim and James-my-man. He looked around for them, but quickly lost interest.
Next to him was a skinny East African man who stood about six and a half feet, but slowly he grew to eight or nine feet. Next to the East African man was a drunk, short, dark-skinned man with an impish smile and pointy elf’s ears. He held a lollipop in one hand, a bottle of Crazy Ninja in the other. And next to the munchkin-like man was a tallish guy with an oblong, football-shaped head that became longer and longer each time Rick looked at it.
It must be the pills, he thought. All this weirdness. It must be the pills. The man with the oblong head turned to Rick: You all right, man? Rick nodded, standing still to look as normal as he could. The man’s head grew. It turned into a watermelon with eyes and a mouth. Rick took a sip from his forty.
The short, drunken man pointed to a far-off stage where a group of rappers performed. He screamed like a lunatic, Man, I can do better than that:
There’s some bitches in this bitch
lotsa titties in this bitch
there’s some ass in this bitch
I want to fuck that bitch.
The man’s friends laughed. Their smiles turning grotesque, bending out of shape until their faces resembled snarling wolf muzzles. Rick didn’t laugh. Some things, like the silly songs on the radio, were too ridiculous to parody. Rick shook his head at the outlandishness of it all, hoping he’d never be as pathetic as this ludicrous munchkin. The man’s friends joined the chant.
Nothing looked as it should. Rick’s brain, the back of the left side, wildly throbbed. He closed his eyes, placed his right hand on his forehead so that the bottom of his palm rested on his shut eyelids, and rubbed his hand back and forth, producing a small yawn but no ease to the pain.
He felt he had lost control of his high. But wasn’t the point of a high to lose control? All he wanted was for the visions to stop. Rick put down the forty. It couldn’t be helping. He heard a voice, a soft female voice that sounded vaguely like creaking guitar strings. The voice asked if he was all right. Rick looked up and there stood a woman who, before his eyes, turned into a giraffe. He maintained a straight face and ignored her transformation, telling himself it wasn’t real. Anyway, she was a pretty giraffe, a graceful giraffe, not awkward like many he had seen at the zoo or on nature shows. Each time Rick looked away she switched shades, becoming a giraffe of a different color—first white, and then purple, and next a rust color, and again she changed turning now yellow. He marveled at her as she spoke, but the woman didn’t seem to notice at all; instead she chattered quickly, rapidly flapping her giraffe muzzle, telling Rick all about herself. She said she had gotten a degree in biology from Negro University and had hoofed her way to a middle manager position at some corporation somewhere.
She stopped speaking and twisted her muzzle into a frown and whispered, These parties are becoming so low-class.
Naked children, dusky little Sambos—uncombed birds’ nests resting on their heads, pancake lips flapping behind them as they ran, and their skin as shiny black as a glowing midnight sky—swept by like a breeze. They ran around and around and around until they became a blur and then dissolved into a black puddle. The giraffe shook her head, but Rick could barely see it way up there.
Do you understand what I’m talking about? the giraffe asked, touching a hoof to the crook of his arm. Rick nodded, though he had heard very little of what she’d said. I find it very hard to explain that I’m different. Know what I mean?
Then she frowned and pointed a hoof at the munchkin and his friends, who were still chanting. She said: I might do the Forgotten Tunnel next year if the Underground Railroad is going to be so classless.
Rick felt people looking over their shoulders at him. Some stared outright. If the giraffe had noticed, she didn’t let on, as she continued speaking. He looked at all the people who suspiciously eyed
him; they went through millions of years of evolutionary history before his eyes. They turned into apes, except they had wings. And soon Rick realized what science hadn’t figured out yet: that humans, apes, and birds all shared a recent common ancestor that still roamed the earth and what he was seeing was the undiscovered missing link. What made them eye him so angrily? Rick wondered. Perhaps the giraffe was someone’s girlfriend or wife. Rick stepped away, telling the giraffe he needed to find his friends and that he’d soon return, but she followed along as if she hadn’t heard him. The apes passed stealthily overhead, dipping between the clouds, blending with the night sky, but since Rick spotted them, to him they were as conspicuous as a swarm of swooping and screeching bats. Maybe they were police, watching him, waiting to dive in, snatch him, and fly him off to jail. As long as he didn’t let on that he saw everything as it was, Rick thought, they wouldn’t risk bothering him.
He crunched some more pills and watched the giraffe. Rick paused his gaze on the beauty of her long neck, but soon he looked through the crowd for Nigger Jim and James-my-man. He wondered if they had found the Lizard.
There was some commotion in the audience, cheering and clapping in the direction of the stage. Rick turned to see some women in thongs and little else shaking their bare rippled ass cheeks to music that was so loud it sounded like slaps against flesh and like fists smashing bone. Rick didn’t take his eyes from the stage because the women were the only things that weren’t distorted versions of themselves. And to be honest, he enjoyed the music, though he told himself he shouldn’t.
Everything around him morphed into something fascinating but irrational. Rick closed his eyes and when he opened them, the women had become just enormous asses atop legs. There was a disembodied pair of breasts floating between the asses. The music ended and the body parts left the stage.
The host of the show was a comedian who hadn’t made a funny remark in years. He looked into the crowd, saying nothing, just clutching the microphone in front of his mouth as if about to speak. A hush fell over the crowd. His lip curled and then he said this: You disgust me. A cheer went up from the crowd. They calmed and he continued. What the hell is wrong with you? I’m embarrassed by yooooohoooo! There was more cheering and laughter. He paced back and forth, his monologue becoming more and more incoherent.
Educate ’em, brother, educate ’em! a voice screamed from the crowd.
Eventually the comedian gave up speaking and began spitting into the audience. Saliva-faced people cheered. The giraffe waved her hoofed limbs in approval.
Isn’t this the guy who drugged all those women? Rick asked.
Umm-hmm, the giraffe said. He drugged me once, but look, no one else is saying what needs to be said.
Rick’s head felt as if it were falling apart piece by piece. When he looked back to the stage an R&B singer was peeing into the audience and the crowd responded to his urine with rapturous and blissful screams. A voice told Rick to crunch more pills, so he did.
Some winged gorillas took the stage. They were decked in diamond-studded nooses that hung from their necks and grazed the floor. As they performed, roaming about, chanting nonsense, the munchkin and his two friends stood behind Rick cackling.
Man, show these niggas how it’s done, the East African said to the munchkin.
How your verse go again? the man with the watermelon head asked.
The munchkin screamed:
There’s some bitches in this bitch
lotsa titties in this bitch
there’s some ass in this bitch
I want to fuck that bitch.
The giraffe shot the munchkin a rageful glance. To which he responded, Why you wanna look so angry, ma? You not havin’ a good time?
She craned her neck around, lowering it so that she stared eye to eye with the munchkin. You little ignorant no-class bastard, she said. I swear, some people are so savage they deserve to be in chains.
The East African and the guy with the watermelon head took up the chant while the munchkin and the giraffe screamed over one another. The voices turned into a single stabbing noise that increased the throbbing inside of Rick’s skull. He wanted the noise to stop. He wanted everything to stop. Nigger Jim and James-my-man appeared at Rick’s side just as the noise had reached a peak.
Where you been at? James-my-man asked.
Wha-what the fuck did you give me? Everything looks strange. Is this how you see the world, my-man?
James-my-man threw his head back and slammed his hands together.
That’s some good-ass shit, right? We’re just beginning to see the world as it’s supposed to be seen, Ricks. I got a whole trunk of the shit. If it was up to me, everybody would see through all the bullshit. There’d be no reason to lie anymore. I’m gonna sell as much as I can here and then we gonna move the rest of the stuff over in Canada. Everyone will experience what we know, for a price.
What? That’s what this is all about? I followed you.
Yes, I’m showing you the way. Who told you I got to be broke to lead you, man?
You can’t serve the people and my-man at the same time.
Rick didn’t know where these last words came from. He stumbled away. Everything he had seen burned holes in his eyes. The munchkin and the giraffe were locked in an eternal battle of wills. The giraffe didn’t notice that Rick had wandered from her.
James-my-man followed Rick and slipped his arm around his shoulder.
Man, for now, screw any petty beef we got, James-my-man said. We got bigger fish to fry. I found the Lizard of God. Soon we’ll be calling Nigger Jim Sigmund Freud for the way he gets brains. And we can get some love to get our old tin hearts going again, but me and Nigger Jim can’t do it alone. We’re short on dough and the Lizard of God has some top-notch hoes. I could sell some vitamins, but that would take time and we need the money now. So, if you throw in some cash we can takes these birds into the cotton field and have a real party.
When Rick turned to look at the person James-my-man had identified as the Lizard, he didn’t at all look like a lizard or even a man. He looked instead like a snake, a giant cobra with a broad purple hat and protruding poisonous platinum fangs. He wore a paisley zoot suit flanked by a cape. The snake even had the audacity to have a pair of brown snakeskin shoes sitting there underneath the part of his snake belly that hoisted him off the ground as if he had feet. A pair of disembodied hands clad in white gloves floated in front of him. The right one held a scepter, the left one an oversized diamond-studded golden chalice. Floating female fancy parts hovered about the Lizard’s head. Hey there, Ricks-my-man, the Lizard called. What you want to do, barbecue or mildew?
In the name of God the Father, his Son and the Holy Ghost, the Lizard continued, I say unto you, Ricks: make your next move your best move. He pointed his scepter at Rick. Your man Freebird—here the Lizard pointed his scepter at James-my-man—said you looking for a home, and I’m the only home you need, my nigga. Don’t just stand there clicking your heels, Dorothy. I say, come unto me and you’ll find a home with the Lord. Pay no attention to my earthly exterior, for I speak with His voice. Give unto the Lord what is His. Do this and I will provide for your prosperity, salvation, and everything else you seek, starting with my flock here. See them? These some whores of a different color. Pick any color you like. The Lizard pointed to the floating female body parts, which shifted pigmentation before Rick’s eyes. Follow the yellow-tit hoes, he said.
This is a nightmare. I need to wake up, Rick mumbled to himself, turning from the Lizard, who at that moment was ascending toward an opening in the clouds, propelled upward by a panoply of floating breasts, which he held on to by strings that dangled from the rising tits. I can’t get out of this damn nightmare!
Rick’s head felt as if it had crumbled. He shook it side to side. The pain pinged about his skull. His brain was too big for its casing. In front of him appeared the spirit of Coon W. Calhoun in full top hat, tuxedo with tails, white gloves, greasy blackface, and red niggerlips.<
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Rick, Coon said, lay your body on the broken machinery that keeps this whole mad circus going until it stops moving, until it snaps apart. Let them damn gears and springs fall all over the damn place!
Coon, Rick replied, I’m one man and them law-enforcing apes is watching. I can’t let them know that I see things as they are and not the façade.
Rick looked at James-my-man and then at Nigger Jim; their faces had turned grotesque, pitch-black, with hideously swollen crimson lips. They now wore tuxedos with tails, top hats, and white gloves. The same was true of the giraffe and the three drunken hecklers.
Rick looked at the faces of the people that milled about: they too had grown monstrous and slate-black, their lips twisted in ugly, pained grins. The gorillas flying overhead also seemed to be wearing blackface, their lips reddened and protruding. Everyone all around Rick was now in blackface and ill-fitting tuxedos, from those who calmly strolled by, to the folks at the bar getting drinks, to the people that jigged about to the music, making their gloved hands shake so that the dance floor looked like a sea of fluttering white butterflies.
Falling to his knees, Rick held his ears as the pain shot back and forth between them and he screamed an anguished, horrid, piercing scream.