Читать книгу The Last Poets - Christine Otten - Страница 29

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CLEVELAND, OHIO, 1968

My Girl

He parked his car on Euclid Avenue, close to the Circle Ballroom. It was around midnight. A halo of light hung over the city. It was the dead of winter, but the air was warmed by the heat and the promise that wafted out of the clubs—the dancing bodies, the smoke, the alcohol, the music. He got out of the car, closed the door, and ran his hand over the red finish. He had smoked a few joints and taken some speed before leaving home. The pills had kicked in as he stood at his bedroom mirror, looking approvingly at the sheen of his silk shirt. Speed mixed with weed provided exactly the feeling he needed on a Saturday night. The energy and exhilaration started in his belly and ran through his limbs; his fingertips vibrated like he’d been given little electric shocks. Meanwhile the weed was making his skin flush and soften, was making the beige of his shirt shimmer hazily like gold. The drive from Akron to Cleveland could last for five minutes or a couple of hours. The view as he approached the city, a real city, the smell of burning steel and sulfur and oil that oozed in through the cracked-open window, the lights in the office towers that stood together in a cluster, the imposing Cleveland Indians stadium … The road hit an incline, he felt the resistance in the steering wheel, it was as though Cleveland was built on a mountain, which in itself commanded respect. And then the music in his car. The cassette player he had routinely unscrewed from a parked Pontiac the week before, snipping the wires with his sister’s nail clippers. It fit into his Oldsmobile’s dashboard like it was made to order. No dealing tonight. Tape in. Tadadam tadadam tadadam. The bass notes vibrated in his stomach. Tadadam tadadam tadadam. The tension that those few low, rolling notes could stir up. Then the guitar coming in—no, wait, once more, rewind to the beginning. Tadadam tadadam tadadam. He snapped his fingers. Now there was no holding it back. The guitar introduced the melody. Lightweight, vibrating notes danced on the thick bass. Pam padadadam pam. I’ve got sunshi-hi-hine on a clou-dy day. When it’s cold outside … I’ve got the month of May. Shit. Euclid already. He’d have to stay in the car if he wanted to hear the whole song. I … guess … you’d … say … What can make me feel this way? He pulled over to the curb. Took a half-smoked joint from the dashboard ashtray, smoothed it out and lit it. The sweetish odor of the weed filled the car … talkin’ ’bout my girl … His body was too small for what was going on inside him. He felt his blood quiver and itch in his veins. The speed. The sultry violins. The way The Temptations moved in their snug-fitting black suits, supple and self-assured, the understated dancing, their footwork. The hidden messages behind the innocent lyrics. I don’t need no money … David Ruffin’s voice went higher. The guy had such amazing control; he could even make his whimpers and screams and anger sound like flattery. Like something romantic. I’ve got all the riches baby … My ass. He laughed out loud. The music was a confirmation of everything he loved. The music was sex, rhythm, glamour, love, speed, pride. Cleveland.

Stop.

‘Cognac?’

‘Cognac.’

It wasn’t busy. A few couples danced at the back of the bar. He followed the movement of their bodies to the fluid music of Al Green. Sipped his Courvoisier. Sucked up the misty smoke and shut his eyes halfway. Squinting into the crowd, he noticed the glittery dress on one of the women. He recognized her at once. Nona Johnson. That dress of hers clung to her body like a second skin, light blue and sequined. It made him think of a snake. Her ass stuck out shamelessly. It was so tight and so big that he was sure her skin wouldn’t give an inch, no matter how hard he squeezed. And her breasts, they were the size of little round pomegranates. He liked small breasts. Women with small breasts got wound up quicker. She had cropped hair and bangs. White features but skin so black that her dress was all that seemed to move out on the dance floor. He could pick her scent out of thousands. A sultry, sweet scent. A combination of sandalwood, coconut, and fresh sweat. Her sweat. They had talked last week, although he couldn’t remember about what. Nona was a good girl. They’d had a good laugh together. It was nearing dawn. He was as high as anything and her scent did the rest. Like being drugged. It didn’t take much effort to imagine how her pussy would smell.

‘Hey Nona.’

Her dance partner looked over. Don Cooper from Hough. He didn’t recognize him in that shiny white suit. He would offer him something, see how he reacted.

‘Nona.’ He raised his hand in the air. No reaction. She nestled her head into Cooper’s neck and he tightened his grip around her waist. She pushed her pelvis against his groin. He recoiled slightly but was quick to recover and started twisting his hips to the rhythm of the music. Nona smiled. There was jazz on the jukebox, but Omar was still hearing The Temptations. Their high vocals echoed in his head. I’ve got a sweeter song than the birds in the trees. Pa-da-pam pa-da-pam. He could hardly sit still. He tossed back the rest of his cognac and asked for a refill.

Nona either didn’t see him, or pretended not to. Cooper whispered something in her ear. Took her by the arm and led her over to the bar. They sat a few seats down from Omar.

‘Nona.’

She looked up, held his stare for a second, then resumed her conversation with Cooper. Her expression betrayed nothing. The way she reached for her glass. Her fingers. Long, unvarnished nails. Caressing the glass, playing with it, turning it round and round. Omar tasted the burning, wooden tang of cognac in his mouth. The alcohol warmed his belly. She drank too. Just a sip of syrupy bourbon. Placed the glass carefully back on the bar, as if it might break. He couldn’t hear what they were talking about; their conversation dissolved into the buzz of the jazz, in the lazy song of the saxophone. The glitter of her blue dressed was etched onto his retinas. Her neck. The short tufts of hair. He wanted to let his fingers glide over her neck, from top to bottom, feel the soft spot between the neck muscles, just under the skull, press gently. She would relax at once, throw back her head. He saw the thin lines on her throat, the texture of her skin, the endless web of minuscule lines and specks. The taste of her skin, salty on his tongue. Her tongue. She felt so near. In his imagination the barriers between their bodies blurred.

He took his glass, slid off the barstool, and walked over to Nona. Cooper eyed him furtively, the bastard. Just a few weeks ago they were right here drinking together. He’d arranged a few tape decks for Cooper, at a discount. Cooper liked to act like a big-time hustler. And he was definitely a handsome fellow. Hazel pupils, watery eyes, like he’d just got out of bed. That absent, melancholy look gave Cooper a kind of vulnerable, mysterious air, as though he was in some sort of trouble, and that you could save him just by talking to him. He was never short of women.

Omar said it again: ‘Nona.’

She smiled, showing her teeth.

‘Let me buy you two a round.’

She looked at her dance partner. Omar repeated the offer.

Nona pointed to her glass. ‘With plenty of ice.’

‘Ice,’ Omar repeated. He smiled with his eyes. She threw him a smirk in return, playful, you’d almost say timid. But he knew full well this shyness was a put-on. Same as his courtesy, which he feigned to hide his anger and desire. But he was enjoying himself. Felt his heart racing. The tingling in his head, like pinpricks.

‘You?’ he asked Cooper.

The man shook his head, looked into his glass.

Omar slid onto the stool next to Nona’s. Got a closer whiff. He felt as though it was pulling him toward her. Her smooth-shaven legs glistened with body oil. He extended his hand to Cooper. ‘What’s going down, Don?’

‘Nothin’.’

Omar signaled to the girl behind the bar to refill their glasses. ‘And put something else on.’

The girl pointed to the Wurlitzer at the back of the bar. A proud machine with lighted red and green bands all the way around. But Omar would have to worm his way through the sweating, dancing bodies, pick out a few numbers, put in the coins, wait. It would take too long. Timing is everything. He thought of his red Oldsmobile. Heard the rugged low bass notes. Ruffin’s voice as it modulated, about two-thirds of the way through the song. He always waited for it, every time; the whole song revolved around that one moment of release and euphoria. He waited for it while the craziest images whizzed through his mind: the dull gray water of Lake Erie; John Wayne taking off his cowboy hat and wiping the sweat from his forehead. That wound-up kid in his night class at the University of Akron, going on about studying law and his fabulous future. His fake afro. Until Ruffin hit that climax, controlled and sublime. I don’t need no money, fortune, or fame … It was a single phrase, a simple inflection of the voice that wiped away all of Omar’s thoughts and made his head so empty and clear that it felt like being reborn. Timing was everything. He reached under the bar and slid his hand over the stiff blue sequins of Nona’s dress. The curves of her buttocks. He felt her relax. Her body smoldered under that polyester. He pressed harder, squeezed her hip. Nona shifted back and forth with obvious pleasure on her barstool, rocked to his touch while Cooper eyed her, quasi-nonchalant, with that lazy look of his.

‘You crazy, or what?’ It wasn’t clear whether he was talking to Nona or Omar.

Nona pretended not to hear. Omar slid his hand over the fish-scale fabric of her dress until he reached her butt crack. He pressed gently. Felt her pelvis twitch. Tasted her in his mind. The music from the jukebox. Bare, stiff bass notes repeating the same melody over and over. Da-da da-da. Every second note went down and every fourth one went up. Da-da da-da. Da-da da-da. As if the notes too were waiting, expectantly.

‘Hard times over in Hough a couple of years ago, huh? Looked like a war zone.’ Omar looked Cooper straight in the eye while Nona’s heat burned in the palm of his hand. ‘Evans wants me to set something up in Akron. Pff. You know Ahmed Evans, right? The nationalist? Sittin’ up on the roof last summer, pickin’ off as many cops as he could. Were you there?’

Cooper didn’t answer. He seemed to be made of ice. His eyes fixed on the smoked-glass mirror behind the bar. The bottles of hard liquor. ‘You stay here,’ Cooper said to Nona in a monotone. He got up. Walked to the back of the bar, weaving through the dancing couples. Omar followed his every move. And it was as though there were a two-way mirror separating them and the rest of the bar patrons. He saw everyone, no one saw him. Only Nona. She sipped her bourbon. They didn’t talk. Listened to the saxophone as it provoked the bass. Soft purple notes wound their way around the earthy sound of the bass. Cool brushes on the drums. Da-da da-da. Da-da da-da. A spellbinding melody. Omar imagined the saxophone player standing above a basket of snakes, trying to charm them, hypnotize them. This wasn’t dance music. Those couples out on the dance floor must be hearing something he didn’t. They were draped over each other, their movements were gentle and rhythmic and sexy and beautiful. Under the bar, Nona’s fingers touched his.

‘It’s okay, baby,’ he whispered in her ear.

‘What?’ Nona asked, scowling. She jerked around to face him.

‘I love you.’

‘C’mon, Omar.’

‘C’mon Omar what?’

‘You been drinking.’

‘So?’

‘Don’ll be back soon.’

‘Let’s go.’

‘Are you crazy?’

‘I need you.’

‘You need me.’

The way she repeated his words: languid and detached. Guarded.

‘I mean it, Nona.’

The sound of their words wafted around the smoky room like bubbles, seeking out the music and its dreamlike melodies. Cooper came back without Omar noticing. Not till Nona poked him in the ribs. He looked up, right into the muzzle of a double-barreled shotgun.

‘Fuck off,’ Cooper hissed. ‘I’ll blow that shiny head o’ yours off your body, asshole. Beat it.’

Nona grabbed her bag from the bar and shrank back. Omar reflexively put his hands in the air. He observed his own movements in slow motion. Cooper’s grimace. Eyes bugging out of their sockets. ‘I’ll blow your head off, nigga, you understand?’ Cooper’s voice echoed in his head. The mirror behind the bar. One sliver of that glass and he could fix that mug of his so his own mother wouldn’t recognize him. Omar looked down the barrel of that shotgun, two narrow dark tunnels. He felt Nona’s presence behind him. The damp warmth of her breath on the back of his neck. Her fear. His adrenaline rush. The music off in the distance. A busy, chaotic saxophone solo. The bass under it. The same repetitive drone. Da-da da-da. Da-da da-da. The impatience behind the notes. His blood tingled. The veins in his head were ready to explode. He was almost there. It was within reach, that elusive place beyond the crack rush.

‘What’s buggin’ you?’ Omar asked.

‘I’ll kill you.’

‘No you won’t.’

‘Shut your fucking mouth.’

‘Shhh.’ Omar slowly lowered his hands. Everyone in the bar seemed to be holding their breaths. Somebody had unplugged the jukebox. A glass fell onto the wooden floor. A girl cleared her throat. Not Nona. Omar was alone now. With Cooper standing right in front of him, frozen, his finger still on the trigger of the shotgun.

‘You’ll go in the slammer for good,’ Omar tried.

‘You’re nothin’ but a dirty arrogant nigger.’

‘Not worth ruining your life for. Or is it? Take Nona out of here. Come on. You don’t want her seeing nasty stuff.’

Omar could see Cooper glance skittishly at Nona.

‘You let me go, and you’ll never see me again. I swear it.’

‘I’m gonna kill you.’

‘You just go on home with Nona.’

‘Shut up about Nona.’

‘You know I’m right.’ And as soon as he said those few words, Omar felt Cooper crack.

He lowered the gun. ‘Get lost,’ he muttered. Omar breathed deeply. Looked around him but saw nothing but a misty golden haze, anonymous, identical faces. He reached for his glass of cognac.

‘Beat it, I said,’ Cooper whispered.

Omar forgot about the glass and left the Circle Ballroom.

Alone in his car. There was pressure on his temples, like a belt tightening around his head. The silence was a whispering, silvery rustle. The pumping of his heart. The heat of his blood. He closed his eyes. Black. No thoughts. Only a vague sensation of emptiness. A void so silent and dark that he was almost weightless. He couldn’t be sure if this was all real. He pushed open the door and got out. Went around to the trunk, opened it, and took out his .38. Got back in the car. His gun on his lap, hidden under the thin silk of his shirt. No music. He waited. He waited and kept his eyes fixed on the brightly lit door to the Circle Ballroom. Time ceased to exist. Just the wait. A drab, empty wait.

Nona came out first. The clatter of her high heels on the sidewalk. Like rushing water in a river. She let her purse dangle playfully from her hand. She wasn’t wearing a sweater or jacket over her bare arms. Omar imagined he could see her goose bumps, tiny black bulges on her skin. Then Cooper came out. Didn’t he realize how gaudy and ugly that glossy suit of his was? Omar rolled down the window. Pulled out his gun without losing sight of Cooper. Nona was already at their car. She called out something, he couldn’t hear what. Omar saw Cooper’s movements. Squinted, stretched out his arm, and aimed. The shimmering of the white imitation silk. The coolness of steel in his hand. The play of the trigger under his finger. Don’t move. Stop. Don’t move. He sucked in the sharp night air and—bam! He recoiled. The dull metal crack hummed in his ears. Cooper lay on the sidewalk in the merciless, bleak neon light that spilled out of the bar. He heard shouting. He had nothing to do with it. It wasn’t him. Nobody saw him. Nona hurried on her high heels over to her wounded boyfriend. Omar was afraid she would stumble. He rolled up the window, put the gun in the glove compartment, started the engine, and drove down Euclid Ave.