ABOUT

CONTENTS

EDITORIAL

ARCHIVE

LAGNIAPPE

MAST

SUBMISSIONS

2.

Red knows. And smack and ups and snow and here to your daddy's farm in Omaha.

"I love talking to black people, man," says Jack. "Man, I wish I was black. To see you cats sliding along in your zoots like you don't have a care in the world. Crazy! That's a feeling white people just don't have, they're so worried about being the same as everybody else, never really living because of a fear of being seen as different or queer or a loser in some jive-ass success story no one believes in because no one can, it doesn't allow you room to breathe! The richest white man in the world is still a poor copy of the image he thinks he's supposed to be. Black cats don't bend their knees to these false gods. Did I come into this world through the womb of my mother the earth just so I could talk and write like everybody else?"

"I'll show you the man," says Red. What's this hype? he thinks, at a shallow level. He can't say what he feels. Never in his life has he said what he feels. Does he even know? Has he ever even told himself? There's a bubbling pot of anger in his stomach, but it's rare that it rises to his placid face. He nods coolly to the bartender, who's been awaiting his cue without ever looking over directly. A bottle is brought over and two shotglasses filled brimming. Jack and Red toss them back and hit the street.

"Walk on the other side," says Red through smiling white teeth. "When I turn the corner, have a cigarette, and when you're done come down to the end of the street and knock on the yellow door."

They experience it differently, act on it differently, have it respond to different respective histories, it alternately confirms or replaces their experiences-but Malcolm and Jack both listen, dance to, feel jazz. Both let it draw up into them like an ink that changes the color by which their souls (not their skins) are defined. Both live from moment to moment. Said Malcolm: My whole life has been a chronology of changes.

Red hates Jack, sees him as a category. He knows Jack sees him as a category and hates being seen as something invisible.

Jack digs Red, but sees him as a category. But to be fair to Jack he knows what it means to be seen as a category, knows he too often sees within categories, knows that no one is really seen for who they are as long as the categories pertain in their vision, and wants desperately to get rid of categories: it's something he thinks about every day.

Outside it's drizzling, but too lightly to clear the humidity on this hot night. As Jack is smoking, feigning nonchalance, there staggers by a drunk. He stops before Jack and tries to straighten up, bringing a hand up toward his head, which Jack first takes as a threatening gesture before realizing it's an attempted salute.

"Evening, soldier," the man slurs.

Jack smiles painfully and squares his shoulders, arms at his sides.

"As you were," the man says and moves on, still almost falling over. Jack watches him for a moment, still standing rigidly still, then turns in the other direction.

Red hears the knock and opens the door. Jack slips inside, his shirt collar turned up. They go up three flights of stairs, Jack following long-legged Red who takes the steps two at a time.

The room at the top of the building is papered with faded old deco roses blooming beneath a patina of nicotine brown. The air is close, almost wet, the smell of sweat barely masked though doused in eau de toilette and a burning stick of incense.

He and Red are the only men inside.

"Would you like to meet a lady?" Red asks.

There are two here to be met, an older and a younger. The older, a matron, steps forward.

"Would the gentleman like something to drink?" she asks. Another lounges behind on a sofa, a dark beauty with black curls falling down each shoulder onto plump breasts, barely hidden in a man's silk dressing gown. Jack is caught by the sight of her bush peeking out beneath the hem.

"Uh," Jack starts, but he can't think of what to say.

"What do you like in a woman, Jack?" asks Red. "Do you like our Samantha?"

Jack looks admiringly at Samantha. She wears heavy rouge and orange eyeshadow. She's not as young as she first appeared. But as she rises from the sofa he sees wide hips that were made for loving. Her large round bottom bounces and sways, making Jack aware of a radio playing Ellington's band in the next room. She's got more curves than the Yankees pitching staff.

Jack bounces a little on the balls of his feet, then pulls Malcolm aside.

"I want it naked," he says.

"She don't have to do much to get naked, my man."

"No, you don't understand." He lowers his voice, noticing both the older and younger woman, while now slowly retreating into the room with radio, are still keeping ears toward the two men, straining to hear Jack whisper his particular perversion. He leans close to Red's ear.

"I'm sick of condoms. First the Navy, then my old lady. I want it naked. And I don't want to have to worry about getting the clap."

Red stands away. "Sure. Anything you want. Our girls are clean as Martha Washington. Twenty dollars."

"Oh, wait, man, you don't know who you're talking to," laughs Jack. "I'd be lucky to have seven bucks on me." He pulls out his wallet and opens to a five and two singles. "And if this is some creep joint, you picked the wrong fella."

"Naw, we don't steal from nobody. Ain't you and I friends?" Red's voice gets high. "But seven dollars? What do you expect for that kind of money?" He laughs, then frowns, then smiles, again the beautiful white teeth. It's all theatre. "I like you, my man. Other cats, they be already out of here, they be soft as cheesecake. But you know what you like and go after it. I like that. You wait right here, I'll sweet talk the lady for you."

It's happened so quickly Jack is surprised he's just agreed to spend his last few dollars on a woman. More theatre from the wings: Samantha says in a loud voice, "I'm a strictly-twenty-dollar call girl." Then after something inaudible from Red: "Does he have any nickels in his jacket for the subway?" Again, more unintelligible honeyed words, to both women, now all with lowered voices. Then Red returns with the younger woman.

"Jack, meet Samantha." She has unloosened her jacket to reveal her breasts, large mounds peaking in swollen brown areolas nearly the size of his palms. These are some tits!

Jack sees this vision of beauty, of his need and desire, of the glorious playground of her flesh, and he wants to say something cool and clever but it comes out instead: "OK, baby. We're gonna have us a party!"

Red reaches across and closes her jacket. "Twelve dollars, my man."

"Twelve? You said seven."

"That's seven for the slice of heaven," says Red, "And five and no jive for your master of ceremonies."

"You saw I only got seven."

"Come on, I know you got more. Something set aside for a rainy day?"

"Just some change—enough to get home."

"Home? What you wanna go there for? Samantha here will take you anywhere you want to go."

Jack searches the pockets of his baseball jacket and finds about forty cents. He wants to think of a clever way of keeping it but he can't. He gives Red every cent he has.

"OK? Are we square?"

"Man." Red indulges in a theatrical frown, then relents. "OK, man. But you owe us. You're one lucky man tonight."

"Yessir. I know it," Jack smiles, turning and putting his arm around Samantha. "Now I want to learn all about the secrets of your crazy loving soul, honey."

"She'll show you the way," says Red. "Won't you now, Samantha?"

Samantha issues a less than convincing, "Mm-hmm."

Still, she takes Jack's arm and they head down the hall.

Malcolm winks at the older woman, Eunice. Malcolm gives her the two dollars and pockets the five.

"What the hell you doing with that?" says Eunice. "What you mean even bringing a seven dollar man up here?"

"Well, what the hell else are you gonna put on your table, Mom? War's over. Town ain't jumping like it used to. These are lean times, and you ain't have nothing without me come along tonight."

"We need a different exchange here, Red. You ain't the one on your back."

Red laughs. "Neither's you, Mom. And I don't guess much of this money was going to the one that is if I give it all to you."

"You can take your runny little ass outta here, Red. I'm tired of putting up with your sassy tongue. And don't call me momma. I ain't none of your momma."

"Aw, Mom, that's no way to talk to the man what's bringing in customers and what's gonna make you rich. I'm just saving you time, giving you the service up front."

Eunice growls. "827," she says bitterly, like swallowing medicine.

"Combinated?"

"None of your tongue now. I play straight so I can win straight and never see the likes of you again."

"Mom, you're just begging to ask me to chicken dinner. You ain't fooling nobody."

"I ain't no fool for nobody, neither, Red."

Red puts the bill away.

They're both quiet for a moment, and this silence erases everything, all the static of the moment, so there's no guise to anything. Just like that, blank slate. Last call past, lights on. The hour of confessions.

They hadn't heard it before, but now are aware of groans from the other room. That, and the horns and the hum out the window of Manhattan.

"Maybe we're all the fools," says Red.

STORY CONTINUES | PAGE 3