Paul Beatty - Slumberland

“A videotape of a man having sex with a chicken.”

“That’s very German,” she said.

I’d soon come to learn that to a German, anything involving sexual perversion, punctuality, obsessive-compulsiveness, and oblique references to the deep-rooted national malaise was “very German.” Of course, for me it wasn’t these concepts or behaviors that were very German, but rather it was the reflex to characterize such things as “very German” that was very German.

I asked Doris if she knew Charles Stone. She shrugged and asked me to describe him. I got out, “Black. . musician. . older gentleman,” before I realized I was describing half the bar’s clientele, and that I didn’t even know what the Schwa looked like.

Stone wasn’t a self-promoter; he never appeared on his album covers, gave interviews, or posed for publicity head shots.

Doris licked a fingertip and lifted a tiny grain of coal-black detritus from my glass.

“Hey, don’t worry,” she said, rolling the almost-microscopic piece of dreck between her fingers. “If he’s a black man, he’ll come through here sooner or later. They all do. Look at you.”

For a second I panicked. What if he isn’t black, I thought. Not that it mattered; in fact, my respect for Wolfman Jack, Johnny Otis, and 3rd Bass’s Pete Nice and MC Serch increased when I found out they were white. A part of me hoped the Schwa was white; maybe then he’d be more congenial, less embittered than those Slumberland Negroes.

I spun around on my stool and looked down my broad black nose at those men. There but for the grace of my record collection go I, I thought to myself.

This was Berlin before the Wall came down. State-supported hedonism. Every one-night stand a propaganda poster for democratic freedom and third-world empowerment. In my mind I made a vow that I’d never be like those sex warriors who subsisted only on their exoticness. These men of the diaspora who smiled meekly while libertine frauleins debated as to who was the “true black”: the haughty African with his tribal scars, gender chauvinism, and piercing eyes, or the cocksure black American, he of the emotional scars, political chauvinism, and physical grace. This was a time when if a white women saw a black man she wanted, she’d step to him and dangle her car keys in his face. The customary response on the part of the buck was to take those keys in hand and drive her home.

Next to me a middle-aged Grossmutter jabbed her tongue down the throat of a handsome African half her age and twice her height. I made my “I smell gas” face and braved my way into the main room, mumbling the minstrel wisdom of Bert Williams under my breath.

When life seems full ofclouds and rain,

And I am filled with naught but pain,

Who soothes my thumping, bumping brain?

Nobody .

Though I’m purportedly black — and, in these days of racial egalitarianism, a somebody — I’d never felt more white, more like a nobody. DJ Appropriate but Never Compensate. I was amanuensis Joel Chandler Harris ambling through the streets of Nigger Town looking for folklore to steal. I was righteous Mezz Mezzrow mining the mother lode of soul, selling gage on 125th Street, tapping my feet to Satchmo’s blackest beats. I was Alan Lomax slogging tape recorder and plantation dreams through the swamp-grass miasma looking to colorize the blues on the cheap. I was 3rd Bass’s MC Serch making my own version of the gas face. A rhyme-tight, tornado-white, Hebrew Israelite, stepping down from the soapbox and into the boom box to spit his shibboleth.

I missed cats like Serch and Mezz. I found their lyrical introspection and unabashed nigger love comforting. Unlike Republicans of color and the Slumberland’s barroom lovers, they were race traitors with everything to lose. Their verses and riffs had both John Brown’s passion and his Harpers Ferry praxis. They feinted and weaved with the dazzling whiteness of Pete Maravich’s ball handling, the exactitude of Jerry West’s jump shooting. I hoped against hope that the Schwa was a white man who hung out with white people.

When winter comes with snow and sleet,

And me with hunger and cold feet,

Who says, “Here’s two bits, go and eat?”

Nobody .

Besides not knowing what the Schwa looked like, it occurred to me that I had no idea if he was dead or alive. Considering the timelessness of his music, the chicken-fucking song could’ve been twenty years or twenty minutes old.

Maybe someone whom I’d wronged in my past was dangling the Schwa in my face. Luring me into some Hitchcockian trap.

The kind where I chase my proverbial tail looking for proof that I’d seen what I’d seen, heard what I’d heard.

Here I’d sold my car. Signed a lease to sublet an apartment for five years, and the Schwa could be here at the Slumberland bar or in the slumberland of eternal sleep. Cary Grant always lives in the Hitchcock movies. Neither I nor the Schwa was Cary Grant.

Americans die in this city. Fleeing political and parental oppression, they come to Berlin claiming to be maligned and marginalized by a racist America too insecure to “get” them. Most find something less than moderate success and end up dying pitiful, meaningless, alcoholic deaths in small two-room flats, to be found by friends laid out in their own excrement, their livers bloated, their artwork unsold and dusty.

I ain’t never done nothin’ to nobody.

I ain’t never got nothin’ from nobody, no

time.

And until I get somethin’ from somebody,

sometime,

I don’t intend to do nothin’ for nobody, no

time .

Slumberland. The room pulsed with sexual congeniality. My vow against lustful miscegenation was quickly forgotten. I longed for someone to squeeze my thigh, pinch my ass. Ain’t I a man? Seated underneath a fully grown banana tree, two women at a corner table stared in my direction so hard I had to double-check that I didn’t have a ticket in my hand and that there wasn’t an electric sign over their heads that said, NOW SERVING NUMBER 86.

Slumberland. I was past the point of no return, asleep, dreaming and dead all at the same time. My feet grew heavy; with each step into the room I seemed to be sinking deeper and deeper into the floor. I looked down. The floor of the entire bar was covered, six inches deep, in pristine, white beach sand.

The redhead gawked unapologetically like a bewildered child looking at a disfigured passerby. The brunette’s gaze was one of an unrepentant sinner simultaneously demanding from her lord both satisfaction and salvation. I was about to choose the brunette — at least she wasn’t licking her lips — when Doris grabbed me by the elbow.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, why?”

“For the past ten minutes you’ve been standing here in the middle of the room like a statue. Everyone’s looking at you like you’re crazy.”

Gently, like a psychiatric orderly leading a patient back to the dayroom, Doris returned me back to the bar and sat me down.

A jaunty Afro-pop song fluttered her deep-set eyes and pursed her whisper-thin lips with appreciation. Fela Kuti will do that to you. Now it was my turn to stare. Her eyes were the same soft macadamia nut brown as her hair. The laugh lines in her face accented the high cheekbones and the square, almost brutish jaw.

“What’s your favorite band?” she asked by way of readjusting me to my surroundings.

“When People Were Shorter and Lived Near the Water,” I said. “Well, they’re not my favorite band. They’re my favorite name for a band.”

“That is a good name, but did you ever notice that nine out ten times, bands with good names suck?”