Percival Everett: Suder

“What are you doing?” Lou wants to know.

“Where can I plug this in?”

“Behind the goat.”

I walk to the corner and I get down on one knee and reach through the goat’s legs and push the plug into the outlet.

“What you got there?” He’s standing at the bathroom door, buttoning his uniform shirt.

“I want you to hear something.”

“What is it?”

“A song. Sit down.”

He sits down and he’s looking at me funny. “You feel okay? Your leg giving you trouble?”

“Just listen.” I put the needle down on the record and watch for Lou’s reaction.

His face is blank at first and then he starts to frown. “Ain’t there no words?”

“No, just music,” I tell him.

He’s silent for a few seconds and then, “Well, thanks for letting me hear that, Suder.” And he gets up and walks into the bathroom, where he stands in front of the mirror combing the few strands of hair he has.

I pack up and walk out and down into the clubhouse.

“What’s up, Craig?” David greets me.

“David,” I says, “I’ve got something I want you to hear.”

He’s reaching into his locker for his shirt. “What is it?”

“A song by Charlie Parker.”

“The saxophone player?” He’s putting on his shirt.

“Yeah.” I can’t find an outlet, so I says, “Come on in here,” and I walk into the bathroom.

“Come on, Craig. I want to warm up.”

I balance the phonograph on one of the sinks in the long row of sinks. “This won’t take but a minute.” I plug in the machine and drop the needle down on the record.

“That’s great,” David says and walks away.

I don’t call him back because echoes of the song in the bathroom have got me sorta hypnotized. I ain’t never heard anything like it, the way it’s bouncing off the tiles, and I turn up the volume and sit on the toilet. Pete Turner walks by and looks at the record player and then at me. “You heard this?” I ask.

He doesn’t say anything, just walks out.

“Give it a chance,” I says.

So, the game’s about to start and I walk out and tonight I head for the bleachers out in left field and I’ve got my phonograph and record in my lap. I watch the game, but I ain’t really paying attention. Everybody around me is jumping up and screaming and carrying on, but I’m just sitting. Butch Backman steps up to the plate and drives an off-speed pitch high and left. I follow the ball up and then my eye catches this bird that somehow has got into the Dome. I follow the bird all over and up into the rafters and around the beams and then I notice the game is over.

I wait for David and the two of us head out for some drinks. We go to this little bar not far from the Dome and sit down at a table. There’s a band playing some music and people are dancing and it’s pretty crowded. David’s looking closely at the behinds of women on the dance floor.

“I love this place,” David says.

The waitress stops and pulls out her pad and scratches her head. “What’ll it be?”

“Beer,” David says without taking his eyes off the dance floor. His hand is tapping the table in beat with the music.

The waitress looks at me.

“Beer.”

“David, did you like that song I played for you in the locker room?”

“Yeah, yeah.” He’s smiling and watching the women dancing.

“That song does something to me. I mean, that saxophone solo … Well, here, I’ll let you hear it.” I get up and start looking for an outlet.

David looks at me. “What are you doing?”

I don’t say anything. I spot a jukebox across the room against the wall, between the rest rooms. “Over there,” I says and take off.

“Craig.” David follows me. “What are you doing?”

I’m looking behind the jukebox. “They have to plug these things in, don’t they?”

“You can’t-”

“There it is.” I unplug the jukebox and plug in the phonograph.

“There’s a band playing,” David says. “You can’t come in here and play a record.”

“It’s not a long song.” I put the record on the turntable and drop the needle and I turn the volume all the way up.

“Craig, turn that off.” David reaches for the record player.

“Just listen,” I says, blocking him out.

The band stops playing and the people stop dancing and people stop talking and David takes a few steps away from me. The manager of the place comes over and says something, but I can’t hear him, so I lift the needle off the record.

“What do you think you’re doing?” the manager asks.

“I was just playing a song for my buddy.”

“We’ve already got music here.”

“Yeah, and they sound swell,” I tell him, “but it ain’t Charlie Parker. This here is Charlie Parker.” I point at the record.

“Okay, Charlie,” he says and he’s getting mad, “get out.”

David steps in and tries to calm this fella down and he tells me to pack up. He’s looking at me with disbelief. Everybody is watching us as we walk out and the band strikes up as we pass through the door.

In the car, David keeps looking over at me. “Have you been drinking?”

“No.”

He looks at the road. “How’ve you been feeling lately?”

“All right. Why?”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. Why?”

David looks at me. “No reason.”

There’s a long silence. Then I says, “I think Thelma is seeing somebody.”

“Thelma? No, I can’t imagine that.”

“Can’t you?”

David looks out the side window. “I don’t like your tone.”

“I’m just touchy,” I tell him. “I’m probably just dreaming all this up, right?”

“What do you want me to say?”

“Say you ain’t the guy.”

“I ain’t the guy.”

“I didn’t think so.”

David exhales. “Jesus Christ.”

He lets me out at my car.

“Guess what?” Daddy said, slapping his hand on my shoulder. “Mr. Powell is coming back through Fayetteville.”

“Is he coming here?” I asked.

“Yep.” Daddy sat down with me at the kitchen table.

“He’s coming to dinner,” Ma said, placing a platter of hotcakes in front of us. “Dr. McCoy is coming, too.”

“Who?” I asked and I looked to see a puzzled expression on Daddy’s face.

“Your dentist,” Ma said.

“That man is coming here?” I asked.

“You are joking,” Daddy said.

“No,” Ma said, “I invited him and he accepted.”

“Jesus,” Daddy said.

“Ma, that guy is crazy,” I said. I turned to Daddy. “He prays before everything he does. He dresses all in white. His office is all white.”

“Kathy, I don’t believe you invited that McCoy here for dinner,” Daddy said, pulling a few hotcakes onto his plate.

“Where’s Martin?” Ma asked.

“Asleep,” I said.

Ma turned to face Daddy. “Why shouldn’t I invite him to dinner?”

Daddy didn’t say anything. He just pushed some food into his mouth and chewed quickly, leaning on one elbow. “The man’s a damn bigot.”

“He saw Craig as a patient,” Ma said.

“So what? He’s the worst kind of cracker.” Daddy punctuated his words by pointing his fork at Ma.

“Well, he saw our son as a patient.”

“I don’t know why he did. He probably got paid twice his usual fee. Who knows why this sick cracker took Craig as a patient. Jesus Christ, Kathy. Somebody would think that you—”

“He’s coming to dinner and that’s final.” Ma dumped the skillet into the sink and stormed out of the kitchen. Then she pushed her head back in. “It’s okay for you to invite somebody to dinner. A man who jumps into the river after a catfish.”