Percival Everett - I Am Not Sidney Poitier

On the way home as Maggie drove the luxury coffin of silence, I watched the streetlights reflect off her fair skin. She was lovely and monstrous, but also sad as I knew she had invited me home as a wedge to use between herself and her parents. However, she had no mallet to give the wedge even a light tap, and so it (I) lay there on its (my) broad side. We managed our way into the house and into our separate rooms without so much as a grunt or hiss, though the hiss was implied. In my quarters, I showered, trying to rinse off whatever had been dumped on me. I felt, remarkably, okay and somewhat better for the steam. I was drying off with a stiff towel when, startled by a woman sitting on my bed, I covered myself.

“I’m Agnes,” she said.

“Not Sidney.”

“So I hear.”

“I’m naked.”

“So I see.”

“Why are you in here?”

“I hate my sister,” she said.

“She’s not in here,” I said.

“That’s right.”

“What do you want?”

“I want to have sex with you.”

I understood everything she was saying and yet still I said, “I don’t understand.” My jeans were lying uselessly on the bed beside her. I pulled the towel tighter. “She’s your baby sister, you’re supposed to look out for her.”

“I suppose one of us should,” she said.

“I honestly don’t believe she’ll be terribly upset.” I was recalling the events of the evening.

“Oh, she’ll be upset.” Agnes stood and stepped toward me. She wore a powder blue flannel gown that looked comfortable, if not alluring. She was slightly shorter than Maggie and in a strange way prettier, perhaps because of an oddness in her features, a too-high forehead and a hawkish nose. More than Maggie, her face seemed to have a story, or at least wanted a story.

She brushed against me, laid her head against my chest, and then quickly pulled away the towel. She and I were impressed as we looked down at my erection. It was one of my penis’s better efforts.

“Well, well,” she said.

I was in no position to deny my arousal, however confusing it might have been to me.

Agnes latched on with a fist, then lowered herself, finding me with her mouth. It was agreeable, the sensation. In fact, I am ashamed to say, I was surprised to feel that either Agnes was quite good at it or I was as invested in upsetting Maggie as she was. I caught a glimpse of us in the standing mirror, and the image was a bit of Gothic porn. I looked so much like Sidney Poitier that I was momentarily distracted, until I remembered that Sidney Poitier would never have appeared in a scene like this one. I closed my eyes, stood there, and had a remarkably relaxed and floatingly nice time, during which I dreamed.

I dreamed it was 1950 and that I was a young doctor with a Bahamian accent and that no one believed I was a doctor and yet I was given a patient, a white man who called me nigger and tried to spit in my face. He had been shot and the bullet was near his heart and he went into cardiac arrest and the other doctors, all white and believed to be doctors by everyone else, stood around and told me it was my call. I attended to the heart attack, asking for adrenaline, compressed the chest, but the chest wound was severe and the man died.

My elderly white mentor patted me on the back and said, “What could you do? Nothing, that’s what.”

Into the scene walked a man with a skeletal face who said he was the brother of the dead man and wanted to know why he had died. All the white doctors and nurses and my elderly mentor turned and pointed to me and said, in unison, “The nigger killed him. That nigger killed him.”

“That nigger?”

“Yes, that nigger.”

“Wait a minute,” I said. “There was nothing that I could do. Ask my elderly mentor.”

But when I looked, my mentor was gone and there was a white female nurse standing there and she said, shaking her head, “And I never liked the way he looked at me.”

“You killed my brother, nigger,” the skeletal man said.

“He was already dead,” I said.

Outside in the street I could hear chanting, like a riot starting or wanting to start. I could hear the voices of dark faces like my own demanding to be left alone. And then the white man pulled out a gun. I could see that he was handcuffed, but he had no trouble aiming the pistol at me.

“I’m going to kill you, nigger,” he said. “And all your kind out there in that street.”

“He was already dead,” I said. I looked around for someplace to run, for some door or window, but there was nothing, no way out.

I watched his finger slowly squeeze the trigger.

All of this while sister Agnes sucked on my penis and knew that the whole time I was dreaming, and it felt good the whole time I was terrified that I was about to be shot. I wondered what kind of mind had such a dream while having oral-genital relations and this scared me more than anything. Still, I could not shake myself out of the dream. As the pistol fired off the round, so too did my penis. Time stopped, my breathing stopped.

I awoke naked and alone in my too-soft bed with the stiff sheets and impossibly pressed bedspread. I sat up and slowly remembered my encounter with Agnes and wondered how it would play out. I had a fleeting, quickly dismissed thought that Agnes wasn’t so terrible, at least at a certain thing. I walked to the window and looked out at the morning, at the turned leaves still half filling the trees. Then I heard their voices. Again, through the vent I was hearing Ward and Ruby.

“Get in here,” Ward said, “and shut that door.”

“Did you find out something?” Ruby asked.

“I had Mitchell make some calls. I told him get in there and dig deep. He was on the horn all night.”

“And?”

“And he’s rich.”

“So, he’s got a little money,” Ruby said.

“He’s got a lot of money.”

“How much?”

There was a rustling of pages. Then I sneezed.

“What was that?” Ruby asked.

“What was what?” Ward cleared his throat. “Here it is. It seems the boy owns a television network. NET.”

“Nigger Entertainment Television?”

“He just bought it. Paid cash for it. He’s somehow involved with Ted Turner, but none of this is clear. What is clear is that he can buy and sell everyone we know a couple of times over.”

“But he’s so dark,” Ruby said.

“He’s fucking rich is what he is.” Ward paused. “I knew there was something about that boy I liked.”

“He’s so black.”

“We might have to overlook that. You know, he does look quite a bit like Sidney Poitier.”

“He does that,” Ruby said. “But our little girl. She’s so fair.”

“So, be nice to him.”

“I’ll try,” Ruby said.

“And tell Agnes to be nice to him.”

Ruby laughed. “You know I have no control over Agnes.”

“Well, talk to her.”

I was, to say the least, stunned, not only by the highly objectionable nature of their conversation and thinking, but by the unsettling fact I had been set on a course for matrimony. A snake of ice slithered up my too-dark ass and lodged itself at the base of my spine.

“Agnes, get in here.” It was Ruby, and I was still hearing them through the vent. “Sit down.”

“What is it?” Agnes asked.

“We want you to be nice to that boy upstairs,” Ward said.

“Why?”

“Just be nice, that’s all,” Ruby said.

“Something’s up,” Agnes said.

“He’s your sister’s boyfriend,” Ruby said.

“They’re serious?”