Percival Everett - I Am Not Sidney Poitier

“Maybe you do need college, Poitier,” Everett said. “You want to know why people are so fucked up? Son, that’s about the only question I can answer with even a small measure of authority. It’s because they’re people. People, my friend, are worse than anybody.”

I was not certain whether I was troubled more by his answer or by the fact that he had called me son.

Everett, as usual, had been of no help whatsoever. He insisted as I left that I take the doughnuts, sprinkles and all. He said that they would kill him, but he’d be happy to know I was enjoying them. I took the doughnuts and ate them as I drove back to campus and my dorm. The place was so empty, so quiet and dead, that there was a sudden and strange appeal to it, but I refused to be seduced. I would have liked to talk with Ted, but he was off at his ranch in Montana doing something with buffaloes. And what would he have said to me anyway except, “Why is it that the buffalo’s head is so disproportionately large?” or something like that. I’d always wanted to see Turner and Everett meet, imagined it a little like Perry Como performing with Ornette Coleman. I resolved as I walked across campus to again attempt my drive west. Only this time I would stick to the interstate system, the homogeneous tangle of the ribbons that made up the fifty-first state. I would observe each and every traffic rule and avoid people whenever possible. I realized that I could simply board a plane and fly to California, but being there wasn’t the point, getting there was what I was after. I didn’t know anyone there or what I would do and so the drive would afford me time to formulate some kind of plan. Also I still harbored the young, romantic, naïve, and stupid notion that a cross-country trek would be a valuable learning experience, a rite of passage. That night I packed up my Buick Skylark and headed west once again, my heart pounding, my palms sweating against the plastic of the steering wheel, a thermos of coffee beside me next to a sack of my newest addiction, doughnuts with sprinkles.

The Georgia that surrounded Atlanta had lived up to its billing on my first migratory attempt. I made the short drive to the state’s edge in a quick dead sprint and fell into the next state, which turned out to be Alabama. Of course, I knew it would be Alabama, but still I don’t think anyone is ever quite prepared for Alabama, though I imagined it appropriate and decent preparation for Mississippi; decent is a term the connotation of which I am here unable to articulate.

My chosen route seemed simple enough. I would take Interstate 85 to Interstate 65 to Interstate 10 and that would take me to Los Angeles. There were no turns involved. How could a person get lost? I got lost. I was somewhere in Alabama, in the dark, and it turns out that night in Alabama is darker than night anywhere. I recalled the song “Stars Fell on Alabama” and thought, no, they didn’t. I was further disheartened by a sign telling me I was near a town called Smuteye. Look at the map. And then of course my Skylark began to shutter and make a new unfamiliar, though not terribly alarming sound.

I managed to roll into a lonesome and unlit gas station on a dirt road. The dark sign hovering over the pumps read Rabbit Toe’s Filling Station. My car’s wheels tripped a bell that might as well have been a siren for the way it split the still night air. But nothing and no one stirred. A dog barked far off in the distance and though that reminded me of life, it did more to make me fear death. I was at once terrified that there was no one there and that at any moment someone would appear. And someone did.

An extremely tall, extremely thin, extremely washed-out, and extremely white man walked out of the darkness beside the building and into the white glow of my headlights. He bent at the waist and peered through the driver’s-side window and said the scariest thing I could imagine. He said, “Boy, you must be lost.”

“I must be,” I said. “Can you fix my car?”

“Can but won’t”

“May I use your garage to try to fix it myself?”

“You may not.”

“Are you Rabbit Toe?” I asked.

“That’s what they call me.”

“It’s not your name?”

“That’s what they call me,” he repeated.

“Why do they call you that?” I asked.

“I don’t know.”

The belts of my engine were squeaking and squawking. I spotted some WD-40 on the rack with the oil by the pumps. “I’ll take some of this,” I said.

“It’s for sale,” he said.

I handed him some money. “Keep the change.”

He nodded.

“Well, thanks for nothing,” I said.

“You bet.” He gave me a hard stare.

I started the engine and the sound was not there. I made it another few miles and the noise again started up. It was just about sunrise and I found myself off the dirt road on a dirt drive in front of a small house. Three women were trying to build a fence around a chicken coop. Another older woman spied my approach, crossed herself, and looked up at the sky. I thought I could read her lips and I thought she said, “Thank you, God, for sending me a black buck.”

I got out of my car and opened the hood to look stupidly at the troubled engine. The oldest of the women walked over and stood behind me.

“Your car is not running?” she asked.

“I’m afraid that’s true,” I said. “Would you mind if I worked on it here? I think the belts are loose, but I can tighten them. Do you mind?”

“No, we don’t mind.” The other women had come to stand with her. “Our roof needs to be fixed.”

“Really?”

“It leaks when it rains. And you will fix it?”

“I don’t know how,” I said.

“It’s simple,” she said. “We have a book that explains it.”

“Well, I suppose I could try.”

“You will do more than try. You will do it.” With that she marched off and left the other women to stare at me. I offered a smile and glanced back at my engine.

The battered service manual for my Skylark suggested that the job of tightening the belts would be simple and fairly quick. In fact it said, “This adjustment is simple and quick,” the rather clear subtext being that any idiot could do it. I read this recognizing that I was not just any idiot. I put the car manual aside and picked up the book that had been given to me by the old woman, How to Roof a House.

She stood over me while I read. “It is clear?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said. “I’ll do this, but then I’ll have to go.”

“We will see,” she said.

I climbed the ladder to look at the roof. It was a simple flat roof that required only that I remove the bad surface, replace the bad wood, roll out the new roofing paper, and paint the seams with tar. It would take awhile, but I was happy that I at least understood the project.

I called down, “It’s a big job.”

“But you can do it.” It was not a question.

“I can do it.”

It was thankfully November, so, though the air was insanely humid, it was not insanely hot. Nine hours later, just as the sun was setting, I finished the roof. I was dirtier than I had ever been, smellier, more tired, and yet I felt a kind of vague peace. I washed up at the outdoor spigot at the side of the house. The water was cold, but I didn’t mind. I dried my face and underarms with a stiff white towel that one of the women had set down near me.

The oldest came and said, “Come, you eat with us.”