Jeffery Allen - Rails Under My Back

There was something fascinating about listening to Spokesman. You hold your breath to listen. He had the answers. All of them. But how to find him? Lucifer fingered the old envelope bearing Spokesman’s address. Spokesman had supplied no phone number. Lucifer didn’t know Spokesman’s job title or place of work. What would he do, call or visit every Symmes Electronics store in New York? The only solution was to go directly to Spokesman’s home. Camp out there if necessary.

What would he say to Spokesman? Words rushed through his head. So many ways to begin. Twice a month, Spokesman mailed Lucifer a letter thickly definite. Words bound to tell. Now, Spokesman’s words come to mind like photographs. Ancient words were written on durable clay tablets, and the Bible, parchment, a much more perishable material. Once the almanac is completed, I must publish it on some material that bridges the gap between ancient durability and modern flexibility. Spokesman wrote, by airmail — always airmail — from here to there, The gravity of physics rejects the presence of two identical forces staring each other in the eye. The letter would always end: If you ever get to heaven, I’ll be there. He would sign his simplest name, Spoke.

What had inspired the almanac? A reputable agency had investigated Spokesman’s genealogy. Spokesman had discovered no less than fifty historical inconsistencies. No natural soil could have grown the proposed family tree.

WHAT DO YOU WANT? the doorman said. An old black guy who looked like a military sentinel in his uniform. You don’t belong here.

Lucifer showed him the envelope.

Oh, Spokesman. Penthouse. Lucifer followed the doorman to the elevator. The doorman pressed the button P and waited for the metal doors to shut. Tell him Bill says hello.

I will.

Lucifer used this final rising moment to organize his thoughts. Why was he so nervous? Spokesman was an old buddy from the hood. Almost family.

The way Spokesman skyed the ball, the way he palmed it high and made it stick to air, made it stick like the sun. The way he drove to the hoop, bogarting, all elbows, sharp elbows slicing at your guts and nuts. Short nigga spit science on the ball, marked it his. Jumped on Jimmy the Cricket legs and slid the ball in the hoop easy with grease off his palm.

Dallas let his tongue hang loose, as he always did whenever he got frustrated. Spokesman came in hard, black and smoking. Palmed the ball and rolled it up Dallas’s chin and tongue, leaving skid marks. Rolled that ball smooth over the taller man’s head.

Damn, John said. Damn. You gon let him do that shit to you?

Stay out of it, Lucifer said.

Damn. You gon let him play you like a chump?

John, Lucifer said, why you always tryin to start some shit?

Elevator doors parted. Spokesman stood waiting. For the first time in memory, he wore a suit, tailor-made from the looks of it. The same old bifocals though, big as binoculars.

Lucifer and Spokesman stared at each other for a long minute. Lucifer looked away first and Spokesman smiled to himself.

Lucifer, Spokesman said.

Spoke.

They hugged like old war buddies. Come in, Spokesman said. Long time, no see.

Yes.

Spokesman took him through one room then another, all bare. The final room seemed crowded after the previous emptiness. A large living room with two plain wooden chairs (high backs but no arms) and a tall telescope that looked into a drawn curtain. Lucifer remembered: the windows and curtains were kept closed as light and circulating air would fade the furniture. But there was no furniture. Old habits.

Have a seat. Spokesman motioned to one of the chairs.

Thanks. Lucifer sat down in the chair.

Spokesman squatted down on the other chair in the long light. They faced one another, a good thirty feet separating them, a second, curtainless window directly behind Spokesman. In the open, bare room, Lucifer felt that he could sit for days and absorb the atmosphere. The clear sky and meandering clouds above the green box of Central Park increased the mystery of being there. He had never felt this way in his life.

I don’t believe it, Spokesman said. Lucifer Jones. Sitting right here before my eyes. Is that really you?

It’s me.

I don’t believe it.

Believe it.

I don’t believe it.

Lucifer smiled. He felt a rush of warmth pass through him.

How did you travel?

By train.

Train?

Lucifer nodded.

I hope you brought along some good reading. One should always have something sensational to read on the train.

Lucifer said nothing. Made sense to him. Pure Spoke.

Man, I been trying to reach you. You never responded to my letters.

Been meaning to.

I’m glad you finally came down to see me. A pleasant surprise.

Glad to be here.

Where’s your luggage? Behind bulletproof glass, Spokesman’s weak eyes searched Lucifer’s surroundings.

Lucifer cleared his throat. Back at the hotel.

Hotel?

Yes.

Spokesman said nothing for a minute. Oh, I see. You here on vacation?

Not exactly.

Spokesman seemed puzzled. He twisted his lenses as if to focus them. What brings you?

John.

John? Spokesman said. Speaking the name, the person, as if he’d never heard it. Spokesman’s memory was infallible. He could look at any technological device once, take it apart, and put it back together again to the last screw, washer, or microchip without help of blueprints, notecards, or memos.

Where is he?

Spokesman’s naked lenses floated before his invisible eyes. Why do you ask me?

You and John were always close.

Spokesman nodded in agreement. All that man dares do, I would do.

Lucifer smiled at the thought. Word had it John, Spin, and Spokesman had commandeered a hootch at base perimeter, fortified it with sandbags and an electric fence. Word had it they never wore boots or any rubber-soled footwear. Rubber is dimagnetic. Two of many rumors. You guys were famous, Lucifer said.

Yeah, Spokesman said. Things were wild over there. We were wild. John, Spin, and me — we painted like the eclipse of the sun, half black and half red.

Lucifer was aware of something inside him trusting Spokesman, trusting wholly and heavily. So John—

I can’t help you.

The words fell to the floor at Lucifer’s feet. But I thought—

I can’t help you.

You know, he came for the march in Washington.

Is he in trouble?

Well, he—

Original relations, Spokesman said. He shook his head.

Yes, relations. He is my brother. That’s why I’m here.

You look worried.

No. I wouldn’t say that. Concerned. His wife is worried.

Still married?

Yes, Lucifer said.

To the same woman?

Yes.

Spokesman looked Lucifer up and down, making no effort to hide his disgust. Lucifer didn’t hold it against him. He felt the same way about Gracie.

John said he was coming to see you. Did you go to the march?

Chickens can’t fly, Spokesman said.

Lucifer held his breath, hoping that Spokesman would go on and say something else. Spoke, I thought—

Have you seen Dallas?

Why was Spokesman steering away from John? Lucifer answered him. I can’t remember the last time.

You remember that time Spider got him a job at the Zanzibar Motel? The memory played itself on the two screens of Spokesman’s glasses.

Yeah. And the manager found Dallas asleep in one of the beds, dead drunk.

Lucifer and Spokesman rode a wave of shared laughter.

Now John and Dallas, Spokesman said, they were tight.

So you haven’t—

Wish I could help. To know more, we must assume more. Spokesman’s eyes hovered over him. Lucifer could feel their energy. The eyes gave the talk weight. But they also made Lucifer uncomfortable. Had they always made him feel like this? Prediction is our best means of distinguishing science from superstition.