Jeffery Allen - Rails Under My Back

So why—

It’s cool. You can eat. I’ll watch.

I ain’t hungry. Let’s shoot some hoop.

Some hoop?

Yeah, you know. No Face curved his wrist in a mock shot.

Well—

What’s wrong? You don’t want to?

I don’t care. I’ll whup yo ass in a game or two.

Follow me.

They squeezed through a narrow neck of doorway, then hurried to the elevator, which began to lower like a rusty bucket. The walls came rushing in and Jesus had to fight the urge to extend his arms in defense. The elevator opened into a dark vestibule. No Face miscalculated the height of the vestibule step and tripped out into the day. Jesus blinked forth upon the sky.

Hey, boys. Give you five dollars if you can tell me what kind of bird this is. The words emerged from pitch blackness, a dark niche cut deep in the building’s brick. A face, then a body — blue overalls with dirty suspenders, parachute straps — pushed into the light, fist holding the groin. A janitor, Jesus thought. He’s a janitor, cleaning up after this nigga trash. He saw Jesus looking at him. Flicked his tongue fast and dirty.

Damn, No Face said. You see that? He a stone-cold freak.

You can get hurt that way, old man, Jesus said.

The janitor cupped his hand over his ear. What? What you say?

Hurt.

And I can get hurt getting out of the bathtub too.

Jesus turned up the heat in his eyes, red coals. The janitor winked at him. Dushan, the janitor said to No Face.

No Face did not answer.

Tell yo mamma I be up there to see her later.

Damn, Jesus said. You gon take that shit?

Aw, man, he can’t sweat me. No Face waits a beat, watching Jesus.

Nigga, he talkin bout yo mamma.

You don’t know me from Adam. He ain’t nobody. That’s Redtail.

Who?

Redtail.

What kind of name is that?

Well, his real name is Roscoe. Roscoe Lipton.

He yall janitor?

The superintendent.

A janitor.

Yeah.

Don’t see how he can be nobody’s janitor. Too fuckin ole. Nigga can hardly move.

Crazy too. Nigga be feedin rats and shit. Feedin em.

What?

Word.

Jesus shook his head.

I know. But guess what?

What?

He used to be a pilot.

What?

A pilot.

You mean an airplane?

Yeah.

Jesus tried to picture the old drunk in a cockpit. What he do, fly a bottle round his lips?

Nawl, in a war. Warplane. Flying Tiger. Hell from Heaven. He changed some enemies too.

That old drunk motherfucker?

Yeah.

He can’t change his dirty draws.

He did.

Musta been a long time ago.

Yeah. Old nigga can’t even hear.

I can tell that. So that was why he did it, covered his deaf ear and cupped his good one.

But he hear good nough to hear what he shouldn hear.

What?

He a transformer.

Jesus considered the possibility of this.

You do something, and he can’t wait to snitch. Hey, he might even snitch on you.

Jesus looked at No Face.

Round here, he gotta watch his back. I almost changed that nigga a few times myself.

I bet. He walk like you. He talk like you. He yo daddy?

No Face watched — one red eye — Jesus hard for a stocktaking moment.

They began their journey. Above the river, a gull white-winged along a wave. A hang-tailed hound sat tough beside a garbage can until No Face roused it with a speeding stone. A ragtop speeded past, but slow enough for Jesus to be momentarily blinded by a flash of hand signals.

Trey Deuces, No Face said.

Right, Jesus said.

No Face took cautious steps crossing the street, as if fording a river. He walked, Jesus beside him, for several more blocks through a fog of belching cars, dragging his feet, tripping over his shadow, slow and purposeful, the blind motion of sleep. The morning increased, the wind rose, gusts of it shaking the branches, bringing a faint snow of spring petals, flake on sifting flake. Through rectangles of glass, Jesus saw men dipping their heads in coffee cups, sitting stiff with their beers or hiding their faces behind newspapers. He and No Face rounded the corner. The sun brightened in the distance, and Stonewall glittered white. Tall rockets of buildings, ready to blast off.

Damn, we walked that far? You ain’t tell me we walkin to Stonewall?

Chill.

Nigga, you crazy.

You be aw ight.

A fenced-in basketball court loomed in the distance, thick shapes roving inside. Jetting along, Jesus and No Face found a stone bench and sat down to watch the game. Tongues circulated the circumference of the court. Homeys lined the fence, fingers poking through the chain-link holes, slurping Night Train and firing up missile-shaped joints. Floating heat. Sweat air. Grit that Jesus tasted in his cough.

Whirling colors, four men played the full-length of the court. Jesus took a good look. Two men in khaki pants and bare chests, and two in chests and blue jeans. Khaki One a tall (Jesus’s height) man with a sharp-angled haircut like a double-headed ax (V from widow’s peak to neckline). Bull-wide nose and thick worm lips. Wedges of muscle angling up from the waist and fanning out to a winged back. Big Popeye forearms. Dull white skin, as if faded from bleach. Whispered under his breath when he shot a free throw. Khaki Two a short nigga with carefully greased and patterned hair — a sculpture — and proud, bowed wishbone legs. He passed Khaki One the ball for a rim-ringing dunk. Serious hang time in the radiant haze. The opposing team took out the ball. Light-moving, the white man fell like an avalanche and smothered a shot. Drove the ball up the alley and around the other defender for the easy layup. Hoop, poles, and backboard cold-shuddered. The ball swirled around the rim before it flushed.

Good game.

Who got winners? Khaki Two curled up first one leg, then the other, checking his shoe soles. He pulled an old fighter pilot’s helmet (World War I stick-winged biplane, Snoopy and the Red Baron) over his sculpted hair.

A scuffle flared up. No Face started for the court, Jesus followed him. Like a magnet, faces drew them in.

Keylo. No Face spoke to Khaki Two. Why you give me that whacked weed?

Give you? Bitch, I ain’t give you shit. You paid me.

Jesus blinked. Focused. Keylo? So Khaki Two was Keylo, legend in the flesh. Word, drove an old red ambulance with a bed (stretcher?) in the back. His ho buggy he called it. Say he never changed the sheets.

Keylo approached, and Jesus imagined him choking No Face in the noose of his bowed legs. He smiled toothless, like a snake. Crunched his face, a single line of eyebrow above lidless rat eyes. Balled in a boxer’s crouch. Rose on his toes with a dance in his body and pimp-slapped No Face upside the head.

Damn, Keylo. Why you always fuckin around?

Cause I want to. Keylo slapped No Face again. A storm of laughter convulsed the spectators.

Damn, Keylo. No Face’s dreads rose like cobras. Quit.

Make me, bitch. Fists moving, Keylo circled No Face, dukes up, slow-moving like an old man. Circling, he fired slaps, loud as thunder in easy rain, stinging blows which rocked No Face, hard, fast-pitched blows to the soft mitt of his raised chin. No Face hung tough, refusing to go down.

Chill.

Laughter died down.

That’s right. Chill.

Jesus searched for the voice’s source. Khaki One. Sunlight streaked his greased flesh, accentuating every vein. Chill, he said, voice feverish, cloggy and hot, phlegm-filled as if from a cold.

Damn, Freeze.

Freeze. Freeze.

No Face alright, Freeze said. He hooked No Face’s head under his elbow and stroked the idiot’s bowed head. No Face grinned, tongue fish-flopping in his mouth. He alright. Freeze yanked down on No Face’s head, then released it. No Face ballooned up to his normal height. Don’t try to play him like a bitch.