Jeffery Allen - Rails Under My Back

This lil Jap guy called me a coon, Nia said.

What?

A coon.

You fo real?

Yeah. He said, So glad to neet you, Nia-coon. So I told him, You shortslanteyedjapmotherfucker, who you callin a coon? Don’t you know that I’ll kick yo puny ass? Then he said it again. Ah, Nia-coon. I’m sorry. Did I offend you?

Spiral-legged tables held up bird-shaped Etruscan vases and Tunisian amphorae that erupted with roses so radiant and fresh they seemed artificial. Each reading table was centered with a handmade Navaho tablecloth from Santa Fe. Bubble-shaped hair dryers rumbled like space capsules, rockets. And a full bar where you could enjoy two drinks free on the house. (The third cost.)

Each beautician attended her client in a transparent receptacle, the cool shade of a hidden grove. The base of each chair was a genuine redwood stump. One client flipped through the latest issue of Uplift, hair done up like the Bride of Frankenstein. Porsha took the beauticians in at a single glance, without distinguishing one from the other. Tangiers, Archangel, Algiers, Baltimore, Tunis, Tripoli, London, Carthage, Mombasa, Fez, New York, Benghazi, Dublin, Suakin, Seville, Port-au-Prince, Seattle, Guinea, Messawa, Bahia, Zela, Kilwa, Hong Kong, Newport, Brava, Aden, Mina, San Francisco, Muscat, Cardiff, and Cape. Like one woman repeated many times. Each wore tiger-skin hot pants, halter, and sandals. Hair rose two feet above their heads and curved out into a huge anchor. For Nia’s last birthday, they had all, Porsha included, chipped in and bought Nia a cake — the last thing she needed — a strawberry (her favorite) spaceship on a chocolate launching pad under a sprinkling of cherry stars.

Hey, Porsha.

She received a concert of glad welcomes and perfumed laughter from the beauticians. She answered them in chorus.

Porsha.

The sight of the beauticians and adornments made her eyes feel full.

How life treatin you?

Good.

I saw your mother today, Shaneequa, the captain, said.

The words flew behind her. She watched the pretty girl under a sailor’s cap. Red cravat twisted in sailor fashion. Pen poised over the log. A butterfly fluttered over her back. Oh yeah? Nia in?

Shaneequa closed the log over the pen. You know where to find her.

Porsha nodded. She took the upward-rising stairs — the beak of a ship on a wave — two at a time.

The office door was parted. She would knock before she entered. Once she had thrown the door open to surprise Nia and caught her kneeling before some good-lookin brown. The Bible say, Nia later said, Not that which goeth into the mouth defileth a man, but that which cometh out of the mouth . Men liked her. She often went the whole mile on the first date. And she had an educated pussy.

Knock knock, Porsha said. She pushed the door wide, not waiting for a response.

Nia sat before her desk, calm and monumental in the office light. Porsha, is that you? Nia raised her head — coils of yellow hair — sleep-heavy.

Nobody else. Porsha entered.

Nia’s seat was arranged like the ideal house, everything in easy reach, including the globe — a replica of the world as Europe knew it at the time of Columbus’s expedition to the New World, patterned with monsters, behemoths, sea dragons, and misplaced or missing continents and islands — that Porsha had given her for a birthday present many years ago (high school?). A bird could not ask for a better nest.

Girlfriend. Nia put a last piece of a sandwich into her mouth. That girl been all over the world, Mamma said, but she never been further than the other side of a pork chop. Mary Poppins. She rose up out of her seat. Pop up anytime. She forcefully approached, waves to the shore. Every part of her body danced. She sported snazzy palazzo pants. (Her designer was divine.) She always wore loose clothes — unlike some fat women who put on the tightest thing so the fabric stuck to every jellied curve — and her makeup was expertly handled.

The women hugged — Nia’s body spanned the swaying fabric — and kissed.

Nia pushed Porsha to arm’s length. Smoothed her clothes. She raised the lid on her cookie jar (from Nebraska) and peered into its depths. Like some tea?

No.

How bout a glass of sherry? Nia poured herself one.

Porsha laughed. I see you already had a few.

Nobody been drinkin no liquor. You ain’t the police.

Porsha pulled a chair close to the desk. How life treatin you?

Workin like a bitch.

Heard that.

I left a message on your answering machine.

Girlfriend, we must be thinking on the same track.

Guess who came into the salon today?

Who?

Wanda.

That triflin bitch?

Girl, let me tell you, she started some shit with Seattle, and you know Seattle don’t take no shit. A fool and her seat were soon parted.

What?

Yes she did. Seattle hauled off and slapped her.

No she didn’t?

Yes she did.

I heard it all.

So how was yo day? Nia amused herself by cracking her joints in anticipation.

I went to see Inez.

How she doin?

Same ole same ole.

I see.

Porsha patted her hair. Can you do something bout these naps?

Let me see. Two fingers fluttered into Porsha’s hair. Um huh. Jus like I thought. Symptoms in yo hair. Go on over there and sit down in the chair.

Porsha did as instructed. The high chair afforded a view of Church Street. (She might have seen far without the obstructing trees.) Strange glass rippled the world outside.

You just wash it?

No. I mean—

I can tell. What I tell you bout washing yo hair and going right outdoors?

Well, I—

Don’t say a word.

Nia’s black hands moved light and fast in her hair. She can truly minister to your scalp. Know how to make a head feel good. I’ll give you a few curls.

I like yours. But don’t dye it.

Why not?

Girl, you know that ain’t me. Porsha relaxed under Nia’s exploring fingers. Her body sank deeper and deeper into the chair’s warmth.

So how’s Deathrow?

Porsha pushed the word out, no hesitation. Fine.

How come he ain’t with you tonight?

The words washed from side to side in her mind. I don’t know.

What you mean you don’t know?

I don’t know.

What, he actin a fool?

Did I say that?

The problem is you ain’t said nothing.

You won’t let me.

Thought yall was an item? Bout to make lil feet for shoes.

Porsha said nothing.

I see, you got a meat shortage. Girl, if you can’t hold it in your hand, you can’t hold it in your head.

It ain’t that.

I tell you, men these days is jus too triflin. Pitiful niggas out here won’t even give you a good fuck. I don’t blame these prostitutes. You might as well get paid.

It ain’t nothing sexual.

It ain’t?

No.

Oh, I see. He can’t keep his pants on? He found him some side meat.

Did I say that?

That’s it, you can’t keep yo man?

I don’t know if I want to keep him.

Why not?

He ain’t called. We was sposed to get together last night and I ain’t heard from him.

Um huh, missing in action. I never did like Deathrow.

You never told me that. Porsha could recall only one complaint. She had told Nia about screwing Deathrow in Circle Park. Yall did it in the park? Nia said. You crazy. Even I wouldn’t do it in the park, and at night too? A couple got shot there two nights ago.

He’s not a man. He’s a pair of pants.

You said you liked him.

Nia scrunched up her face. He’s jus like Virgil.

Virgil?

You heard me.

Several months ago, Nia had phoned her, excited. Bring Deathrow over for dinner Sunday. We celebrating.