Jeffery Allen - Rails Under My Back

I ain’t swimming there.

Where you gon swim?

To Brazil.

You said half of them are fags.

No, I said bi. Gay or bi, they’ll make you forget Deathrow.

You need to stop. Nia used every pretext to get Porsha out of the country.

Don’t you need vaccinations?

Shots? Girl, you ain’t going to the rain forest. Come on. Go with. Dare to know.

Not overseas.

Okay, where then?

She loved New York. Whenever she worked there, she took a room in the tallest hotel in midtown where she could watch the shadow-covered water towers. Night edges of the buildings. Lights. (Yes, the lights.) And off in the distance, the lit pyramid of the Chrysler Building. The Empire State like a steel ice-cream cone. Central Park, the city’s green heart. Two rivers and an ocean, the water all one color until the light struck it.

Only a po rat got one hole to crawl in.

Are you going to do my nails or what?

Nia studied her for a moment. A sigh expanded her heavy breasts. She carried a deep wide bowl over to Porsha’s chair and sat it before Porsha’s feet. Then she seated herself on a low stool and put Porsha’s feet in the water. Bursts of quivering ran up Porsha’s legs.

NIA PAINTED PORSHA’S FINGERNAILS AND TOENAILS with garlic-laced polish. Okay, put them in the machine.

On bulrush sandals Porsha skied over to the machine (from South Korea). Placed her hands and feet in what looked like two bread boxes joined at precise distance, hands to feet, by a lamp pole. The machine dried her nails instantly. She checked the results. Her fingers and toes flashed like ten red moons. Thanks, she said.

Don’t mention it. Nia freshened her drink and looked out the window. You gon go all the way back home?

I’ll get a cab.

Ain’t you had enough for one day? I’m telling, not asking. Nia’s profile was full of authority.

Porsha admitted it to herself. Yes.

Here, lie down. Nia motioned to the office’s chaise longue.

Minute-scarred, Porsha reclined on the cool leather.

Nia lowered the blinds. Closed them. Killed the lights. Filled the room with black.

I need some light.

Nia put the lights on, dim. She floated up and placed herself before Porsha, direct and uncompromising. Here. Behind black bars of fluted light, Nia held out a cup to her.

She took the warm cup.

It’ll help you sleep.

Thanks. She sipped the tea. Concentrated on it, the heat flowing down her throat, the sweetness of the sugar.

Well, I’ll see you in the morning. Smoke-black, Nia swayed above her, suspended, sustained.

Don’t stay out too late.

You know me. Nia turned to leave the room.

You still going Sunday?

Nia stopped as if Porsha had hit her. Sunday?

You know, the Great Awakening.

Nia said nothing.

You won’t even have to drive. The Arkmobile would pick them up — Porsha, Nia (and Deathrow?) — advance paid.

I’ll let you know. Nia quit the room, tossing her body.

Porsha tried to rise but fatigue had nailed her to the chaise longue. Thick shadows warmed her blanket-like.

Moonlight struggled through the closed blinds. The blinds formed a net that caught all of the night’s light. A luminous raft, the chaise longue floated. The moon dripped away in blood. If night held its course, stretched long and quiet, she would rest. Forget all her body’s deeds.

She kicked off her leather sandals and felt the warm sand on the soles of her feet. A sailboat rocked close to the coast. They walked along the sand with buckets, gathering treasures left by silvered waves on wet sand: coral, shells, starfish, bits of polished wood. The beach’s curve wound from the open sea to the bay’s half-moon, dotted with slow sails. And the sea itself, still and vast, a green plain.

The yacht moved slowly out of the bay. He watched her from the cabin’s depths. The motor kicked loud and waves opened before them in divided crests of spray. She looked across the yacht’s rail. The distant coast made a shimmering reflection of itself in the heat waves above it. He pointed. There, down there. She leaned over the rail. The coral waves of a sunken galleon swam into focus. Tonight, she would offer him her experienced hands and mouth.

HOW ELSA DOING?

I was sposed to see her yesterday.

You didn’t?

Hatch shook his head.

So why didn’t you?

Hatch sucked the missile, let fumes crowd his mouth.

So what’s up?

Nothing. Let the smoke seep into his chest. Guided the hot missile into Abu’s hands. Abu sucked deep. Left gray jet trails in his mother’s night-darkened living room.

Ain’t she gon go to the concert with us on Sunday?

I don’t know.

So when will I get to meet her?

Hatch fanned his hands, propelling smoke through the open window. Soon.

Soon?

Soon.

She that ugly? Bowwow?

Man, just bust that tape.

Abu clicked in Spin’s new tape, Hip Hoptaplomeres. Shadows trembled, greyhounds awaiting release. Sound gradually filled the hollow speakers, water in a tub.

I really meant to pick up those tickets yesterday, Hatch said, but, like I said, I got tied up at my grandmother’s house.

Why didn’t you get them today?

I didn’t feel like doing nothing. I was like, Let me jus chill.

Well — Abu toked. It’s all good. We can get them tomorrow. He passed Hatch the hot joint. Who sposed to open fo Spin?

Goy Boys. Hatch sucked to the depths of his lungs. The joint was a proboscis drawing in the smoky night. Smoke lifted, forgot the joint from which it ascended.

Goy Boys?

Yeah, you know. That Jewish crew.

Ain’t what I heard.

Well, that’s what the ad said.

Heard it sposed to be Southern Cross.

Them born-again rednecks?

Abu nodded.

No way. You heard wrong.

Abu curled his legs in, Buddha-fashion. He formed a pyramid of rising fat. How you know?

I know.

I know this, whoever gon open, they gon be live.

Word.

Spin don’t associate wit no busters.

Word.

And you know he can flow.

Way above the top.

You know Spin.

Hatch did. From the first flash of consciousness, he had consumed a daily staple of stories about the Hairtrigger Boys — Uncle John, Spokesman, and Spin — tales that sweetened his ears by day and nurtured his dreams at night. A year ago, Spin’s Noosepapers had made it into the top ten. Accompanied by his military crew FNG (Fucking New Guy), Spin toured and twisted the world. Opportunity darted across Hatch’s vision. Hatch decided to reacquaint himself with Spokesman. (How long had it been?) Spokesman. The one on whom nothing is lost. You could ask him anything and he’d answer you, cause he spent all of his time in book and knowledge joints: the Woodson Library, the Museum of Science and Industry, the Field Museum, the Biblical Conservatory, the Cultural Center, the Shell Aquarium, the Armory Museum, the Planetarium. Uncle John drove him to Symmes Electronics — in the Underground — where Spokesman worked. Why you wanna see Spokesman after all these years? Uncle John said. His face was perfectly clear, sharp and defined. Spokesman was bald as a thimble and just as bright. Through walrus teeth, he talked, half laughing, with money in his voice.

Spokesman discussed the almanac he had been working on the past four or five years, writing and rewriting the same ephemeris over and over again. (In bulging, badly packed envelopes, he mailed Uncle John, Lucifer, and Spin samples of his sweat-stained words.)

Scared or not, anxious or not, the electric air made Hatch light-headed. His head balloon-bobbed. Hey, he said, you heard from Spin?