Jeffery Allen - Rails Under My Back

Spokesman drew his head back, as if lip-deep in shit.

Music sawed the silence in half. Moved in the room with them, between and beyond.

Let us cross over the river and rest under the shade of the trees

Be born again in our BVDs

Turn it up, Hatch said. I can’t hear it.

Abu turned it up.

I am an Antichrist

I am an Antichrist

That’s blasphemous, Abu said. He clapped his palms over his ears.

Don’t know what I want

But I know how to get it

Stop actin like a Christian, Hatch said.

I am a Christian.

I know. Hatch knew. Abu was a son of the church.

Went to the river to be baptized

Stepped on a root and got capsized

The river was deep and the preacher was weak

So (hear me, nigger!) I’m Walt Whitman with an AK-47

I went to seventh heaven at eleven from

the bottom of the goddamn creek geek

Always trying to be sarcastic, Abu said.

Hatch didn’t answer. In the dark, sitting apart, Abu was no more to him than a voice.

Air spun into itself. Blinds sucked in and out by an open breeze. Dusky windows like sluggish eyes. The room blue-glowed, Mrs. Harris’s China luminescent in the dark.

Hatch took a hit and passed Abu the joint. Abu accepted it with one hand, the second hand guarding his chaste ear.

Hatch lay back on the floor. Hard floor planks pushed wood hands through the Persian rug and against his back. Iron fibers raked his neck. Yes, once plush, this Persian rug was now tattered and rough. When Mrs. Harris gon buy a new one? Here, years earlier, Hatch and Abu had wrestled — Hatch had the physical advantage, his height and strength making Abu’s limbs and skin elastic, and always won in a matter of seconds — when they had free run of the house. The Persian rug magic-carpeted them through every room of Mrs. Harris’s house, bumping into this item and crashing into that one. They would hear Mrs. Harris banging clusters of keys outside the front door — her WELCOME mat greeted all visitors at the back door, where she made everyone, including Mr. Harris, enter to prevent them from tracking mud or dirt on her Persian rug — and they would smooth the rug in seconds flat. Caught, they would flee the wings of Mrs. Harris’s fluttering hands.

Abu, hear that? Hatch’s fingers popped the song’s beat. It’ll fit right in with our new mix, Eve of Adam’s Destruction.

I don’t know if I’m down wit that mix. Abu toked — the tip glowed red — in his parents’ absence. Bathroom attendants, they worked nights downtown, shining shoes and passing out towels and cologne for heavy tips. Abu passed Hatch the joint like the Olympic torch.

Jus listen. It’s only a song. Stop being such a Christian.

I am a Christian. Abu wiggled his chimpanzee ears.

Well, least you ain’t one of them Muslims. Knocking yo fohead against the ground a hundred times a day. Hatch stubbed out the joint in the Persian rug. There, now she would have to buy a new one. He looked at Abu with Uncle John’s eyes, a measuring look. (This always reduced him.)

Abu turned away.

Hear that beat in between the beat? The words rose above Hatch’s face and drifted into Abu’s space. The words watched Abu, fat, earthbound.

I hear it.

Ah, if he would only listen. One might as well plow a field with butterfly wings as try to teach him music. His fat seemed unfit for molding. Hatch had turned him on to jazz. Funny cause back in the day, Hatch and Abu would trip on Mr. Harris’s listening to his jazz. In his den, Abu’s father kept the largest collection of jazz records Hatch had ever seen. Decks and decks of them. Perfect for the mixes. Cave after cave of albums to dig through and explore. Hatch and Abu would spy through the den peephole, see Mr. Harris sitting between the decks — his skinny insectlike head bowed, his eyes closed — rocking to the sounds.

Didn’t they play that one in The Flintstones?

Nawl. Mr. Magoo.

Nawl. Mannix.

Nawl. That was Plan Nine from Outer Space.

They would laugh until their bellies hurt.

Did you hear what I said? Abu said.

Learn something about chords.

Why? I’m a drummer.

Forget it. Why explain? What was the use? Hatch was tired of carrying Abu on the cuff. When they had both played clarinet — Mr. Stingley, the red-faced band teacher, wouldn’t allow a drum or guitar in his band; This is a marching band; you should be able to handle that one clarinet. When I was a boy, we had four. A, B-flat, C, and E-flat —in the school band, Mr. Stingley had to keep at Abu. Abu, what note is that? A quarter note? Then why are you playing a half? Mr. Stingley stood above Abu and struck his own leg with his plastic baton to the rhythm of the score. Camptown Races?

I should kick you to the curb and make that move to New York, Hatch said. Leave yo ass here.

Go on then. You jus talkin shit.

Try me.

The music gushed and bumped and hissed.

Ain’t Uncle John jus go to New York?

Nawl, Washington. To stop the war. Then he sposed to swing through New York and holler at Spin.

Wish we was opening for Spin Sunday.

Word.

Maybe Uncle John could hook us up.

Look, Hatch said, my Uncle John ain’t no messenger boy.

Abu watched Hatch, swaying a little. I ain’t say he is. That don’t mean he can’t put in a good word or two. Won’t cost him nothing.

And it don’t cost nothing to take a shit either.

Abu’s breath came out straight and sharp.

In the dark, on the floor, Hatch guarded his secret hope: Uncle John will put in a good word or two — hell, a whole library of praise — and Spin will be the Jawbone to break Hatch into the business. Hallelujah!

I seen some of his new video.

Ain’t it the hype?

Way above the top.

Spin’s henna-painted face red-blinks in and out of focus. Congeals into a dotted map of gook hearts.

Slammin.

This is Spin and I’m back again like the wind

Cause I’m in my sin my friend and then

If you want to go far, square, somewhere

Get out of your punk ass chair (on the dare)

Word, I’m gon put something cool in the air

Hatch listened to the music that swelled the speaker, listening but not hearing. Words is like spots on dice. No matter how you roll em, there’s times when they won’t come. Carried Spin’s words like a captured bird. Birthed his own rhyme.

This is Genuine Draft

Master of graft and craft.

I’m blowing on and on and on (won’t stop)

Step to me wrong, strong

You get shot and end up in a Ziploc

Damn, Abu said. What’s up with that?

Something wrong?

Yeah, something is wrong.

You don’t like my rhyme?

Nigga, you stole it. You stealin.

Stealin? Hatch said. No. Spin’s words traveled to me. He nodded to the sea’s sound.

Traveled?

Yes, traveled. Long ago, Hatch had faced the ugly truth that he couldn’t sing. Though he savored each note twice, the words came out bitter-tasting. His recorded voice never sounded like himself — thin, a sewing string vainly attempting to vibrate sound — how he heard himself inside.

Redball, don’t resist (pump yo fist and twist)

It’s on, I’m kicking up a storm like a communist

So he studied Spin’s music, made mental pictures of each song. Words came. Phrases came. Visions came. He learned to sketch the thing itself before it was a thing. Travel inside himself and discover secrets in the silence.