Jeffery Allen - Rails Under My Back

See, you say, that’s Central.

That’s where we live.

Yes.

Can you see my house?

No.

There go Eddyland to the west. Abu’s eyes spin like compass arrows.

That’s where my Uncle John live.

North Park to the north.

That’s where my sister live.

Porsha?

Who else.

South Lincoln to the south.

Kankakee County just south of it.

That’s where my aunt Beulah live.

Where?

Kankakee County. Decatur. She old. Real old.

Kings to the east. Liberty Island, a shapeless object stuck in Tar Lake, completely surrounded by plastic water.

That’s where Gracie live. And Jesus. They jus moved there.

In all that water?

Yeah. But Uncle John know how to make the lake stay away from they do.

Buildings backward, you walk through century-old cobblestone streets. Board old streetcar trains iron-bolted to the floor. During the morning several negroes amused themselves by riding up and down in the various cars. We are unable to discover any reason or justification on the part of a few young men in creating riot and discord. A whistle burns blue air to black ribbons. Whistles were used as signals. One toot mean, Train approaching town. Two toots mean, We passing through. Jus passing through. Ain’t stopping. And the conductor stood in the caboose, swinging his red lantern. A locomotive works its rapid elbows. You and Abu dodge the big mean-looking steam eye. Climb into the black engine room. The sound of a train always reminds me of the clanging of steel doors, Sam said.

You got that right, Dave said.

Grab at the slow smoke of the engine.

One man stood on the track waving a warning light. When the train stopped, the armed robbers boarded the train and robbed the passengers of $20,000. Authorities couldn’t track their mobility. They were everywhere and nowhere.

Look over there.

You look. Shield your eyes at the brightness of a silver-fluted monster.

That’s a rocket, Abu says.

No it’s not. You need glasses. That’s a streamliner.

Zephyr. The first diesel-powered engine, 1934.

You think you know everything.

Matter cannot move itself.

Kinetics. The science of movement.

Physics. The study of movable bodies.

Theology. The study of the immovable mover.

Metaphysics. The study of —

Blackness calls. Find yourselves armored in oxygen. Moonscape shadow. You two walk slow-motion. Jump. Float. Float on. Float over old Cadillacs, balloon-round.

Running boards glimmer under hot lights. Chrome bumpers shine one against the other. Engines churn black ink. It’s all here. The world’s first cars look like carriages. Cars of the twenties like trains. Forties, cars. Fifties, missiles. Sixties, jet planes. Seventies, speedboats.

That’s Uncle John’s car.

No it ain’t.

He used to have one of those.

How you know?

I heard. I seen pictures. I rode.

Look. Abu indicates the World War II fighter planes spider-suspended at slanted angles from the ceiling, silk-seen, on invisible strings.

You and Abu run swiftly beneath them, guarding your heads. You pilot Abu through an iron tunnel to the battleship.

This gotta be the destroyer we saw on the bus.

Battleship.

Sight deceived: CLOSED FOR REMODELING.

Damn, it’s closed.

Double damn.

You study photographs that line the corridor. (They study you.) Fighter jets on a vast deck like insignificant mosquitoes. Ant-small men swab tunnel-long guns. Damn. Look how big that ship is.

Yeah. And look at them big guns.

Yeah. Real big. Bigger than this battleship.

Bigger than this whole museum.

Bigger than the whole damn neighborhood.

Bigger than the whole country.

Bigger than the whole wide world.

The iron tunnel opens onto a maze.

A bunker. That’s what this is, a bunker.

How you know?

A warren of corridors and rooms. Tiled roof. Whitewashed walls. But the walls are really doors. DAZE MAZE. Abu squeezes a buzzer. A door spits him out of the room into another, sopping wet and crying for his mother. You continue on, determined to win the prize, a red wax bull. One room hides another room clicking clocks of every shape and description. You take several more wrong turns, wind your way through more identical corridors. Your sense of direction deserts you. You try to double back. The corridors all look alike. The same tiles. The same light. Perhaps you have only orbited the main chamber. You crawl through a tunnel-like vent. Rise into space. In front of you, a sign reads THIS IS IT. A thick red arrow points down to a lever. You pull it. Moments later, the wall spits out the wax bull, red and warm to the touch.

You run to Abu with your prize. Told you I would get it.

Man! Abu says. He blow-dries his tears. Licks his snot. Let me see it.

You let him touch it.

Man. I wish I had one.

You coulda got one.

I know. What do we do now? Anxious, Abu hops on one leg then the other as if he must pee.

Follow me.

He follows.

Bull in hand, you know what to find and think you know where to find it. You claw the air. Duck under light. Squeeze through the dark. The air quick around your head with spastic machinery. Ah, yes. Here. Here.

Is this a real coal mine?

Yes, you answer. Come on. Let’s go in.

He comes.

You board blackness. The coal car rattles down through the dark. You see Abu’s face floating in the crowded blackness.

Wait a minute, Abu says.

What?

This an elevator?

Yeah.

It hold all these peoples?

Yes.

Why it going so fast?

The cables grip your guts. You bleed icy sweat. Surrender to the will of your body. Your bowels fill with an explosion of loose brown mud.

What happened?

Nothing.

What’s wrong?

I had an accident.

Don’t worry, Abu says. His head is covered with thickly woven coal-mine cobwebs. You can wear my draws.

THE SADDLE LIFTS YOU HIGH. The horse warm underneath you. You smell its sweat. The horse snorts like a dope fiend. Tail swipes at hot summer mosquitoes. Its motion helps you to think. But riding requires effort. You can’t sit and let the horse take you where it wants. You must direct it with iron, muscular force.

Wait a minute, Abu says. How many stories is this? My horse is too tall.

That ain’t no horse. It’s a pony.

I’m gon fall off.

Just hold on to the reins. These horses are trained. He’s walked this path a thousand times.

How do you stop it? It’s walkin too fast.

It’s not walking. It’s trotting.

I can’t hold on. Abu bounces in the saddle.

It’s actually easier to hold on when the horse is galloping. That’s why jockeys can ride so easy. I’ll show you.

Your heels stab the horse’s ribs. Can’t break them, no matter how hard you kick. The rapid light beat of hard hooves on packed earth. A run of space. You sail. Your flying feet never touch the ground. The road flows under the horse’s flicking hooves.

FAMILIAR MOVING BODIES, jangling colors, wandering fragments.

Sound off!

One two.

Sound off!

Three four.

Change count.

One two three four one-two, three-four.

Line it up. The troop can never hike in formation. They blow like lost sails behind you. The concrete road vibrates in your boots. Small red trees line it on both sides. Taller ones behind. And vines like twisted snakes.

I walk in moonlight

To lay this body down

I walk in starlight

To lay this body down

The troop cuts the fool and bends the forest with their voices.

Beans beans, good for your heart