Jeffery Allen - Rails Under My Back

The more you eat, the more you fart

Beans beans, the musical fruit

The more you eat, the more you toot

Simmer down, Mr. Baron says. Let me hear the sound of your feet.

Abu taps your shoulder. Hatch, give me a swallow of water. I’m sweatin. His sweat runs red — he drank a canteen full of well water — then silver, then red again.

No, Mr. Baron says. Horses sweat, men perspire, and women glow.

AUTUMN FILLS THE GRAY-BROWN EMPTINESS between summer and winter. The world aglow with color as trees shed gusts of dead yellow leaves. A breeze holds up their fragrance. The woods stand tall and black— Ah, the woods, where you could take a long swig of the dead-black wine and make your way out of this world —sun in the treetops, sun on the branches, sun hazing the lake. You and Abu race through a yellow field bleached with rabbits. Race down the Hill — a steep crust of land, an upturned nose that grows steeper every month, wind in your legs, the speed and pull of gravity. The challenge is to stop before you reach the bottom; if you don’t, your legs will hurricane you into the muscular lake where water moves like paper in the wind. (Abu can’t swim.) Jump into the water, silent to your own splash. Break the wave’s skin with ease. Knife downward, then float back to the surface, buoyant in weightless sleep. With sharp, clean strokes, swim the thick blind muddy lake. Uncle John tosses you and Jesus into the live currents of the Kankakee River. The bank wafts sharp odors of gunpowder, worm, and fish. The two of you barely have time to draw breath before being sucked beneath the surface. Uncle John jumps in to pull you two back to the water’s surface only after the water has filled the cups of your skulls. On the next fishing expedition, he tosses you two into the muddy water again. Lesson learned, you resurface at the same moment, trying to hurt each other with playful kicks. Flip over onto your backs. Eyes pinned to the sky, you swim the thick blind pond. With mud-black fingers, crawl out of the water. Sun sponges you dry. See, Uncle John says. See, now you know how to swim.

Race done, fish.

You catch more fish than Abu, using your bait of locusts and wild honey, as Uncle John had instructed you on the banks of the Kankakee River. Uncle John prepared his reel, fishhook in his mouth, silver-shining like a new dime.

WITH FULL LUNGS, you blow on the covered pile of ashes. High clean flames lap up the spring chill and fill the air with fresh smoke.

They look like they ready, Abu says. Are they ready yet?

The meat lies on the grill.

I don’t think so.

Maybe you should put some mo lighter fluid on the charcoal.

You aim the fluid and squeeze. The meat flies up from the grill and descends on you two, talons curled.

Damn!

Watch out.

Hey, Uncle John says, what yall tryin to do, burn up Gracie’s yard?

Nawl.

He steps down from the back door, Dave behind him. He walks over and adjusts his eyeglasses. Examines the grill. Dab on some of that barbecue sauce.

You aim. Splatter red. The bird flutters sideways, shrivels and falls to the nest/grill.

Now take them off. They ready.

You take it off.

Man, Dave says, in the old days nobody used to buy ribs, cause the stockyard used to give away rib tips.

Yeah, and you used to be down there every day all day lookin fo a handout.

Fuck you, John. Dave sucks his Canary.

Uncle John looks directly at you. Don’t they teach you nothing bout cookin in those Boy Scouts?

Nawl. We never cook on no grill.

Shit. You want Gracie to start complainin? Uncle John grits his teeth.

Abu’s spit sizzles to the grass.

You spittin in my yard? Uncle John says.

Sorry.

Man, that’s some nasty shit. Around where we eatin.

Sorry.

Uncle John, you say, you know I don’t eat no pork.

You mean to tell me you ain’t gon eat none of them ribs, the way you like barbecue. And I know you like ribs.

You say nothing.

That’s what I thought.

This barbecue sauce smell like it got honey in it.

It does.

Uh, that’s nasty. I don’t eat honey. Bee’s vomit.

Uncle John sticks his finger in the barbecue sauce. Pokes his sauce-covered finger between his closed lips, lollipop-like. Taste good to me, vomit and all. His eyes blink behind his glasses. So you an Eagle Scout now?

That’s what they say.

How does it feel?

I don’t feel it. Besides, I’m through with the Boy Scouts.

Me too, Abu says.

I thought you liked it. The camping part at least.

Man, forget that. Sleeping in that cold cabin. No toilet. If you got to take a shit, you gotta get out of yo warm sleeping bag and go out into the cold forest. Man, fuck that.

Yeah. Fuck that, Abu says.

Abu, you ain’t gon get your eagle?

Why should I?

He ain’t finished, you say. He courtin this honey. Cards, flowers, money — everything. Courtin. Tryin to earn him a Pussy Merit Badge. You salute Abu, two fingers formed in a razor-sharp angle at the forehead.

What? Uncle John says. He faces Abu. Courtin?

That’s right.

Bout time, Dave says. Abu, you better get you some pussy before you turn eighteen or you’ll go crazy. And that ain’t no lie. Is it, John? Serious, Dave sucks his Canary, breathes it like oxygen.

Shut up, Dave, Uncle John says. Talks to Abu: Why you look all sad?

I ain’t sad.

That bitch got you singin the blues?

Don’t let the sun find you cryin, Dave says. Sings:

I wanna get close to you, baby

Like an egg to a hen

Like a Siamese twin

Like fire to smoke

Like pig to pork

Like a bug to bed

Like the hair on yo head

She ain’t got no hair, you say.

Uncle John and Dave stir the heavy air with their laughter. Wide-eyed, Abu looks for somewhere to hide.

What’s her name? Uncle John asks him.

Elizabeth Chew, you answer.

Hey, I was askin him. Air closes over the words. Uncle John studies you for a moment — long enough to snap you shut — then turns back to Abu. So what’s the deal?

Nothing, Abu says. Hatch jus talkin shit.

Yo mamma.

Ah fuck—

Hey, it’s okay. Uncle John circles Abu’s back with his arm. You watch Uncle John and Abu, still, together, frozen, in the same instant of time. Listen — Uncle John speaks softly, heart to whispering heart — forget all that courtin stuff. You don’t sweep a bitch off her feet. You knock her off. He squeezes Abu closer, an inch deeper. His glasses reflect two clear walls that shut him and Abu off from the rest of the world. Remember, you treat a woman like a queen. But she got to realize, you a goddamn king.

SEE YOU, I wouldn’t want to be you. Hatch opened the door to the absolute strength of streetlights.

Later. Abu stood, the scrim of the black doorway behind him. Garden leaves cut the wind to singing.

Hey, remember to practice that beat. Hatch hummed the tune to himself.

I will.

I’m serious.

Abu rubbed his chin.

Listen with your heart.

That’s jus the problem. Abu’s voice spun in the late spring night. I do listen with my heart .

Hatch thought and heard. Night birds pushed beyond the limits of their wings.

Sure you don’t want to sleep here tonight?

Why should I? Hatch said. Then I gotta go all the way home in the morning and change clothes.

That’s true. Well, you should take a cab home. It’s rough out there.

Who got money for that? I ain’t scared. I’ll meet you back here tomorrow.

Okay.

Early. Seven o’clock.

Okay.

Seven o’clock. Cause the ticket window open at eight.