Jeffery Allen - Rails Under My Back

Bet.

Early. You better be ready. Don’t you be sleepin or I’m gon slap yo ass awake.

Nigga, you the one who forgot to buy the tickets yesterday. Abu placed his hand on the doorknob, tugging it behind him.

I already explained that.

No problem. We good.

Ah, right. Later.

Oh, Abu said, I almost forgot. T-Bone said he want to see you.

The words held the door open. T-Bone?

Yeah.

Where’d you see him?

In Union Station, where he always is.

We gotta pass through there tomorrow. Man, that nigga can talk yo ear off.

He says it’s serious.

Serious? What he want?

I don’t know.

Nigga, he says it’s serious and you almost forgot?

Sorry.

Damn … Well, what he say?

Something about Uncle John and Jesus.

Uncle John and Jesus?

Yeah. And Lucifer too.

Anything else you forget?

No.

You sure?

He ain’t say nothing else. Cept he got to see you. It’s serious.

CLOUDS CREATED PURE LIGHT. Lucifer stared out the small window and sifted through the white dark. Still heat — he could feel it through the glass — frozen smoke. A stalactite forced its hot point into his open mouth. He drank cold liquid that curdled in his hot stomach. Coughed. Covered the window with his white insides. He vowed, I’ll never let a plane fly me again, fly me again. Live or die by these words.

The plane descended. White fanned out. Clouds thinned. Objects formed, stained with shadow colors. Ah yes, there was the sun, still. The plane sank through yellow-waved light. Features of landscape took position in Lucifer’s mind. The city began to appear small, wavering, but distinct, a photograph quickening to sight, taking on text and texture in the fluid of development.

Wrong in transit, Lucifer entered the hollow ringing city. Changed. A trembling at the edge of cool awakening. The other world still warm in his mind. He felt like a man who sees a house he knew as a child: how much smaller it seems, the vast spaces of memory narrowed to the present reality.

SHEILA STOOD IN A SEGMENT OF LIGHT framed by the door. Home. He stepped into his own self-portrait. He had spent months digging a place for her inside himself.

He pulled her close. Her kiss measured to deliver the remembered warmth and wetness.

You’re back, she said. She spoke into his shoulder.

Yes, he said. I’m back.

Lucifer rose at the first breath of sun and scrubbed his body until his skin sparkled. The old dark self floated in the white tub, jellyfish-fashion, dirty tentacles seeking what they’d lost. He pulled the rubber stopper. The old self lengthened and fought. Thinned. Lost its battle against centripetal motion (force) and circled down the drain. He ammonia-cleaned the tub twice so nothing was left. He had changed change. He was home now and could resume his life, leave the old Lucifer behind. But he would spend his remaining days fearing that he might change. Pain in his neck looking over his shoulder, watching for the old wet self that would slip him back into the world he’d left.

LUCIFER FINISHED LOADING THE LUGGAGE on the plane, returned the trolley, and loaded up for another run. Ben, the new supervisor, was leaning into a stack of luggage, a salt-covered radish in hand. He held up his other, radishfree hand. Lucifer stopped the trolley.

Hey, Ben said. He was twice Lucifer’s age but half his height, his small head heavy under a high patch of steel wool.

Yes, sir, Lucifer said.

Try to load those bags a little faster. Ben bit a plug out of the radish.

The directive held in Lucifer’s easy attention. Yes, sir. He put his shoulder to the wheel. No more hesitation and procrastination. He would perform well — the need smashed him in the chest — show Ben that he could pull his weight. Besides, he would be off work soon, go home. Sheila would stroke his tired back to life.

Hey, did you hear me? Ben said. I already asked you once. You tryin to make me look bad?

No, sir.

Well step to it.

Lucifer stepped to it. His body spoke speed.

You must be a smart aleck or something. One of these young black fools who think the world owe them grits and gravy. The sun beat through the hangar window against Ben’s painful white shirt. Get the black molasses out yo black ass.

Lucifer leveled his eyes.

One side of Ben’s face moved. Look, he said, I’m fifty-four years old. And I tell my wife when she’s fucking up. I’m sposed to be closer to her than to you?

YOU SLEEP GOOD AT NIGHT? Lucifer said.

I sleep like a baby, John said. That’s how you win.

What happened over there?

You tell me, bro. John wheeled the world with his hand.

No, you tell me, Lucifer said. I was jus a leg, a grunt. Unlike Spin, Spokesman (with his quick brain), and John (with his flashing remarks and insults), he hadn’t walked the universe and returned with a constellation of sparkling medals. They had volunteered and could have chosen easy jobs, but their young foolish blood guided them to the most remote channels of danger.

What’s to tell?

That world had left a green patina on Lucifer’s memories and thoughts. But John, anchored in still waters, refused to budge from the present and ponder what he had done or what had been done to him. He and John never exchanged stories. (He bided his time to wait for those moments when he could eavesdrop on John passing stories to some interested listener.) That green world opened hollow and silent between them, a fertile space for speculation and imagination.

John trumpeted his horn and parted rows of moving metal. Stupid fuck! Learn how to drive. You ever heard of the Man?

Yes, the Man. He wears a white suit.

Vest and all.

He drives a white—

— Cadillac. He drinks—

— milk. He—

Words bounced back and forth between them: the evolving and endless story of the Man and his quest for a golden cotton field. Each morning, they would invent some new detail, add some variation, and laugh.

SCREAMS WARNING. Images flit batlike across the moving window. Running evidence of all he had witnessed. A long time between joints in the track. He would hear and feel the click, then a year would go by.

A change in the speed interrupted the current of his sleep. The window dazzled in the morning. The sun, a big bald head. Lucifer touched half-awake fingers to his forehead. Ah, his red — his fingers felt color — widow’s peak had grown back during the night. He would have to shave it. Had he brought his shaving kit? His teeth felt pillow-heavy, coated with sleep. Had he brought his toothbrush? His bones cried from the stiff cold. He shook until his vision ran. He rubbed his legs to start the blood circulating again. He sorely needed refreshing. He rose — he was so stiff that he could barely lift himself out of the seat — and walked to the dining car, balancing himself with his hands against the shaking train. Ah, much more pleasant here. A room steamy with heated voices. He ordered a stiff drink. Downed it. Almost immediately, the whiskey burned in his belly, spread throughout his body, and he imagined himself a lamp, skin aglow. Bone-white flecks floated on the drink’s surface. He relaxed in his seat, his eyes alive with seeing. Glassed in by reflections of the countryside. Sun walked in a field. Swam in the slow bend of a river. Cows stood in a motionless line. Ah, rest your weary eyes. (A carrier pigeon would lead him to John’s hidden nest.) Slow, smooth, roll. Oiled rails ticking underneath. Speed would hold until the end.

AN OLD MAN sat in the seat opposite his, profile stamped by white light. His back facing the forward motion of the train. He directed his age-weakened eyes at Lucifer. Hi. He extended his hand, perfectly pointed and ridged, a flint arrowhead. I’m Reverend Van.