The Waking (20 page)

Making money off their
own
people who they don’t even represent. What’s up with that? They’re perpetrating a fraud, and those white record companies are falling for it. Getting over, it’s all still about getting over.

Ronnie something, a kid in my fourth grade class, showed a couple of us that gun during recess. He had it tucked in the back of his pants like he saw somebody in a movie do it. One of those red, bouncy balls rolled over, and we all played keep-away, you know, like kids do to other kids to be mean. DJ or TJ or something says to Ronnie, “Gimme that ball, nigger,” and Ronnie pulls that gun and says, “I got your nigger, boy.”

And he shot him.

He just … shot him.

It knocked DJ or TJ back to the ground, and then everybody was running all over the Hill. TJ, yeah, that was that kid’s name. TJ didn’t die, but he wasn’t right after that, drooling in a wheelchair. And we had all completely forgotten about Ronnie until one day he shows up on the set wearing some old black high-top Converse. He was cut like a black diamond, Ronnie was, but he looked ridiculous in those shoes, and we let him know it, even the old-timers, saying stuff like, “What garbage can you find them in, Ronnie?” and “What dead old man did you pull them off of?”

That night, Ronnie shot and killed his mama because she wouldn’t give him money for shoes, and now Ronnie, the black diamond, is doing life over some tennis shoes.

And here I am writing about it like it means something to anyone on a notepad made by Walker Paper. I slide the pad under the mattress and close my eyes, seeing TJ hitting the pavement again and again and again until I can’t count any longer.

“
You goin’ on shore leave today?” Rufus asks, waking me a
long
time later. I must have slept for ten hours.

“
Can’t you say ‘good morning’ like normal people?” I ask, rolling out of bed.

“
All right. Good morning, Manny. That better?”

“
Yeah.” I scratch the sleep from my eyes. “Am I gonna be early or late?”

“
You’ll be on time. Now, are you goin’ into Louisville today? We all goin’.”

“
To do what?”

“
Does it matter? Just to get out, see the sights, maybe get us some barbecue.”

Just to see if Rufus could eat an entire hog would be a sight. “I don’t know, maybe.”

But as the day wears on, I start to feel weary. When we land in Louisville after breakfast and a couple hundred more sandwiches, I go back up to the Calliope Bar as the boat empties. I watch folks working the docks until a little poem takes shape on my notepad:

“
What are you doin’?”

I’m getting tired of Rose sneaking up on me. I cover the page with my hand. “Just writing some.”

“
A letter to your girl?”

More like a letter to the world. I guess I could send my poems to Mary. She’s so much younger than me, though. Would she understand? “Something like that.”

“
Well, I’ll leave you two alone,” she says. “Are you comin’ out with us tonight?”

“
I haven’t made up mind yet. Maybe.”

“
I hope you come. Rufus swears there’s a good barbecue place in Louisville, but I doubt it. There ain’t a real good one till we hit Memphis, and I plan to take you somewhere for some wet ribs, just the two of us, when we get there.”

“
Okay. It’s a date.”

“
You okay? You get enough sleep?”

“
Yeah.” Except for this kid’s head hitting the ground all night in my dreams.

“
All right. See you at dinner.”

Dinner isn’t nearly as crazy since so many folks have gone into Louisville to eat, so I get off early, shower, and put on some of the clothes Rose washed up for me. I find a blue flannel shirt and some no-name jeans that fit me pretty well and curl up with the notepad again. Nothing comes right off, which frustrates me a little, so I watch a little TV until Rufus comes busting through the door.

“
You ready?” he asks.

Rufus ain’t ready. He smells like diesel sweat. “I’m staying on the boat.”

“
You gonna miss some good barbecue.”

“
I already ate.”

While Rufus is in the shower, I hear a knock on the door. I open it and see Penny. “Hey.”

“
Hey.” She looks past me into the room. “You goin’ with us?”

“
No. Not tonight.”

“
Too tired?”

“
Something like that.”

“
Let me see your tattoo.” She lifts up some white cloth tape to see the cross. “Has it swelled any?”

“
No.”

She presses the tape down. “It looks okay.” She bites her lips together. “Wish you were going.”

I force a smile. “
Y’all
might need someone to talk about.”

“
We wouldn’t do that.”

“
Rose would.”

“
Well,” Penny says, “I guess I better go. Tell Rufus to hurry up.”

“
He’s a big boy, so it could be a while.”

She laughs. “See why we need you to go with us?”

“
Some other night.”

After Penny leaves and Rufus starts pouring cologne all over himself, I settle back onto the bed, barely watching some Hollywood entertainment show. None of those people are real, and I bet none of them have ever done an honest day’s work in their lives. This actor’s having trouble getting work since he got out of some rehab clinic. And this actor’s saying how hard it is to make even a crummy movie. Let me try it. I bet it’s a walk in the park compared to real life. The movies are fake anyway, like any of that happens in real life. I once watched this movie, can’t remember the name, where this poor black guy gets off death row because he has a brilliant white lawyer who believes in him. He kept saying that all through the movie. “I believe in you.” None of my lawyers ever believed in me. And this TV show I once saw had this rich white guy going to jail. I laughed all the way through that one. It was supposed to be serious drama, but it was too funny for that. In real life, all a rich guy has to do is pay a fine and go about his illegal business.

“
One last time, Manny,” Rufus says, “and I ain’t askin’ no more. You goin’ with us or not?”

“
I’ll see
y’all
when you get back.” Because I think there’s a poem in my head that wants to be written.

“
I’ll bring you back somethin’.”

“
Thanks.”

After Rufus and his cloud of cologne leave, I pull out my notepad and start writing:

They’re gone.

The Voice is back.

So? I’m busy.

Doing what? Writing shit no one will ever read?

I don’t answer and continue writing:

They’ll be gone all night, Manny. All night. Bet they’re gonna have a good time without you.

Give it a rest.

I bet someone working at that barbecue place could hook you up. You could be straight before they even served dessert, maybe even before the main course.

I drink a little water to get rid of my cottonmouth and pace around the cabin like a caged animal. As long as I keep my mind busy, the Voice can’t bother me. I pick up the notepad and keep writing as I pace:

You want that almost-white girl, don’t you?

I have Mary.

Do you? Really? Someone that young? Manny, you gotta get serious. If she was willing to be with you, she’d be willing to be with just about anyone.

Shut up.

Bet she’s got them lined up at the door and all the way down the street. And they ain’t old like you. They’re young bucks with money, lean, and hard, and—

She wouldn’t do that.

What’s she gonna do with fifty bucks?

I’ll be able to send more in a few days.

Really? Now that you kicked old Mrs. Walker to the curb? You should have swallowed your pride, Manny. You should have shucked and jived for her. Sixty buck a day for doin’ nothin’? You must be crazy to throw that kind of easy money away.

She was stealing my dignity.

But you was getting paid, yo! Sixty bucks a day! Cash money! Liquid assets for liquid sunshine!

When her knees weren’t bothering her.

You could use that money, too. For Memphis. You can’t let Rose pay for your date, right? That’s beneath your dignity, too, right?

Shut up.

I hear Memphis is a happening town. Beale Street sounds like a good place to find a set, and you know those musicians know where it’s at. Think of Charlie Parker, Manny. You’re no different than he was. You’re both just misunderstood artists, that’s all.

Let me
be
an artist then.

I start scribbling:

Not bad, not bad. Think how much better your writing would be if you had some sunshine running through your veins. They called Charlie Parker a genius, Manny. They could call you a genius, too.

Go away. I’m broke, remember? It takes money I don’t have.

Rufus’s drawer is open. Better close it. And don’t peek, now.

I look through the sliver of space and see a few bills sticking out.

Might be enough. He won’t mind.

I swallow and shut the drawer. I wish Mary’s voice would come to me right now. I write as furiously as I can: