The Busting Out of an Ordinary Man Read online

  Billy Woods, almost a brother to her, from living in the same neighborhood so long, she felt but somehow the point was never fully conveyed to Billy.

  “Where you on your way?” he asked, trying to be cool about it.

  She almost lied but thought better of it, why lie?

  “I was just takin’ a lil’ walk.”

  “Any place special?”

  “Uhhh, not really,” she answered, looking away into the distance.

  “I’m goin’ your way.”

  “I’d really much rather be by myself,” she said coldly.

  Billy’s eyes wandered over her body before he coughed deep in his throat, trying to cover up the slap to his macho.

  “Right on! I can dig where you comin’ from,” he replied lamely, trying to save face. “Everybody needs some time to be by theyselves.”

  Phyllisine turned away from him, feeling a little embarrassed for him, but felt she was doing the right thing. After all, she didn’t dig him, she knew exactly what he was after, and she wasn’t going to give him any so why jive? Billy Woods, like most of the dudes in and around the neighborhood wanted to cop Phyllisine Why not? The damage had already been done, and what was left just had to be pure jelly.

  Billy looked wistfully at her full, taut buttocks as she strolled away.

  Phyllisine, aware that he was following her movement, tried to tighten the roll of her hips, but failed.

  These jiveass motherfuckers! All they want is a piece o’ pussy, ain’t gon’ do shit to help with your kids or anything, bunch a’ chickenshit niggers! Momma’s right! Niggers ain’t shit!

  She walked past Big Momma’s window, crossed the street in front of Lubertha’s apartment building, thought about Mayflower’s death as she passed his building and turned the corner.

  The Dew Drop Inn glared at her from the end of the block, drew her like a neon magnet.

  What do I say to him if I run into him? she asked herself, slowing down despite the deepening chill.

  She never felt really capable of handling herself when the mood came down on her, the mood to see her father; long ago, when she had been pregnant with a rapist’s baby, her father came around with three other men, asking her to tell them who had raped her. She never told them because she didn’t know, but she did know that Chu-man was the father of the second one, the one they had had trying to forget the traumatic experience of the rape.

  Chu-man Chu-man the thought of him made her jam her hands deeper into her pockets. What had he said in his last letter? “Soon as I get out, we going to get it together, for real!”

  She peeked into the bar hesitantly, blinking her eyes in the semi-dark.

  “He ain’t here, honey!” a buxom woman in a champagne colored Afro wig called out to her. “I’m lookin’ for ’im myself, wid his raunchy ass!”

  Phyllisine ignored the raucous laughter that spilled out at her, turned and started back home.

  Of all people, why did I have to see that bitch of his!

  “Hey looka’here, Miss Lady … lemme buy you a drink?” a tricky voiced, superfly type sang out to her softly from the interior of his gangster whitewalls at the curb.

  She nodded no-thanks quickly and began walking faster, getting away from the sly looks, the chilliness of the air and the rapidly descending darkness.

  Too bad that ol’ man Jackson ain’t like my real father so cool, so smooth, so hip. Oh well, I guess you can’t have everything. At least we got a roof over our heads and food every day. Momma knows what she’s doin’.

  Rudolph Little, alias Rappin’ Rudy, fumbled with three of his books, dropped them on the sidewalk as he made his way down the steps from his third floor apartment, cursed, picked them up and rushed past Phyllisine to get the 7:15 downtown.

  “Hi, Rudy!” Phyllisine spoke coyly to him as he dashed past.

  “Oh, hey Phyll, what’s happenin’!” he replied, not really caring to know pre-law, the current government scandals involving so many lawyers, the American judicial setup, decisions of the Supreme Court from 1925 to 1965, and a dozen jurisprudential matters on his brain, in addition to the fact that he was running late again. He was at the corner before he fully realized that he had spoken to Phyllisine.

  Wowwww! I gotta slow down a lil’ taste! For Phyllisine? he probed himself as the bus approached, nawww, not for her, fine as she is, for myself She ain’t into nothin’, with two crumbcrushers and no ambition.

  Yeahhh, I better slow down for my own good.

  He mounted the bus steps with two jumps, dropped his coins into the fare box and dashed to the back of the bus, determined to read one more chapter before class.

  The bus moved along, lurching and jerking, making it harder for him to concentrate.

  Miss Rabbit sat across from Lena Daniels at her kitchen table, sipping strong, black coffee and listening to Lena, cocking her left eyebrow into an inverted V from time to time, as Lena rapped to her about a developing problem.

  “So, that’s why you see, I just can’t have no mo’ babies, not right in through here, anyway.”

  Miss Rabbit countered her bold, questioning plea for help with an oblique glance at the sampler above her kitchen stove. God Bless This Home.

  “God Bless This Home,” she read slowly, moving her full lips slightly. “So, now whatchu wont me t’ do, Lena?”

  Lena Daniels twisted her gold wedding band around twice, three times, five times, nervously. “I want you to help me out, Miss Rabbit … I know you can, I just don’t know what t’ do,” she added, a pathetic curl to her tone.

  “How you know I can help you?” Miss Rabbit asked sharply, her eyes narrowed in a threatening way. “Somebody tol’ you I could?”

  “Oohhh no, no, Miss Rabbit! ain’t nobody tol’ me nothin’ about what you can uhh could do, nobody!”

  “Well then, if that’s the case, what made you come t’ me with your problem?”

  Lena Daniels’ eyes darted from one corner of the room to another, settled down finally on the coffee cup in front of her as she spoke in a low monotone. “’Member a few years back, when Jim was messin’ off all his money ’n foolin’ ’round in the streets?”

  Miss Rabbit released a satisfied smile at the memory of her constructive interference. “Daggoned right I remember, got ’im squared away quite nicely, as I recollect.”

  “’Member how you blessed Jimbo ’n Suki-man? after they came down with whatever it was they had, and they got well had the doctor all confused and everything.”

  Miss Rabbit’s smile broadened, showing seven dark, empty spaces strategically arranged in her teeth. “Uhm huhn, ’course I remember all that,” she answered slyly.

  “Miss Rabbit, I just can’t have this baby!” Lena burst out, her eyes glassy with frustration and tears.

  Miss Rabbit leaned toward her, patted her arm maternally, reassuringly, sat back in her chair, lit a cigarette and smoked half of it before saying anything.

  “Lena,” she began heavily, “you know, doin’ somethin’ like you talkin’ about doin’ is damn serious.”

  Lena nodded solemnly in agreement. “I know it is, Miss Rabbit. I know it is, but we got six now, and you know how hard times is.”

  Miss Rabbit nodded in turn, stabbed her cigarette out and lit another one. She took four slow, deliberate drags. “Tell ya what, honey today is Monday, lemme thank ’n pray on it for a couple days.”

  A look of deep gratitude washed across Lena Daniels’ full face as she reached across the table impulsively, to grab Miss Rabbit’s hand.

  “Don’t be gettin’ all het up ’n everythang!” she spoke in a semi-stern voice, “I didn’t say I’d do anythang, I just said I’d pray on it.”

  Lena’s look of gratitude became a bit more guarded, but refused to fully slip away. “I understand, Miss Rabbit whatever you decide will be o.k. with me,” she said and uncoiled herself from the chair.

  Miss Rabbit took a full, professional look at her waistline. “’Bout three full months gone, huh?”
r />   “Just about to the day.”

  “Well,” Miss Rabbit rose with a sigh, “that ain’t too turrible bad.”

  She shuffled the few steps to the back door with Lena, her arm draped lovingly around the younger woman’s waist.

  “You know somethin’, Miss Rabbit,” Lena said to her as she was about to take her first step out of the door.

  “What’s that, honey?”

  “Sometimes sometimes I wish you had raised me.”

  Miss Rabbit’s stem-gentle features softened. “Gon’ girl! git outta here ’n mind them chillun o’ yourn!” She scolded her gruffly, ill at ease with Lena’s thought.

  Lena smiled, understanding.

  Miss Rabbit watched her make it down to the alley before closing the door.

  She shuffled back over to the kitchen stove, reheated the coffee, poured another cup, sat down at the table and began to cry. A quiet trail of tears spilled down alongside her nose, over her high cheeks, as she wrestled with the deep problem of taking the life from Lena Daniels, of destroying something that nobody but God had a right to destroy.

  “Ohhh my Lawwwd, please give me a signshe moaned, and lowered her head to the table to pray.

  Lubertha’s eyes wandered from face to face, smiling at one, nodding to another. There were times when she hated the Club’s meetings without Kwendi, the way the brothers and sisters looked at her as though she were some kind of martyred black ghost.

  She listened to Nici run up one list of financial figures and down another, explaining in detail exactly what expenditures had been made, what this and what that was all about.

  Charlie Tucker stood as soon as she had finished, to give out the latest on Kwendi’s case, what progress had been made and how. The job had formerly been Lubertha’s, but over the years it had become too rough for her to handle emotionally to stand at meetings and announce to the world that her man was in a deep bind, that she was in limbo and that it was likely to be that way for years.

  She caught Ojenkasi looking at her, a soft gleam in his eyes, and smiled pleasantly, neutrally, in his direction. He always seems to be looking at me these days, she reflected, gearing herself for the Political Awareness section of the meeting, her contribution.

  In nine other places in the city, at staggered times, this same kind of meeting was taking place … with certain allowances for personality differences, the meeting was the same. The police-oppressors called them cell meetings of subversives, conspirators, and tried to keep tabs on them whenever they could. The membership simply called itself the Club, and came to learn a few truths, gain some insight and awareness, hoping eventually to put it all together in such a fashion that they would effect some profound changes in their neighborhoods, the city, the state and perhaps the country.

  The Club had almost been killed off during the first three years of its existence, before it learned not to publicize its aims, to give the enemy guidelines but now it stood strong, vital and thriving. Kwendi’s spirit giving it life.

  Lubertha stood quickly at the conclusion of Charlie Tucker’s report, in tune with the policy they had established to prevent business from dragging on and on. “This evening, sisters and brothers, goin’ on with how some of the bullshit operates in this country I would like to cover briefly three specific areas that are very important to all of us. I haven’t really labeled each of the areas because they’re all interrelated politics, money and food.”

  She paused to study her notes for a couple seconds, pursing her lips thoughtfully, mindful of a few things that Kwendi had laid on her in a recent letter. “Give them as much hip information as they can stand, baby black folks have been given enough entertainment and rhetoric, what we all need is some correct information information, information and more information, something that will act as a true agent for change.”

  “First of all,” she continued, “on the political side, I don’t think I have to go into a whole bunch of examples to show how rotten the political structure of the country is at this point in time. Even the corrupt newspapers owned by the corrupt politicians find themselves being forced to tell the truth because everyone knows the truth nowadays, well, at least those who admit that they know the truth.

  “As you all remember, in our last meeting we discussed the reasons why the political structure started off stanky and got progressively rotten as time went on. That was back in the days of Georgie Wash-in-ton the uh ruhhh father of our country.”

  She paused to allow the laughter that her sarcastic tone of voice provoked to die down.

  “The span of time we have covered goes from then to now,” she held up a newspaper clipping of one of the president’s latest lies, “but the prerequisite, the conditions needed for wrongdoin’ in government have always existed, they’ve been encouraged, the founding ‘fathers’ made certain of that. The only changes that’ve been made over the years is that the corruption is more sophisticated, more ruthless, more corrupt now.

  “Two of the greatest reasons why corruption has always been a part of the American political scheme of things concerns, first of all, money, and secondly, money. We could reverse those two things and still wind up, probably, with the same hill o’ beans.”

  She checked Chico Daddy and Chiyo Mungu’s expressions out closely to determine whether or not her message was getting through. She knew, from experience, if they were understanding it all, then she was over.

  Chiyo’s puzzled frown told her that she’d have to go a little deeper, in a simpler way.

  “Let’s step back in time a lil’ bit, to when the contracts and deals were being made. One of the things that the dealer made certain of when he was passin’ out the contracts was that the dudes with the most bread got the biggest cut of whatever was being passed out … them that’s got shall get. Them that’s not shall lose, so Billie Holiday said in her song.

  “Despite all the rhetoric about this being a democracy ’n all, it didn’t start off that way and it hasn’t become one yet as a matter of fact, it’s lookin’ more and more like it’s not about to happen every day.”

  Chiyo’s frown eased slightly.

  “O.k., I started off about money, power and food. If you check the situation out closely, you’ll see the people who’ve always been in power, those few rich dudes who decide how much everything is goin’ to cost, the ones who have always had the means to manipulate prices … and since we all have to eat, the greatest manipulation has been with food prices.

  “Yeahhh, I know, we can talk about steel, lumber and a whole bunch of other things, but they wind up being spinoffs from the basic manipulations.”

  She paused again, to watch Ojenkasi walk over and shake Sherman from a light nap, or was he nodding? There were rumors going around about him.

  “Now then,” she continued, smiling briefly at Ojenkasi, “on the basis of what we’ve gone over before, we know that, early on in the game, the power structure of this country has practiced dollar imperialism, backed up by superior bullshit and a greater lack of scruples than almost any other country in modern times. Including England.

  “Those of us who’ve paid close attention to how and why this country has messed around in the internal affairs of other countries know that usually the reason was for the benefit of the rich and the rippin’ off of the poor. To use an example, a lot of people would like to believe that the American war fought against the Vietnamese people was to prevent the spread of communism from the north of Vietnam to the south. Meanwhile, the president of this country was over in Big Bad Red China, drinkin’ toasts with Mao because the money people here, fed up with that rhetoric about a jive Bamboo Curtain, had told him, look asshole! git your jiveass over there and set up some trade agreements with those people … eight-hundred million Chinese are dyin’ for a Coca Cola and a stick of Beechnut chewin’ gum.

  “And so he went, just like he was ’sposed to go, because Big Business sent him.

  “Meanwhile, back in the war, which was being fought for control of the dope tra
de in Cambodia, Laos and Vietnam.…”

  BoBo spoke out, a skeptical look on his serious, dark face, “For the dope trade, sister?!”

  “That’s right, brother for the dope trade. Doesn’t it stand to reason? Dig it practically every commercial enterprise in this country is fought over, or for, in one sense of the word or another. Now let’s face it, heroin is big, big business,” she paused briefly to stare pointedly at Sherman’s dreamy expression. “If any of us in this room had a kilo of heroin that we wanted to kill our people off with, all we’d have to do is get together with those who are tryin’ to do it anyway and make a sale.

  “Two to one, whoever bought it would probably cheat us in the deal and have us ripped off, to seal the deal. But that’s to be expected. All I’m really tryin’ to say, by way of example, is that dope dealin’ is probably the biggest and best business in the world you got a built-in consumer market, and the profits are fantastic. Why wouldn’t they fight a war over that? Call it America’s secret opium war if you want to.”

  She paused again, theatrically, to let her message sink in, feeling proud of the enlightened look she had put on BoBo’s face. “I think I’ve drawn enough parallels between money and power, that’s not too hard to put together. I’d like to wind up with the connection of food to all this.…”

  She felt tempted to say “Kwendi says,” but erased the thought, anxious not to mummify what he was saying to her in letters, besides, he’d told her many times about the dangers of the cult thing.

  “If you check out the price on items like bread ’n milk, for example, you’ll see that they’ve usually been jacked up unmercifully after one of this country’s wars the reason being, after the power elite have made all they can make on guns ’n bullets, and there’s not too much more to be made on other items, the one stable source for a ripoff is food, so they add three or four pennies more to items we have to have and continue makin’ up, keepin’ our cost of livin’ high so that they can cover their inflated standard of livin’.”