Midnight (17 page)

“You niggers is crazy! You niggers is crazy!” Fred's nightly litany, under the influence.

Bop felt good about himself, about his ability to ease past a fucked-up couple and onto his own scene. He found lots to do in the streets. Lobster in chili sauce at the Country Kitchen, this big old African hut that was open on four sides.

Wonder what they do when it rains?

Three-hour taxi drives to the Aburi Gardens. “Take me to Aburi.”

Four more days to go. He didn't really know how to feel about leaving. He had the feeling he could've done more, but what more? How much more? What?

He rented a room for a day at the Riviera Hotel to get away from the Vernons' shit. Fred was simply cranky when sober and Helene was petty. “Bop, did you eat the last half of the apple that I was saving?”

“Oh, sorry, Helene, I'll buy you another one.”

“Buying another one won't be the same.”

Well, what the fuck do you want me to do, asshole? This funk chump has ridden your ass so hard you can't hardly hold your head up and now you need somebody to dump on
.

I see what the problem is
. He kicked back on the bench in his semi-private hut, beachside, and sipped a cold Guinness.
Damn, what a drag. Here these people are in the midst of all this warmth and love and all they come up with is tension and stress
.

The dark-skinned African girls passing by wouldn't allow him to focus on the negatives too long. Sisters got some butter on them thighs.

He stared at the teenaged girl; she must be thirteen at least, playing splash games with several other younger girls. She didn't have a top to her bikini and her breasts stood up like twin beacons.

She was un-selfconscious, playful, beautiful. He seemed to be the only one paying attention to her. It was tricky to put together. Everybody else on the beach wore something on the top.
Why no bra for her?

Maybe she's a village girl. He had had the experience of being driven through some off-brand little hamlet where the women were working, pounding cassava, washing clothes, or whatever, naked to the waist. He rarely paid it any attention after seeing the sight a few times. It was Ghana. Women nursed their babies on the front porch, men pissed against walls, people ate with their hands.

But why is she the only one not wearing a top?
He surreptitiously studied the scene until the braless girl and her giggling friends left the waves. The girl draped a beach towel under her arms and made that full body sarong that fascinated him. But they don't wear no panties under there.

Elena. AIDS
. He ordered another Guinness.

America seemed so far away. They didn't have any of the shit here that they had in America. No multi-multiii restaurants. Nothin'.

Bop had never been one to stray too far from the pizza parlor, no matter what Chester had laid on him. “Gotta remember. Bop, pizza fucked Frank Sinatra and Marlon Brando up. It's rumored that it even did Orson Welles in.”

Frank Sinatra, Marlon Brando, Orson Welles, Chester Simmons' myth people.

No problem with pizzas here. The closest he had come to one was in one of the Lebanese (damn, the Lebanese must be the Koreans of Ghana) stores. It looked like one of their pita bread rounds with something in it.

He stared at his African-time watch. It was still keeping Los Angeles time.
I gotta write Aunt Lu and Uncle David
.

Three days to go.
Shit, they wouldn't get it till I was back home for days. Back home
.

He slumped over his beer. Back home. The Bricks, gang banging.
Wowwwwwww.… Is it true that the Bricks and the Keymen have a truce? Won't believe it 'til I see it
.

Uzis, dope, Justine, midnight sorties into enemy territory, the sudden flare of sparks, chainsaw reactions. He grimaced at the memory of being shot, of having his body beaten on by someone who wanted to kill him.

Babies being shot up.

Negative images bombarded his head for a few minutes. What it means to
not
be a Brick. A Brick—a Brick—a Brick … an Original Brick.

He felt up under his clothes to caress the scars. These jilly-time motherfuckers over here ain't got no idea what a Brick is.

It was time to close down. He recognized the familiar you-are-fucked-up period from his dope fiend salad days.

“Chester, what do you call someone who has a drug habit?”

“You call the funky chump a dope fiend, that's what you call him.”

“But, wait a minute! How about all the latest things that talk about addictive personalities 'n shit like that?”

“Lissen to me close, youngblood; I'm not going to xerox this. A funky chump who is into drugs is a dope fiend. You know what a dope fiend is? I was a dope fiend's dope fiend.”

“You?”

“Yes, lawdy Bloody Jesus, I was a dope fiend. I would do anything on Planet Earth for some heroin. You understand what I'm sayin'? I would steal my grandmomma's false teeth, pawn my daddy's railroad watch, lie to my momma, take my sister's rent money. Anything! I hate when they started using ‘addict' and put ‘fiend' aside. A funky chump who is into serious drugs is a fuckin' Dope Fiend. Fiend, as in
Fiend
!”

Yeahhh, Chester
,
I hear you
.

Bop rang up the screen on his dope fiend salad days. Mornings with a joint and paregoric, a little Ol' English 800 if he had some left over from the night before. A fractured skull. An ankle fractured by a baseball bat. Penal institutions (“facilities”) for close to twelve years. Being shot. Ex-drug addict (fiend) pusher.

It was time to stroll the beach.
Twenty-one years old, and I feel like I'm fifty-one. That's one of the things being a Brick will do for you, age you fast
.

Africa. Ghana.

He staggered a few steps, loaded on Guinness and heavy vibes. Where were the warriors, kings, queens, royalty that Chester had programmed him for. He curled his mouth down at the corners.

Just an ordinary run-of-the-mill bunch of black people fuckin' around on the beach. Well, maybe the girl who was runnin' around with no bra was a queen, or a princess, or whatever. But who else?

“Bop, lemme tell you something. Most of these funky chumps in this joint might be the descendants of warriors, kings, queens, royalty. Take a look at BoBo over there. You don't get faces like that unless your genetic bag has been pretty much left uncontaminated. And Waadee, check him out. Now tell me that brother ain't Samburo or Maasai and I'll kiss you on both cheeks in the iron yard.”

No, Chester, you got that one wrong. All the dudes you were talking about are them; they're taxi drivers, lawyers, doctors, hustlers, scrub men, students, con-men, video exploitationers, toilet entrepreneurs, serious members of the International School for Children. Now
.

He pulled out a palm-sized calculator and made a few swift calculations.

“OK …, there's no need for any suspicion of anything good happening. Let's be on the alert. Jones! Take the first watch.”

What is this crazy shit going through my head? What am I calculating?

He plopped down on a mound of sand with a drunk-silly smile on his face.
Wohhhh, I'm fugged up
.

8

He stared up at the ceiling. A spider was darting back and forth. Fred and Helene were growling at each other in the kitchen. What a fucked-up couple. He's mean and drunk and she's sneaky and greedy. “Bop, I noticed that you cracked a glass while we were gone. You'll have to pay for it.”

The spider started down toward him on a single strand. Bop stared, too lazy to do anything about the descending insect.

Damn, wish I had a joint. Or a cold beer. Wonder what time it is? Looks like it's about noon
. He parted the curtains and blinked as the sun blasted him in the eyes. Could be noon, could be nine o'clock. The sun seemed to pop up with the same intensity every day. It was hot.

Today is Wednesday, tomorrow is Thursday, through Friday and then I'm outta here
. He slowly, carefully sat up on the side of the bed.
Yeahhh, a cold brew, that would straighten me out
. He draped himself in a towel, took his toothbrush, and went to brush his teeth and shower. The yang-yang from the kitchen continued.

He dressed and eased out of the front door. There was no need to inform the arguing couple that he was going to stroll down to the local joint for a cold one.

The worst part of it might be Fred's insisting on joining him. They had tripped to the local joint once, and Bop made a secret vow that he would never do it again. The locals called Fred “Unca Fred” and swarmed around him. Bop couldn't figure it out. The drunker he got, the more abusive he got and the more they seemed to dig it. After awhile he began to pick up a subtle vibe.

He's kind of a fool to them. They like to hear him cuss and insult people. He's like a fool to them
. Bop felt vaguely embarrassed to be out with a gray-haired elder who acted like a fool.

He checked out the African brothers Fred's age. They came in, polished off a few tots, had a little lively conversation, and got back on the track. Fred acted like a fool. He insulted people—“You ain't shit!” He blustered, he threw tantrums, he provoked, got drunker.

“Uhhh, Fred, let's git on back to the pad.”

“You git on back to the pad; don't try to tell me what to do. You get me?! You don't try to tell me how to live my fuckin' life. OK?!”

The Shalizar was dim and cool; the lazy fan in the ceiling stirred a few flies around. A quartet of old friends sat at the bar, drinking gin and brandy, exchanging thoughts about the state of the state.

“Taen yowr tang?!

“Mi ya joba.”

“Ahhh, that's good, very good. Your Ga is coming.”

Bop perked up a bit. The owner of the Shalizar, an attractive, dark-brown-skinned woman with a slight beer belly had spoken to him in Ga—“How is it?”—and he had answered, “I'm fine,” without giving it any thought.

Damn, I bet if I stayed over here a while I could speak this shit
.

“Your beer cold?”

“Always cold.”

“Lemme have a Club.”

He sat at a corner table against the window, offering him a perfect picture of the outdoor tap in the vacant lot next to the bar.

The sight of the frosted beer bottle made him thirsty.

“Uhh, what's your name?”

“I am called Betty.”

“Thanks, Betty. I needed this. Uhhh, what time is it?”

She studied her watch for a few beats.

“It is 11:18.”

“Thanks.”

He resisted the urge to laugh. This wasn't the first time he had asked Ghanaians the time and watched them “study” their watches. Maybe they had to wait for the little hand to swing around or something. They studied their watches like something serious was happening, but everybody is always late.

He settled back after a long pull on his beer.
Yeahhh, that's that I needed
. The cool, cave-like atmosphere and low-keyed atmosphere lulled him into an introspective state.

Wonder what's happening in the 'hood with the Bricks?
The beer canceled out the gong in the front part of his head.
Damn, wish I had a joint. Oh well.…

He stared through the wood-slatted window at the little girl flushing water into a large bucket at the tap. How old was she, eight, ten maybe? She leaned against the brick wall next to the tap, casually scratching her crotch as the bucket filled.

Beautiful girl-woman. Ten years old and she's doing a woman's work already. A short, natural haircut, doe eyes, a slender body in a see-through cotton dress, no shoes.

He leaned forward involuntarily, vicariously helping her mount the bucket full of water on her head.
Damn. That must weigh fifty pounds. A whole bucket full of water
.

It wasn't the first time he had felt amazed to see someone put something on their heads that looked impossible for a human being to carry. His all-time favorite memory of head-carrying was the two middle-aged women crossing a busy street with flower pots filled with six-foot-tall plants.

I don't see how they can carry shit that heavy on their heads. And the babies on the back. What keeps them from sliding off? I'll have to ask Elena about that
.

Elena Boateng. He gulped a half glass of his beer.
I guess my dick will be half rotted off by the time I get back home
. He felt instantly depressed for a moment.
I had to come all the way over here to catch AIDS. Bet people will be thinking I'm gay or something when this stuff starts showing
.

Midway through his second bottle of beer his mood changed.
I can't believe I got AIDS, not from a chick like Elena; she's too clean to have AIDS, not the way she showers 'n shit all the time
.

The quartet of women gathered around the tap drew his attention. For the umpteenth time he asked himself:
Why do these sisters straighten their hair?

Three of the women had straightened hair and were in obvious need of “touch-ups.” Their hair, reddened at the ends by chemicals, stood out from their heads like spikes. The fourth woman had her hair done in a fashion he called “small snakes.”

The “small snakes” hair arrangement pleased him. It made the African woman look like an African woman. The women with the straightened hair (in this heat!) looked slightly crazy to him.

“Bop, remember this. When you get to Africa, I think you'll see cultural imperialism in its rawest form.”

“Chester, break it down.… I don't know what the fuck cultural im-perealism is.”

“It's when one funky chump decides to push another chump's stuff off to the side and say, ‘Look! This is the stuff you're supposed to admire and appreciate. OK? Not that stuff you've been attached to all your life.' The English have done it on a level in Africa that you wouldn't believe. Oh, yeah, they did it in India and some other places too.