The Duppy (18 page)
They invented weapons, fought wars, slaughtered nations, committed atrocities, and it became an endless and backbreaking labor to fly around and smite unrighteousness, stem rumormongering, curb predial larceny and blasphemy, rein in backbiting, and quell sinfulness.
Random travelled among them, maiming and killing the blessed and the gentle as well as the rough-shod and the wicked, and a mighty wailing of voices swelled out from my earth, crying that there was no justice, no order, that Baps was gunman, brute, pettifogger, and wretch. False prophets wandered my earth proclaiming themselves the one and only true Baps, and people gathered around them and kissed their batty instead of mine, and I was so sorely vexed at this that after attending a revival meeting and blasting two evangelists before the congregation who screamed at me and called me “dirty Bigfoot,” I withdrew to the backwoods and brooded among sinless rockstones.
And I was sitting brooding in a clearing when I met a righteous shepherd, a mild young man who spaketh good English and showeth nice manners and wore freshly pressed clothing, and he bowed down and hailed me as Baps, and he gave me no back talk, no indiscipline, no argument, and I was so pleased with his behavior that I smote him with a thunderbolt and sent him straight to heaven.
But as I sat alone among the unthinking rockstone with charcoal smoldering at my feet that had once been a wellmannered shepherd, I was so mystified by what I had done that I bawled unto God for explanation and He appeared unto me.
“God,” I said, “I am a wretch and a beast!”
What did you do now?
“I just blasted a decent young man of good upbringing and manners and sent him to heaven. See where de spot o’ ground singe? Dat was him.”
God said, Yea, Baps, I saw him entering heaven, singing your praise.
“But God!” I protested. “A few minutes earlier I smote a thiefing evangelist in a revival tent.”
Yea, Baps, and he, too, has reached heaven. But he praises you not.
“You don’t understand, God,” I groused, “I licked one down ’cause him bad and I lick anodder one down ’cause him good. And two of dem gone to cock up dem foot in de same heaven.”
Yea, Baps.
“And I just see a serious problem wid Your world now. And it is dis: How You expect people to get better?”
God said, They must get better on their own, Baps.
“Hah! Without fire and brimstone?”
Yea, Baps. And better that springs from the heart is always better than better that comes from fear of fire.
I studied the face of God for a hundred years before I replied, “God, You more subtle than a Chinyman,” and as I impulsively
When I returned to heaven, I suffered hardship and abuse over my experiment as a Creator. What God had done—I don’t know how, as I said, and I never asked Him—was borrow some souls from heaven to use in my creation experiment. But ole negar does not like to be used as guinea pig even if the result is advancement in understanding of otherworldly philosophy, and whenever I bucked up any of my former subjects on the streets of heaven, they would cuss me out royally.
Some cussed me for making them bow down when I was their God. Several ranted and raved at me for making them kiss my batty in worship. Others complained that I had been a shoddy and good-for-nothing God, no better than a ragamuffinidol. One woman alleged that my slipshod reign as God only proved that negar man should never mount the heavenly throne, while another screamed in my ears that mine was the nastiest-tasting batty she had ever had to kiss, and she well knew ’bout batty-kissing for on earth she had been a politician.
A few licked me down or chopped me up in the street, and the most vicious among them simply growled at me as I walked past, “I won’t give you de pleasure of a blow.”
The woman whose attacker I had blasted with a thunderbolt, getting a severe batty bite for all my trouble, paid me back by giving me fifty-five grind one night to show that I had been a worthless and good-for-nothing God. She left telling me that she would come back next day and grind me until my eyeball fell out.
But she never came back—out of pure spite.
My attempt at creation was the last big adventure me and God shared.
True, we went on a few small jaunts to Japan and Korea, and one time we travelled to France to see the opening of the Parisian PlayHell that offered the public affordable family broiling in hellfire. We strolled the catwalks lining the various chambers of this hell and chuckled as we watched French children plunge into the fiery pits, splashing joyfully and shrieking, “Papa! Mama! Ooh la la!” Parisians patiently waited hours in line for the chance to spend a restful Sunday afternoon skylarking among fire and brimstone.
“What a place, eh, God?” I marvelled as we leaned over the railing of the catwalk and ogled the revellers.
Look at that child! God laughed, pointing to one spunky boy who was doing a swan dive into a lake of molten fire from a rocky ledge. He plunged into the brimstone and romped to the surface squealing, “Oh, Papa! I want to stay here for eternity!”
When the complex was first opened, the U.S. government immediately issued visa restrictions barring its citizens from travel to France. There was hotheaded talk about a Cubanstyle boycott like the Americans had had down on earth against Fidel Castro. Congress angrily threatened bombardment over what it viewed as France’s mockery of America’s most cherished national ideal.
The French government issued a curt diplomatic statement to the effect that history had shown the Americans to be undependable when it came to promised attacks, that France would observe no festivities in anticipation of any American bombardment, and if one were received, France would gratefully enjoy it but not reciprocate.
Then the row died down.
One morning I got up early, crawled through the culvert, and impulsively paid a visit to earthly Jamaica. I wanted to see what had happened to my holdings since my death, for I had had no children or wife to inherit my worldly goods and had left no will.
I had been meaning to make the journey for some time, but my friendship with God and the wonderful lifestyle of heaven had always stopped me. But this morning I just got it into my head to check out Jamaica in a day trip.
The village was awash in morning mists when I stepped into the streets of heaven, and it was so lovely and peaceful walking down the glistening road that even though I am not an emotional man, I almost felt to cry with joy.
In the shimmering morning fog, the only person waiting on the sloping grassland onto which the culvert emptied was the battleaxe who had licked me down with a rockstone on my arrival.
I told her “good morning” and asked if her husband had come yet or if she was still waiting. She grumbled that he had-been sick and should arrive any minute now, but she suspected that the dirty dog was putting up a fight on his deathbed because of bad conscience.
“When him reach, him know I goin’ lick him down,” she blared cantankerously, stirring the pile of rockstones at her feet with her shoe and keeping her eye fastened to the mouth of the culvert.
We heard the sound of breeze blowing in the pipe, and the woman quickly grabbed a rockstone and perched herself in a position of ambush.
I saw a soul solidifying out of the culvert, and as soon as he had gelled out of duppy fog and into his solid body shape, she roared, “You stinking brute! You finally reach!” and flung the rockstone point-blank at his head, knocking him viciously onto the grass.
The man fluttered on the ground for a second or two with ecstasy and blinked up groggily at his attacker.
“Daisy? Is you dat? How come you lick so sweet?” he babbled, rubbing his head with joy. “You lick never so sweet on earth.”
“You brute, you!” she screamed, hoisting another rockstone.
“You grind de widow next door before me even turn cold!”
“Is true,” he chuckled, turning his temple to absorb the second blow. “I definitely need a beating!”
She glared at him for a minute before tossing the rockstone aside and grimly barking, “No!”
“Lawd, Daisy!” he blurted. “Is not only de widow I grind, you know! On de evening of you nine-night service, I grind Miss Jessie daughter in de canepiece, too.”
“No! No matter what you say, I not licking you again!”
As they were arguing about it, Hopeton curdled onto the slopes of the hillside.
“Miss Daisy!” he grinned, getting up and dusting off. “You husband finally reach!”
“Hopeton,” the man begged, standing up wobbly, “tell her what I was doing when I dead.”
“Him was trying to feel up de batty of de hospital matron, Miss Daisy. De excitement kill him.”
“You dog! No matter what him or you say, I not licking you again. You want a lick, you shoulda live a good life.”
“Lawd, Daisy! No go on so! Bust me head, nuh, man!”
Still quarrelling, they followed Hopeton down the slopes of the hillside, the man trying to taunt his wife into another attack, while she obstinately refused, scolding, “Next time, wait till me body cold before you go grind every nasty woman in de parish.”
And in the harmonious ending to this dispute, which on earth would have led to murder, court trial, and the gallows, I beheld the wisdom of the Lord.
What I saw that day in Jamaica aggravated me no end.
My house had been captured by Mabel, my conniving maid, and turned into a tenement for her relatives from the country. Clothes were hanging everywhere over the front yard. Dirty dishes were piled up in the sink. Stinking shoes and socks littered my drawing room. In broad daylight, Mabel was catching a morning grind on my own bed with one of the policemen who had investigated my death, the two of them sweating up my good cotton sheets.
I flew to the countryside and found that Mabel and her relatives had likewise captured my businesses. Chaos and indiscipline ruled over my three shops. Goods were misfiled and scattered across the shelves. Rude-boy youths slouched in the premises, and a general atmosphere of disorderliness and rowdyism ran rampant.
It burned me to see all my life’s work and hard-earned goods so squandered and abused. Indeed, I was so vexed that even though I flew past a cottage in the country and spotted a church sister lying naked in bed and heard her muttering hopefully that duppy better not come ride her during her afternoon nap, I just glided on to the culvert.
That evening on our walk, God asked me why I was so quiet and I told Him.
“You know how hard I work to keep me shops in good operating order, God,” I griped. “You should see what ole negar do to dem.”
God asked me what they did.
“God, dey have bully beef shelve beside sardine and salmon! What kind of foolishness is dat?”
God said He had no idea.
“You always shelve beef wid beef, God,” I explained, trying not to sound grumpy for I knew that He was inexperienced in shopkeeping. “Bully beef belong beside Vienna sausage and Spam. Not beside sardine! Dat’s out of order!”
God said, Oh.
“Sardine belong with herring. And herring belong with salmon. Fish wid fish and beef wid beef. And fish and beef don’t sit side by side on de same shelf!”
We walked on some more, when God suddenly asked me if I would like to return to Jamaica.
“How?”
It will be as if you never died.
“But would I remember what happened?”
If you want to.
I stopped dead in my tracks. We had come to the clearing where I had tied up the philosopher a long time ago, and I looked hard and deep at God.
“You would do dis for me, God?”
Yes, Baps. You are my best friend.
My head was spinning and my heart was jumping at the prospect, but then I remembered that I would be leaving God behind and I didn’t feel good about it, but God told me not to fret for I would be back in a blink, and that me and Him would always be best friend.
I thought for a moment, standing in the clearing that evening as the sunset of heaven splashed a pot of paint across the sky, and I said, “Yes, God. Bully beef don’t belong beside sardine on a shelf. I want to go back.”
God and me travelled the next morning to Jamaica, where He couldn’t linger long because the world is a dread chamber of pain for Him.
He hurried me to my house and took me back in time to the moment when I had died that Saturday morning. He had spent the night before nyaming out a few constellations, so He was well bright and powerful.
We hugged up in my drawing room as we hovered over my body, God wincing from the worldwide chopping, shooting, thumping, burning, thiefing, drowning, murdering, shoplifting, slandering, embezzling, raping—all the hourly woe, anguish, and tragedy on the face of this dirty earth—but trying His best not to show His pain. He told me to lie on the floor beside my dead body.
“God,” I said, as I lay down on the floor, “do You mind if I write a book about me days in heaven?”
God said, No, He didn’t mind one bit.
“Any deep message You want me to put in?”
God said, Yes. We should stop all the fool-fool preaching against tom-tom-.-.-.
“Is ‘pum-pum,’ not ‘tom-tom.’”
Whatever. Stop all the fretting about it and be kind and loving to one another.
“How You can call ‘pum-pum’ ‘tom-tom’? What’s de matter wid You, eh, God?”
I have to go, Baps.
“I need a deeper message den dat.”
That’s my message, Baps.
“I need something wid biblical word in it, man!” I grumbled. “Say something with ‘shalt’ or ‘thou’ or something deep.”
But God said He had never been deep. It was mankind who was deep.
And wincing from the million wounds and cruelties being inflicted every second all over this nasty globe, His light gave me a gentle kiss on the cheek, and God Almighty disappeared.
The next thing I remember was the sound of Mabel bawling out my name, “Mr. Baps! Mr. Baps!” and this time when she peeped cautiously into the drawing room and was about to shriek that I was dead, I jumped up from the floor like I had fallen and calmly dusted myself off.
“Wha’ happen, Missah Baps?” she stammered, peering suspiciously at me in the dim morning light.