Button, Button: Uncanny Stories (17 page)

Like a black-snake brawl

I double-o'ed the heap

"That's really in there, man," I said

And couldn't help but smile a cutting smile

Right off he grabbed a platter, stuck it down

"Heebie-Jeebies; Armstrong

"First, I'll play the record by itself," he said

Any other time I'd bust my conk on Satchmo's scatting

But I had the crawling heavies in me

And I couldn't even loosen up a grin

While Daddy-O was tromping down the English tongue Rip-bip-dee-doo-dee-doot-doo!

The Satch recited in his Model T baritone Then white man threw a switch In one hot second all the crazy scat was nixed Instead, all pounding in my head

There came a sound like bottled blowtops scuffling up a jamboree

Like twenty tongue-tied hipsters in the next apartment

Having them a ball

Something frosted up my spine

I felt the shakes do get-off chorus in my gut

And even though I knew that Mister Pink was smiling at me

I couldn't look him back

My heart was set to knock a doorway through my chest Before he cut his jazz machine "You see?" he asked.

I couldn't talk. He had the up on me "Electrically, I've caught the secret heart of jazz "Oh, I could play you many records "That would illustrate the many moods "Which generate this complicated tongue "But I would like for you to play in my machine

"Record a minute's worth of solo "Then we'll play the record through the other speaker "And we'll hear exactly what you're feeling "Stripped of every sonic superficial. Right?"

I had to know

I couldn't leave that place no more than fly So, while white man set his record maker up,

I unsacked my trumpet, limbering up my lip

All the time the heebies rising in my craw

Like ice cubes piling

Then I blew it out again

The weight

The dragging misery

The bringdown blues that hung inside me

Like twenty irons on a string

And the string stuck to my guts with twenty hooks

That kept on slicing me away

I played for Rone, my brother

Rone who could have died a hundred different times and ways Rone who died, instead, down in the Murder Belt Where he was born

Rone who thought he didn't have to take that same old stuff

Rone who forgot and rumbled back as if he was a man

Rone who died without a single word

Underneath the boots of Mississippi peckerwoods

Who hated him for thinking he was human

And kicked his brains out for it

That's what I played for

I blew it hard and right

And when I finished and it all came rushing back on me Like screaming in a black-walled pit I felt a coat of evil on my back

With every scream a button that held the dark coat closer

Till I couldn't get the air

That's when I crashed my horn on his machine

That's when I knocked it on the floor

And craunched it down and kicked it to a thousand pieces

"You fool!" That's what he called me

"You damned black fool!"

All the time until I left I didn't know it then

I thought that I was kicking back for every kick

That took away my only brother

But now it's done and I can get off all the words

I should have given Mister Pink

Listen, white man; listen to me good

Buddy ghee, it wasn't you

I didn't have no hate for you

Even though it was your kind that put my brother

In his final place

I'll knock it to you why I broke your jazz machine

I broke it 'cause I had to

'Cause it did just what you said it did

And, if I let it stand,

It would have robbed us of the only thing we have

That's ours alone

The thing no boot can kick away

Or rope can choke

You cruel us and you kill us

But listen, white man,

These are only needles in our skin

But if I'd let you keep on working your machine

You'd know all our secrets

And you'd steal the last of us

And we'd blow away and never be again

You will because you have

But don't come scuffling for our souls.

Pa's nose fell off at breakfast. It fell right into Ma's coffee and displaced it. Prunella's wheeze blew out the gut lamp.

"Land o' goshen, Dad," Ma said, in the gloom, "if ya know'd it was ready t'plop, whyn't ya tap it off y'self?"

"Didn't know," said Pa.

"That's what ya said the last time, Paw," said Luke, choking on his bark bread. Uncle Rock snapped his fingers beside the lamp. Prunella's wheezing shot the flicker out.

"Shet off ya laughin', gal," scolded Ma. Prunella toppled off her rock in a flurry of stumps, spilling liverwort mush.

"Tarnation take it!" said Uncle Eyes.

"Well, combust the wick, combust the wick!" demanded Grampa, who was reading when the light went out. Prunella wheezed, thrashing on the dirt.

Uncle Rock got sparks again and lit the lamp.

"Where was I now?" said Grampa.

"Git back up here," Ma said. Prunella scrabbled back onto her rock, eye streaming tears of laughter. "Giddy chile," said Ma. She slung another scoop of mush on Prunella's board. "Go to," she said. She picked Pa's nose out of her corn coffee and pitched it at him.

"Ma, I'm fixin' t'ask 'er t'day," said Luke.

"Be ya, son?" said Ma. "Thet's nice." "Ain't no pu'pose to it!" Grampa said. "The dang force o' life is spent!"

"Now, Pa," said Pa, "don't fuss the young 'uns' mind-to."

"Says right hyeh!" said Grampa, tapping at the journal with his wrist. "We done let in the wave-len'ths of anti-life, that's what we done!"

"Manure," said Uncle Eyes. "Ain't we livin'?"

"I'm talkin' 'bout the coming gene-rations, ya dang fool!" Grampa said. He turned to Luke. "Ain't no pu'pose to it, boy!" he said. "You cain't have no young 'uns nohow!"

"Thet's what they tole Pa 'n' me too," soothed Ma, "an' we got two lovely chillun. Don't ya pay no mind t'Grampa, son."

"We's comin' apart!" said Grampa. "Our cells is unlockin'! Man says right hyeh! We's like jelly, breakin'-down jelly!"

"Not me," said Uncle Rock.

"When you fixin' t'ask 'er, son?" asked Ma.

"We done bollixed the pritecktive canopee!" said Grampa.

"Can o' what?" said Uncle Eyes.

"This mawnin'," said Luke.

"We done pregnayted the clouds!" said Grampa.

"She'll be mighty glad," said Ma. She rapped Prunella on the skull with a mallet. "Eat with ya mouth, chile," she said.

"We'll get us hitched up come May," said Luke.

"We done low-pressured the weather sistem!" Grampa said.

"We'll get ya corner ready," said Ma.

Uncle Rock, cheeks flaking, chewed mush.

"We done screwed up the dang master plan!" said Grampa.

"Shet yer own!" said Grampa.

"Let's have a little ear-blessin' harminy round hyeh," said Pa, scratching his nose. He spat once and downed a flying spider. Prunella won the race.

"Dang leg," said Luke, hobbling back to the table. He punched the thigh bone back into play. Prunella ate wheezingly.

"Leg aloosenin' agin, son?" asked Ma.

"She'll hold, I reckon," said Luke.

"Says right hyeh!" said Grampa, "we'uns clompin' round under a killin' umbrella. A umbrella o' death!"

"Bull," said Uncle Eyes. He lifted his middle arm and winked at Ma with the blue one. "Go 'long," said Ma, gumming off a chuckle. The east wall fell in.

"Thar she goes," observed Pa.

Prunella tumbled off her rock and rolled out, wheezing, through the opening. "High-speerited gal," said Ma, brushing cheek flakes off the table.

"What about my corner now?" asked Luke.

"Says right hyeh!" said Grampa, " 'lectric charges is afummadiddled! 'Tomic structure's unseamin'!!"

"We'll prop 'er up again," said Ma. "Don't ya fret none, Luke."

"Have us a wing-ding," said Uncle Eyes. "Jute beer 'n' all."

"Ain't no pu'pose to it!" said Grampa. "We done smithereened the whole kiboodle!"

"Now, Pa," said Ma, "ain't no pu'pose in apreachin' doom nuther. Ain't they been apreachin' it since I was a tyke? Ain't no reason in the wuld why Luke hyeh shouldn't hitch hisself up with Annie Lou. Ain't he got him two strong arms and four strong legs? Ain't no sense in settin' out the dance o' life."

"We'uns ain't got naught t'fear but fear its own self," observed Pa.

Uncle Rock nodded and raked a sulphur match across his jaw to light his punk.

"Ya gotta have faith," said Ma. "Ain't no sense in Godless gloomin' like them signtist fellers."

"Stick 'em in the army, I say," said Uncle Eyes. "Poke a Z-bomb down their britches an' send 'em jiggin' at the enemy!"

"Spray 'em with fire acids," said Pa.

"Stick 'em in a jug o' germ juice," said Uncle Eyes. "Whiff a fog o' vacuum viriss up their snoots. Give 'em hell Columbia."

"That'll teach 'em," Pa observed.

"We wawked t'gether through the yallar rain.

Our luv was stronger than the blisterin' pain

The sky was boggy and yer skin was new

My hearts was beatin'-Annie, I luv you."

Luke raced across the mounds, phantomlike in the purple light of his gutbucket. His voice swirled in the soup as he sang the poem he'd made up in the well one day. He turned left at Fallout Ridge, followed Missile Gouge to Shockwave Slope, posted to Radiation Cut and galloped all the way to Mushroom Valley. He wished there were horses. He had to stop three times to reinsert his leg.

Annie Lou's folks were hunkering down to dinner when Luke arrived. Uncle Slow was still eating breakfast.

"Howdy, Mister Mooncalf," said Luke to Annie Lou's pa.

"Howdy, Hoss," said Mr. Mooncalf.

"Pass," said Uncle Slow.

"Draw up sod," said Mr. Mooncalf. "Plenty chow fer all."

"Jest et," said Luke. "Whar's Annie Lou?"

"Out the well fetchin' whater," Mr. Mooncalf said, ladling bitter vetch with his flat hand. "The," said Uncle Slow.

"Reckon I'll help 'er lug the bucket then," said Luke.

"How's ya folks?" asked Mrs. Mooncalf, salting pulse-seeds.

"Jest fine," said Luke. "Top o' the heap."

"Mush," said Uncle Slow.

"Glad t'hear it, Hoss," said Mr. Mooncalf.

"Give 'em our crawlin' best," said Mrs. Mooncalf.

"Sure will," said Luke.

"Dammit," said Uncle Slow.

Luke surfaced through the air hole and cantered toward the well, kicking aside three littles and one big that squished irritably.

"How is yo folks?" asked the middle little.

"None o' yo dang business," said Luke.

Annie Lou was drawing up the water bucket and holding on the side of the well. She had an armful of loose bosk blossoms.

Luke said, "Howdy."

"Howdy, Hoss," she wheezed, flashing her tooth in a smile of love.

"What happened t'yer other ear?" asked Luke.

"Aw, Hoss," she giggled. Her April hair fell down the well. "Aw, pshaw," said Annie Lou.

"Tell ya," said Luke. "Somep'n on my cerebeelum. Got that wud from Grampa," he said, proudly. "Means I got me a mindful."

"That right?" said Annie Lou, pitching bosk blossoms in his face to hide her rising color. "Yep," said Luke, grinning shyly. He punched at his thigh bone. "Dang leg," he said. "Givin' ya trouble agin, Hoss?" asked Annie Lou.

"Don't matter none," said Luke. He picked a swimming spider from the bucket and plucked at its legs. "Sh'luvs me," he said, blushing. "Sh'luvs me not. Ow!" The spider flipped away, teeth clicking angrily.

Luke gazed at Annie Lou, looking from eye to eye.

"Well," he said, "will ya?"

"Oh, Hoss!" She embraced him at the shoulders and waist. "I thought you'd never ask!" "Ya will?"

"Sho!"

"Creeps!" cried Luke. "I'm the happiest Hoss wot ever lived!"

At which he kissed her hard on the lip and went off racing across the flats, curly mane streaming behind, yelling and whooping.

"Ya-hoo! I'm so happy! I'm so happy, happy, happy!"

His leg fell off. He left it behind, dancing.

1.    An unnatural craving for any of the citrus fruits whether in solid or liquid form.

2.    Partial or complete loss of geo graphical distinction. (i.e., A person in Kansas City might speak of driving down to San Diego for the weekend.)

3.    An unnatural desire to possess a motor vehicle.

4.    An unnatural appetite for motion pictures and motion picture previews. (Including a subsidiary symptom, not all-inclusive but nevertheless a distinct menace. This is the insatiable hunger of young girls to become movie stars.)

5.    A taste for weird apparel. (Including fur jackets, shorts, halters, slacks, sandals, blue jeans and bathing suits-all usually of excessive color.)