The Box: Uncanny Stories (18 page)

“Uh-oh,” he muttered, flopping into another chair. “You must excuse me, sir.”

“Nothing,” I said.

“May I beg your indulgence, sir?” he inquired.

I started to speak but he set out begging it immediately.

“Listen,” he said, waving a fat finger. “Listen, I’m telling you a story that’s impossible.”

He bent forward in the dark and stared at me as best he could through martini-clouded eyes. Then he fell back on the chair, breathing steam whistles. He belched once.

“Listen now,” he said. “Make no mistake. There are stranger things in heaven and earth and so on. You think I’m drunk. You’re absolutely right. But why? You could never tell.

“My brother,” he said, despairingly, “is no longer a man.”

“End of story,” I suggested.

“It all began a couple of months ago. He’s publicity head for the Jenkins ad agency. Topnotch man.

“That is,” he sobbed, “I mean to say . . . he
was
.”

He mused quietly, “Topnotch man.”

Out of his breast pocket he dragged a handkerchief and blew a trumpet call which made me writhe.

“They used to come to him,” he recalled, “all of them. There he’d sit in his office with his hat on his head, his shiny shoes on the desk. Charlie! they’d scream, give us an idea. He’d turn his hat once
around (called it his thinking cap) and say, Boys! Cut it
this
way. And out of his lips would pour the damnedest ideas you ever heard. What a man!”

At this point he goggled at the moon and blew his nose again.

“So?”

“What a man,” he repeated. “Best in the business. Give him his hat—that was a gag, of course. We thought.”

I sighed.

“He was a funny guy,” said my narrator. “A funny guy.”

“Ha,” I said.

“He was a fashion plate. That’s what he was. Suits had to be just right. Hats just right. Shoes, socks, everything custom made.

“Why, I remember once Charlie and his wife Miranda, the missus and me—we all drove out to the country. It was hot. I took off my suitcoat.

“But would he? No sir! Man isn’t a man without his coat, says he.

“We went to this nice place with a stream and a grassy plot for sitting. It was awful hot. Miranda and my wife took off their shoes and waded in the water. I even joined them. But him! Ha!”

“Ha!”

“Not him,” he said. “There I was, no shoes and socks, pants and shirt sleeves rolled up, wading like a kid. And up there, watching amused, was Charlie, still dressed to kill. We called him. Come on Charlie, off with the shoes!

“Oh, no. A man isn’t a man without his shoes, he said. I couldn’t even walk without them. This burned Miranda up. Half the time, she says, I don’t know whether I’m married to a man or a wardrobe.

“That’s the way he was,” he sighed, “that’s the way.”

“End of story,” I said.

“No,” he said, his voice tingling; with horror I suppose.

“Now comes the terrible part,” he said. “You know what I said about his clothes. Terrible fussy. Even his underwear had to be fitted.”

“Mmm,” I said.

“One day,” he went on, his voice sinking to an awed murmur, “someone at the office took his hat for a gag.

“Charlie seemed to pretend he couldn’t think. Hardly said a word. Just fumbled. Kept saying, hat, hat and staring out the window. I took him home.

“Miranda and I put him on the bed and while I
was talking to her in the living room, we heard an awful thump. We ran into the bedroom.

“Charlie was crumpled up on the floor. We helped him up. His legs buckled under. What’s wrong, we asked him. Shoes, shoes, he said. We sat him on the bed. He picked up his shoes. They fell out of his hands.

“Gloves, gloves, he said. We stared at him. Gloves! he shrieked. Miranda was scared. She got him a pair and dropped them on his lap. He drew them on slowly and painfully. Then he bent over and put his shoes on.

“He got up and walked around the room as if he were testing his feet.

“Hat, he said and went to the closet. He stuck a hat on his head. And then—would you believe it?—he said, What the hell’s the idea of taking me home? I’ve got work to do and I’ve got to fire the bastard who stole my hat. Back to the office he goes.

“You believe that?” he asked.

“Why not?” I answered, wearily.

“Well,” he said, “I guess you can figure the rest. Miranda tells me that day before I left: Is
that
why the bum is so quiet in bed? I have to stick a hat on him every night?

“I was embarrassed.”

He paused and sighed.

“Things got bad after that,” he went on. “Without a hat Charlie couldn’t think. Without shoes he couldn’t walk. Without gloves he couldn’t move his fingers. Even in summer he wore gloves. Doctors gave up. A psychiatrist went on a vacation after Charlie visited him.”

“Finish it up,” I said. “I have to leave soon.”

“There isn’t much more,” he said. “Things got worse and worse. Charlie had to hire a man to dress him. Miranda got sick of him and moved into the guest room. My brother was losing everything.

“Then came
that
morning . . .”

He shuddered.

“I went to see how he was. The door to his apartment was wide open. I went in fast. The place was like a tomb.

“I called for Charlie’s valet. Not a sound. I went in the bedroom.

“There was Charlie lying on his bed still as a corpse, mumbling to himself. Without a word, I got a hat and stuck it on his head. Where’s your man? I asked. Where’s Miranda?

“He stared at me with trembling lips. Charlie, what is it? I asked.

“My suit, he said.

“What suit? I asked him. What are you talking about?

“My suit, he whimpered,
it went to work this morning
.

“I figured he was out of his mind.

“My gray pinstripe, he said hysterically. The one I wore yesterday. My valet screamed and I woke up. He was looking at the closet. I looked. My God!

“Right in front of the mirror, my underwear was assembling itself. One of my white shirts fluttered over the undershirt, the pants pulled up into a figure, a coat was thrown over the shirt, a tie was knotted. Socks and shoes went under the trousers. The coat arm reached up, took a hat off the closet shelf and stuck it in the air where the head would be if it had a head. Then the hat doffed itself once.

“Cut it
this
way, Charlie, a voice said and laughed like hell. The suit walked off. My valet ran off. Miranda’s out.

“Charlie finished his story and I took his hat off so he could faint. I phoned for an ambulance.”

The man shifted in his chair.

“That was last week,” he said. “I’ve still got the shakes.”

“That’s it?” I asked.

“About it,” he said. “They tell me Charlie is getting
weaker. Still in the hospital. Sits there on his bed with his gray hat sagging over his ears mumbling to himself. Can’t talk, even with his hat on.”

He mopped some perspiration off his face.

“That’s not the worst part,” he said, sobbing. “They tell me that Miranda is . . .”

He gulped.

“Is going steady with the suit. Telling all her friends the damn thing has more sex appeal than Charlie ever had.”

“No,” I said.

“Yes,” he said. “She’s in there now. Came in a little while ago.”

He sank back in silent meditation.

I got up and stretched. We exchanged a glance and he fainted dead away.

I paid no attention. I went in and got Miranda and we left.

I had
the weight that night

I mean I had the blues and no one hides the blues away

You got to wash them out

Or you end up riding a slow drag to nowhere

You got to let them fly

I mean you got to

 

I play trumpet in this barrel house off Main Street

Never mind the name of it

It’s like scumpteen other cellar drink dens

Where the downtown ofays bring their loot and jive talk

And listen to us try to blow out notes

As free and pure as we can never be

Like I told you, I was gully low that night

Brassing at the great White way

Lipping back a sass in jazz that Rone got off in words

And died for

Hitting at the jug and loaded

Spiking gin and rage with shaking miseries

I had no food in me and wanted none

I broke myself to pieces in a hungry night

 

This white I’m getting off on showed at ten

Collared him a table near the stand

And sat there nursing at a glass of wine

Just casing us

All the way into the late watch he was there

He never budged or spoke a word

But I could see that he was picking up

On what was going down

He got into my mouth, man

He bothered me

 

At four I crawled down off the stand

And that was when this ofay stood and put his grabber on my arm

“May I speak to you?” he asked

The way I felt I took no shine

To pink hands wrinkling up my gabardine

“Broom off, stud,” I let him know

“Please,” he said, “I have to speak to you.”

 

Call me blowtop, call me Uncle Tom

Man, you’re not far wrong

Maybe my brain was nowhere

But I sat down with Mister Pink

and told him—lay his racket

“You’ve lost someone,” he said.

 

It hit me like a belly chord

“What do you know about it, white man?”

I felt that hating pick up tempo in my guts again

“I don’t know anything about it,” he replied

“I only know you’ve lost someone

“
You’ve told it to me with your horn a hundred times
.”

I felt evil crawling in my belly

“Let’s get this straight,” I said

“Don’t hype me, man; don’t give me stuff ”

“Listen to me then,” he said

 

“Jazz isn’t only music

“It’s a language too

“A language born of protest

“Torn in bloody ragtime from the womb of anger and despair

“A secret tongue with which the legions of abused

“Cry out their misery and their troubled hates.

“This language has a million dialects and accents

“It may be a tone of bittersweetness whispered in a brass-lined throat

“Or rush of frenzy screaming out of reed mouths

“Or hammering at strings in vibrant piano hearts

“Or pulsing, savage, under taut-drawn hides

 

“In dark-peaked stridencies it can reveal the aching core of sorrow

“Or cry out the new millennium

“Its voices are without number

“Its forms beyond statistic

“It is, in very fact,
an endless tonal revolution

“The pleading furies of the damned

“Against the cruelty of their damnation

“I know this language, friend,” he said.

 

“What about my—?” I began and cut off quick

“Your—what, friend?” he inquired

“Someone near to you; I know that much

“Not a woman though; your trumpet wasn’t grieving for a woman loss

“Someone in your family; your father maybe

“Or your brother.”

 

I gave him words that tiger-prowled behind my teeth

“You’re hanging over trouble, man

“Don’t break the thread

“Give it to me straight.”

So Mister Pink leaned in and laid it down

“I have a sound machine,” he said

“Which can convert the forms of jazz

“Into the sympathies which made them

“If, into my machine, I play a sorrowing blues

“From out the speaker comes the human sentiment

“Which felt those blues

“And fashioned them into the secret tongue of jazz.”

 

He dug the same old question stashed behind my eyes

“How do I know you’ve lost someone?” he asked

“I’ve heard so many blues and stomps and strutting jazzes

“Changed, in my machine, to sounds of anger, hopelessness and joy

“That I can understand the language now

“The story that you told was not a new one

“Did you think you were inviolate behind your tapestry of woven brass?”

 

“Don’t hype me, man,” I said

I let my fingers rigor mortis on his arm

He didn’t ruffle up a hair

“If you don’t believe me, come and see,” he said

“Listen to my machine

“Play your trumpet into it

“You’ll see that everything I’ve said is true.”

I felt shivers like a walking bass inside my skin

“Well, will you come?” he asked.

 

Rain was pressing drum rolls on the roof

As Mister Pink turned tires onto Main Street

I sat dummied in his coupe

My sacked-up trumpet on my lap

Listening while he rolled off words

Like Stacy runnings on a tinkle box

 

“Consider your top artists in the genre

“Armstrong, Bechet, Waller, Hines

“Goodman, Mezzrow, Spanier, dozens more both male and female

“Jews and Negroes all and why?

“Why are the greatest jazz interpreters

“Those who live beneath the constant gravity of prejudice?

“I think because the scaldings of external bias

“Focus all their vehemence and suffering

“To a hot, explosive core

“And, from this nucleus of restriction

“Comes all manner of fissions, violent and slow

“Breaking loose in brief expression

“Of the tortures underneath

“Crying for deliverance in the unbreakable code of jazz.”

He smiled. “
Unbreakable till now
,” he said.

“Rip bop doesn’t do it

“Jump and mop-mop only cloud the issue

“They’re like jellied coatings over true response

“Only the authentic jazz can break the pinions of repression

“Liberate the heart-deep mournings

“Unbind the passions, give freedom to the longing essence

“You understand?” he asked.

“I understand,” I said, knowing why I came.

 

Inside the room, he flipped the light on, shut the door

Walked across the room and slid away a cloth that covered his machine

“Come here,” he said

I suspicioned him of hyping me but good

His jazz machine was just a jungleful of scraggy tubes and wheels

And scumpteen wires boogity-boogity

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

I stood there feeling nowhere

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

Take everything you want, man

You will because you have

But don’t come scuffling for our souls.