The Kid (37 page)

“But you know what he means. Shit, Abdul was born here, and he’s walking around without documents?” Amy says, not backing down from Scott.

“OK, My Lai, you’re back on.”

I can’t stop eating her with my eyes, the long legs, short torso, dark red lips. I wonder how old she is; even Snake doesn’t know, and he’s got a file on everyone. What he does know is she has money, constant cash, and her own crib. That can only come from parents, drugs, or hoing. And she’s dancing 24/7, so she can’t be out selling nothing.

“Did everybody have time to read the text? Good, so you saw the roles. Listen up. Amy, you’re Lieutenant Calley and Sergeant Medina. Scott, you’re the Vietnam Memorial.”

“Say what?” Scott.

“I have this, I don’t know,
vision
of a human, breathing wall that speaks the name of every soldier that died. Maybe you’re assembling and taking apart your weapon, whatever the motion, you’d say the name on four, or maybe the eight count—”

“Or maybe something with a five count, then the spoken word would alternate: right-left. Mingus does that a lot.” Scott.

“I was thinking
Ascension
by Trane. Have you heard that?” My Lai.

“But it doesn’t have a rhythm
I
can count.” Scott.

“If you can’t come in on a beat you can hear, add a beat—come in on your own four or five or whatever.” Me.

“Everything we do in this piece should speak. Every choice is a sign, something that can be read just like they’re reading our bodies. Let me put some music on while you warm up.” My Lai.

Who is Mingus? One more thing to find out, I think, as I stretch out in second, grabbing both ankles and pulling myself down until my stomach almost touches the floor.

“You are stretched out, boy!” Amy whistles.

“Hey, I worked for this day and night, years.”

“Nobody said you didn’t; I was just looking. Can’t blame a girl for looking.”

What’s that spozed to mean? I raise up and stretch out in a split, yeah, I worked for this shit, I think, sinking down in my split, then rolling over on my back and pulling my left leg over my head while my right leg is stretched out on the floor.

“Who
is
that?” Snake asks.

“Lucky Dube, South African.”

Never heard of him, but he’s awesome.

My Lai reaches into a tote and pulls out a wooden spoon and a tin pie pan, which makes me laugh because I can’t imagine her eating a pie much less making one.

“One TWO sound OFF, three FOUR let’s kill some MORE! Charlie Company is mad frustrated, some of their boys have been hit, but they feel alike their hands are tied and they can’t retaliate. Last week they enter a minefield, guy lost both his eyes—powie WOW! Boom bang thank you ma’am—if your life don’t flash before your eyes, too fucking bad, ’cause nothing else in this life ever will. You’re blind!

“SINGLE FILE! Come on up, one behind the other, this is the Mekong Delta. It’s ninety-six degrees, eighty-five percent humidity. Here’s your friend Two-Step Sam, a snake, you had welfare spam in a green can this morning—K-rations. They call that snake in front of you slithering in the grass toward you Two-Step Sam because that’s how many steps you take after it bites you. Behind you is your platoon leader, who has a map he doesn’t know how to read, a pocket full of heroin and ’Nam weed. You must step forward, there is no place to go back to, you must put your foot down on the dangerous earth.”

I put my foot down on the wood floor, it feels like the hot jungle. I never really thought about walking before. Heel, ball, toes push forward activating calves and hamstrings? Or is it the reverse, the butt and calves activating—yeah, I think it’s the butt, the muscles in the back of my leg and the glutes that kick it off, raise the leg, then the heel connects.

BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM! She slams the tin.

“Shrapnel explodes in your face, blood drips.”

“OK, OK, everybody, come back, but don’t lose that feeling, it was all over your body, I could
see
it, the fear and the doubt, not knowing what’s next. Take a look at the ‘scripts,’ if you want to call them that, that I’m passing out. The wall, black G.I. Joe, Lieutenant Calley, and Sergeant Medina. Snake is going to be coming in and out as a musician and a dancer. He’s got a harmonica and a, like—”

“It’s a washboard.”

What’s he gonna do with a washboard?

“Don’t worry, the main thing is listen to me; the text, the music is your backdrop, you hear it, see it, but you move to what
I’m
saying, go with it, whatever comes up. Don’t focus on the cameras. Just move.”

I look at the “script”:

I think Scott has the physically hardest part to be moving for forty, fifty minutes or however long the piece is. So, like according to this script, I’m every nigger that ever went to Vietnam and Lieutenant Calley rolled into one?

“One TWO sound OFF, three FOUR let’s kill some MORE! ONE TWO SOUND OFF! THREE FOUR LET’S KILL SOME MORE!
Rape
that village!
Kill
that village!” My Lai yells.

She’s crazy.

“Hear the tape, but listen to me! Miles is gonna run it down, then that’ll fade into Hendrix’s ‘Voodoo Chile,’ then Buddy Miles, and Hendrix will come with ‘Machine Gun’ rat-a-tat-tat-tat, and then I don’t know yet.

“You’re new to the unit; you’re young, black, from Mississippi.

“Mississippi to Vietnam.

“It’s another century.

“It’s 1968.

“We start out early in the morning. You want to run, but you—”

—I step cautiously. Excited, scared, I’m going to kill. I have never killed anybody before (at least I don’t think I have).

“So for now just improvise. We’re going to tape it and see if we can get some stuff we can use to jump-start some choreography. For now I’m going to read some text. Abdul, do whatever you want to do. Scott and Amy are going to videotape you. Tomorrow you and Scott will shoot Amy.”

It’s just me now, improvising to the sound of My Lai’s text, which she ripped from everywhere. I don’t know if my movements match their intense words:
My Lai 4: A Report on the Massacre and Its Aftermath, Bloods,
and “Herbert Carter’s Letter.” I remember that man on a skateboard on the D train with a sign safety-pinned to his back, black guy, I used to see him when I was little with my mother, he’d be shaking this cup he’d pull out of his pocket. His hands in thick leather gloves propelling him along the subway train floor. The handwritten sign on his back: VIETNAM. Then he’d put the cup in his Levi vest pocket and he’d hurl himself off the skateboard with his big bare arms and his torso would hit the floor with a thud. He’d swing open the door between the cars, scoot his body out onto the steel floor between the subway cars, then open the door to the next car and swing his body that ended at his waist back up on his skateboard and be gone from sight when the door clanged shut behind him!

That’s as close as I can get to feeling this shit. I’m not feeling no sick niggers or Vietnamese people from thirty, fifty, whatever it was, years ago.

“You’re doing fine. Stop being a bitch, Abdul, and just go for it.”

Except for the thing with Amy, I haven’t been with anybody. I dream bizarre stuff, I’m fucking a dog with a big girl pussy—three times I had that dream, the last time I’m going in the dog pussy from behind and the dog turns its face toward me and it’s My Lai, I wake up and I’ve cum all over myself. It makes me sick, ashamed even. I’m so scared of women I rather fuck a dog? Jimi Hendrix and Buddy Miles “Machine Gun” rat-ta-tat-tat-tat the sound of a machine gun. I pummel my feet on the floor trying to imitate the sound of automatic gunfire. My Lai says something about bush and I think of Amy’s blond patch of hair, the juicy good smell. A well—Brother Samuel’s eyes, I always thought they were a well. Dark blue danger, well. What about it? Oh, I come to a well. He was a farmer. I don’t think I’ve ever even seen a well.
In places where ordinary table water doesn’t reach the surface, the ground water is reached by digging wells into the ground.
Earth science! How long ago was that! Into the ground! In-to-the-GROUND! I pummel my feet harder, on Brother John’s face, on his fucking earth science.

Rat-ta-tat-tat-TAT! BAM! BAM!

I tune her out, all this G.I. Joe–in–the–jungle shit is boring, My Lai, do you hear me; My Lai, honey, I’m bored. I want her naked on my bed, her black bush and buff nipples, taut body slick with sweat under me, umph! I thrust into her, she digs her purple-painted fingernails in my shoulders, umph!

My Lai shouts, listing more atrocities. “Good, Abdul!

“Let’s stay with what you started—”

I started something?

“The call-and-response thing, you were getting in deep there for a minute. I would say something and you would directly respond with your body—great!”

OK, whatever!

“‘Grzesik questioned the man, quickly found that he had an identification card.
‘I told Lieutenant Calley I didn’t think he was a VC.’ ”

Why are we doing this? Does she think this is getting back at her parents? My Lai! Huh! Last week I was thinking about kids, a family even if it was a thousand years away, now I don’t want to have kids. This is a fucked-up world, always was, always will be, FUCKED UP!

A tisket a tasket a green and yellow basket I
lost
it I
lost
it. I start to skip. Nip that skipping shit in the bud, Rhonda said. Why? she said. You know. No, I don’t know, she said.

Mary Mack Mack Mack All dressed in Black Black Black

I remember his brother asked about the rings. The body was never found, only that finger at McDonald’s. With no rings. Children? Like you was a child once?

“Calley told him to
‘get moving.’
But before Calley could fire, Herbert Carter moved forward. Carter hit the old man into a well, but the old man spread his arms and legs and held on and didn’t fall.”

Well? I freeze. Snake starts to blow harmonica, blues. Amy is beating on her thighs like quiet drums. Snake croons.

I start to thrash about the studio. I hear My Lai shout, “Get what he’s doing now from both angles!”

Yemaja is the Orisha of the ocean. Imena said when an African woman wants a baby, she puts a bowl of water by her bed. Tell that to Herbert Carter, Imena! Is there an Orisha in the well?

“What he’s doing now! Shoot him from the front and side, make sure all this is on the video!”

Under the ground, permeable beds of rock layered between impermeable beds of rock can form a pocket, a “sandwich.” When rain enters the permeable bed, it’s trapped.
Trapped rain! I remember the weirdest shit.

“Dance Abdul dance!” Scott shouts.

“Yes!”

Did you get up at all during the night? Do you usually get up to go to the bathroom?

Mary Mack Mack Mack All dressed in black black black.

My Lai waves for me to slow down. I start moving like I’m in water. She reads:

I stop moving. Sweat’s rolling off of me, I’m looking at Amy, My Lai, Snake, and Scott. Scott starts it, stamping his feet and clapping. My Lai is smiling, nodding her head, then she starts clapping and runs over to the windows, pulling up the shades. Light streams in the loft. Amy and Snake are whooping and stamping their feet as they clap. Crazy, man, crazy! Far out, far fucking out! Traffic sounds. Birds dart through the sky in front of the window.