blue theater lighting. ‘When the revolution comes … ’ Omar thought of The Temptations. He imagined them standing on the stage in their chic suits, dancing to the monotone rhythm of this mesmerizing poem. The older poet walked upstage. ‘Tell me brother,’ he said, with a husky voice, ‘Tell me brother when you first saw yo’ child dead son born of a pussy long dead long black yo’ son stumblin’ in blind rage out past the box … swollen lips … ’
The words kept coming out of the black poet’s mouth, faster and louder as he gesticulated wildly—faster, louder, angrier. ‘Tell me brother … ’ Sweat poured off his forehead. The Latino sang a gentle melody in the background. He had a high, attractive voice. The older poet was like a preacher in church. The poem resembled a sermon. He whipped up his audience with his lofty, solemn voice. ‘Tell me brother … how did you feel when you came out of the wilderness … screamin’ baby … baby!’
The words melted into the poet’s jagged, gravelly voice. This kind of music was a first for Omar. He felt the bass notes reverberate through his body. His thoughts wandered back to the last day of school at South High, to the poem he had read aloud to the teachers, the applause and laughter from the students, cheering him on, urging him to continue, clearer and faster, how he glowed with exhilaration and triumph. The taut smile on Giovanni’s face. He thought of his father, who practiced the trumpet down in their basement, just in case someone invited him to play. No one ever did. Sonny Huling was crazy. Through the melodious violence of the words and rhythms that spattered from the stage he could hear the dreamy, soft tones of his father’s trumpet. ‘How come you don’t play? How come you don’t play?’ Right in front of him, a girl got up from her seat. She clapped her hands and swung her hips. Her small, round breasts swayed gently along. ‘Baby … baby!’ the poet screamed. Omar looked at the girl in the white blouse with the fancy stitching. Her bare, chocolate-colored shoulders. She didn’t notice him watching her. He heard the music and the words via her body, saw the sounds in the fluid movements of her hips and hands, her radiant young face. Omar wasn’t feeling like himself anymore, wasn’t in control of his thoughts. As though someone were pricking needles into his brain. He saw Uncle Jean, Mama’s brother. Uncle Jean, dozing on the chair in front of his house, the empty bourbon bottle on the ground next to him. He saw Uncle Jean’s yellow Pontiac. He was eleven. He stole the keys from his uncle’s threadbare dungaree pocket and opened the driver’s door. His head barely reached the top of the steering wheel. He started the car up. The engine drowned out his uncle’s snoring. He put his foot on the gas pedal and drove out onto the street and down the hill. The bright sunlight blinded him. Uncle Jean was livid. ‘You crashed my car! You coulda got killed!’ The beating he got, first from his aunt, then from his mother. The burning sensation on his back and his ass. But—he could drive.
The music stopped. It was like waking up. Applause and cheers for the three poets and the drummer from New York. Omar left the auditorium. A few students were standing in the hallway, chatting and smoking. He ignored their suspicious glances and continued into the open air. Squinted against the misty white October light. He no longer felt the weight of the guns. From the auditorium he could still hear snippets of conga and the melodious voice of the Latino. Unintelligible Spanish words. He heard insects, animals moving in the warm, humid air. Silence. He saw wispy clouds, like feathers drawn on a blue background. It was a pleasant sight. Like seeing the sky for the very first time. He laughed. He knew that lack of sleep was clouding his judgment, that being wound up over Evans’s assignment was making him oversensitive, but he didn’t care, because after the performance he would go to the poets and ask that arrogant motherfucker in the ugly dashiki for their address in Harlem. And tonight, at home, he would write a new poem. There was bound to be an old notebook stashed in one of his dresser drawers.
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