Jerome looked at Carla’s enormous thighs, packed into her tight-fitting, rippled dress. He felt bad for her, the way she stood there waiting, blowing on her hands to warm them up. But he liked Charlie. Charlie was the only pimp in the neighborhood who treated Jerome like a grown-up. Sometimes he took him for rides in his Pontiac and told him things no one else would say. That you shouldn’t have sex with white women. ‘Let me tell you something, son,’ he said. ‘You go to bed with a white woman, she’ll become your world. But respect her and stay out of her bed, and she’ll show you the world.’ Charlie Brown wore fancy white suits and silk shirts. His skin glistened with oil and his hair smelled like coconut. Even if Jerome didn’t send any johns his way, Charlie would sometimes give him a few dollars.
‘Maybe he’ll still come,’ Jerome said.
‘Who?’
‘Charlie.’
Carla guffawed. Her laugh sounded hollow and ugly in the darkness. ‘Who you kidding? How old are you anyway?’
‘Twelve,’ Jerome Huling lied.
‘Twelve,’ Carla Wilson said. ‘Twelve my ass.’
The music from Roxy’s hummed softly and invitingly down the street. It was the only bar that was still open.
‘Why don’t you go inside?’ Jerome asked.
‘In that stink hole?’
Jerome knew he should have gone home. He should have gone home hours ago. But as long as Roxy’s was open, he had the feeling something might happen. It always went like that. He would hang around long enough to muster up the courage to pick up his shoeshine kit and go inside. Roxy’s was a pirate’s den. There were men with an eye patch. Jerome once saw a woman without any hair or teeth; she staggered through the bar on matchstick legs. And once, in a corner, there was a man on the floor, bleeding; he had a knife sticking into his belly but nobody paid him any notice. The light in Roxy’s was red and smoky. It smelled like liquor and sweet perfume. The music was deafening. Roxy’s was like a magnet; he was drawn to it against his will. And never afraid. On the contrary: it was like he was invincible in Roxy’s. Like he was flying. And he always earned a few dollars. The later you went, the more work there was. Sometimes the men didn’t even seem to realize their shoes were being polished under the table.
‘What you standing there like that for?’
She had hoisted herself back up on the wall. She immediately looked prettier in the flickering neon lights.
‘Say, what’s your name?’
‘Geronimo,’ answered Jerome.
‘Geronimo? What kinda name’s that?’
‘Just Geronimo.’ If she was out to hassle him, she had another thing coming. He was part Indian. The owner of a bar on Exchange Street had given him that name. At first those hillbillies in the bar had just cursed him out: ‘You ain’t coming in here, nigger.’ They spat at him and hit him, but he kept on going there, doing his work. And one night the owner took him aside and asked his name. ‘Your name’s not Jerome,’ he said. ‘You’re a black Indian. From now on you’re Geronimo.’ Carla was the first person he told his new name to.
‘I’m going in,’ Jerome said.
‘C’mere now,’ Carla said. She sounded friendly for the first time, almost warm.
His hands in his pockets, Jerome sauntered over to her. He looked at the lights and their reflection on Carla’s skin. Red, yellow, red, yellow, he said to himself to the rhythm of the neon light. Red, yellow, red, yellow.
‘Closer,’ Carla whispered.
Red, yellow, red, yellow.
She hiked up her dress and spread her legs.
Jerome saw how the neon light made the enormous patch of hair glisten.
‘Feel it,’ Carla said. She took his hand and moved it to her crotch. The hairs there felt wiry and hard and warm. Red, yellow, red, yellow, red, yellow. She shoved him down, onto his knees, and pushed his head between her blue-black thighs. He gagged, smelling a pungent, rancid odor that reminded him of fish. He felt her strong hands on his neck, pulling him closer. ‘Go on,’ she panted. Go on what? He saw thick, swollen lips, wrinkled pieces of purple skin and flesh. ‘Mouth open,’ she commanded. He opened his mouth, his tongue touched those lips, they were wet and slimy and hot. He tasted the bitter sizzling smell, salty and soft in his mouth. From this close, it wasn’t as bad.
Carla arched her back and stretched her body, pushed her groin deeper into Jerome’s face, clamping his head between her thighs. He could hardly breathe. All he saw was blackness. ‘Higher,’ he heard her say, ‘higher.’ His tongue glided between her lips, from top to bottom, from bottom to top. And again. He felt the blood pound in his temples. His head was empty. His body was on fire. He swallowed her slime, kept on licking. Carla’s thighs began to quiver. He pulled his head back and looked up. She smiled at him and shoved him backward. He fell on his ass.
‘That’s enough,’ she said.
Jerome tried to stand up, but was so lightheaded he was afraid he’d fall right back over. The bright flashing lights hurt his eyes.
Carla hopped off the low wall and pulled her dress back down. She stuck out her hand. ‘You okay?’ she asked.
He nodded and stood up. His throat was shut tight; he couldn’t make a sound. He walked over to his kit and picked it up.
‘You get yourself home now, Geronimo,’ Carla said.
‘Geronimo,’ it echoed in his head. His head was full of her smell and her taste. He took a deep breath, felt the crisp, cold night air burn in his lungs.
‘And you don’t have to tell nobody,’ she said.
Nobody, he said to himself. He started walking, passing the garbage cans and the half-rotten wooden chairs that stood in front of Roxy’s year-round as he left the parking lot. The music accompanied him. The sultry, songlike sound of the saxophone. The muted thud of the bass rhythms. He picked up his pace. He was as light as a feather. He broke into a run. He saw the moon hanging low over Howard Street, coloring the sky silvery and blue. The moon followed him, ran along with him. He ran as hard as he could, and did not look back once.
-
NEW YORK CITY, SEPTEMBER 2001
Bill Laswell, producer
And so I play I play I play walking to their smiles
Pain uptempo
Sensitivity open to the four winds
I want you to feel this thing I feel when fingers touching strings
This strange thing that kisses my lips
Whispers in my ears
‘Eddie Hazel was a terrific guitarist, very influential, a member of the Funkadelic family. It’s a tragic story. Eddie struggled for years with drugs and alcohol. We were supposed to record an album with him. I had helped him get a recording contract and
