$15 Motel Room

Jamerson

By Sikivu Hutchinson*

Card watched the Little Rock lightning crack through the sky and took another bite of orange. Rind, sticky pulp, seeds and all. An acid plague in his buck teeth. Rind was medicinal, kept the doctor and the quacks away, would heal his small intestine, make it museum ready, something modern science could slap in a jar, keep him buzzing through the night on the bass guitar when everybody else was six feet under and punked out by god.

Heaven’s a piss pipe dream mothafuckas.

He didn’t know what he was doing now but hanging on by a thread. Following the others. Treading water. Drowning in a sanctified vat of wishful fucking thinking. Matching Mick’s desperation pound for pound with something Tasmanian devil mangier. He was gonna call the service, tap the business card he’d found stuck on the gas station bathroom door when he was buying beer and Cheetos. The fix that stalked him in every city he’d rested his ass in for a week or three. Telling himself not this time, Cardinal Jamerson the III, not this time, son, be upright, be moral, be a secret knight in shining armor for the sake of your baby girl, nestled in her bed next to her mama in big fat foam curlers snoring one fish two fish red fish blue fish.

They were promised a big crowd for opening night at the tabernacle. Top billing before the organ grinders, jugglers and pie eaters. Part of him looked forward to dazzling the holy rollers. They all loved them some Motown. Fucked to it, daydreamed to it, crapped to it, procrastinated to it, blew a month’s paycheck to it, rode elevators to it up and down and down in an endless death spiral of work, the legions who came to the concerts then woke up manic depressive the next morning to climb the spine of whatever starless city they lived in.

He unzipped his pants. He couldn’t get hard if the Confederacy got resurrected and forced him to at gunpoint. The room was cold, his mind going in circles, fixing on the last conversation he had with the Motown accountant, the one where he’d been purged out of the system, his old employee number reassigned to a desk clerk. A whole employee number, seven golden digits of his own. A passport saying he wasn’t just a temp, a shrug of the shoulder paid under the table with a few sticky, mob boss Benjamins. For awhile he’d acted like he was the big shit. Treating family, a mess of aunts, uncles, sniffing around something for nothing second and third cousins to Sunday fish dinners, bowling parties, shopping sprees at the first boutiques to dip their toes in the water of letting Negroes try on clothes. Thinking it was all gonna lead to something better, deeper, permanent. His name in Klieg light white on his own record album. A roomful of studio musicians at his beck and call. A producer who’d snap crackle and pop to his commands. A pad that he could put first and last on, decorate a little, ride into the new decade. His baby girl and boy properly situated with their own separate rooms, weekends at the park, the roller rink, wherever, whenever.

Raining, raining, raining, now. A biblical bullfrog jumping flood.
He ran outside with his shirt open, savoring the rain on his skin, brown strips of it peeling off in stinky orange smut. Mutant dregs of his parents. Cardinal fucking Jamerson, the III. Motown’s heart, lungs, gut, blood stuffed in a fifteen dollar a night motel, aborted.

*From Rock ‘n’ Roll Heretic: The Life and Times of Rory Tharpe, Fall 2019

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White Nights, Black Paradise, The Play: Casting Notice

Stage play casting for White Nights, Black Paradise:
 

Taryn Strayer, an African American lesbian accountant in her late 30s-late 40s. Intelligent and reserved.

Zephyr Threadgill, a fifty-something African American woman who enjoys her unofficial role as Temple “prosecutor”.

Carol, a white woman in her early 30s. Shrewd, realist, right hand woman/lieutenant to Jones and mother of one of his children.

Production run info: November 30-December 2, 2018

Rehearsals: late September-show run

Venue: Hudson Theatre, Mainstage

Salary: Paid rehearsals and negotiable

Send resume, head shot and IMDB reel to

Contact: Sikivu Hutchinson, shutch2396@aol.com
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L & D

baby foot

By Sikivu Hutchinson

What would have been my life is blackness.  But here I am on my skateboard.  Kick, ride, kick.  Black as the rhythm of stones being thrown against a car bumper or respirators sighing in unison, marking time in intensive care.  It is me against traffic.  Faceless boy.  Nameless face.  A stick figure watching the preeners lolling toothily into their car side mirrors, the press-on nail texters smearing out the seconds between red light green light, the dandelion yellow school buses idling out the last twenty minutes before the school bell rings and a blitzkrieg of jeering children descends.

The first time I heard boys laughing they were playing the dozens about punk-faced ‘fags’. The punk in B6 who they said walked like a princess.  The punk in the cafeteria who spoke all proper and shit.  The punk who brought a lunchbox with the daintiest fairiest of pink in the logo.  Batted his eyes.  Undressed us with each blink as we stormed the urinals in the bathroom.  Pirouetted and spread his arms out wide, lissome as Bambi.  I was ready to join the punk conspiracy, to surrender to them, waiting outside the gates of the playground with a pack of Red Vines for anyone who’d let me in. I could read their lips against the thrum of the dodge ball, feel the savage smash of rubber on the asses of stragglers caught in the fifth graders’ gladiator pen.  I willed myself into the middle of each game, snatching the ball from a third grade piglet, tongue green with jawbreakers from trick or treat.

The tall one with the Hello Kitty keychain has been my nurse for the past few days.  From 6 am to 6 pm we’re united in smell, arthritis cream under her fingernails, tomato juice on her breath filching into my sweaty white hospital sheets as she soldiers through her routine, noting each new arrival, the hushed parade of doleful relatives, the mothers doped up, zombified, bereft after the furor of delivery.

Every misshapen infant skull is part of her queenly dominion.  She measures and sizes up and scrapes off dead skin, the room a blur of lumpy wriggling pustulous bodies.  And when no one is looking she takes my foot into her hands. Sucks each toe clean as a finger-licking wishbone while snow piles up all around us in plastic drifts.  As a child in Minnesota snow season was her most treasured memory. The glee of pushing her baby brothers on their sled, plying them with snowballs, a blow to the head for each sin they’d committed by 7, an ice bomb to the occipital for being dirty blond little princes to her mousy brown drudge.

All my dodge ball boys circle jerk for snow.  Dream of pummeling each other into snowy oblivion.  Dream of coming out French kissing; their cub tits hardening beneath their Laker jerseys.  In the Southern California drear, the endless drear of newborn June, none of them have seen snow.  But I have, and now I will be their secret envy.  I will be picked first, allowed to cut in line, to have my pick of ice cream, to get dibs on the biggest scoop with chocolate sprinkles.  Send my drippy valentine to the nurse as she suctions fluid from my belly button, readjusts the tubes taped to my nose, diddles the gilt K-mart cross in her pocket, gives me her God’s blessing in a gin-soaked whisper.  She’s been hitting it, hitting it all night in her studio apartment over the twenty four hour Laundromat on Berendo.  Hitting it as the talk shows bleed into vibrator infomercials.  Hitting it as the test pattern prattle of the morning news crests and she starches up her uniform, burning it into the ironing board.  Our Lord art thou in heaven, fucker of little children, hallowed be thy name.

They taped a name to my bed.  First name, last name, all mongrelized letters in Martian code.  When I tried to pronounce it all I got was a glub of old amniotic fluid, underwater spit that the nurse dabbed quickly from my mouth.

A boy on the playground has the same name.  Initials are NK.  His mother comes to pick him up after school.  I slide into the backseat with my Red Vines and my ruff and tuff lunchbox, nodding brightly to his boasts about winning the candy drive, acing the new video games his friend Antoine lent him, wondering if he’ll notice me after all these weeks of obedience.  In school he is tender wriggling meat on the spit of the big girls prowling the lower grade playground for virgins to bounce water balloons off of.  Because his ride comes every day like clockwork he’s the mama’s boy, her double, her twin; look, they have the same squint when they shit.  Sitting here I see the symmetry to the backs of their heads.  His picks up where hers left off.  He is her when she fell from her tricycle, stole candy from the corner store, darted out into the middle of rush hour traffic on a triple dare, bit the hand of the nice family man with the blue eyes who likes to jerk off in the ashtray of his car right when the last bell rings. The crumbs of her DNA make a horseshoe birthmark on the side of his neck, crackling through each dark tendril of hair, bequeathing the code that will make his hairline recede in ten years at the height of his prancing studliness.

We watch the kids swarm the 7-11 with fistfuls of quarters for hot Cheetos, aisles ablaze with Friday afternoon emancipation.  They hoist Cheeto bags over their heads like big game, brushing by the church boy predators tricked out in Jesus bling looking for someone to mate with.  I lean into N’s ear, his right lobe is all baby oil and pea soup and the musty smooch of the family Cocker Spaniel sprawled dutifully across his bed.  We roll through the number streets to his house, past the dead still of men clustered on porches in jobless midday communion.  Past the check cashing places, the body shops, the blinding kindergarten bliss of the crowded public pool.  He’ll invite me up to his room to watch cartoons, be my hope to die, my refuge for one full episode.  I’d go anywhere with you, I croak, blowing dandruff from his bony shoulders.

Last night I took a crap for the first time.  A good sign, a robust issue, an imperial stool, the visiting team of specialists said, jotting the miracle down on their clipboards as they made the rounds through our gurgling colony of in limbos, swapping bets on who’d make it out alive to taste the clear blue, to see the sunshine unfiltered by the grates of hospital windows, to revel in the stench of the first fuck, feel the highway slithering under them on a cross country drive.  To grow old enough to fear death and start the fool’s bargain.

–You’re a perfect angel, the nurse whispered to me tonight. She ran down her checklist one last time before the end of her shift, avoiding the downward sag of my gaze, my purple lips puckering full tilt.  Her head is cocked, listening for rush hour traffic as I flatline past on my skateboard.  Kick, ride, kick.

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Nashville, 1978

 

RRH final

Sound check.  Cochlea peeling feedback.  Tuning till doomsday, then more tuning.  Roadies flopping and panting across the stage, lion taming cables, speakers, amps.

C to E minor was home for her. Shudder, slide, shudder. Then thump the strings with the right hand, pop ‘em upside the head like a sobering smack for a falling down drunk sprung from a dive.  They were the first chords she got down cold, that gave her a tingle that lasted for hours until Katy intruded with demands to do laundry, wash dishes or practice hymnals she had to memorize until her throat rang raw.  Save the motherfucking prayers, she thought, angry that she hadn’t said something to Divinity in the moment.  Save that dizzy shit for a more willing dupe.  A captive audience.  A roach spinning on its back.

Nothing happened from above.  No heavenly lightning strike, no incinerating rebuke, no ear to ear knife swipe, no primal samurai sword gutting.  Something about Divinity’s posture, her big show with the bible in the studio, gave her an inkling that she knew the jig was up too.  Grasped a bit of it at least, her preacher thing now running on fumes, wheeler dealer theatrics, the knack she’d had since womb dispatch, the prized Negro gift of oratory honed in debate contests, bathroom mirrors, pews damp with waiting, damp with comingled body fluids. She’d always been blessed with speech, magnificent cut-glass diction, the molasses voice that men who couldn’t find other jobs and wormed their way into the ministry would die for.  The thinking was that Divinity never had to really work for it.  Came into a room and owned it with the alchemical curl of her lip.  Spread her arms and poof.  Still, she hadn’t been able to get her own church until some white philanthropist ponied up for the first year’s lease on a storefront nobody wanted.  Becoming the Phoenix rising after years of roof raising to a handful of families, plotting on phone trees, saving their meager Christmas bonuses for her collection plate.  They would help her. An invisible, dear devoted core getting back at all the bishops and prophets and pillar men who’d spewed we shall overcome at marches in Little Rock then blocked her path at every ecumenical board and committee meeting.  She’d memorized their home numbers, spouses, kids’ names, hobbies. Tendencies.

“Get in your fucking places, blokes,” a roadie yelled at the arena attendants picking up junk in the aisles.  “Shit, we don’t need to eat off the floors.  Fuckers will probably trash the place anyway after Jude leaves, judging from those groupie crazies at the radio station. Miss Tharpe, we’re ready for you and your boys.”

Card, Thurston and Butch filed onto the stage silently, corralled by Mick hours before, backbiting put on hold for the moment.  Rory plugged in her guitar, the air rippling with the bustling attendants, some stopping to watch as she cued up a fast arpeggio churning blues number.  The three of them plodded through their parts, Thurston cueing up too fast on the downbeat, Butch letting loose a scattered bridge and Card slapping his bass ragged with his open hand.

“Get it together,” Rory growled as they shambled to a close, the clock ticking down to Jude’s entrance.  It had been years since she’d been in an arena that big, cavernous, bumptious, baby goblins of stage fright coming at her, antsy, suddenly, about Divinity being in the audience, tossed among the record company execs, assassins with submachine guns lurking in the exits sitting in judgment with her cartoon bible.  They would play all the mainstays. Throw in an original that Rory squeaked out after months of stewing inactivity, procrastination, doubt, when she’d tried to write at the end of meals, hiding in the toilet, collapsing on the edge of her motel bed with the guitar, mixing up chords at every angle, the C to E minor old faithfuls failing her in the face of figuring out installments on four months of unpaid doctor’s bills for her back pain and gallstones.

These were all alien matters to Divinity, she was sure. Shielded from calamity by her god force field, her sharp nose for profit and hoarding and saving every penny she got. In the news clips her second cousin sent from back home she’d read about the cathedral and community center Divinity was trying to build with the aid of white donors, rumors that she’d fucked one or several of them spread by her nemeses on the Baptist convention boards. A secret part of her relished the smear, the whiff of freshly ground dirt spread over the old neighborhood’s prudish high regard for the budding junior prophetess of 1930.

They finished the rehearsal and went backstage to their dressing rooms.  Card and Thurston haggled over a joint.  Butch did his ritual finger dunk in warm water and Epsom salts, bracing for the long night. Mick lingered in the corridor, going over the set list, busying himself with the smallest logistics, breaking out his inhaler for strategic hits when no one was looking, avoiding Rory’s orbit, swallowed up in the turbine of Jude’s handlers and sycophants.

“Fifty minutes to showtime, motherfuckers,” a voice screeched over the loudspeaker.

“Let’s blast these rednecks back to the swamps,” a tech chortled from behind the towering Marshall stacks anchored in an iron wall around the stage.

Rory walked back out onstage for one last look.  The attendants stood poised in place at the arena exits, seat rows bathed in the dank glow of the footlights.  Katy sat in the back, blue put-on-airs Monday night revival meeting hat perched on her head, nodding to something.  Precious Lord.  Take my hand.

 

Cotton Plant, Arkansas, 1930.

Route 9 quivered with the distant menace of engines.  Congregants walking, driving, getting the hang of the rattle traps handed down to them with a wink and a prayer for at least another hundred more miles before sudden death on a two-lane blacktop.  Backbone of Calvary Church headed to an after Sunday service fish fry for the Browns, Clemons, Langhornes off to Cleveland in the morning for railway jobs, weekend shifts in sanitation, road maintenance.  A damp evening showcasing child prodigies on piano, guitar, drums with the most suspense and anticipation over the first pulpit appearance of little Divinity Brown offering blessings for new beginnings.

She’d practiced her delivery again and again in the mirror.  When everyone had gone to bed she was still practicing, drawing out words, pausing for emphasis, making musical notes of end phrases like she’d heard bishop do, his kindly russet brown face pushing her to new heights of mastery.

Again and again, in front of him with Sunday school finally over and a barrage of lessons baring down on her, she wended through the scripture lines she’d chosen all by herself, Romans, Jeremiah, First Corinthians, full to bursting with pride at her powers of recall.  How clever, what a big smart girl, what a credit to her name.  The others so plain, less blessed. A few paces farther away from God.

It was the russet stench of bishop’s crotch that woke her up, trickling sweat, tingling with exhaustion in her empty hotel bed.  She always asked for queen-sized, to contain her thrashing, blunt the endless chain of night visitors.

Ten years and three months old fingers.  Just long enough to fit over the head of his cock.  To give her the strength to suffer God’s silence.  To give her the strength to devise the countdowns. Count for the missing tiles on the ceiling.  Count for how many floor tiles she could jump on before hitting a crack.  Count for the number of pinstripes on his suit pants, the creases in the long black preacher robe draping like a sickle over the swivel chair in his office.  Count for the time it would take between the end of her practice sermon and the footsteps approaching in the hallway to reach them. For the doorknob to turn, the crescent of Rory’s face rising in front of them as bishop repositioned her cursed with age fingers to his shoulder.

She got up from bed and took an aspirin. The room shifted into soft focus around her. Warm rain pissed in fits and starts on the roof.  It was only the third integrated hotel she’d ever stayed in in the South. She could feel the tremor of the white bodies who’d slept there before, shrouded in comfort and dream, furtive fucks, sour business dealings over a smoke and Kojak reruns. She fished out her concert ticket.  A good night for a first salvo, to root for our electric girl, for Cotton Plant’s long heralded resurrection.  She laughed to herself, went to the closet, picked out a new outfit, new armor, not too pastorly, straight or prim for the rednecks and gutter heathens who’d paid top dollar to see their clay footed goddess Jude.

Pinstripes.

She showered off the night visitors, dressed and went downstairs.

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The Monstrosity

RRH final

On Rory:

It was the humming that got her.  The spontaneous eruptions at the grocery store when Rory was in line with her lethal favorites, a bottle of Jack Beam and a can of creamed corn.  The floating slips of atonality that dragged her by the ear at the gas station putting another round of diesel in the bus with the last of Mick’s state disability checks.  The gurgling snatches from a cracked car window cruising by at the end of the day; the driver finally having settled on a station that wasn’t playing commercials.  Just one motherfucking station, just one.  It was that miserable squealing like a stuck pig summer when it seemed the whole globe was blasting Jude’s new song in unison.  A twelve-bar Monstrosity that she claimed she’d dredged up from the bottom of the Delta, nicotine fingernails dirty and squirming with the muck of the ancestors one generation removed from the Middle Passage, she drawled in exclusive interviews with the European trade mags.

As crotch sticky and miserable as the tread of June to August was there was no worse torture than the hijacking of the airwaves and every inch of the audible world by the Monstrosity.  She swore off all media, Jack Beam, creamed corn, Solitaire, any whiff of diversion that would take her away from practicing, going up and down the fret board in her head, on the back of her seat, trying to tame the petty little niggling little argument between her mind, which swooped away, wandering and worrying mid-chord change, and her disobedient fingers.

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Rock ‘N’ Roll Heretic: The Life and Times of Rory Tharpe

 

Front cover RRH

“Those white boys on the major labels would never give an inch to a Negro woman playing race music.”

It’s the late 1970s, and ex-Pentecostal Black female electric guitarist Rory Tharpe navigates the cutthroat world of corporate rock, dive bars and dusk-to-dawn recording sessions as she travels the nation in a dilapidated tour bus with her bickering, boozing all-male band.  Much-imitated and little-credited, Rory is in a midlife tailspin when she’s asked to tour with international superstar Jude Justis, a white woman “blues” singer who built a turbulent mega-platinum career out of stealing from black musicians. Frustrated by the racism and sexism of the rock boys club, Rory warily joins forces with Jude then takes a detour through the painful past she shares with childhood nemesis Divinity Mason, an unorthodox pastor at the helm of budding mega church empire Revivals, Inc.

A homage to maverick guitarist Rosetta Tharpe, Rock ‘N’ Roll Heretic is a bracing look at the power politics, heartbreak and hypocrisy confronting a queer black woman visionary at the intersection of music and commerce, faith and heresy in a segregated music industry forged that eats its black artists.

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White Nights, Black Paradise film: Casting Multi-generational Black Actresses

Black women JT group
We’re currently casting for a short film treatment of White Nights, Black Paradise in the L.A. area, looking for diverse Black women 30s-60s, queer, trans, straight  (and a few white folk):

Abbreviated CAST

Taryn Strayer, an African American accountant in her late 30s. Intelligent and reserved.

Hy Strayer (Taryn’s younger sister), sharp, irreverent but slightly unfocused young woman in her early 30s.

Jess McPherson, a 40-something African American woman and therapist who is also Taryn’s lover. Worldly, confident, calculating.

Ida Lassiter, mid 50s, African American journalist and activist. Regal, tough, a critic of the Temple.

Ernestine Markham, 60-something, African American English teacher, long time Temple member and politicized “race woman” who is loyal but also selectively skeptical.

Devera Medeiros, a Black Latina transwoman and journalist for the Peoples Forum newspaper who is in her late 30s. A Temple true believer, conscious, discerning, keen sense of fairness.

Zephyr Threadgill, a fifty-something African American woman who enjoys her unofficial role as Temple “prosecutor”.

Reverend Jim Jones, a white man in his late 40s. Volatile, insecure, devious, solicitous, endearing.

Carol, a white woman in her early 30s. Shrewd, realist, right hand woman/lieutenant to Jones and mother of one of his children.

Please send queries to: shutch2396@aol.com

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