“Negggg-Ro!”
The rumbling thunder of Jordy’s clear voice, a voice of judgment, somehow without malice, a voice that seemed to place a finger on a chest and say, ‘Stop for you are wrong’ echoed for the third time across the correction center ground, seeming to bounce from the Texas rubber parking lot and inform the world above.
And then the haughty Marshal halted like a claymation villain in one of those new Miamiwood movies. There were but two sounds audible across the lot, the grounds, and the yard: the furious breath of Jordy escaping his barrel chest, and the grinding of gravel between the merciless soles of Marshal Talbot’s NBA ass-kicking boots and the sun-baked Texas rubber beneath. And so the big man turned slowly as Jordy stalked forward past Sheriff, Captain and Warden, all three officials seemingly more interested in the prospect of an entertaining ‘big negro fight’ than preserving decorum on their watch.
Well I’ll be. Even the Warden will permit Jordy to literally hang himself, and bring shame on his office, for the pleasure of seeing two prime bucks scuffle. Don’t you know it Whiff! You your avaricious self have often made bank on this very sentiment—have used Jordy as an enchanting bruiser to woo captains and colonels to your establishment. This is your doing fool, and the undoing of your only friend, who shall live out the rest of his life on a Cuban plantation owned by the likes of…
The iron hand of the Marshal had left his shoulder as he stood pathetically in his dismal reverie. Now even Whiff stood by like a spectator—having fallen even from the amoral heights of the carnival barker that was all he really was—watching as the men circled; the Marshal a good six-foot-eight and near 400 pounds of coal black muscle, and Jordy, at six-three and 230 pounds, the slouch-shouldered dark brown conqueror of thousands of would-be carnival champions of all descriptions. There was no possible victory for Jordy. This was but a pure expression of his loyalty to, and love for, Whiff—as well, Whiff mused, as his hatred for the NBA, who had denied Jordy employment based on the fact that his granddaddy had been a mulatto. Unable to land a job in that organization, renowned for its enforcement of the law with fists and boots, and from the ranks of which the CSA President himself drew his personal bodyguards, Jordy had always itched for a fisticuff with a member of the vaunted NBA.
How can you let him do this Whiff?
Jordy snarled up at the ebony giant, “Where you taken my boss boy?”
Marshal—a bit intimidated it seemed—summoned a well of indignation and whispered a venomous hiss of a warning, “Standoff boy befoe the NBA brand is seared into yo uppity ass!”
The Marshal is rattled, his diction crumbling. He is stepping left behind an extended hand.
“Jordy, you’re fired!”
Whiff’s stage voice echoed over the grounds and all eyes looked to him, to his tattered self, all eyes except for the Marshal who kept a bead on Jordy, for all the good it would have done him.
Jordy seemed to shiver as if a spear had been run through his heart, and looked to Whiff, not the least concerned for the Marshal, who, it was apparent to Whiff’s trained eye, Jordy had already measured for a stretching out with his hammer-like overhand right and could have done so blind folded, which was one of his carnival tricks after all. Jordy half-turned and cast wide eyes on his lifelong friend: wide, asking, ‘say-it-ain’t-so’ eyes.
You have cut your only friend to the core.
For his own good I have. Finish it.
“Jordy, I regret to inform you that you are no longer under my employ, and therefore have no right cause to protect my honor in this matter. You may keep the truck and draw a month’s pay from Captain Alvin. I am sure the Sheriff will have a kind word to recommend you for some job suitable to your nature. You are dismissed Sir.”
Jordy’s eyes were welling with tears. Whiff could not watch and had no patience for this flaming ass of an NBA so-in-so, and just began walking his own self to the west gate. He could not even feel the ground beneath him, having laid his only friend in the world low before Theirs and Them.
His is free at least.
He won’t understand. You have ripped out his loyal heart and stepped upon it.
It was for the best. He is at least free to be whatever the Old Boy permits him to be.
He could hear Jordy sobbing in the background, could hear the strident steps of the towering Marshal overtaking him as he neared the west gate, the white gate. As the guard stepped aside to admit him, and the crowded white convicts behind the fence glared at him with a mix of mean eyes, clenched jaws, amazed stares, and open mouths, the Marshal hurriedly put his hand on his shoulder as if he feared being left out. It was more than Whiff could abide. He spun, cuffed as he was, and swung the tattered remnants of the Jamaican goat-hide loafer on his right foot up into the NBA groin. He noted with some satisfaction the feeling in his exposed toes of testicles smashing against pelvis, yielding before his cruel kick. The expelled breath of the giant made a welcome breeze across the top of his balding head even as he buckled to his knees.
There was no roar of approval from the blacks across the way, and no laugh of derision from the whites to the right of the wire chute he now entered, but abject silence and bug-eyes, that this fat little carney had just kicked in the balls of a feared agent of the NBA—the personal henchmen of the CSA President himself, a revered and feared—if fading—icon of The Southland.
He walked defiantly to the inner gate and presented himself to the guard, “Whiff Gleason, Carney, live-lynch ward of the NBA, to be remanded to the custody of Notary Council and then tossed to these here white dogs as per that black-as-night Uncle Tom’s instructions.”
The guard was a tall hard looking white man with reddish hair under his BCC cap. He grinned and produced a tag and staple-clamp, clipped the former to his torn silk collar with the latter, and then called to a uniformed negro behind him, “Officer Knowles, one of yours to be deposed by Notary Council, and then forwarded to the GP.”
He then pushed Whiff rudely through the gate as he whispered in his ear, “Boy, you will not possess that pride for long.”
As he was pushed through the gate into the firm professional hands of Officer Knowles he could hear Marshal Talbot grunt to his feet and resume his strident walk. Knowles held him fast, the hundreds to east and west still silently regarding the tight fix he had made for himself. As the gate opened and shut again behind him, and he continued to stare ahead at the soot-stained concrete walls of the BCDC, Officer Knowles whispered by his shoulder, “I would not be in your shoes for all the tea in China when I shut that elevator door behind your backsassin’ ass and that big black muvasuca.”
They stood silently eyes south before the concrete corrections center as Marshal Talbot’s stride sounded impressively even behind them. Than that big hand reached his shoulder, cool as ice, and the baritone voice resumed its authoritarian role, as if the owner had never taken—let alone mere moments ago—a soprano-making kick to the gonadinal center of the masculine universe, “Officer Knowles, now that my balls are residing safely up the crack of my ass, I do believe I am fit to resume custody of my prisoner.”
Officer Knowles respectfully stepped aside and kept pace to Whiff’s right as Marshal Talbot guided him by the shoulder to his left. They walked through the iron electric doors into the cavernous concrete stairwell beyond, ascending a long flight of stairs, the echo of Marshal Talbot’s boots and the click of Officer Knowles’ shoes contrasting sharply with the ragged scuffle of Whiff’s much abused loafers. The empty ascending tunnel then reverberated with the rumble of the Marshal’s voice, “Officer Knowles, has the elevator been repaired, or is it still prone to malfunction?”
Officer Knowles responded with the utmost feigned professionalism, “Marshal, just yesterday some fool whiteboy hit the emergency switch on the inside and stalled the thing for a half hour. And don’t you know he tried to overpower officer Megs and Inspector Hill—you know, old hard-crackin’ Karate-man Hill. It’s a shame the elevator has not yet been fitted with surveillance equipment else we would have been able to prosecute him for scuffing up the shoes of Megs and Hill with his hard head.”
They then came to the top of the stairs where a long concrete hall led to a steel door that slid open to right and left like a department store elevator. The walk was slow, deliberate, and solemn. When a full minute later, the three arrived at the looming steel doors, with but one button on the side wall, Officer Knowles spoke with a long deliberate drawl, “Marshal, shall I remain here, in case the elevator gets stuck?”
“That would be appreciated Officer Knowles.”
“Marshal, shall the elevator malfunction, how long should I wait before abandoning my post and contacting the maintenance crew?”
The voice of the Marshal was oddly joyful, “Why Officer Knowles, your post is here. Besides, I am fully capable of finding some hard round object with which to crack open the control panel and effect repairs my own self—I got straight A's in shop class don't you know!”
Oh boy, your goose is cooked now Whiff Gleason. Where is my backsass now? I don’t feel a lick remaining do I. Not a lick you old fat fool.
Officer Knowles then slowly and deliberately slapped the large red button on the wall, to which there was no department-store elevator ‘ding’. Confused Whiff looked up to see if there was a light, an arrow, some indication that this steel box to hell was operating. This seemed to have been expected by his captors, who both turned to him at the same time with wide grins and snarled, “’Ding’ boy, ‘ding!’”
Continued in Steel Box to Hell: Hurt Stoker, Chapter 5, Segregate Me Please, Bookmark 5
