hearts out on
Your Hit Parade.
Solon wished somebody would bake him a cake, hire him a band, grandest band in the land, and be waiting for him and smiling and happy to see him when he come back homefrom wandering in a foreign land and living an unfortunate life in a pig sty.
Thatâs what he would do for Neat, too, if she ever came back, his sister Juanita, even if she brought her little nigger child and pimp-ass husband with her, he didnât care. Well, he cared, but heâd just be so glad to see her.
In fact, heâd love to see that child. Heâd bake that child a big durn cake. Children loved cakes, he bet. Chocklet. Heâd bake that little nigger kinfolk of his a big chocklet cake, if he knew how. He could find out how, he could look up a recipe, buy him some ingredients down at Redâs, and a bowl and a spoon and a pan to cook it in.
And he would try to find something in common with the pimp, too, Neatyâs husband. What did nigger pimps like to talk about? he wondered. He could tell him about rolling queers in the Quarter. Well, Solon wasnât sure about that, but he would think of something.
Solon had listened to some extra delightful tap dancing on the radio when he was down in New Orleans, tippity-tippity-tappity-tappity, whoo! Whoever was doing that toe-tapping could dance like a motherfucker. Fast, too, lickety-split. Niggers liked to dance, even pimps. Hell, yes! Solon would talk to Neatâs husband about dancing. Well, sure. See? That was just the thing! That was just great!
Mainly, though, heâd take Juanita in his arms and holdher so tight to his chest that neither him nor her would never be lonely again, and she wouldnât never have to remember her daddyâs hands on her body. Heâd say, âNeaty, baby sister, howdja-doo, howdja-doo, howdja-doo!â
But what kind of names were Snooky and Giselle, anyway? Well, Snooky wasnât bad. He knew an old boy name of Snooky Butler, had a place out in Cohoma County. Snooky let Solon go pig hunting in the big woods one time, long time ago. Snooky was all right. He let Solon use his .32-20 to hunt with. But Giselle? No way, man. He didnât want nobody name of Giselle baking him a cake, not if he could help it. If Iâd of knowed you was coming Iâd of changed my name, is what Solon wished Giselle McKenzie would sing to him.
Solon didnât expect no cake when he got home today, that much he was certain of. Solon figured heâd be lucky if anybody was civil to him. His wife hated him, his children were scared of him, some of them. The last time he saw his own house, he was jumping out through the window with his clothes and hair on fire, headed for the bus station. His oldest boy, Glenn, had tried to set him on fire with gasoline.
Solon had heard from several different sources now that Glenn, his murderous child who was so handy with a jug of gas, had gotten his ownself singed in the same fire he started. Well, Solon didnât want no innocent child to behurt in a fire, of course, but at the same time, didnât it really just sort of chap your ass to no end when somebody tried to murder you, even your own son?
I mean, didnât it really just serve the little bastard right, in a way, getting scorched in his own fire? Ought not nobody pour gas on a drunk man and strike a match and then fail to get some signal that it was an inappropriate thing to be doing to your daddy, is all Solon meant, thatâs all he had to say. So he wanted to keep his homecoming expectations low. That was the main thing. He was trying to be realistic.
B ALANCE D UE , the white-trash ghetto, ran right into the Belgian Congo. It looked about the same as when he left, except that it was fall now, late summer. There were no trees here, only house after house, shack after shack, all the same, on both sides of one long straight Delta road.
Power lines swagged from post to post, high above the muddy street, a fragrance
Your Hit Parade.
Solon wished somebody would bake him a cake, hire him a band, grandest band in the land, and be waiting for him and smiling and happy to see him when he come back homefrom wandering in a foreign land and living an unfortunate life in a pig sty.
Thatâs what he would do for Neat, too, if she ever came back, his sister Juanita, even if she brought her little nigger child and pimp-ass husband with her, he didnât care. Well, he cared, but heâd just be so glad to see her.
In fact, heâd love to see that child. Heâd bake that child a big durn cake. Children loved cakes, he bet. Chocklet. Heâd bake that little nigger kinfolk of his a big chocklet cake, if he knew how. He could find out how, he could look up a recipe, buy him some ingredients down at Redâs, and a bowl and a spoon and a pan to cook it in.
And he would try to find something in common with the pimp, too, Neatyâs husband. What did nigger pimps like to talk about? he wondered. He could tell him about rolling queers in the Quarter. Well, Solon wasnât sure about that, but he would think of something.
Solon had listened to some extra delightful tap dancing on the radio when he was down in New Orleans, tippity-tippity-tappity-tappity, whoo! Whoever was doing that toe-tapping could dance like a motherfucker. Fast, too, lickety-split. Niggers liked to dance, even pimps. Hell, yes! Solon would talk to Neatâs husband about dancing. Well, sure. See? That was just the thing! That was just great!
Mainly, though, heâd take Juanita in his arms and holdher so tight to his chest that neither him nor her would never be lonely again, and she wouldnât never have to remember her daddyâs hands on her body. Heâd say, âNeaty, baby sister, howdja-doo, howdja-doo, howdja-doo!â
But what kind of names were Snooky and Giselle, anyway? Well, Snooky wasnât bad. He knew an old boy name of Snooky Butler, had a place out in Cohoma County. Snooky let Solon go pig hunting in the big woods one time, long time ago. Snooky was all right. He let Solon use his .32-20 to hunt with. But Giselle? No way, man. He didnât want nobody name of Giselle baking him a cake, not if he could help it. If Iâd of knowed you was coming Iâd of changed my name, is what Solon wished Giselle McKenzie would sing to him.
Solon didnât expect no cake when he got home today, that much he was certain of. Solon figured heâd be lucky if anybody was civil to him. His wife hated him, his children were scared of him, some of them. The last time he saw his own house, he was jumping out through the window with his clothes and hair on fire, headed for the bus station. His oldest boy, Glenn, had tried to set him on fire with gasoline.
Solon had heard from several different sources now that Glenn, his murderous child who was so handy with a jug of gas, had gotten his ownself singed in the same fire he started. Well, Solon didnât want no innocent child to behurt in a fire, of course, but at the same time, didnât it really just sort of chap your ass to no end when somebody tried to murder you, even your own son?
I mean, didnât it really just serve the little bastard right, in a way, getting scorched in his own fire? Ought not nobody pour gas on a drunk man and strike a match and then fail to get some signal that it was an inappropriate thing to be doing to your daddy, is all Solon meant, thatâs all he had to say. So he wanted to keep his homecoming expectations low. That was the main thing. He was trying to be realistic.
B ALANCE D UE , the white-trash ghetto, ran right into the Belgian Congo. It looked about the same as when he left, except that it was fall now, late summer. There were no trees here, only house after house, shack after shack, all the same, on both sides of one long straight Delta road.
Power lines swagged from post to post, high above the muddy street, a fragrance
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