Red Now And Laters by Marcus J. Guillory

Author:Marcus J. Guillory
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Atria Books

* * *

1. “What are you doing here?”

2. “I came to see you.”

3. “What I do?”

4. “Stop that!”

5. “Give me that watch.”

6. “You forgot?”

sixteen

burn to shine (le char et la souris)

Houston, Texas, c. 1984

Once during noon Mass, Black Jesus showed up at St. Philip Neri Catholic Church, reeking of Tanqueray and Aramis cologne. He was shaving in the water fountain behind the sacristy. I saw him. He had on the robe and sandals just like the pictures, except his hair was nappy as hell. He asked me to be an altar boy and told me Santa Claus was a fake. I got a whipping when I told Mother, not because she thought I was lying. She was pissed that I said our Lord and Savior’s hair was nappy.

Jesus wept, then bought some relaxer.

Years later . . .

Kinda pitch-black.

Aramis cologne.

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”

“Hey, hey. Ti’ John.”

“Hey, Father Jerome. Can I holla at you for a minute?”

Pitch-black.

I peed in the water fountain at school while the fourth and fifth graders had assembly at St. Andrew’s. Free to Be . . . You and Me. I took the meaning a little too literally. While Rosey Grier was telling us that it was all right to cry, I stood on a chair and painted my initials with urine in the fount. Rosey was a bitch or a liar. I just couldn’t see his big ass crying. There’s only so much a fifth grader will believe, and after that dice scene with Father and that Sonnier dude at Lil’ Aubrie’s, I wasn’t sure what to believe anymore. At every turn, some grown-up was shattering myths left and right. Easter Bunny. Tooth Fairy. Santa Fraud. The whole lot of them were peddled to kids with promises of candy and toys and coins under a pillow, and I had never seen one of them. Fuckin’ frauds. But Black Jesus and Sonnier? They were real, at least to me.

Father Jerome chuckled when I told him about Black Jesus and Sonnier as we walked around the parish hall parking lot for confession while he smoked a cig. By now the parish was his. He owned it. He chain-smoked. He shadowboxed most days at noon, wearing khakis and a white tee until both were drenched. He played music a lot, usually soul and jazz. And he’d jog in the mornings while imagining he was playing a trumpet. Miles Davis on “Gabriel’s Horn.” “Ave Maria” in B flat with Tony Williams on skins, Ron Carter holding down the bass, and Hancock on the eighty-eights.

“Is there such a thing as spirits?” I asked.

“Of course,” Father Jerome answered.

“Do they look like Sonnier?”

“Usually you can’t see them.”

“But I saw Sonnier, he black and got straight hair like my daddy.”

“Well . . .” He shrugged. I think he didn’t know the answer or he wasn’t saying.

“In the CCE book they show the angels and the angels are white. Is that what spirits look like?” I asked. A fair question.

“Ti’ John, I believe spirits come in all colors,” he answered.

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