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Member
Join Date: Mar 2003
Location: San Diego, CA
Posts: 18
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Please Show me the way...Novel Beginnings...
The Memories of Octavio Brown
Chapter I
He, You and I
HE HATED to die like this; his penis and ass bare, peeking out at the world from behind a gown, while he float in his own urine and excrement. His thoughts dripping clarity became satiated in lucidity and the image of him getting up and walking away from this haunted him. Yet he lay there, lay there tormented from his inner shouting, “Get up, Octavio! Get up you, prick, get up!” The brain spoke to limbs that did not move, mutinying mates overcome with their own self worth. The bladder deluged, overran itself and the once damned intestines burst rivers of bile destroying the floodgates against his escape. Octavio Brown blinked and the windows to his soul glistened like small twin islands losing territory to surrounding tides. Craning his head the bloated eyes try to save him, sucking at life under a phosphorescent flood. The buzz-like hustling of mumbling voices spit sound waves against the hospital walls, crashing against his eardrums in white noise. He scanned the area, searching for a way out and burdened with the belief that he could fly away from this; escape his own death, Octavio Brown attempted to rise, bending at the gut like he were punched, jack knifed he blew gas from his ass flooding the room with its acerbity. In an insane instance of analysis, the proverbial burst of past events and what should happen before death became a lie and instead of flashing before him, his life dragged across his membrane, snagging on synapses, fleeing his memory in an effort to save itself. He was a sea of misery.
The hospital crew came and went in predatory circles. They attacked him in teams, cleaning and wiping, lifting and pushing, feigning polite ignorance in the presence of his nakedness and ignoring the tempestuous tears marking his fate. He winced each time they touched him. They laughed and joked among themselves, slapping hands and speaking loudly to each other as if he were not there or worst, could not hear them. They more than anyone knew he were there. They were there because of him. They had signed on like soldiers in a war against disease. They were his hired mercenaries; caretakers paid to look after him and others like him; the sick or soon to die and the already dead.
The first lifter bent over the bed looking through him and said, “So I ask ya boy to define, Boujie” — he snatched Octavio up — “since he know so damned much about me.” He held him smooth and effortlessly, but it was an awkward position because the gown was wet in front and the lifter didn’t want to get the old man’s piss all over him. Octavio’s feet dangled in front of the lifter’s torso like a pendulum.
“What does he mean?”
“Never mind, he’s not speaking to you.”
“But I heard him say something.”
“Octavio, focus.”
The first lifter had a handsome ocher color and smelled like sweet potato, but in a tangy spice kind of way. He spoke quick and fast, hardly breathing while holding Octavio so that the other lifter, a high yellow man, could adjust the wheel chair. Octavio listened to them as though they were speaking to him, even after he knew they were not. Boujie pushed while High Yellow dragged his lifeline, an iron pole branched with at least three bags but no more, which were half full of hospital liquids; medicine, food and whatever else they were using to keep him alive.
“So what he say?” Smirked High Yellow.
“Tha bitch call me an Afro-Saxon.” Boujie looked upset and swung Octavio around like a dance partner so that he now faced the room’s toilet.
“A what?”
“An Afro-Saxon, a wanna be crackah. This motherfuckah don’t know shit about me, yet he passing judgment. I started to pop that fool, but they would have kicked me out of school!”
High Yellow stopped and thought, yeah your snooty ass did that yourself. “So what happened.”
The slack between the wheel chair and the intravenous stand disappeared when he stopped and he pushed it forward at the last minute. The little black wheels on the stand disobeyed at first then arced out to the right and back in just before Octavio’s arm felt the tug. Boujie was still pushing him toward the toilet.
“I asked him to define himself and the shit he read. Black power this and the struggle that. The dude made me sick with that shit. Hell I grew up black power. My daddy and King marched together.” Boujie was lying about the last part, but Ronnie, High Yellow was from D.C. and didn’t know any better. His father moved them down to Atlanta when he was thirteen, two years after his mother died. He and Craig had been buddies, with only a few complications, since high school.
“So I guess that make our girl Lisa an Anglo-African.” High Yellow said trying to forget his own roots. The two of them, side by side now, looked at each other and smirked.
“Naw Bro, she whatcha call a Wigger.”
They stopped dead in their tracks, gave a knowing look with their heads tilted so that their chins barely grazed their chest, then slapped their hands once, twice, three times, “Whoop, whoop!” The elation rang like gun shots in Octavio’s ears.
“Niggah, you crazy.” High Yellow said and they laughed almost screaming, ignoring Octavio for a moment and dancing around each other jiving their hands and play boxing.
When they stopped, Boujie Craig said. “Naw I’ll tell you what’s crazy, G, this shit here is crazy, why we still helping old boy, take a shit, you know?” He faced Octavio, lifting him over the toilet and setting him down.
High Yellow Ronnie shrugged his shoulders I-don’t-know, then said, “They should go ahead and bag him, cause ol’ boy, you know, he ain’t looking so good.”
“Looking good or not, homey, it’s yo time to wipe him.”
“Bitch, now I know you crazy,” High Yellow Ronnie said and they shadow boxed a little more, laughing loud only stopping their antics moments before the perambulating squeaks of the head nurse could be heard moving down the hall. They were all business by the time she reached the room.
The cold toilet seat shocked him at first then felt pleasant against Octavio’s shanks. He shit and pissed like that for the last time, let them wipe him without incident and heard the nurses changing his bed. One of them spoke to someone over an intercom. He listened with his eyes closing and opening so that he only saw the floor or the ceiling and his head bobbing like a rag dolls, but couldn’t make out what they said. The two men got him back into bed without saying much to each other and listened to the directions of the head nurse.
“We may need you two later,” she said, “so hang around a bit. The doctor says it’s okay to use the bags now. He’s going to come in the morning to operate. Lisa, help me set this up, Doctor Dubois will do the rest.”
They bathed him and tossed towels about like life preservers uncaring whether he were covered or not. Often the flimsy cloths took hold but mostly they fell into the void of the hospital bed, momentarily pinned by gravity and clinging to one of his ass cheeks. Supervised, their alacrity to duty was astounding, this attending night crew. He flinched at the flapping and popping of sheets. They stretched them taught like sails across clean mattresses and moved him like cargo from one bed to another.
He was a dead man. They must have known this more than ever because they didn’t care that he was naked, helpless and exposed, or care that they flirted and joked and fucked around with each other like what people imagine men in warehouses or mechanics do. They were typical blue-collar workers, dressed in white, doing you a favor while they waited for you to die. Mechanics for death patching him up until it was over. What did it matter to any of them in all their knowledge and work experience with the newly dying. He was just another body they cleaned or scrubbed down until it left their shop.
“You watched men die, Octavio.”
“But was he that callus?”
“I was young, full of shit. I was invincible, trying to discover things, get to another place.”
“He..You..I am Octavio Brown.”
He stopped scanning the room and lay back wondering about all he had done in his life. He would have liked to forget some things, hold on to others, and pretend that much of it didn’t happen. He remembered good friends and old lovers. Thought that if he had not been in such pain, or maybe had someone other than himself to talk to, someone who knew him better than he knew himself, Mama, the triplets maybe, people who were now gone, except for Brother, maybe Brother will come. Maybe Brother ain’t mad no more. A month ago, before all of this, he came clean. Told Brother what he suspected Brother already knew. Told him who did what and why and how life and death were just phases. Philosophic bullshit he tossed out to make the betrayal seem less the issue. Brother, he thought, Brother never truly got mad, got even with a couple of mother fuckahs, but that Negro never got mad. Brother come and see me off, baby, come and help me through this, Brother come and sit and talk so we can laugh and go on about old times. And he realized he was smiling now, and laughing without sound. This was who he was, a betrayer of emotions who laughed when he was in pain, and cried so others could suffer. He laughed, his sides burning from it, but laughing all the same. Laughing like a fool while the workers gathered up their things, his guffaws trapped in the sounds of his breathing. Someone said, everything’s normal – stat – the patients – they paused -- sleeping. And he laughed to let this thing pass because death was natural after all, but he needed to remember a thing or two before it was all said and done and…
He…I… You are dying, Octavio Brown.
I am, but I’m not you. The one who betrays…
You.. the one who is I and he waits alone.
Brother, please come.
“Yo, Ronnie,” the first lifter Boujie Assed Craig said, “you going out tonight?”
“Naw, Craig, I’m broke.” High Yellow Ronnie moaned thinking, this niggah always out. How he doing it?
This niggah always broke Craig thought, then said “Come on, dog, I gotcha back.” What he doing with his money?
“Yo Craig, you sure it ain’t no thang?” If he payen, I’m playin.
“Naw, Bro.” Freeloading, bitch.
“Cool then, I’ll getcha on the flipside, baby boy.” They slapped hands.
“My niggah.” Half white bitch.
“My niggah.” Punk ass Boujie.
The two bebopped around the room and started in on a popular song they had changed the words too, humming at first, then singing in harmony, “Love my Bitches, but you my niggah. Loves my bitches but youz my nigga. Feel so good, feel so right…you my nigga and we hanging out tanaight.
“Yo, Lisa,” Ronnie laughed “what’s up wif you for tonight, you in or what?”
“Where, yall goin.” Lisa was looking at them side ways her head cocked back and to the side with her hip jutted out supporting a poised hand.
“Wherever you wanna be baby.” Craig said.
“Yeah, wherever you wanna be.” Ronnie chimed in, feeling a little uneasy that Craig was flirting with her. Craig knew the score, but persisted just to fuck with Ronnie.
Ronnie and Craig were standing side by side like Siamese twins, arms locked around each other and heads lying to the side touching as if they were joined. They watched the nurse working and mumbled something about her tits and ass, then laughed.
She looked back and caught them staring. “Well how can a girl refuse two fine as brotha’s like yall. Hell, I’m in.”
“Yo, Ms. G.,” Craig said splitting from his twin and looking out the door for the head nurse, “we gone.”
Octavio Brown closed his eyes and laughed. When he opened them the next time he didn’t know they had cut him open and hooked his penis and intestines to a tube. A clear plastic bag collected his urine and bile. He closed his eyes when the head nurse came to open the blinds against his wishes. The sun eased its rays into the room, warming the scented flowers someone had sent asking that he get well soon. A glimmer found its way off the silver tray making spotlights on the ceiling. The light destroyed the darkness that would release him. It’s warmth felt tainted and he closed his eyes again ignoring the cheeriness of the head nurse, hating her Good-morning-Mr.Brown and her How-are-we-today-Mr. Brown and wishing this attendant would simply and respectfully keep her cordiality to her self and shut the fuck up and let him be
Reluctantly, he turned to her and mumbles something but she is busy staring out into the city and thinking about her coffee at the nurse’s station and how good it will taste when she’s headed on the MARTA train going home. “MARTA,” She says, “Moving Africans Rapidly Through Atlanta.” Then laughs.
“Would you tell Brother, to please come.” Octavio says louder, but a buzzer rings before the sound can reach her ears and she answers it saying happily, it’s all yours, Ruth, no, he’s sleep, and in an instance she is gone.
Chapter II
The Little Rascals and Our Gang
When I was twelve and still living in Fifth Ward with Mama, I headed to the corner store with the intent of buying the eggs, bread and milk my Mama needed. I wasn’t watching where I was going I admit, and instead was kicking a coca cola bottle I found laying near the house to see how long I could keep it from breaking. If I got it to the store, I could turn it in for a refund and buy a jawbreaker. I was almost there when a group of boys I didn’t recognize, who must have been from John Hope projects across town, cornered me and asked me for Mama’s egg-bread-and-milk money and I should add, the change I was going to have left over and planning to buy jawbreakers with. I don’t believe Mama would have minded me losing the money, or that she would have done anything to me because of it, other than perhaps suggest that when faced with adversity such as the situation I found myself in, that I do one of two things. Number one, I could hear her say and in the repetitive tone she always spoke to me in as if I didn’t get it the first time. Octavio, you should never put all your eggs in one basket, your hens in one house, or all your cards on the table, etc.etc.etc. And two Octavio I myself would’ve at least faked some form of injury and run when and if the moment presented itself, run and hide or run and get help or just run to keep from being whipped. Often I thought my mother crazy, but I loved her as she loved me, during that time and didn’t know it then, but as an older boy, would I grow to miss her rantings.
Realizing I hadn’t hid my money in several places as mother had actually suggested before any of this, because I saw no need to and realizing I had failed in heeding her wisdom in regards to the first issue, and since I had disregarded her wisdom with one suggestion, I found myself disobeying the second possibility she would have suggested as well; running. I decided not to run but held my ground. I defiantly denied this gang of hoods my mother’s money. I denied them not knowing why, perhaps trying to prove in principle if nothing more, that I knew better than Mama. I didn’t give the money to them and I stood my ground lying and saying a bit too loudly, hoping some one would see this spectacle, I ain’t got no money.
One of them, a little dark fellow no bigger than me, pudgy or husky as the Sears and Roebuck catalog designers might have called him, came forward, pushed me up against the wall so I wouldn’t run – as if that had still been in my head, which it wasn’t because in all reality, with all of those goons around me I admit that I was scared – and started going through my pockets. His little hands fidgety and plump felt as nervous as I was, digging around in there where my little cock, moist at the tip from fear and not knowing what they had planned, didn’t shrink but instead got hard with all the excitement. It all left me uneasy, torn between trembling and being calm. I was scared and uncaring all in one instance, but instead of showing my fear, I begin to laugh. I laughed and he got pissed. I laughed and he hit me. He balled up his little hands like bags of dough and swung them into me and I laughed at that. Husky’s punches hurt but not as bad as the bigger boy’s assault who came along side of him, stood looking at me with a devious smile as if to supervise. He must have been sixteen or so, because he was mammoth in comparison to the kid. He had big hands and feet and was gargantuan in girth. This guy probably still wears husky’s himself, I thought and when I looked up at him, gazed into that smiling manly face, he hit me with his open palm, popped me twice upside my head before he was done. Then he grabbed me tearing my shirt and saying, You thank it’s funny bitch, you thank we playin, give us yo damned money. Leaving me no other alternative than to repeat, I ain’t got no money. I told you already, Mister. I said Mister as a sign of respect and hope that he would realize the futility of beating on someone so small. But, no, to this madman there was no other alternative than to hit me again, and again, which he did, this time with his fist, hard and in the stomach so that I wrapped around him like a sheath. Husky was still at it and gave me another sample of his fists of fury. Husky was actually called, Brucey, and the larger boy was Clyde. They were brothers, the leaders of this band of little rascals who punched and kicked me while I was down. I was still laughing and probably gave them just as much a reason for them to kick me as my denying them my money for jaw breakers, but I was crying too by the time the other’s jumped in. They were skinny, underfeed boys with elastic arms and legs jutting out of their clothes like sticks, and they didn’t hit hard, but hit me all the same, probably afraid of my crying, and freaked out by my laughing. Crying and laughing, laughing and crying in howls that should have brought someone running. They beat my ass like I wasn’t human, whipping me like a dog that had stolen a sandwich from their plate while they weren't looking. They pummeled me with their fist and left my muscles kinked from their kicks. Finally, they took off my shoes and left sock, realizing I had stuffed the money there and having got what they wanted the bigger boys left. Husky Brucey remained to kick me a few more times although Clyde, said, Come on Brucey, he ain’t got no more. They called for him to leave but he didn’t.
Don’t you ever laugh at me, little niggah, he said, and I laughed harder, still, crying because at that age I hadn’t learned the trick my Mama was teaching me about how to keep your true emotions off your face, what you really felt about anyone deep and hidden, what you believed honestly to yourself, and say one thing while meaning another. And in all of the hitting and pain and my trying to be what Mama asked of me, I must have sounded like a crazy man, laughing and crying while he try to get me to stop. You one crazy niggah he said you is one crazy little niggah. So I took the ass whooping from Husky Brucey, thinking I’ll get you back. I hadn’t seen him at school, but was sure I would run into him again. And I thought yes, Husky Brucey, I’m one crazy niggah, and I’ll get you back, crying and laughing.
I don’t know how long I lay there, but I remember not being able to see well although I noticed that three boys were standing over me. I said something about not having any more money and listened to them speak. They spoke in a language that at first I couldn’t understand or pretended not to, but was familiar with, because they sounded like my Mama and Ms. Tomlin when they spoke, trying to hide things they didn’t want me to understand at that age, rattling off Gullah, sounding country and Geechie like the Negros from the Sea Islands.
“You all right little man?” The most assertive of them asked, dropping the Creole.
“Yeah, I’m fucking all right, niggah,” I spit shocked at the blood drooling off my lip and that I had soaked up some of the attitude of Husky Brucey.
“Whoa, little, bro, we just trying to help.”
His name was Isaac. I realized this because, one of the other boys, said “Isaac, you shouldn’t touch him too much, let’s go get somebody to help.”
“Sammy, shut up,” Isaac said to the other boy. “Who we gonna get ta help when we’s raight here.”
“Leave him,” The third boy said. “It’s not a good time now.”
“Brother, we can’t just leave him.” Sammy said.
“Yeah, Brother,” Isaac spit, standing up with his fist clenched, “What’s wrong with you, he’s just a kid?”
The other boy, Brother, they called him looked at both of them then said, “He don’t sound like no kids I know.”
Isaac got in his face. “He scared man.”
“Yeah, brother,” Sammy interjected, “Don’t be cruel, he’s just scared.”
“Yeah, well leave his scared ass. It don’t make sense to be fucking with him when we got this thing to do.”
When I could finally open both eyes, I closed them, afraid that I was either crazy or blind, because it seemed that these boys all had on the same thing, and they all looked alike. And I thought I was hallucinating at one point because I had never seen triplets before, and it scared me even more than thinking I was half-blind in reverse, not seeing too little, but seeing too much. Seeing everything in triplicate. I looked at my hands to ensure there were only one of each and not three, rubbed them in my eyes to reassure myself. Looked around the bloody concrete and saw the coca cola bottle, it hadn’t broke, a quarter that the Little Rascals had left behind and off to the side a beer can someone had neglected to pick up. I finally admitted to myself that yes, there were three of them and they were triplets. I lifted myself to a sitting position, grabbed the quarter and stuck it in my mouth when no one was looking and while the two kindest brothers stopped arguing with Brother, touching me in different places about my hands and chest and head, asking me what hurt.
They were sixteen they said and the one named Isaac called himself Pork and the other, Samuel, called himself Chop. Ethan, was the uncaring one and they called him Brother. I followed behind them at a safe distance since they had opted to listen to the logic of Ethan and they did not know it, but we were now a gang.
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Austin J. Hubert
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