Ahooga

Counting off—

1925: Chicago is brimming with color, trudging, crowded paint. Color, seeking shade in the searing summer heat under tattered awnings as the sun beats relentlessly. The broad-leafed trees have been reserved for the shady avenues of Lincoln Park and the Gold Coast to the north, where a cool breeze freshens the three- and four-story brownstones of the fairer skin—a far cry from the smoldering Black Belt, otherwise known as Bronzeville. A strip of city, where bronze-skinned children sit listlessly on stoops while tenants lean dangerously out windows for a breath of fresh air. The whole lot stifled by heat and poverty and scorching discrimination. Yet, relentless in spirit, a sense of false hope prevails—a sense of relief provided only by the frayed edges of tattered awnings.

“A” Section—

After the Great Chicago Fire, well-established ethnic groups of Irish, Scandinavians, and Germans—rich and poor alike—push out of “the loop,” the city’s center and historic core, thanks to the establishment of the Union Stockyard, Illinois Steel, and the advent of the trolley and automobile. An exodus squeezing the growing population of African Americans—who have embarked upon the Great Migration for the industrious cities of the north—into a “new” Black metropolis centering on the intersection of 35th & State and 47th Street & Grand Boulevard on the city’s south side. As more white, middle-class Poles, Lithuanians, and Eastern and Southern Europeans put the city in a developmental stranglehold called the “Bungalow Belt,” they unintentionally stir the brew within, thus fertilizing a site of rapidly growing innovation and creativity in the south.

The result: a concoction that births American Giants. The poetry of Gwendolyn Brooks, the fiction of Upton Sinclair, the words of William Faulkner and a young Hemingway, and the abstract forms of Henry Moore. The Chicago Defender. The Olivet. The Pilgrim Baptist Church. Gospel and spiritualism. And the religion that is Jazz, Jazz, Jazz. Along with the jazz club, the speakeasy—on the dark end of the spectrum—the “Vice District” and its own poetry. Brothels and streetwalkers, organized crime, the All-American crime family, the art of police bribery, police brutality, and the modern police raid alike. Vice-Commissions, and Call House Flats, all a result of that Great Chicago Fire.

We are born into this world, not only to the modern-day stripper and b-girl alone, but to the “Black Belt,” in which pimps invade, and cabbies evade and avoid like the plague. The Black Belt: a place that pushes the boundaries of geographic limits, with State on the east, and Wentworth to the west, beyond which lies Bridgeport, where Blacks are not welcome. The Black Belt: a strip within its own condensed state, a pressure cooker squeezed on all sides by cultural identity, self-righteousness, and sinful yet perfectly human desires, manufacturing a multicultural mecca built on the foundation of a migration of greatness—from the confines of human bondage—to the free seas that lie between, from that pounding drum beneath the willows, to the whispering spirit in the breeze. Louis Armstrong, the Sunset Café, the “Hot Five,” the “Hot Seven,” and the great “Chicago Breakdown.”

The Chicago Breakdown: a disintegration of morals, general lawlessness, corruption, mental and physical illness, and the illicit sale of alcohol and drugs that have been brought about by a government policy of Prohibition. Prohibition: ineptly attempting to stop precisely that which it creates. The profits of such policies, the birth of Chicago, the birth of cool—a gangster’s paradise, a rapture of youth, a mirage, a manifestation, a reality of escapism, the limits of freedom, the necessity of transformation, the inevitability of transcendence—an absolute expression of an American dream.

An American Dream: A necessary destruction that gives birth to who we will become. And one day we might look back, and not see the chaos that envelops this moment, but a golden age forged by fire, and a sense of self-identity that we as Americans, black and tan, will come to wear on our sleeves with pride. A flag, a badge of honor, of dignity, not of sin, nor penance, nor shame.

Ground beat—

Under the weight of shame, I approach the symbolic skyline and enter “The Loop,” the economic hub of the city. Chicago, known as the city of two neighborhoods, “your respective area of residence, and downtown.” The Loop: created by a circle of stations serviced by the elevated train—The “L”—and interwoven by electric trolleys, and a grid of streets log-jammed with Ford Model Ts.

Quote—

“There’s no use trying to pass a Ford, because there’s always another one just ahead,” so they line up, honking their comically tragic horns.

AHOOGA, seizes my brain, like an engine out of oil, sore and suddenly dry with the detoxification of gin thoroughly processed by my swollen liver and pissed down a drain, where it leaks out of corroded pipes about the city, making its way to Lake Michigan to be swirled about with fresh waters, chilly even on this steamy July day.

Mainstream—

The city has a way of entrapping the heat, turning the Loop into a boiler room. On the sidewalk, the river of people widens and quickens to the likes of a spring-swollen stream of sudden whiteness, all scurried about in well-shined shoes, shoes with purpose, making their way ‘round and ‘round the Loop. Shoes: With determination, to fool—if not you or me—oneself in the glimmer of their shine. Pale faces: file hypnotized toward corner offices scraping the sky. Pale faces, shaded by fedoras and accompanied by steam-pressed suits too thick for the boiler room that is Chicago, stroll on by. Newsboys hawk papers in the street, shouting headlines depicting the light and dark happenings that are the roaring twenties.

Walk—

I suppose, I have no clear idea of where I am heading; a change of venue, I suppose, as my coin purse has run dry, cash flushed down the toilet with each swig of gin in the night. Making an exodus for the North, I stroll—rather, scuff my shoes—below the “L” that squeals and deafens overhead, showering sparks upon my stiff shoulders as I struggle with an overstuffed suitcase of Grandpa’s books. Utterly aware of my destitute state, my prospects increasingly dim with each step I take toward the golden shimmer that is the North. I carry forth nonetheless when suddenly, one out of a pack of whiteboys with a handful of stolen candy runs smack dab into my leg. Sweets scatter about my feet, and passersby crush them underfoot, hustling obliviously in their shiny shoes. And with a chrome whistle, the boy splits before the policemen can catch him and give him a slap on the wrist.

Root—

I let the crowd wash around me as an abundant number of Model Ts honk almost comically. If I were not too sick, I might just laugh. The rumbling of the city rattles my bones—the rumbling of the city, a roar so very far away from the provincial silence and unmoved marrow of my childhood. It has been five years since I left home and ten since I’ve thought of you. Ten long years. The exhaust nauseates me, and the trumpets continually scream in my ears—drums stubborn to head on home even as the sun rises high noon. The city’s depth lingers where the speakeasies pour the forbidden fruit freely into my heart—where the fruit that poisons my blood causes me to poetically heave into the first trash can I see. Up here on the surface, I ignore the onlookers; however, I doubt they excuse me.

Riff—

You see, the problem is vision—I see double. In one eye: A revolutionary, a cultural soldier fighting for freedom of soul, of spirit, for spirit, and by spirit. In the other: I spot a boy caught in a grown man’s body with a gut swollen with stale spirit, a spirit diminishing the soul, a spirit drowning my days, drowning my memory of you in the night. This wild abandonment manifests the unquenchable thirst that the sun might fizzle to a dull hue and pop of darkness—an obscure vision my bloodshot eyes can finally digest. When I sit back and relax and melt in the dim. Melt to a degree in which that tormented eye can no longer gauge my sorry self so clearly. When that eye is drunk blind, blurry, and can no longer see me the way my father must.

Root—

Truth be told, I haven’t set foot for some years now in that godforsaken hamlet. In fact, I never plan to again. I’d rather just forget. I’d rather ignore him and you. Hell, I don’t think of you—not for ten long years.

So, I spin and sway away. I sweat and spit and shove my swollen gut down the block for the next trash can, where I leave my memories and walk away. That’s the consequence of swallowing too much rye; you see, when you swill all life serves up, it comes right back up. Oh, how my sternum aches, how my throat burns, how the bass thumps my brain, leading me on with strange hope, from deep within my inner being to the next trash can down the block—the bass slapped like a baby’s ass.

Riff—

You see, the bassman knows the ways of the devil, I tell ya what. And how the devil seduces me so. Oh, how I long for the night, the night that takes me away, away from you, away from such bright, bright light, I can’t take anymore. And when played well, the chords take me on, carry me on, and you, away. Far, far away. Away from that pitiful place called memory. And for now, the bassman carries this boy with echoes of bliss into the blinding, swirling city light as I wipe my mouth on my sleeve. And with each step I take on the hard pavement, my dance-worn shins shatter my soul, and a shiver overcomes my heart. Sweat drips down my brow as the heat simmers on the street, as tall buildings do little to soothe the vertigo in my mind. I must say, not only has the great migration brought color, but I am certain I am not the only country boy to haunt these streets as they run away from their own fathers, their own lost lovers, their own tragedies.

But I don’t think of you.

Moving inner voice—

I think only of them—those rural women, country gals out on their own, who’ve found themselves citified and gracing newly paved streets in search of sales jobs in grand department stores despite—and in spite of—the quaint countryside and its small towns, and their self-proclaimed heritage of protecting America and its future from urban excess and moral decay. Women, expected to raise children, keep house, provide emotional support for their husbands, and, in myriad ways, properly contribute to American society. Women, who have wandered waywardly, led astray by the siren song roared out by this unique time, indeed. I wait—I wait for them to find themselves naïve and empty, to discover the thirst, wander unruly for a mystery room, in search of mystery and freedom, after drink and dance, and discover the answers to questions only to be answered when they learn to knock twice in that certain way, when and where they can swill, spin, and freely forget and be reborn.

Riff—

You see, I think only of them, not you. Their heavenly legs, their heavy lids, droopy, lazy, begging for forgiveness in the night; yet, with an AHOOGA, I wake to the day and remember it is undoubtedly the Ford era, as old Henry has taken over the world, quite indeed—at least on the surface streets, at least on the headlines, on the surface of things. But what does ol’ Henry know of down below, of the small type, of the back page, where we are left buried, and you are left behind. The day takes my breath away, and I hear my sternum crack and spin around as the world spins twice. I see traffic lights and traffic jams. I stop in my tracks, pat my pockets, and shake my head.

AHOOGA, I shake my hands.

Turnaround—

I throw my suitcase, right back the way I came, back through the crowd that is life, back for the Southside that’ll have me, broke or not, where the broke belong, well out of sight, beyond the oaks and maples of the high part of town. I make the long trek, not knowing what I was thinking. And by four, I find a dingy boardinghouse on the corner of 38thand State. I hand the woman the money—what is left of it, I suppose, money not quite pissed away—to a woman who has seen countless Oscars come and go. She shoves the wad of bills deep in her brassiere—surely to be spent more wisely than I—and for this, she deserves it more than I.

Half-time—

The room smells of onions, and there appears to be a blood stain on the carpet. But I care not. I collapse onto the sprung springs, swollen feet throbbing, and dream only of women, Saxy Blues, and Sexful Jazz, it’s all here, down below, but no, not you—not you. I don’t think of you, not for ten long years. I remember nothing. I dream of nothing. I go alone, long into that place where ghosts go, panting silently, no longer walking amongst the living—hovering above the bed of countless lives, atop a damp blanket moist with late July heat and sweat out into a sheet stained with countless unmentionables I’ve learned to ignore. I ignore my dreams. Nightmares. I’ve learned to no longer miss you—nor mourn for you. You no longer spin about my dreams, nor my ‘mares. Not even vertigo can make you turn ‘round my mind. Not for some time. A long time, in fact. A long time, indeed. I pant this hot air—the clothes on my body sticky, clinging like flesh, dirty knees, the filth of ages—face deep in a yellowed pillow damp with someone else’s breath. I sweat of love and dread, arms spread wide, heart curled up inside, trying not to care about the heat, trying not to care about you. You see, you come with the sickness. And all I need is drink. And poof!

Pedal—

The bassman, beats on. And in a slow, thick thump, I curl about a blue haze that glazes me within a glow through the window. It shimmers on, vibrates, and shines within its own kind of blue. A dark luster. A shine: seldom seen by the surface bunch, let alone by old Henry on the surface of things, plastered on the front page. You see, I dwell below. Deep below his wildest dreams, where I know—I know I will not think of you. I huff and moan for a dime—for gin. You see, it drowns me, so I drink my medicine. Thirsty, I roll over, stare at the ceiling, and whitewash my mind with cracked and peeling paint—so dry. I search under the bed for a wayward dime but find only a poster—of a rosy-cheeked man in a black suit with a red bow tie, with dark sunglasses, a thick mustache, and a round bulbous nose under a feathered warbonnet, and a stumpy cigar plugged in the right side of his shit-eating grin—that reads:

The Great Warrior Smokey Joe!

He will fight your battles...if you just be still!

Half-time feel—

Parched tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth, I crumple it up and toss it in the can. I bounce on squeaky springs and bury my face in my hands. I crack my knees and open my suitcase for a pencil and pad. I pull out a chair, the witching hours upon me. I scribble, curse, and yank my hair, fantasizing of throwing myself out the window to the street below, where I might bleed out onto the brick to be pissed on by drunkards with their own poetry. The wastebasket fills with written words, but not of you—not for ten long years.