Oh, Play That Thing by Roddy Doyle
Permission.
Louis understood it. The man on the radio had no colour. Only sound. They’d love him before they knew or cared. When You’re Smiling. He’d never hide it; he’d never try to. But he knew: once he got into the studio, he wouldn’t and couldn’t be stopped. No Jim Crow way up there, no lynch mobs or coloured nights – the air was his.
And hers.
They’d want to see her; they’d need to. The glimpse, the poster. God’s doll. The weekly appearance, the wave to her dearly beloved. But she could stay in her rooms and get fat, and build it all from the studio.
Right now, they were a flight away from her; I was trotting up the banister, hands and feet, passing them to get there first. But they weren’t searching; there was no rushing or shoving, pushing at doors.
They kept coming.
—There she is!
Heads turned, bodies stopped, until they had to shuffle again, at the gentle demand from the bodies behind them. They already believed, already they followed. They’d be happy with the records and the radio. Tonight, they were just filling the space, waiting, wanting, moving only because they had to, lost until they were told what to do. Not all of them, of course, not every one. The 10 per cent were robbing pockets. But the rest, the big most, were there because they thought they had to be.
It was the deal. We’d advertised. Once and once only. Your one and only chance. It grounded the thing, made it local, near and solid. The drapes, the fine girls in the man-suits, the church hush, the sightings.
They’d have to see her tonight.
The fine girls would be going home rich. Their chests were getting bigger, beyond belief, swaddled in hundreds of well-used, hidden dollars. And that was another thing: nothing was beyond belief. They were there, smiling, holding out those nets. Just feet away, inches. Real women. God’s doll’s dolls.
Even I believed that night. My head was racing. I had to see her, quick. I’d only guessed the half of it, the quarter. She’d be more than God’s doll. She’d be the God.
Permission.
I ran ahead, tapped her door.
—Come on.
She followed me, for the first and, probably, the only time.
—There she is!
But no one ran. We didn’t; they didn’t.
I brought her to the roof. I shut the narrow door, and locked it. I heard no hammering or protest. I took her arm and led her. The wind flapped her to hugeness; every light in the city took her red gown. Her hair blew high, but not across her face.
I led her to the ledge; she took some holding. She was Dolly Oblong in that gown, a massive, gorgeous kite. She stepped up onto the ledge. I grabbed the gown before she was lifted. One foot went over the side; I pulled her back. She didn’t gasp or stiffen or fall back. She saw them all down there and she knew what was happening.
—There she is!
And this time, she was there. They followed the eyes, the outstretched arm, and saw her. Up above. Arms extended. Floating high above them. Solid in the snapping wind. Shining, frowning and huge.
I was right behind her, keeping her upright. There were pigeons up there, unsettled by the wind, the coming storm; they were in coops on all the roofs along the street. I tried to ignore them. I looked for moving shadows.
She looked and played the part. She raised her arms.
—Fuckin’ hell.
I dug my heels in and held her gown. Her stitch-work was giving up.
—What do I say to them?
They were silent, as more and more looked up and saw.
—Keep it short, I said.
A gust – one of my hands lost her. She sailed stiffly over them. No shouts from below, no screaming or cheers. It was expected.
They believed. I leaned out, and grabbed. I wasn’t seen – no roars or outrage – I was hidden in her red. And both my feet were there again, safe on the good side of the ledge. I pulled. She straightened, came back towards me.
—Whee, she said, just for me.
—Thou shalt.
—Pardon?
—Say Thou shalt. In a good big voice.
—That all?
—It’s enough.
—I agree.
She lifted her arms, and I was ready for her this time. The wind took a hold but I beat it. She let the gown slide slowly down her arms. A good touch, I thought, and wise. She was giving them flesh, and bringing in her sails. My job behind her was suddenly much easier.
They were coming out of the hall below us. I could see it, the slow push, a fat river entering the sea. And they were on the roofs on the other side of the street, a wide street, further away than the people below us. I still couldn’t be seen. And so what if I was? They’d still believe. Her high priest, her manly handmaiden, holding her out of the dirt.
She waited.
The gap in the wind.
—Thou. Shalt.
The wind hugged her and shook. And stopped.
She was louder this time.
—Thou, shalt!
And now there was noise, lifted and thrown and joined.
Permission.
—Thou shalt.
—Ah Jesus, no.
It snowed.
—How about that?
She whispered it, her arms still up there, and she slowly brought them down.
—Good old snow.
She was careful this time. She kept her hands at her sides. She held herself over the growing cheer. They saw her breathe it in; they saw her grow. She stood there in the suddenly thick snow, on the edge of the drop, and she soaked up her congregation.
And, as she did, her hands took cloth and the silk gown rose up slowly behind her and right in front of me.
I held on.
The ledge put her arse at my face.
The snow swayed and fluttered.
—Nine per cent.
I kissed her.
—Eight.
I rested my face on her arse.
—That’s a seven, you know.
I pressed into her.
—Go home! she shouted. —Six, she whispered.
The smaller percentage still looked handsome. That gang below was only the start. They’d follow her anywhere, and give her the lot. I was buried in arse and silk but I knew: they’d be turning, dispersing, some rushing, others savouring the moment and the snow, building themselves to the bang. They had it now, permission, licence. The good old American thou shalt. And they’d be back, for renewal. And more of them, and more. The records, her word on the home radios. They’d pay for it. Permission. The religion. The way.
One last time, one more per cent, I took her hips and pulled her to me.
—Five.
She grabbed my hair and pulled me even closer.
—Want to push me off for the five?
I’d go over with her. Out there and onto the snow. It would take forever; we’d never land.
But, yes, we would. I wasn’t a total sap. She was a big girl and she’d land with a squelch.
—Getting cold, daddio.
She was right. I stood up. She stepped down from the ledge. There was no one down there, a few stragglers, the midnight usual. They’d slipped away, home to their beds and radios and phonographs. They were already there, waiting for the next call. The wind had died. The snow dropped clean. She didn’t need my weight.
She swapped hotels every second day. She met poets, painters, men who still had their money. She was always Florence Grattan-McKendrick. She stayed just long enough. She was there, seen, frightening, long enough – pop, pop – and gone.
—I was attempting to get that Flow woman out of my head, F. Scott Fitzgerald wrote. —Fortunately, I did not succeed.
He’d walked into the sea and told the right people why. It was still there, the story, long after they were both dead.
—There she is!
We went to New Jersey and stood on a new-drained piece of swamp. This would be her first east coast church. She pointed to the site. Walter Winchell – pop,
—He was scared of me.
Hot Nun with the Big Fun. That was what he called her. He recorded their conversation, all the cut and thrust, but she never spoke a word to him. She stared until he turned and ran away.
We rented a Pullman coach – I’d ordered one custom-built, red upholstery and paintwork, Divine Church of the Here, Now and Nationwide, but it would take a year to build. There was God’s doll, myself, the doll’s dolls, a few little brothers, the whole handsome shebang, and we rode to the heart of the nation. We stopped – pop, pop – and made churches out of tiny squares of the vast American field. I broke the sod from the frozen ground; I felt no water under there. She turned the sod with a silver spade. Thou shalt. We brought red to Kansas and Arkansas. We fenced off the sites with red-painted pickets. We tacked on the sign, Divine Church of the Here and Now # 9 – Here, Now, Soon. She gazed at the mayor – pop, pop – for two good seconds; she gazed at the governor – pop, pop, pop – for three. She smiled at their wives, what handsome husbands, lucky ladies, thou shalt, thou shalt – they smiled back and smiled at me, and I watched my eyes do their work again.
—You Mister Flow?
—No, missis.
—You’re with her.
—I’m Brother Flow.
—Oh. Real brother?
—No.
—Golly.
It was good to be back.
For a while.
We got back on the train – pop, pop, thou shalt – and rolled back to New York. New York, I knew – she knew – was where she’d make it big and lasting. Three days gone, you were forgotten. It was never safe to leave. Musicians came and never left. Politicians came up from Washington to be seen. Writers, painters, impresarios. They had to stay, feed the studios, stations, columns, galleries – the machine, until they were as big as the city.
—Me, she said. —Know who I’ll be?
—Who?
—When they look at that Statue of Liberty, I’ll be that big broad.
—I’ll paint her red for you.
I knew I’d do it.
Thou shalt.
She couldn’t stay away from Louis; he was too big to ignore. And that was what got me.
I hadn’t seen him since the studio, when he’d packed his horn and waved goodbye. I hadn’t waved back; he’d gone by the time I thought of it. I hadn’t followed. I’d let him go and I hadn’t tracked him down.
She wanted to go.
—Why?
I didn’t want to go.
—He’s the thing, she said.
—You saw him before and you didn’t think that much of him.
—Not the point. He’s the bigger thing now. He’s going places the jigs haven’t been before. He’s the nigger that’s going to matter. They’re saying it.
—Who’s saying it?
—Guys that ain’t you.
I stared at her.
She stared right back and it was Florence Grattan-McKendrick who did the staring, a WASP, a woman born to stare. I was impressed.
—Worried?
She was the half-one again. I was still impressed.
—No.
—Lie?
—Yeah.
—Yare. I think so. You’re worried. But I’m nice. There ain’t no men that ain’t you. It was you told me, remember?
—I didn’t call him a nigger.
—Gee whiz, O’Pops. Ethiopian then. If they’re going to abolish the slavery thing, he’s the boy to be seen with. Maybe convert him. He’s a sweetie.
I shouldn’t have gone. But I went.
A table at the top, right there at the stand.
And I was seen.
The fuckin’ fedora.
I knew it wasn’t a photo-scoop she was after. She’d take it – pop, pop – Louis would soon be as big as the city. But that wasn’t what it was. And she wasn’t there for music. That hadn’t changed. She watched but she wasn’t hearing; she felt the sweat and excitement, she could see it, white people baying for him, women ready to climb him. I could see it on her face; she could see but she couldn’t hear.
—D’you want to dance?
—No.
She fought it back, the scared look. And I knew why she was there.
And I saw him.
He was looking straight at me, putting me together. & Son had put on the pounds since I’d found hooch in one of his da’s coffins. It took a while, but I knew him. At the same time he knew me. He still looked like what he was, small fry, smaller now because he was fatter.
I realised: I’d expected this all along, but I’d thought I’d be found by a bigger shot than him. It fuckin’ annoyed me.
She saw me looking. She looked, and saw. She knew him too; she must have. But she was good. Nothing went; her face stayed as it had been. It was Florence looking across at him. She looked that way just long enough, a slow second – he, the place, the clientele weren’t worth longer – and she looked back up as Louis charged onstage. So did I, but I still saw & Son stand up and move. I saw Louis watching him, and I knew that & Son had gone to a table right behind us.
I looked at Louis. His body bent, eyes shut – chair legs behind me scraped the boards – he was getting ready to hit a high one. He opened one eye – he saw me. I heard metal pulled from leather – Louis looked past me, behind me, at me. He opened his other eye, wide. He knew the story; he knew his white men. I smelt the gun oil – he hit a note I’d never heard. I heard glass smash, ladies screamed. I looked across at the half-sister – Louis held the note; it killed him and he was doing it for me – I stood up, and she stayed. I stood, and turned and Johnny No was looking at me, sitting, no gun, no & Son, just a table or two of the hard lads out and uptown for the night.
I did another stupid thing. I sat back down. Now he knew for sure.
—No, fucking thou shalt not.
Louis opened his eyes – he couldn’t hold it longer – he let it go and saw me still there. He pretended it was the heat that made him wipe his face. He looked behind me. He held the horn like a tommy gun as he walked back to the band. He was right. I should have taken my chances. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t make my mind up. I was stuck, stupid. Louis did the rounds of the other players – I knew none of them – doing the routine – maybe I’d get away with it – pumping them up, giving the wide-eyed look when the trombonist did the trombone, when the drummer patted all the drums. I was still there when he came back to the front mike. He grinned. I’d stick with her, let her brazen it out for both of us. She was Florence and the rest of it, Sister fuckin’ Flow, a big enough shield for both of us. I shouldn’t have stood, and I should have kept going. But I’d done it, I’d stood and sat back down – here I am, lads, here I am. Stupid, stupid, stupid. I’d stay; I’d hide behind her.
But, suddenly there was another problem, as I looked across at her. She was dressed like me, fedora, boots, Clarence Darrow’s braces, me as I was five years before, walking between Johnny No’s sandwich boards, taking the business, selling the hooch, stomping in on top of the pigeons. She was dressed like that and I was there, knee to her knee, still dressed like that, she the reminder, me the fact. She was new and I was back.
And there was more.
She was still big enough to hide us. She could do it.
But there was more. I knew, because Louis told me. He was suddenly playing it, The Wearing of the Green, at a shocking, urgent pace. She’s the most distressful country that ever yet was seen. By himself, no band, just him to me. They’re hanging men and women for the wearing of the green. He opened his eyes, looked over my head. People were puzzled but I knew what he was telling me.
It had become more complicated.
He made another gun of the trumpet, but quickly took it to his lips and now the band was with him. They knew the song, and so did I.
—I’LL BE GLAD WHEN YOU’RE DEAD—
YOU RASCAL YOU—
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They’d found me. This time, I had to turn. I looked at her. She looked straight ahead.
—WHEN YOU’RE LAID SIX FEET DEEP-NO MORE FRIED CHICKEN WILL YOU EAT—
I got ready to move. I leaned across, to tell her. What? To follow, to lead? To help me?
She got there before me.
—On your own, daddio.
—What?
—Go now, you’re on your own.
She smiled slightly as she spoke; her profile was there for them.
—Wait.
She was right. It was all me. If I went now, I was dead. If I stayed, I was dead. She was safe and offering help. My only hope was the half-sister.
Louis played it to a fast end.
—I’LL BE STANDING ON A CORNER HIGH—
WHEN THEY BRING YOUR BODY BY—
He turned from the mike, and back.
—OH YOU DOG—
YOU RASCAL YOU.
And he walked off the stand. The show was over.
She smiled, and whispered.
—One. Two. Little three.
She stood.
I stood, and it wasn’t easy. The legs weren’t there, but I managed it. I yawned – I fuckin’ did – and turned around.
Ned Kellet was looking at me.
—This way, brother, said the half-sister.
He smiled, finger pointing at me – pop. Sitting there among them. He laughed, head back.
I took the trick from her. I looked just long enough. I didn’t know him and I didn’t see his pointed finger. But I saw him bring the finger to his scar. He hadn’t changed. He smiled. I got her chair out of my way.
I followed her. I put a hand in a pocket. The crowd parted for her, and for me. And closed, in front of Kellet’s finger. And I could think; I could give it the proper Henry.