My Amputations (Fiction collective ;) by Clarence Major Read Free Book Online Page A

was turned: made the other kids laugh: Mason liked the attention: wanted to grow up to be a comedian. He threw chalky erasers at girls, jerked their pigtails to hear them squeak, shriek; tripped fat boys in halls and in the cloakroom, peed in pockets and ate other students' lunches. He stole money, too: it was fun: everybody noticed him: he was at the center of the camera-eye: All he needed was a cast of thousands: Cecil. He screwed his first girl in an alley—Chicago type: felt like His Satanic Majesty. Other boys still virgins looked up to him (“How'd it feel? ”) and followed him around on the playground. Then high school: here a thousand-watt spotlight was not focused on his curls, no sky panning behind him with overhead reflector. He couldn't stand it: he spat at the truant officer and quit before he could be formally suspended. He wanted to knock up a nun like that French boy in that French novel; wanted to run off to Malta or Delfi or . . . do interesting things. But that was sort of out of character for a ghetto kid. Damn character. Yet he managed to run no farther than the Air Force draft board. The sergeant promised him Europe and he got Texas—San Antonio. Hot dry dusty. Basic training was a blip: falling in mud holes, dodging blanks, hiding in bushes, jumping in and out of shacks freshly sprayed with deadly gas, drills, bland food, more drills, itchy wool blankets, swimming for non-swimmers once a week.Phew! Then the boys got their first town pass and went into San Anton'—being boys they got hungry as hogs on the way and the first thing they did was find a lunch counter called Blinkies Hamburgers and Hotdogs. Mason, two other Afro-Americans and three Polish kids from Chicago's West Side. Mason noticed right away the walls contained blowups of electric stars, heavenly bodies and cinema lasses: Shirley Temple, Tex Ritter, Lana Turner, Roy and Trigger. They sat at the counter. The napkin holder had an embossed head of a roaring lion. The toast-thin waitress—blonde, wearing pink rimmed cateyed specs—came. She asked the white boys what they wanted, then said to Mason and the other two, “We don't serve Negroes here.” Mason noticed the salt and pepper shakers were not C-shaped. The fat sloppy owner came over scratching his red neck. “All right, I want you niggers to get. Y'all must be from up North some whah. Well, dis is Texas, by God. You white boys can stay.” No hostility in his voice: only annoyance. “Niggers from ‘round heah'd know better'n t' come in a rest'rant and sit down wid white folks.” Celt CuRoi whispered in his ear: “You are not yet the casting director: save your energy, honey. You got a future. Don't blow it on this fly-speck in the shitpile.” Yet Mason could not resist: “You got catsup on your chin. Mustard on your T-shirt.” The Fat man swung at Mason but missed. They all jumped up and ran out. A couple of blocks left of shooting they stopped. The pink boys sheepishly went off in one direction—toward white-town and the brown boys pointed their noses toward black-town. Mason wondered if the rest of them felt the sour something coming up the throat. Now, he and the other two found Mama Minnie's Chili and Tripe Parlor in the black section next door to The Camelback Shoeshine and Barbershop (that day he started smoking Camels). It was midmorning and sunny. While they ate, three fat prostitutes came in from their gigantic Buick parked out front. And so it went: there was Mason soon in motion again. Texas was no picnic: a couple of days later he had guard duty from late afternoon till midnight. Here his motion was slow. Not even Celt came to keep him company. A kid named Rubinsteinfrom Chicago relieved Mason at twelve. The full moon was Hollywood Boulevard on opening night for Gone with the Wind. Mason was upstairs undressing when he heard the voices. Careful not to wake the bigot who slept above him, Mason looked out the window. The moonlight showed Rubinstein down there