Send My Love and a Molotov Cocktail! (5 page)

“Where did you get it?” Rahid began his interrogation.

“What the hell do you mean ‘Where'd I get it?' I made them.”

“You made them?”

She turned to me, ignoring Rahid and the others grilling her with their eyes, “Is this m'f'er deaf?”

“Look, woman,” “The Chairman” exploded. “This ain't no goddamned game!”

“Right on!” howled Secretary of Cultural Affairs Umoja.

Another brother, Usamu, the Chief Propagandist who edited and ran The Union's paper,
The Black Nation,
co-signed the sentiment.

“Gimme five, my Brother.”

The slap of the palms morphed into the beginnings of the Union's secret shake as knuckles collided knuckles and then each grasped the others thumbs in a twirl that before it ended with another clash of knuckles-to-knuckles included a subtle slide of the pinky finger across the bottom of each other's palm. The cross-examination continued:

“I asked you,” Rahid bored in hefting one of the devices, “if you made this?'”

“Of course I made it,” she snapped back.

“What's that thing for?” he said indicating the cylinder within.

“Technically, it's a delayed demolition device.”

“A what?”

Field Marshal Raymond, the Panther, jumped in. “Bitch talk like the po-lice.”

“Right on,” co-signed William 5X.

But curiosity was melting suspicion in “The Chairman's” mind.

“A delayed … “

“Demolition device. A ‘DDD.'”

With military precision she ticked off the attributes of the contents:

“Take an empty CO2 canister from a compressed air BB gun, fill it with black powder. You can get it at any gun store. Coat the canister with double-ought shot from a 12 gauge stuck in a composition of silica sand—what's called ‘fire clay,'” she asided. “Mixed with zinc oxide and using thermoplastic resin as a binding agent and you have a device capable of withstanding the heat of gasoline flames for approximately ten to fifteen minutes … “ The pause was electric. “… just about long enough for the cops to arrive.”

“BAM!!” went The Leader.

“BAM!” went the dame.

“Inshallah!” breathed William 5X.

The realization echoed in the awed silenced room: “We
could finally make them motherfuckers pay.”

“
How did you … “

“I have a degree in chemistry from Berkeley.”

The awed silence in the room continued because we were listening to the whistle our minds had blown.

“Berkeley,” it came from Rahid, more awed statement than query.

“Berkeley. While I was there I joined SDS. Kids … “ she disgusted. “Yet there I hooked up with one of them, I won't tell you who, but he was ‘Weatherman.'”

Another wolf-whistle bounced and ricocheted off the gray-mattered canyons of our brains. “Yeah … “ the pause hung like all our animation had been suspended, “… yeah, I'm ‘Weather Underground,' she looked around, “And there's money in it for you … A lot of money. And all you got to do is pick up a phone and dial 9-1-1.”

“Hey! But you went to jail,” interjected the Panther. Pointing at me he added, “‘Second Comrade' told us you went to jail with him.”

“Under the name you—and the police—know me as.”

She reached in her purse and pulled out a flannel sack. In it were several driver licenses and a fistful of credit cards. She took a breath.

“Okay … So now you know. So just what are you going to do about it?”

“Oh, sister, you cool,” “The Chairman” ruled. “Shit … All we was doing was trying to make sure … “

“I don't mean about me,” she cut him off.

Silenced again.

“I mean … Are you serious or are you playing games like the rest of those New Age hippies that I got busted with?”

She was right. We were more serious, more committed, more dedicated, more … revolutionary.

It was a movie. It had to be a movie. I watched in slow-motion sepiatone as the bitch slunk back from the scene, a sly smirk on her mug, and melded indistinguishably into the ranks of the pigs. Vanishing back into the murk and muck, the mud and the mire, from which all such snitches, informants and deep deep-cover agents-provocateurs slink back into only to pop back up again, like a bad penny, at some other time, in some other place, on some other campus, in some other state, to position herself in some other protests of some other movement so as to attract, seduce, allow into her draws and then set up some other sad-sack “mope” seeing in her eyes new visions and new horizons. Seeing not the treason residing in them just past the glint of their gleam. The last words of our conversation banged themselves off walls in the theater that was my mind:

“But I came and I saw you in jail.”

“Yeah, and I was there on the days you were there.”

“You tha mother-fucking LAPD.”

“Nawwww,” she hissed, her husky voice the same level, the same tone, the same slow dripping pace as when she had come, “I'm the mammy-fuckin' FBI.”

The wrench of the knot returned and made itself at home.

Andrea Gibbons

The sun fell from the sky today, about fucking time too. Weeks it had been loose, wavering, drunkenly unsteady across the sky. I watched its thread snap, though no one else saw. It hit the city, bounced once and disappeared to sink into the ocean's swallowing. It gave itself without struggle.

I wondered about that in the sudden darkness and the mad falling of stars.

We were all strangers then, all strangers, though my fingers still achingly sought the warmth of a hand that had never known mine. They found rubble's chill weight and I sat my eyes stone, dark and unbelieving, from nothing to nothing they turned as the earth slowly slowed its spinning. Everything collapsed to its center and I collapsed to mine. I was not afraid of death but of struggling with no one to hear me. I was not afraid of life but of living with no one to love me. I was not afraid of my fears but their small nature shamed me, and their unmastered strength left a trail of ashes in my stomach that I pursued, fury in hand. Fury in shards of hope ripped from a broken bottle, demanding accountability. Was it Isaac who wrestled with god in the darkness and held? Jacob? I could not remember, but I sought god out even as Los Angeles unforgivably opened her legs one last time with a no and a whimper, and screaming came in through the windows.

I was at the bar. It was not on my list of things to do, and I had so many things to do. There was just too much; everything was fucking breaking. It forced you to realize you couldn't do all of it. And then relief came, because some things just weren't going to get done. Fact. And you just had to say fuck it, and figure out your priorities. I looked with pity on the people still running around squeaking over the wrong things, wringing their hands. And then felt ashamed of myself, but you can always tell those driven by love and fury from those running on six cylinders of guilt. Of course, most of the guilty ones had already run to the places they commuted from and now counted on to keep them safe, so I couldn't talk shit about anyone still here. But my
comadres
were still out hunting down supplies or dealing with today's emergencies, and they were the only ones I wanted to talk to when I got back to our office turned community center turned emergency shelter, muscles aching from the weight of the food and the water.

I washed the soot and grime off my face, cleaned the blood from the new and jagged scratch down my arm. Stared at it between all the bruises and thought it was a good thing I wouldn't be dressing to impress anytime soon. If ever. My throat hurt, my eyes hurt, my heart fucking hurt. My nostrils were still full of burning.

Children were screaming, laughing, fighting. I just couldn't handle the noise, the people, the stress and the smell. So I texted Caro and Evie, and then headed towards a quiet beer. I spent the trip wondering how much longer our cell phones would actually keep working. But then I stopped thinking at all, just sat there in the El Rey with exhausted content as that first cold swallow went down smooth. Thanked fucking Christ this spot was still open for business, a little room to breathe. Glad they had the right protection. One of my favorite dives, more full up, more nervous, serving more tequila than usual. But the hipsters had cleared out, maybe for good, and Chente was on the jukebox. Some of us sang. Only then did I think about my priorities. I rolled the word around in my mouth stretching out its syllables, wanting to spit out the anger and sweat, the futility of it. Or let the beer wash it down. But half the world was on fire; we had to do something, no? Something. Priorities had to be set. I wondered one more time who in fuck had blown up the first bank and most of the mall with it. I wondered if there would ever be a time again when the causes of this thing would matter, not just the survival of their effects.

I was watching the door, expecting my girls any minute. So I saw him as he walked in with a bunch of
pelones
I didn't know. I hadn't seen him in years, and sure hadn't been missing anything either. If I could have gotten the hell out of there without him seeing me, I would have run. Fast. I hunched down onto my stool and stared into the bar instead, but it didn't work. I heard his voice behind me.

“God damn, Gloria?”

I stood up and gave that smile that says anything but happy to see you. Especially cuz his eyes were running me up and down. You wanna see me angry? Just try that if you're not my man. Just fucking try.

“Damn, girl,” he said, “you're looking good. How the hell are you?” He held that “good” too long, that hug too long; left his hand round my waist until I removed it. I should've said something. But I didn't know what to say to someone who'd been family, some kid I'd known such a long time. Long story. Sad story. I knew more sad was coming, and fuck if I wanted to hear it. I came here to wash sad away.

“I'm good, I'm good. And you?”

“It's my first night out since I got stabbed. Three times, check it.”

He lifted up his shirt and I saw the bandages, other marks almost healed, bruises on his skin. First night out; kicked out of an overwhelmed hospital early I was sure. Amazed he even got into a hospital, must be the baby-face good looks still helping him through the mess he made of his life. Now here he was, already drunk, high. My heart broke a little more.

“Damn, girl, it's good to see you.”

“Good to see you too, Angel.” And silence then, it wasn't good to see him, and I hate lying. His face was puffy, all that was fine in it steadily disappearing into whatever shit he was doing to himself now. He looked at me again, had trouble concentrating, uppers and downers together I thought. I'd seen all the variations, hoped he wouldn't crash while I was there.

“So what the hell happened to you?” I asked. “Is it cuz of all this?” I gestured at the television.

“Nah, same old thing. You know how it is.” A couple walked in even as he said it, and he broke off to stare at the girl. Always a girl with Angel, he was a fucking predator. She was pretty, knew it too, all falling out of that red halter-top. She didn't look away either. Not until they were passed us and settled into the back corner.

Same old thing, I thought? Same old fucking thing when L.A. was burning and they were parking tanks on the corners? Ninety-two was a hell of a riot, but this? They'd blown up a fucking bank. To start with. And whoever had started it, terrorist cell or not, shit was homegrown now. This was more like a war, and it wasn't just the ghetto now. It was everywhere. I looked up at the TV; saw the flames in Santa Monica and down Wilshire. Can't say I was sad it wasn't just my neighborhood on fire. Angel looked up too.

“This is some crazy fucking shit, ey?” He snapped into excited. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of watches. “Girl, check these out. Rolexes.” His shiny eyes were hot on my face. “You believe it? Goddamn gold fucking RO-lexes. Thought I'd missed all the action.” He laughed and lightly patted the shirt over his stab wounds, still looking at me like he wanted me to be proud of him, like I should be. He'd never figured out what would have made me proud of him, even after I told him. “You know what I can sell these for?”

“Shit,” I said. “You think anyone's buying watches right now?”

“Huh.” He paused a minute, smiled that still charming smile. “They will. These're the real thing. Might be a while though, huh.” He kept thinking. “Hey, Gloria.” I already knew what was coming. “You got a place now, right? You think you could do me a favor? You think you could hold them for me? I'm with my mom but you know how it is.”

I laughed. “You know I can't do that, Angel. How many years you known me?”

“Same old Gloria, you haven't changed at all.” He laughed too, playing it like he didn't care. “Girl, it's good to see you. You know I love you like family. But goddamn you used to piss me off back in the old days, always in the house and I couldn't smoke out, couldn't sell my crystal. Damn, girl, you were fucking annoying. But you know I always loved you, right?”