“And so,” Hickman was saying, “when you started asking me that, I said, Bliss, thy likeness is in the likeness of God, the Father. Because, Reverend Bliss, God’s likeness is that of all babes. Now for some folks this fact is like a dose of castor oil as bitter as the world, but it’s the truth. It’s hard and bitter and a compound cathartic to man’s pride—which is as big and violent as the whole wide world. Still it gives the faint of heart a pattern and a faith to grow by….
“And when they ask me, ‘Where shall man look for God, the Father?’ I say, let him who seeks look into his own bed. I say let him look into his own heart. I say, let him search his own loins. And I say that each man’s bedmate is likely to be a mary—No, don’t ask me that—is most likely a mary even though she be a magdalene. That’s another form of the mystery, Bliss, and it challenges our ability to think. There’s always the mystery of the one in the many and the many in one, the you in them and the them in you—Ha! And it mocks your pride, mocks it to the billionth, trillionth power. Yes, Bliss, but it’s always present and it’s a rebuke to the universe of man’s terrible pride and it’s the shape and substance of all human truth….”
… Listen, listen! Go back, the Senator tried desperately to say. It was Atlanta! On the side of a passing streetcar, in which smiling, sharp-nosed women in summer dresses talked sedately behind the open grillwork and looked out on the passing scene I saw her picture moving past, all serene and soulful in the sunlight, and I was swept along beside the moving car until she got away. Soon I was out of breath, but then I followed the gleaming rails, hurrying through crowded streets, past ice cream and melon vendors crying their wares above the backs of ambling horses and past kids on lawns selling lemonade two cents a glass from frosted pitchers, and on until the lawns and houses gave way to buildings in which fancy dicty dummies dressed in fine new clothes showed behind wide panes of shopwindow glass. Then I was in a crowded Saturday afternoon street sweet with the smell of freshly cooked candy and the odor of perfume drifting from the revolving doors of department stores and fruit stands with piles of yellow delicious apples, bananas, coconuts and sweet white seedless grapes—and there, in the middle of a block, I saw her once again. The place was all white and pink and gold, trimmed with rows of blinking lights red, white and blue in the shade; and colored photographs in great metal frames were arranged to either side of a ticket booth with thin square golden bars and all set beneath a canopy encrusted with glowing lights. The fare was a quarter and I felt in my pocket for a dollar bill, moist to my touch as I pulled it out, but I was too afraid to try. Instead I simply looked on a while as boys and girls arrived and reached up to buy their tickets then disappeared inside. I yearned to enter but was afraid. I wasn’t ready. I hadn’t the nerve. So I moved on past in the crowd. For a while I walked beside a strolling white couple pretending that I was their little boy and that they were taking me to have ice cream before they took me in to see the pictures. They sounded happy and I was enjoying their talk when they turned off and went into a restaurant. It was a large restaurant and through the glass I could see a jolly fat black man cutting slices from a juicy ham. He wore a white chef’s cap and jacket with a cloth around his neck and when he saw me he winked as though he knew me and I turned and ran dodging through the sauntering crowd, then slowed to a walk, going back to where she smiled from her metal frame. This time I followed behind a big boy pushing a red and white striped bicycle. A small Confederate flag fluttered from each end of the handlebars on which two rear-view mirrors showed reflecting my face in the crowd, and two shining horns with red rubber bulbs and a row of red glass reflectors ridged along the curve of the rear fender, throwing a dazzled red diamond light, and the racing seat was hung with dangling coon tails. It was keen and I ran around in front and walked backwards a while, watching him roll it. He looked at me and I looked at him but mainly at his bike. A shiny bull with lowered horns gleamed from the end of the front fender, followed by a screaming eagle with outstretched wings and a toy policeman with big flat hands which turned and whirled its arms in the breeze as he guided it by holding one hand on the handlebar and the other on the seat. And on the fork which held the front wheel there was a siren which let out a low howl whenever he pulled the chain to warn the people he was coming. And as it moved the spokes sparkled bright and handsome in the sun. It was keen. I followed him back up the street until we reached the picture show where I stopped and watched him go on. Then I understood why he didn’t ride: his rear tire had a flat in it. But I was still afraid so I walked up to the drugstore on the corner and listened a while to some Eskimo pie men in white pants and shoes telling lies about us and the Yankees as they leaned on the handlebars of their wagons, before going back to give it another try. This time I made myself go up to the booth and looked up through the golden bars where the blue eyes looked mildly down at me from beneath white cotton candy bangs. I….
“Bliss?”
Was it Mary? No, here to forget is best. They criticize me, me a senator now, especially Karp who’s still out there beating hollow wood to hully rhythms all smug and still making ranks of dead men flee the reality of the shadow upon them, then Who? What cast it? stepping with the fetch to the bank and Geneva with tithes for Israel while ole man Muggin has to keep on bugging his eyes and rolling those bales so tired of living but they refuse to let him die. Who’s Karp kidding? Who’s kidding Karp? making a fortune in bleaching cream, hair straightener and elevator shoes, buying futures in soy beans, corn and porkers and praising his God but still making step fetch it for the glory of getting but keeping his hands clean, he says. And how do they feel, still detroiting my mother who called me Goodrich Hugh Cudd -year in the light of tent flares then running away and them making black bucks into mille-jungs and fraud pieces in spectacularmythics on assembly lines? Who’ll speak the complicated truth? With them going from pondering to pandering the nation’s secret to pandering their pondering? So cast the stone if you must and if you see a ghost rise up, make him bleed. Hell, yes, primitives were right—mirrors do steal souls. So Odysseus plunged that matchstick into Polyphemus’ crystal! Here in this country it’s change the reel and change the man. Don’t look! Don’t listen! Don’t say and the living is easy! O.K., so they can go fighting the war but soon the down will rise up and break the niggonography and those ghosts who created themselves in the old image won’t know why they are what they are and then comes a screaming black bable and white connednation! Who, who, who, boo, are we? Daddy, I say where in the dead place between the shadow there does mothermatermammy—mover so moving on? Where in all the world pile hides?
… but instead of chasing me away this kindly blueyed cotton-headed Georgiagrinder smiled down and said, What is it, little boy? Would you like a ticket? We have some fine features today.
And trembling, I hid behind my face, hoping desperately that the epiderm would hide the corium and corium rind the natural man. Stood there wishing for a red neck and linty head, a certain expression of the eyes. Then she smiled, saying, Why of course you do. And you’re lucky today because it’s only a quarter and some very very fine pictures and cartoons….
I watched her eyes, large and lucid behind the lenses, then tip-toed and reached, placing my dollar bill through the golden bars of the ticket booth.
My, my! but we’re rich today. Aren’t we now, she said.
No, mam, I said, ‘cause it’s only a dollar.
And she said, That’s true and a dollar doesn’t go very far these days. But I’m sure you’ll get plenty more because you’re learning about such things so early. So live while you may, I say, and let the rosebuds bloom tomorrow—ha! ha! She pushed the pink ticket through the bars so I could reach it.
Now wait for your change, she said. Two whole quarters, two dimes and a nickle—which still leaves you pretty rich for a man of your years, I’d say.
Yes, mam. Thank you, mam, I said.
She shook her blonde head and smiled. We have some nice fresh buttered popcorn just inside
, she said, you might want to try some. It’s very good.
Yes, mam, thank you mam, I said, knotting the change in the corner of my handkerchief and hurrying behind the red velvet barrier-rope. Then I was stepping over two blue naked men with widespread wings who were flying on the white tiled lobby floor, only the smaller one was falling into the white tile water, and approached the tall man who took the tickets. He wore a jaunty, square-visored cap and a blue uniform with spats and I saw him look down at me and look away disgusted, making me afraid. He stood stiff like a soldier and something was wrong with his eyes. I crossed my fingers. I didn’t have a hat to spit in. Then suddenly he looked down again and smirked and though afraid I read him true. You’re not a man, I thought, only a big boy. You’re just a big old freckly face….
Peckerwood, peckerwood,
You can’t see me!
You’re just a red head gingerbread
Five cents a cabbage head—
Alright, kid, he said, where’s your maw?
Sir?
You heard me, Ezra. I’m not supposed to let you little snots in here without your folks. So come on now, Clyde, where’s ya’ maw?
Watching his face, I pointed into the dark, thinking I ain’t your Clyde and I ain’t your Ezra, I’m Bliss … She’s in there, I said. She’s waiting for me.
She’s in dere, he mimicked me, his eyes crossing upon my face and then quickly away. You wouldn’t kid me would you, Ezra, he said.
Oh, no, sir, I said, she’s really and truly in there like I said.
Then in the dark I could hear the soaring of horns and laughter.
Oh, yeah—he began and broke off, holding down his white-gloved hand for silence. Out on the walk some girls in white silk stockings and pastel dresses came to a giggling halt before the billboards, looking at the faces and going ‘Oooh! AAAh!’
Well did Ah evuh wet dream of Jeannie and her cawn sulk hair, he said, snapping his black bow tie hard against his stiff white collar. He stood back in his knees, like Deacon Wil-hite, and then drummed his fingers on the edge of the ticket hopper and grinned. Inside the music surged and flared.
Hold it a minit, Clyde, he said, Hold it! looking out at the giggling girls.
Sir? I said, Sir?
Hush, son, he said and pray you’ll understand it better bye’n bye, cause right now I got me some other fish to fry. You’all come on in, gals, he said in a low, signifying voice. Come on in, you sweet misstreaters, you fluffy teasers. I got me a special show for ever one of you lily-white dewy-delled mama’s gals. Yes, sir! You chickens come to pappa, cause I got the cawn right here on the evuh-lovin’ cob!
Here mister, I said…
He rubbed his white gloves together, watching the girls. What’s that you say, kid?
I say my mamma’s in there waiting for me, I said.
He waved his hand at me. Quiet, son, quiet! he said.
Then the girls moved again. Oh, hell, he said, watching them as they turned on their toes, their skirts swirling as they flounced away, laughing and tossing their hair.
Then he was looking down again.
Clyde, he said, what’s your mama’s name?
Her name’s ‘Mamma’—I mean Miz Pickford, I said.
Suddenly his mouth came open and I could see the freckles bunch together across his nose.
Lissen, kid—you trying to kid me?
Oh, no sir, I said. That’s the honest truth.
Well, I’ll be dam!
He shook his head.
Honest, mister. She’s waiting in there just like I said … I held out my ticket.
He pulled hard on the top of his glove, watching me.
Honest, I said.
Dammit, Clyde, he said, if that’s the truth your daddy shore must have his hands full, considering all the folks who are just dying to help him out. I guess you better hurry on in there and hold on to her tight. Protect his interest, Ezra. Because with a name like that somebody big and black might get holt to her first.—Yas, suh! An’ mah mammy call me Tee-bone!
Smirking, he took the ticket, tearing it in half and holding out the stub.
Here, Mister Bones, Mister Tambo, he said, take this and don’t lose it. And you be quiet, you hear? I ain’t here for long but don’t let me come in there and find you’all down front making noise along with those other snotty-shitty little bastards. You hear?
Yes, sir, I said, starting away.
Hey, wait a minit! Hold it right there, Clyde!
Sir?
Lissen here, you lying little peckerwood—why aren’t you in school today?
I looked at him hard. Because it’s Saturday, mister, I said, and because my mamma is in there waiting for me.
He grinned down at me. O.K., Ezra, he said, you can scoot—and watch the hay. But mamma or no mamma, you be quiet, you hear? This is way down south and de lan’ uv cotton, as the boys say, but y’all be quiet, y’all heah-uh? An’ Rastus, Ah mean it!
I hesitated, watching him and wondering whether he had found me out.
Well, go on! he barked, And I obeyed.
Then I was moving through the sloping darkness and finding my way by the dim lights which marked the narrow seatrows, going slowly until the lights came up and then there were red velvet drapes emerging and eager faces making a murmuring of voices, and golden cherubim, trumpets and Irish harps flowing out in space above the high proscenium arch, while in the hidden pit the orchestra played sweet, soothing airs. Then in the dimming of the lights I found a seat and horses and wagons flowed into horses and wagons and wagons surrounded by cowboys and Indians and keystone cops and bathing beauties and flying pies and collapsing flivvers and running hoboes and did ever so many see themselves humorously in quite so few? And ads on the backdrop asking Will The Ladies Please Remove Their Masks and Reveal Their True … and everyone and everything moving too swiftly, vertigoing past, so that I couldn’t go in, couldn’t enter even when they came close and their faces were not her face. So in the dark I squirmed and waited for her to come to me but there were only the others, big-eyed and pretty in their headbands and bathing suits and beaded gowns but bland with soft-looking breasts like Sister Georgia’s only unsanctified and with no red fire in green eyes. She called me Goodhugh Gudworthy and I couldn’t go in to search and see….
On the hill the cattle tinkled their bells and she said, Mister Movie man, I have to live here, you know. Will you be nice to me and the blossoms were falling where the hill hung below the afternoon and we sprawled embraced and out of time that never entered into future time except as one nerve cell, tooth, hair and tongue and drop of heart’s blood into the bucket. Oh, if only I could have controlled me my she I and the search and have accepted you as the dark daddy of flesh and Word—Hickman? Hickman, you after all. Later I thought many times that I should have faced them down—faced me down and said, Look, this is where I’ll make my standing place and with her in all her grace and sweet wonder. But how make a rhyme of a mystery? If I had only known then what I came to know about the shape of honor and the smell of pride—I say, HOW THE HELL DO YOU GET LOVE INTO POLITICS OR COMPASSION INTO HISTORY? And if you can’t get here from there, that too is truth. If he can’t drag the hill on his shoulders must a man wither beneath the stone? Yes, the whole hill moved, the cattle lowed, birds sang and blossoms fell, fell gently but I was … I was going in but couldn’t go in and then it ended and the lights came on. But still I waited, hoping she’d appear in the next run, so I sat low in my seat, hiding from the ticket man as they moved in and out around me. Then it was dark again and I knew I should leave but was afraid lest she appear larger than life and I would go in—why couldn’t you say, Daddy Hickman: Man is born of woman but then there’s history and towns and states and between the passion and the act there are mysteries. Always. Appointive and elective mysteries so I told myself: man and woman are a baby’s device for achieving governments—ergo ego I’m a politician. Or again, shadows that move on screens and words that dance on pages are a stud’s devic
e for mounting the nightmare that gallops by day. And I told myself years ago, Let Hickman wear black, I, Bliss, will wear a suit of sable. Being born under a circus tent in the womb of wild women’s arms I reject circumstance, live illusion. Then I told myself, speed up the process, make them dance. Extend their vision until they disgust themselves, until they gag. Stretch out their nerves, amplify their voices, extend their grasp until history is rolled into a pall. The past is in your skins, I cried, face fortune and be filled. No, there’s never a gesture I’ve made since I’ve been here that hasn’t tried to say, Look, this is me, me Can’t you hear? Change the rules! Strike back hard in angry collaboration and you’re free but I couldn’t go in I have to live here, mister movie man, she said and I found a resistance of buttons and bows. Imagine, there and in those times, a flurry of fluffy things, an intricacy of Lord knows what garment styles, there beneath the hill….
“Bliss, are you there?”
So I waited, hoping I could get into it during the next show and she would be there and I waited yearning for one more sight word goodhugh even if seventy outraged deaconesses tore through the screen to tear down the house around us. But couldn’t go in and sat wet and lonely and ashamed and wet down my leg and outside all that racing life swirling before me but once more the scenes came and tore past, sweeping me deeper into anguish yet when I came out of all that intensified time into the sun the world had grown larger for my having entered that forbidden place and yet smaller for now I knew that I could enter in if I entered there alone … I ran—Bliss ran.
… Where are we? Open the damper, daddy: it heats hard. So I told myself that I shall think sometime about time. It was all a matter of time; just a little time. I shall think too of the camera and the swarth it cut through the country of my travels, and how after the agony I had merely stepped into a different dimension of time. Between the frames in blackness I left and in time discovered that it was no mere matter of place which made the difference but time. And not chronology either, only time. Because I was no older and although I discovered early that in different places I became a different me. What did it all mean? How did she who called Cud forth become shadow and then turn flesh? She broke the structure of ritual and the world erupted. A blast of time flooded in upon me, knocking me out of the coffin into a different time.