Get up offa that thing, p.11
Get Up Offa That Thing, page 11
Snickering, Plum said, “That’s your bad-assed sister? Look how she run off—”
“She’s calling a cab,” Perkins said. He hung his uniform on the banister.
“Well, I ain’t going anywhere. I came to see where we’re gonna live and I’m gonna see it.”
Mildred Perkins returned soon enough, steamrolling down the hall. Without breaking stride, she reached up and grabbed Plum by the shoulders, spun and shoved her toward the door. Seconds later, Plum was out on West Grand Boulevard.
Sobering immediately, Perkins glared at his sister. “Mildred—”
“Your floozy is out there alone. Me, I don’t give a you-know-what if someone comes along and hands her what she deserves.”
He walked outside. Miss Perkins heard every word Plum screamed. So did much of the neighborhood.
Soon, a car door slammed, and Perkins slumped back in the house. He headed toward the stairs.
“Look at me, DeWalt,” she demanded.
Perkins kept going, trudging up a step at a time.
“I forbid you to see that woman.
“You put together for yourself a good life.
“A good job with a pension.
“Friends.
“You are not going to throw it away.
“DeWalt, you listen to me.
“You almost lost it all once. I am not going to let it happen again.”
At the top of the stairs, Perkins turned, gripping the newel post for balance.
He said, “I’m playing music. She digs it. That’s it.”
“And didn’t you say playing music over there in Vietnam is what got you in trouble?”
He blinked but did not reply.
“DeWalt, tell me you’re going to straighten up and fly right.”
She waited.
Finally, he said, “I like the life.”
“Well then you best believe we are not done with this, mister,” she shouted.
“Good night, Mildred.”
She heard his bedroom door shut.
As a child and even up to today, Mildred couldn’t understand the appeal of music. Considering the Perkins Family lived up the street from Motown’s Hitsville U.S.A. studios and she went to high school with two-thirds of the songwriting team of Holland-Dozier-Holland, she might’ve been expected to, but music never took. Her mother, an amateur pianist, tried her best to engage her, but no. Her shortcoming was forgotten by her folks and salty grandmother when Lil’ DeWalt showed his skills. Mildred went back to her reading, which she preferred to do surrounded by silence.
Though she never felt it, she knew popular music seized the mind and bore into the body to the bone. People turned downright joyous or slumped into sadness when a certain song found their ears. She looked on with curiosity, but never felt she was improperly constructed and accepted her state without complaint. (Mildred Perkins was nothing if not a stoic.) “Very nice,” she said when her opinion of a tune was sought. “Enjoyable indeed.” Fastening on a smile, she watched in wonder when, at the company Christmas party, otherwise rational colleague were whipped into a kind of frenzied, hypnotic state by James Brown. In from the home office, Mr. Clegmore teetered toward her and extended a hand. “Hit me!” he shouted over the blaring music. “I got that thing!” Mr. Cleveland rushed over to rescue her.
Of course, she was happy for DeWalt until he came back a mess from Vietnam. More so than their father, she insisted he commit to what she considered a mature outlook. She more or less took him by the long-fingered hand to the Department of Transportation and set him on the path to his career as a bus driver. Everything was just fine until you know who did you know what, accompanied by the sound of Satan in a box—the Hammond B-3 organ.
This morning, she prepared breakfast for her brother, but he came down the stairs and went directly out of the front door. By that action, he had confirmed what she had decided during her sleepless night: that DeWalt would choose the harlot, and he would leave his sister and their home behind as he pursued a career in music. And he would find himself soon enough in the gutter, broke and beyond forlorn, his job and pension a distant, foggy memory.
She returned to her bedroom, exchanged her slippers for her work flats, examined her hair in her dresser mirror, and set out for the bus stop up the block.
Nine hours later, she returned—no sign of DeWalt—and went down into the basement. Brushing aside moth balls, she lifted her brother’s Army uniform jacket out of his footlocker and, cradling it, brought it up to flights and lay it on his bed. On her second trip, she brushed aside his slacks and shoes, old newspapers commemorating the war’s end and sundries until she found what she sought. Then she found a full magazine for it. Upstairs in the living room, she discovered the Army-issued Colt 1911 was as easy to load as it had seemed. Then she set the kitchen table for one. Pot roast, the last remains of Sunday dinner.
When she was ready, Mildred Perkins, in what may have been a first in the history of Detroit crime, took a city bus to a shootout, the pistol in her purse, a library book in her lap.
Mister Hip’s was at capacity, the clientele exclusively Black, the only white face in the room belonging to Mason who Fontenot, in his wisdom, hired as a bartender, which allowed the owner to stay perched on his stool and watch as DeWalt Perkins entertained on the bountiful Hammond B-3. Marv Truitt was in his customary spot near the taps, and over there in the corner was Violetta Plum, projecting anger and insult as she knocked back her third Manhattan. The man leaning against her was intended to whip DeWalt into a state of jealousy and even though he looked about as stupid as a post and was the last Negro in Detroit to conk his hair, it might’ve worked because DeWalt was on fire. He had whipped through James Brown’s “Tempted,” Shirley Scott’s take on Basie’s “Swingin’ the Blues” and Jimmy Smith’s “Blues for J.” “They call this one ‘Whipping Post,” he said in his only announcement from the stage. Soaked in sweat, he was kicking off his reading of Brother Jack McDuff’s “Moon Rappin’” when the front door opened and there stood Mildred Perkins, who, as calm as could be, put her library book on the bar.
“Oh shit,” thought Truitt as she reached into her handbag.
Violetta Plum elbowed her date and pointed hard.
Eyes closed, his right hand ricocheting across the keys, Perkins was unaware his sister now had his service pistol in his hand.
But Fontenot saw the gun.
So did Truitt, as he scrambled to reach down to snap his .38 Special from his ankle holster.
Miss Perkins let loose the first shot.
It hit the target: the Hammond B-3 cabinet.
Then she shot the organ again.
And again.
By now, DeWalt had stopped playing. The bass pedals let out a sickly rumble as he jumped from the bench.
Miss Perkins shot the organ a fourth time.
Then, uncertain as to where exactly the music came from, she shot the amplifier.
And the organ again.
She dropped the Colt onto the bar floor just as Truitt wrapped his arms around her.
By then, Violetta Plum was running north along 14th Street.
“Marv! Careful!” shouted Perkins as he jumped from his platform.
Truitt was more or less hugging her, rocking her a little bit as she started to sob.
Coming closer, Perkins realized he had never seen his big sister cry.
“Whoa,” said Mason, who hit the damp floor as soon as the first shot ventilated the cabinet. Only his straw-like mop of hair and wide eyes were visible above the bar.
“Yeah,” said Fontenot as he wriggled off his stool. “Whoa indeed.”
Back to TOC
The Funky Zombie President
A Madd Skillz Story
Jeff Carroll
The private jet prepared for landing at Perry airport in Pembroke Pines, Florida. The Falcon 7X jet seated fourteen passengers and provided a very comfortable flight. Madd Skillz was able to catch up on his sleep. He felt the landing gear opening up, and it startled him awake. He had to remind his brain that he was not in a threatening situation, that this was a routine surveillance mission. He hadn’t been able to sleep outside his house in years. The Trump presidential years had raised the domestic terror climate so much that it seemed the foreign terrorist and the homegrown terrorist had merged. This changed the direction of agencies like S.T.R.E.S.S. The Street Tactical Rule Enforcement Secret Service had been expanded under Obama, the Funky President, founded to keep the domestic order. Basically, protect Black people from extreme white hate groups. When they expanded to protect Black people from global threats, it was just what Madd Skillz wanted. Domestic terrorists like the Klan were stupid and easy to take down. Going after a middle eastern cult was more challenging. Plus, the cult had come after him when he was with his family and he owed them one.
“Excuse me,” the soft feminine voice of the shapely flight attendant interrupted him from his thoughts. “I hope you enjoyed your flight. If you don’t have transportation to your destination, Bess Queen Jet can provide it for you.”
Madd Skillz nodded. He counted the nine passengers on the plane on as he walked past her to deboard. “Wow, that is so nice of you, and you said it so innocently.”
The flight attendant smiled and raised one of her thick, perfectly trimmed eyebrows. “What do you mean?”
“I can tell this isn’t something you ask everyone. In fact, you didn’t talk to any of the other passengers. Why the curiosity with me?” She was hardly unnoticeable with all the curves she had. Plus, the uniform was not the least bit concealing.
The flight attendant smiled again. “I, I was…”
“She was instructed to ask for me,” said another woman, who stepped off of the airstairs behind him. The woman came closer to him as the flight attendant stepped back. “Hello, Mr. Brown, my name is Kaleka Coleman, and I am the owner of Bess Queen Jet. I understand you’re going to the Latimer Tech Expo and I wanted to meet you.”
“Hello, Mrs. Coleman. It is a pleasure to meet you.”
“Please call me Kaleka. So, Mr. Brown, are you meeting your girlfriend at the expo?”
“Okay, Mrs. Kaleka, I see you,” Skillz offered the older woman a smile from one side of his face. “Mrs. Coleman is it? As in Bessie Coleman?”
Kaleka smiled and then laughed. “Handsome and charming, but I’m married. You’re smart too. Yes, Bessie Coleman was my Grandaunt. Please excuse me if I gave you mixed signals. I am a sponsor of the Expo, and I am having a VIP party. If you can make it, perhaps you can find someone who can help solve your singleness.”
“Well, bless your soul, then. I will certainly make note about your shindig tonight.”
Overtown, Miami. The Tech Expo was packed and full of millennials. Madd Skillz parked his car down the street. He flashed his badge as he walked through the entrance. He saw a large white tent with two rows of smaller 12-foot tents lining the walkway leading up to the History Lyric theater.
As he passed the information table, he snuck his earpiece in.
“I’m inside,” He said. He hadn’t spoken to headquarters since he’d landed. He didn’t like to check in every five minutes, only when he arrived at new locations.
“Excellent. Remember, you are looking for Barbar Enterprises. They use animal technology,” said the voice in his ear. “Also, don’t forget how lucky you are to get this assignment. First, it’s in Miami. All those women. I bet Viagra don’t sell nothing down there. And second, it’s a Black tech conference. Come on! How they choose you I’ll never know. Anyway, at least you won’t see any cultists down there. Miami is really the North Caribbean.”
“Yeah, you needed to come instead of me. But trust and believe base command can’t keep me from hitting them back for what they did to me back in Harlem. You can call them middle easterners, but they are Kabaz zombies to me because they tried to kill my family.
“Skillz, Skillz slow down. We fixed it so they think you are dead. You won’t have to be distracted by them and you can just focus on your assignments.”
“Well, I found the name of the group that the ones who attacked me were with. They are part of The Order of Kabaz. Human Traffickers. The Order of Kabaz is older than Islam and the followers said to be mindless zombies. Also, let me remind you they have been sex trafficking Black people since before slavery. You know we weren’t picking cotton out there. Anyway, let me get this assignment over. Maybe Miami will take my mind off of giving out some karma. Skillz out.”
Skillz stopped at a few exhibits, looking at the inventions. A high school student competition caught his attention. All the kids talked to everyone who stopped at their booths like they were judges and held their future in their hands. He remembered that feeling. He’d once won the Granvel T. Woods award in his middle school competition.
It wasn’t long before he saw a young man with long hair twists and the sides of his head shaved, standing in a booth. While he was assigned to observe, he decided to take a minute to entertain the young man who seemed to be getting overlooked.
“So, what do you have here?” Skillz looked at the young man’s table. He had a small sign which read S.E.N.S.E.S. There was only a piece of paper on the table with a QR code on it.
“It’s a personal security app based on the five senses. If you take out your phone and scan the QR code, you can see all about it.” The young man replied.
Skillz knew that’s what the QR code was for, but he took a little offense to the young man for telling him to do something so obvious.
“Okay, let me try this again. Hi, my name is Mr. Brown. I install security systems. Mostly, cameras you can check from your phone. What is your name?” Madd Skillz extended his hand toward the young man.
The young man smiled, greeting Madd Skillz’ hand with a fist bump.
“Hi, Mr. Brown, I’m Devin.” Then he laughed. “You are just like my father. Let me tell you about myself, because you seem like an analog person. You are into home security systems. Well, this is the app for you. Okay, like I said, old man,” the young man laughed and Skillz smiled. Then the boy continued, “Technology is the future, and it can make people superhuman. People once were able to see like falcons. Hear like cats. Smell like bloodhounds. We’ve had many of these technologies before, like taste recognition. It’s been around since the 90s. Remember ‘You are the Father’? That’s DNA processing. Blood sugar machines. The hardest thing for people to believe is how do we do the touch? Well, touch screen technology combined with fingerprinting technology already existed, but people just didn’t think of it being used like this. Facial and voice recognition technology is something that has already been introduced to the public. We have motion detectors and GPS tracking. All of these technologies have multiple uses. Conspiracy theorists got people scared of technology, making you think these features can only be used to spy on us and invade our privacy. But with this application of technology, guns will soon be obsolete.” The kid smiled again. “Like how I did that? I’m getting good at this salesman stuff.”
“Yeah, that was good. Tell me something: You did this all yourself?” Skillz tilted his head and flashed a girl standing next to him a smile.
“I did.”
“Excuse me,” asked a man standing behind Skillz. He and his daughter had been listening to the young man explain his technology. “How do you address the smell? Does your app have a nose?”
As the young man started to answer, a few more people stopped to listen. He explained, “Well, the smell technology is about the oldest. In the 1950s, a man name Hans Laube developed a system he called Smell-O-Vision for movie theaters. It transmitted a digital scent data to computer processors using a device called an Olfactometer. All I had to do was to adjust it to acquire the data from the local environment. It can log your scent and keep it on record, just like facial and voice recognition. So, smelly thieves can get away.”
Skillz stepped back, bumping into the girl whose father was engaged with the S.E.N.S.E.S. tech developer. Her eyes were watery, and she was holding a missing persons flier. Skillz excused himself, but the girl didn’t look up.
“Why are you crying? Is that someone you know on the flier?”
The girl took a deep breath and looked up at Madd Skillz. She had big, round eyes and a beautiful smile. She looked to be about sixteen. Her dark brown complexion gave Madd Skillz no clue what culture she came from. Down in Miami everyone had glowing bronze Black skin. She could be Jamaican, Haitian or African American.
“Yes, this is my sister, Robin. She’s an IG model. She goes by Miss Curvylocks. My father brought me here because he thinks there’s some new tech that could help find her.” She handed Madd Skillz the flier.
The girl looked like a grown-up version of her teenage sister. She had a full out hourglass figure. Madd Skillz could tell that it was all natural. “Well, it’s good that you haven’t just left it up to the police.”
“We found one lady who was a private investigator, and she said looking for a black person in Miami is impossible. But Robin posted from several places.”
Just then, Madd Skillz’s earpiece vibrated. “Excuse me,” he said, stepping away from the father and daughter.
“Yes, Reginald, what’s up?”
“I’m sorry to hear about the missing model but, you have the world to save. So, my brother Madd Skillz, give the girl back her flier before you get both of us in trouble. I already know what you’re thinking.”
Madd Skillz smiled and held the flier up to his eyes. “First of all, they need us. This is not going to change why STRESS sent me down here. I am just going to look into it. No reason why I can’t help save this girl and save the world at the same time. Chill out, Reg. Let it happen.”
“Let it happen? You know the assignment is just to observe, not seek revenge. Skillz, everyone who traffics humans is not a member of the Order of Kabaz.”
Madd Skillz tapped his earpiece, shutting it off; then he returned to the girl. Her father was now standing next to her.
