embarrassment
of being outside in your underwear.
Once you’re over the fence you should be safe,
because the dog should be too tired
from all the swimming to jump the fence. But it’s going to
try. And while it’s trying you better be booking it back
to the street, and home. But if for some reason,
when you get back
to the street, the dog is there waiting for you man
you might be dead.
No. No, no, no.
If for some reason the dog is there waiting for you,
break off and jump
on that old car that’s been sitting in front of
Sadani’s house. After Sadani
had his car stolen a few years ago, he only ever buys old
crappy cars
that he can’t get working, so he won’t mind you jumping on
the hood. And if the dog jumps on
the hood with you, climb to the roof. The dog should slip
on the windshield some, but don’t count on that.
While he’s slipping
and sliding,
jump off the car and see if it’s unlocked. Sadani never
locks the doors
of those cars because he knows
they’re impossible to start and
therefore impossible to steal.
If it’s open, jump in, close the door.
This is a safe place
because you don’t need to turn the car on
to roll the windows down.
It will have the old kind of window roll-downer.
Crack the window and scream until help comes.
But if for some reason the door is locked, pull the
sausage patties you saved from this morning’s breakfast out
and
fling them like Frisbees. If the dog doesn’t go for them
though really, who wouldn’t? then you’ll have to
break out your routes.
Your zigs and zags.
Just like back when you and Clancy pretended to be in
the Super Bowl,
him the quarterback and
you the wide receiver.
Where do you think Clancy is?
What do you think he’s doing right now?
Throwing Hail Marys?
Running the opposite way?
Not helping his teammates?
Why didn’t he chase Brutus?
Why didn’t he tackle him?
If he would’ve tackled him, you would’ve barked at it.
Growled at it so it knew what that felt like.
Not important right now. What’s important
is making sure you have your
zigs and zags ready. Be prepared to cut
left and cut right,
stutter and juke,
stagger and jerk.
He has four legs and you have two, there’s no way
the dog will be able to keep up, right?
Or maybe the more legs the better?
Who knows, but do it anyway.
Zig and zag all the way home.
When you get to your house, run around
to the side door that you left unlocked
this morning knowing your mother would kill you
if she knew you left the door unlocked
because y’all don’t have a guard dog
or an alarm system.
If for some reason, some strange reason, that side door
is locked well, Satchmo
you’ll have to just pray
for a miracle. A distraction. Something crazy
like a school bus falling from the sky.
This is what Satchmo told himself, what he was ready to execute—the master plan to save his life—as he approached Mr. Jerry’s house. Satchmo had purposely walked on the other side of the street to give himself a little bit of an advantage. No need to bait the beast. As he slinked past Mr. Jerry’s front door, coming up on his side yard, Satchmo’s backbone became rawhide, his stomach a squishy chew toy, his palms wet but his fingers dry like dog treats, when he heard the bark. Well, not really a bark, but the gruff voice of an old man.
“Satch! Satch!”
Mr. Jerry was calling out for him. He was kneeling behind the fence, rubbing the dog’s head, its tongue slapping the old man’s cheek. No bite-bite.
Love-love.
“Satch, come here,” Mr. Jerry said, his face a touchdown dance all its own. “I want to introduce you to my friend.”
OOKABOOKA LAND
“GATHER, GATHER, gather round, ladies and gentlemen, leopards and giraffes, lollipops and gummy bears, lizard lips and googly-eyes, and yes, even you… Mrs. Stevens. I am the super-super Say-So, and I’ve come to make you laugh until you pass. Pass what, you ask? Pass gas. Pass out. Pass away. Pass anything other than… class.”
“Careful,” Mrs. Stevens warned from her desk in the corner of the room. She sat with her arms folded, watching Cynthia “Say-So” Sower put on a show in front of the class. This was the only way to keep Cynthia from disrupting and derailing the entire lesson. If Mrs. Stevens didn’t give her these five minutes at the end, Cynthia would burst into some kind of sideways monologue about whatever Mrs. Stevens had been teaching that day. Like how negative numbers deserve empathy because no one should ever feel lower than zero.
“I mean, wouldn’t you feel a little negative too, if people kept saying you less than nothing? You basically don’t even really exist. You under under. Your mama done probably kicked you out. Your girlfriend or boyfriend done broke up with you, and when you asked why, they just said something like, you ain’t enough for me. So tell me, who is crying for the negative number? Who, Mrs. Stevens? Whoooo?” Cynthia would wail and flail overdramatic fists in the air, all leading up to the big finish, Cynthia planting her face flat on the desk. Cheek to wood. And right when Mrs. Stevens would think it was over, Cynthia would lift up and ask, “You know what I would do if I was a negative number?”
There was only one answer.
“Cynthia, don’t you dare,” Mrs. Stevens warned, knowing what was coming.
There was always only one answer.
“I… would…”
One answer, and the whole class knew it.
“Cynthia. Seriously.” Mrs. Stevens shook her head.
And because the whole class knew it, they joined in and said it with her.
“RUN!”
Cynthia would jump up from her desk and charge out of the classroom. But only for a second. Then she’d come back in as if it never happened, have a seat at her desk, straighten her posture, pick up her pencil with one hand, and play with the two plaits sprouting from either side of her head—a hairstyle she loved for its comedic effect—with the other. Mrs. Stevens used to call out for her, used to stutter-step toward the door, used to threaten to write her up.
“Don’t divide me from the class, Mrs. Stevens. Please. Don’t… divide us!” Cynthia would fake beg, doubling down on the math joke.
“Oh, I’m not planning on doing any division, Cynthia. I’m thinking more along the lines of subtraction.”
But Mrs. Stevens never did. Truth is, she liked Cynthia’s jokes. It reminded her of old comedians on the black-and-white TV shows her grandmother used to watch when she was a child. So she cut the goofball a deal. If Cynthia could be attentive and serious all class, she would get the last five minutes to do her thing.
“So, L’s and G’s, let’s start with the news. This just in: Shirt… is a strange word, right? I mean, seriously, there had to be better options when it came to naming… this.” Cynthia tugged at the collar of her T-shirt. “I heard—and this is just what I heard—a long, long, long time ago, there was this dude who was a clothes maker, and he invented this thing to cover your chest and arms and stuff. Now, when he first made it, he called it an arm-belly-chest cloth. But that name was too long, so then he shortened it to an ABC. But then, the ABCs came out and y’know that became a whole thing with the song, and the cool LMNOP part, and the next thing he knew, everybody was doing it, and the clothes maker realized maybe ABC wasn’t the best name to call his arm-belly-chest cloth. But he ain’t have another name for it. One night, he was sitting with a friend. No, not one friend, a bunch of his friends. At a dinner. And everybody’s trying on his arm-belly-chest cloth thing, right? And the clothes maker is nervous, because people love it and they keep asking him what it’s called. And when he tells them, their faces drop, like they can’t believe it. ‘That’s too long of a name. We call shoes, shoes. Not toe cover-uppers!’ they said. Now, see, the clothes maker was a nervous eater. I forgot to tell y’all that part. Every time he got stressed out or, like, anxious, he would eat. And now he was nervous because everyone was saying his garment wouldn’t work unless he changed the name. ‘So what are you going to change it to?’ they asked. And instead of responding, he just started stuffing bread in his mouth. Bread, bread, bread. Just pushing it in there. ‘What are you going to name it?’ they repeated. And do you know what the clothes maker said with a mouth full of rolls?” Pause, for effect. “I’ll tell you what he said,” Cynthia wound up. “The clothes maker shrugged and said all muffled, ‘Shirt, I don’t know!’ ”