You Can Go Black and Bring Him Back

By

Timothy N. Stelly, Sr.

For comedian Paul Mooney. His "Niggerstein"

monologue from his album, "Race" was the

inspiration for this.

O N E

Harlem, New York City, 2005

12:57 a.m.

Hidden among the blue-black shadows in the corner of a rancid, dilapidated tenement three men sat huddled together. A light blue cloud containing the acrid smell of crack hovered above them. A faint sliver of light shone through one of the apartments many broken windows and the eyes of the three were all that could be seen: Three pairs of shining, tension-filled orbs, like those of cornered rats. The men—James, Robert and Walton—were dressed in ragged gloves and coats that reeked of cheap wine, cigarettes and the sour stench wrought by many consecutive days of wear. The men partook of their addiction quietly, as if they were well-to-do members of a gentlemen’s club and were puffing stogies.

James took a lungful of the smoke, closed his eyes, then gazed skyward with a serene look on his sweat-beaded face. The scene was reminiscent of a man stranded in the desert thanking God for the sudden discovery of a cool stream. Weary crevices in his face and furrowed brow, and the gray hair in his hair made him look a decade older than his forty years. After he exhaled the toxic fumes, he sipped from a bottle of Wild Irish Rose, then passed the bottle to Walton.

Walton was a skinny man with a face that resembled a skull spray-painted a patchy gray and brown. He had lost all of his teeth, his eyes were droopy and bloodshot, and his skin resembled that of a man twice his age. One look gave the impression that he wouldn’t be alive much longer.

"We need to get a couple more bottles," he mumbled. "I need a few swigs to chase this lithium."

James shook his head. "Man, you’re a human pharmacy. You take Valium, Percocet, Phenobarbital, Wellbutrin, Ex-Lax and now Lithium. For what, Walton?"

Walton grinned involuntary—a tic he’d had since childhood.

"I told you the doctor said I’m bi-polar."

"Meaning what, you can smoke crack on two glass poles at once?"

Robert laughed and his mirth was followed by a coughing fit. A cloud of smoke passed over his rotted, cracked teeth and matted gray beard. The air was filled with the scent of the wine and the mind-numbing pungency of his breath. James fanned the air in front of his face and frowned.

"Damn, your breath is humming like a barbershop quartet."

"Forget you and your commentary," Robert snapped back. His voice was raspy, like that of long-dead actor Scatman Crothers. "Let’s piece up on a couple bottles of ‘Night Train’."

"You need to pay off that bottle of Listerine you have on layaway and put it to use," James cracked.

Robert playfully flipped him off and reiterated that they should buy more wine.

"We should get another hit for the road," Walton suggested.

"Look, we only have a hundred bucks or so between the three of us and there’s still three weeks left in this month." James let his words sink in before continuing. "Since we can’t borrow against next months General Assistance checks, we need to take this money and try and parlay it into something major."

"And do what?" Robert asked.

"Get us a motel room or something."

Robert scoffed at the idea. "We’ve been saying that since two-thousand two."

"We’re gonna wind up doing what we always do," Walton added glumly. "Buy more dope."

"Maybe so, but at least this way our dope will last us throughout the month. That means we won’t have to jack anybody, or hold up a liquor store."

Walton shook his head. "Imagine what we could do if we didn’t smoke this shit."

"That’s all we can do is imagine it," James said. "’Cause we all know we ain’t gonna quit."

"No shit," Robert added. "Back in ninety-nine I completed a twelve-step program and when I left the detox center, I took ten steps and found a dope dealer with a ‘borgof’ special."

"’Borgof’?"

"Buy One Rock, Get One Free. Hell, that’s the kinda deal no crackhead could pass up." He rubbed his chin wistfully. "Turns out the crack was fake which left me depressed, so I went on a five-day binge of whisky and real rocks."

"Fuck rehab," James said with disgust. "I wouldn’t go through that shit under federal court order."

"We know," the others said in unison.

"You never did clear that warrant, did you?"

"Hell no." There was a momentary respite of silence, before James suggested, "If we’re gonna get another bottle we better get a move on."

"So what’s the hold up? I’m ready to walk when you are," Robert said.

"I wanna enjoy my high," Walton said absently.

James scoffed at the notion. "When’s the last time you got high?"

"I’m high now."

"No, you’re fucked up."

"Tell me, what’s the difference?"

"High is what we felt the first few times we tried this shit. We’ve spent the better part of two decades trying to recapture that first spark. Now all we can do is reminisce about the shit we lost and say, ‘man, I fucked up’."

"I know the feeling. That’s when you throw your pipe to the ground in disgust and swear you’re gonna quit."

"Then you get a few dollars and run straight to the dope man, who’s willing to help you fuck up your life even more."

"We need a hustle," Walton said quickly, having grown weary of the reality check. "I’m tired-a being broke."

"Being broke has become our way of—"

James’ words were interrupted by the sound of the rear door being forced open. A startled Walton leapt to his feet and yelled, "It’s those guys in the spaceship!"

James shoved him to the floor and motioned for him to keep quiet. After several seconds they heard a groan, followed by the sound of what appeared to be someone dragging themselves across the floor.

"It’s the devil," Walton said, trembling. "He told me if I smoked this shit again that he would come for my soul!"

Again the frightened man jumped to his feet. Only this time he held his glass pipe in the air and flung it to the floor, where it shattered and sprayed glass across the room. James looked at him, shook his head and hissed between clenched teeth, "Quiet, dammit!"

Again they heard a groan, only this one was louder and filled with desperation. James took his lighter from his coat pocket and flicked it. The illuminated faces of the trio gave them a haunting quality and personified the phrase, "the walking dead." Missing from the eerie photo was a hooded figure holding skeletal fingers in a vee shape above Walton’s head.

"I’ll go see what’s up," James said, panting.

"You ain’t leaving me here by myself," Walton said with tremors in his voice.

"Shut up," James said, taking a few steps toward the door. He waited several seconds before moving again. His foot slid and he managed to keep from falling. When he knelt to see what was on the floor he could detect the faint whisper of someone pleading.

"Help me."

He peered into the darkness for several seconds then muttered, "Oh shit."

"What is it?" Robert whispered.

"Blood."

The three were startled by one harsh and mournful plea for help. James duck walked forward. Robert and Walton were close behind.

"My God."

"What is it, James?"

"A woman, and she’s hurt. There’s blood everywhere."

Robert flicked his lighter adding illumination to their dim and disheartening surroundings: A kitchen with no appliances; cabinets with their doors missing and a counter with a hollow facade where drawers once were. There was a sink with a rusted, old-fashioned lead spigot and the floor was made up of fragmented pieces of mismatched tile that were filthy and stained with urine, vomit and littered with burnt matches.

The woman lay on the floor. Her breathing was shallow and labored. Though she was sweating profusely, James could tell that she wasn’t a druggie. The woman had flawless skin and carefully manicured nails. Nor was this woman from their side of town, for white people were seldom seen among the abandoned tenements. And this woman was not only was she white, but very white; alabaster.

"Who is it, James?"

"I dunno." He looked up at his cohorts. "She’s a white woman."

"O, lord we’re going to Sing-Sing," Walton lamented. He looked and sounded as if he were on the verge of tears. He too, knelt and took a closer look as did Robert.

"The clothes she’s wearing are expensive. That’s a Ralph Laurent jacket," Robert said. He looked at James. "What the hell’s a woman like this doing down here?"

"Probably what rich cunts like her call ‘slumming’," James said disgustedly. "And how do you know what kinda clothes she’s wearing?"

"I stole a couple of those coats last Christmas. Some well to do sista offered me a grand for both. Hell, they must have been worth twice that."

"And those boots," Walton said, rubbing his hands together and licking his lips. "They’re genuine leather. That ought to bring us at least fifty bucks."

"Yeah, let’s strip her and sell her shit," Robert said eagerly.

James shook his head. "Brothas, think. What if the cops catch us standing around the bloody, naked corpse of a white woman?"

"No shit," Walton said. "What happens to us will make the Rodney King beating look like a Sunday school picnic."

"We just can’t hang out with her," Robert shot back.

"We can’t even call an ambulance. If someone sees us leaving here, they’ll put two and two together and we’ll get five—years, that is."

"Shit! Just our luck for this bitch to stagger in here." Robert shook his head. "I say we take her shit, get outta here, sell it and don’t look back. We can get a couple of hun…"

His voice lost its fervor as James nodded in his direction, for now he realized the sad truth.

"We can’t sell her shit. It’s covered in blood."

"Listen…" the woman opened her eyes. Though she was in bad shape, they were a vibrant emerald color. "I’m…dying."

"No shit," James replied, but not at all trying to wax sarcastic. "Do you want us to call someone?"

"No."

"Do you know where you are?"

"Yes…and how fitting…"

"I don’t get it," James said to her. "What happened to you?"

"She can’t answer—she’s too weak," Walton surmised.

"I can talk…but I don’t…" she took a deep breath. "Know for how long."

"Got any money?" Robert asked belligerently. "If we have to listen to your rap, we oughta get paid for it."

"I have a large sum…of money…"

"Where?"

"The…the lining of my coat."

Again Robert looked at the others. "Man, let’s rob this bitch and get."

"Give her a drink of the wine," James ordered.

Walton sighed and passed the bottle to James. Robert reluctantly assisted James and they raised her head so that she might sip. Despite it’s "lack of bouquet," it increased her energy, but the reality was, she was still going to die, only slower.

"I was stabbed," she whispered.

"By who?"

"Crazy white men."

"That leaves four million suspects in this city alone," Robert wisecracked.

James cut him a sideward glance and Robert fell silent.

"When I die…take the money. From the…looks of things, you…could use it."

Robert shook his head. "She comes to our house dying, we give her a sip of our wine, then she disses us. Ain’t that a bitch?"

"Sorry, but…I call ‘em like I…see ‘em."

"Ma’am, with all due respect, earlier I asked who are you?"

"I am Victoria Franks."

"Never heard of ya," Walton said.

"That’s because I changed…my name."

She seemed to be gaining strength, so James continued his inquiry.

"What was it before you changed it?"

There was a very long pause and James thought the woman had died. He whispered, "Ma’am?"

She sighed. "My real name is Frankenstein."

Walton gave her an incredulous look. "You mean, your name is Frankenstein Franks? What the fuck was wrong with your parents?"

Victoria shook her head as if agitated. "My last name is…Frankenstein."

She swallowed audibly and James gave her another sip of the wine.

"Do you mean to say your name is Victoria Frankenstein?"

"Yes." She managed to smile at James.

"She don’t need any more of this wine, my brotha. This white chick is buggin’ big-time," Robert whispered.

James took a long time before posing his next question.

"You mean Frankenstein as in the monster with the bolts in his neck?"

"That was Frankenstein’s monster." She paused to catch her breath. "And he didn’t have bolts in his neck."

"That’s how he’s portrayed in the movies."

"Think about it—wouldn’t his jugular vein…have been punctured?"

"The bolts were in his head," Walton said matter-of-factly. "That was so they could jump start his brain."

"They were in his head, all right," Victoria whispered. "But not the one attached to his neck."

"I don’t get it."

"Listen: my grandfather, Victor Frankenstein, created the monster. I’m Victor’s great, great…" she emitted a grunt, closed her eyes and took several deep breaths before her pain subsided and allowed her to continue. "I am the descendant of Victor."

"Hey, Prince wrote a song called ‘The Descendant of Victor’," Walton said, grinning.

"The song you’re referring to is called, ‘The Sacrifice of Victor’ numb nuts" James said wearily, as he rolled his eyes at Walton.

"That’s a strange title for a song," Robert said, stroking his chin as if in deep thought. "Who would keep a last name like numbnuts?"

James paid them no mind and told Victoria, "If you can, please continue, ma’am."

"Naw, fuck this," Robert said firmly. "This bitch said she had some loot in the lining of her coat."

"And I do."

"How much?"

"Eighty thousand dollars."

"Then we could expedite your death and just take your shit."

"Keep it fair, fellas. You wouldn’t want to die on the states terms…so let me die on my terms." She swallowed audibly. "When I’m gone, the money’s yours."

Walton nodded to his cohorts. "Look at her: She won’t make it another 24 hours."

"I say we kill her," Robert said adamantly.

"If we kill her and the police nab us, they’ll assume we raped her as well. This will turn into a racial thing and we don’t want that—not after O.J."

"What do you suggest?" Robert asked irritably.

"Let’s give her twenty-four hours."

Victoria spoke. Her voice had gained some strength. "In exchange for mercy, I offer you a tale that will blow your mind."

James looked her over. Her body was willowy, but enticing. There didn’t seem to be an ounce of excess fat on any part of her. When he saw that his friends were looking at him and shaking their heads he said, "That was a bad choice of words—specifically the words, ’Offer’, ‘tail’ and ‘blow’. But don’t worry, we won’t harm you. We will let you die peacefully."

"Thank you."

James looked at Walton. "Go get our blankets and sheets and that ratty as pad of yours. Let’s make her as comfortable as possible."

Walton stood and went to carry out his tasks. Robert also rose to his feet.

"You can sit here with this crazy ass white woman if you want to."

"Where you going?"

"I’m going to the store for two bottles of wine and some smokes."

After Robert made his exit Walton re-entered the kitchen, his arms laden with the bed wear. He ands James worked in the darkness, silent and methodical. They paused briefly, surprised by Victoria’s humming of Dr. Dre’s, Fuck U. They looked at each other and smiled.

Finally the bed was ready and they had to move her. The two men gave their best effort and moved her gingerly, but Victoria cried out in pain. They lie Victoria on her side (per her wishes). Both men could see the hole in her stomach. One look told them that even though the flow of blood seemed to have been stifled, there was extensive internal damage. There wasn’t anything they, or anyone else could do.

Victoria disrupted their thoughts with a complaint of being "cold."

James removed his coat, placed it atop her and stroked her hair lovingly. He had never been fond of white people. During the seventies he had been the financial officer of a black militant organization. Regardless of color, he felt sad that someone so young would die before his eyes.

"Tell us about your Grandfather," Walton said, in a feeble attempt to keep her spirits up. "Did he really live in a castle and have a flunky named Igor?"

Victoria nodded her head.

"By any chance, was Igor a brotha?"

"Igor’s not a black name," James said.

"Neither is ‘James’, or ‘Walton’."

James shook his head. Victoria managed a slight chuckle.

"My father lived in an isolated house atop a hill, surrounded by wrought iron gating and a moat, but it was by no means a castle."

"Then what was it?"

"For lack of a better description, I suppose it was a three-bedroom bachelor pad."

"So where did he set up his lab?"

"In the basement."

"Was the house in Transylvania?"

"No, no—that was where the Alucards lived. My father, Victor, operated out of London. He sold coca leaves in an elixir he called Kook-a-Cola."

"Why’d he call it ‘Kook-a-Cola’?"

"Some of the people who drank it became addicted, especially the women. Many of them began trading sexual favors for sips of the beverage. They lost weight, became jittery and the hair on the side of their heads fell out."

"The ‘involuntary Mr. T’ look," Walton said. "Just like the crack hoes of today."

"Yes, I suppose." Victoria smiled at the memories. "My parents told me many stories about Victor. I even read his lab notes and that’s how I became interested in microbiology."

"You went to medical school?" James asked.

"Yes, I wanted to study tissue regeneration and help those with spinal cord injuries and whatnot."

"So you’re a doctor?"

"Not in the traditional sense, uh…"

"James."

"And I’m Walton."

She smiled and continued. "Nice to meet you. Anyway, I’m a researcher."

"Of what?"

"I spent my life searching for a magic bullet."

"Then why didn’t you become a gunsmith?" Walton asked.

James informed his friend that Victoria’s words were a figure of speech. By this time, Victoria seemed to be feeling better and the young woman continued her storytelling.

"I was trying to find something that would trigger tissue mending and regeneration."

"Did you find it?"

"Did I ever. In fact, I brought a house and left my job as a lab assistant."

"Where was the college?"

"The Deep South. And trust me, fellas, that phrase is a misnomer. They have some fine institutions there, but their attitudes on race are still predicated on the social mores of the 1850’s."

"What do eels have to do with anything?"

James shook his head. "Walton, she didn’t mean those kinds of morays. She meant the moral conduct accepted by larger society."

"Oh." Walton shrugged, then asked, "So what’d you do after you left school?"

"I set up my own lab where I toiled round the clock. The townsfolk called me mad."

"Before, or after your discovery?" Walton asked.

"Both." She saw the looks of perplexity on their faces and forced herself to a sitting position. After moaning and catching her breath, she leaned against a wall. "I’ll elaborate, but let me warn you: This is where my story gets weird."