But for the 9th Louisiana Colored Infantry, it was the proudest, most electrifying moment of their lives, one they would, to a man, never forget. Thus, few among them noticed that among their 120 troops, 14 cannons, 11 wagons, and 45 mule skinners who stood in tight formation to greet the Republic’s sixteenth president there was one missing Union Army mule, one missing Union Army wagon, several barrels of Union Army supplies, and one unpaid Union Army soldier named Sergeant Abe Porter, who at that moment was making tracks north with a boy named Little Abe, rolling that Army mule at a double trot as fast as it could go, man and boy bound for the North and the long wait for the arrival of freedom and all that it represented, whatever it was, whenever it was, and however it was bound to come.
THE MOANING BENCH
The Gatekeeper strode briskly into the room, slamming the door behind him. He seated himself behind a mahogany desk with an angry grunt. He was short, stout, and clad in a long, tattered dark green robe. His facial features, if there was a face there at all, were hidden deep beneath the folds of a hood. His dark hands, thick, calloused, gnarled, and deeply veined, were clenched in anger. His fingers, topped by long nails, were curled together in outrage. His chest rose and fell in short huffs and puffs. It had been a long day.
He snatched the notepad on his desk and stared at it. Facing him on a narrow bench, five people in blue terrycloth robes sat, watching him nervously. From behind the door he entered came a sudden, wretched, agonizing human scream, then silence, followed by another blood-curdling howl, this one worse than the first, then silence again. The hooded figure at the desk seemed not to notice: He was busy with his pad, scratching notes.
When he was done, he put down his pen and took in his nervous audience seated on the bench, their backs against an unadorned white wall in the otherwise empty room. He cleared his throat, started to speak, and was interrupted by a sudden yelp from behind the door again, which caused a couple of the bench sitters to jump. He waved an impatient claw in the air.
“Oh please,” he said. “Don’t get all cracked up. They only work here. You oughta hear the customers.”
He tossed the notepad onto the desk and got up, pacing in front of them. He hated mix-ups like these. Now he had to go through the trouble of explaining, and even worse, listening. He was so tired of listening.
His threw his hands into the air as he paced, the words flying out of his mouth into the barren room like hot coals.
“Your fat rear ends are parked on what we call The Moaning Bench,” he snapped. “You’re there because at your last conscious moment, just before you quit paying taxes for good, someone was not sure. That someone,” he said matter-of-factly, “is my boss. Or thinks He is.”
He cleared his throat and coughed. “Anyhow, that’s a personnel issue and no concern of yours.”
A howl emanated from the doorway behind him and suddenly quit, as if the howler were choked off. The five benchwarmers shifted again.
The Gatekeeper snapped: “Sit still. You can’t open your yakking holes till I clear you. After I clear you, you can beg all you want. But keep the bleating and pleading to a minimum, please. ’Cause I’m in a fucking mood.”
He sat down again, furious. He was sick of the gig, sick of the same play, day after day, the same human desire to keep living. For what? He liked it better when his packages came clean. Banished. That was perfect.
“Since you’re borderline cases, there are other factors involved,” he said. “But I don’t feel like explaining all that today. Besides, most all of you are gonna end up behind that door anyway.” He nodded behind him, where another howl was heard.
“Did I mention the furnace was acting up?” he said with a yawn. “Something ’bout the blower burning slow.”
He watched as they shifted in discomfort again.
“Don’t worry. That thing’ll still take the edge off.”
He chuckled at his own joke and flipped pages on the pad, reviewing his notes again. Finally with another yawn, he stretched, sat up, and said cheerily: “All righty then! Let’s get going. State your case one at a time. And don’t take all day. I been hearing shitty excuses since the ancient Druids.”
He pointed to the man at the far end of the bench. The white-haired, elderly gentleman, who wore a tailored gray suit under his terrycloth robe, felt himself released. The man burst into voice. “My name—”
“Stand up,” The Gatekeeper directed.
The man tried to stand, but he was trembling badly and couldn’t manage it. The Gatekeeper impatiently pointed a finger and the man rose off the bench and floated, his feet several inches off the floor, until The Gatekeeper curled his finger away and the man plopped unceremoniously, like a sack of potatoes, back onto the bench.
He popped to his feet, trembling, his terrycloth robe opened showing his suit, now wrinkled, his face damp with perspiration. He yanked a handkerchief from his vest pocket and wiped his brow as he spoke. “I’m Ed Tannenbau—”
“Ed, Ed who peed the bed. Peed till he was seven. Then he dropped dead,” The Gatekeeper whined. “That’s your sister’s ditty, remember, Ed? But you didn’t drop dead, did you, Ed?”
“I did not!”
“Did not what?”
“Pee the bed till I was seven,” Tannenbaum said.
“Oh goody. A liar,” The Gatekeeper snorted. “You might as well throw out those vacation folders, buddy. We got plenty of room for you here. Sit down.”
“But what about arguing my case?” Tannenbaum asked.
“You got no case. And you peed the bed till you were eight, by the way.”
“You said we could.”
“What? Pee the bed?”
“No, argue the case—”
“Not till we’re clear about who peed the bed, Ed.”
“Oh, for Chrissake, I peed the bed, okay? But I deserve my chance to argue my case.”
“All right. Go ahead, Mr. Ed-Who-Peed-the-Bed. C’mon. Speak up! Snap-snap! Chop-chop! Hit it. What’d you do in life, Ed-Who-Peed-the-Bed?”
Ed cleared his throat. “I was a realtor.”
“Strike two, ya lying lawyer.”
“Well, technically I’m not a lawyer since I haven’t practiced—”
“You low-down, pee-filled, yellow-bellied, sap-sucking dog!” The Gatekeeper roared. “You almond-headed, two-faced, small-nutted professor of push-’em-around! How dare you come into my house and lie with such ease? Only I can lie in my house, sir! Should I decide.”
Tannenbaum reddened. “What I meant about me being a lawyer is—”
“What? Not true? Say it, counsel!” Two bright, glowing pings of light suddenly appeared beneath The Gatekeeper’s hood, eyeballs shining like tiny lightbulbs.
Tannenbaum was silent.
“Now I TOLD you I’m in a FUCKING MOOD, sir! You wanna wake up as a fly in a spiderweb? Or be a bird sucked into the engine of a 747? I could squash you like my ass-cheeks squash a fart. You want that?”
“Course not.”
“Then get with it. Shush the nonsense. State your case, Ed. The private stuff, please. The crime. The punishment. The redemption. One, two, three, go.”
“I can’t think of anything . . .”
“It’s the lying I love!” The Gatekeeper said to the others gleefully. “You sorry-ass, Pull-Yourself-Up-by-the-Bootstraps, Mr. Salute-the-Flag, One-Nation-Under-God individual asshole. Punk! Chump! You waffle-faced, lowdown ratbutt-sniffer! And you’re wondering why you’re here! What about those whores in Tibet? You ever think about their children?”
“I was actually there to climb Mount Everest to raise money for charity.”
“Right. And I quit selling oil wells yesterday. You’re going to the smoking section, brother.”
“Serving time?”
“No. You’ll be smoked like cigarettes. Again and again. By the same Tibetan guides that you screwed
. You and the rest of those do-gooder assholes who climbed Mount Everest over the years, leaving your garbage and corpses while you went to find yourselves on your spiritual path. Here’s the scene, Ed: A bunch of do-gooders climb Mount Everest. One of them dies on the mountain. The rest can’t get him down. Guess what? His corpse stays there. And if he’s one of mine, guess who’s got to haul up there to claim his soul? Assholes. What’s wrong with people today?”
“I wasn’t part of that. My expedition didn’t—”
The Gatekeeper pointed a long, jagged finger at Tannenbaum, who rose into the air again like a piece of paper caught in the wind, slammed against the wall, and slid up and down like a volume slide knob, up, then flopped onto the moaning bench, where he curled into a ball, feet on the floor, face in his lap, fists balled upon his forehead.
The next person stood. She was a handsome, middle-aged woman with brown shoulder-length hair. Beneath her robe she wore a frumpy nightgown that reached her ankles.
“What’s the matter, Patty Bross? You left your drawers with Santa Claus?”
Bross shot an embarrassed glance at the others on the bench, then drew the robe closer around her. “The least you could’ve done was let me die with my clothes on,” she snapped.
“Excuse me? Were you teaching Sunday school when I yanked your pale, cellulite-loaded, pot-bellied ass up here? C’mon, Miss Sweet Meat! You were eighteen miles from home, banging skins with a Dixieland drummer! Dixieland. I hate that crap. Devil’s music, my ass! Myself, I prefer rap.”
He waved a hand and a torrent of horrid, filthy, expletive-filled rap blasted into the room at a deafening volume. Patty covered her ears in agony, while The Gatekeeper nodded and grooved with the music, his hooded head jouncing, moving his hands to the beat.
“Turn it down!” Patty pleaded.
He waved a hand and just as suddenly the music was gone, and the room was silent.
The Gatekeeper’s hand disappeared into the dark folds of the hood. The outline of his hand rubbing a dark jaw could be seen beneath his shroud. “You got a problem, miss. It says here that your little hot box, according to my notes”—he regarded his notepad—“over the course of two years has been made available to every man in Cincinnati with a ding-dong who drinks Budweiser.” He put the pad down. “And everybody,” he said wryly, “drinks Bud.”
“My mom died,” Bross said. “I was lost.”
“Now you’re found, you stinker! And you’re blaming your ma. Jeez! Take a load off!” He motioned with his finger and a powerful force slammed Patty into her seat.
The next candidate rose and removed his robe, revealing a heavyset white man clad in a plaid shirt, overalls, and a construction helmet. His face, arms, and hands were covered with black coal dust. His clothing fit him loosely, and a short, heavy spade and other miscellaneous digging tools dangled from his work belt.
“Did anyone say you could take my robe off?” The Gatekeeper asked.
“I got my own clothes,” the man said.
“Well, Wayne Goines, you won’t be needing ’em soon. You got plenty of friends here. And they all chug beer and got double chins just like you. Probably ’cause they spent their lives humping their cousins while they saluted the American flag. Bunch of hootenanny idiots, you types, with your tears in your beers and guns in your pockets, howling to the moon about your civil rights being kicked around. The poor white man.” The Gatekeeper mimicked a child’s voice: “Nobody knows me. Nobody cares ’bout me. Boo hoo. I’m the poor white man. State your case, honky.”
Goines stared at him grimly. “Fuck you.”
“Be careful, stranger.”
“What for? The game’s up. I didn’t sling black rock for thirty-four years to hear you beat up on everything I hold dear. Wiggle your fingers and make all the magic you want. I had fun.” He added wistfully, “I could’ve used a motorcycle, though.”
The Gatekeeper stood up from his desk and paced behind it for a long moment before saying anything else.
“Funny you should say that,” he said. “There’s some second thoughts about you, Mr. Goines.” He folded his hands beneath his cloak. “On one hand, you didn’t hurt anyone. On the other hand, you bought your ticket here.”
“Meaning?”
“You drank and smoked.”
“So what? I could afford it.”
“What about porking that sixteen-year-old girl from Grundy?”
“I was nineteen. And she said she was twenty-five.”
“And looked thirty-five,” The Gatekeeper said. “Oldest-looking sixteen-year-old I ever saw. She had so many wrinkles, she needed pressing. Then again, I’m talking to a man whose wife has a thicker mustache than he does.”
Goines’s face reddened under the black soot. “I’ll thank you to keep your filthy mouth off my wife. She’s a good Christian. The Lord sits in her judgment. And mine, too.”
“Ohhh, the Lord,” The Gatekeeper said airily. “Is He nearby? Where is He?”
Before Goines could reply, The Gatekeeper pointed his finger at Goines’s neck and Goines began to choke. The others watched, horrified, as Goines grabbed his neck and was slammed against the white wall behind the bench, his feet kicking, straining to breathe, choking, as The Gatekeeper’s finger, an invisible force, slid Goines up the wall, Goines’s feet kicking as he rose, his back pinned to the wall as if magnetized to it.
“Where’d He go?” The Gatekeeper said calmly. “Did He stop off for bread? Did He step outside to shake out the rug? Where? Show me where He is, Goines, and I’ll turn you loose.”
Goines desperately clawed at his neck, trying to breathe, kicking at the wall with his boots as he tried to free himself from the force that was strangling him. His face went red, then purple, then blue, then his kicks slowed. His struggles grew weaker and his hands fell to his sides.
The Gatekeeper retracted his finger into his sleeve, and Goines gasped for air as he crumpled into a breathless heap on the bench.
The Gatekeeper yawned. “All right, let’s finish up.” He snatched the notepad from the desk, regarded the list, and glanced at the bench. “You last two I’ll clear at the same time. But I warn you: Beg one at a time. Ladies first.”
A little girl stood up and removed her robe to reveal a patterned dress. She said, “I’m Heather Gallini and I’m twelve years old and—” The Gatekeeper cut her off and held his hand up. “Wait! School lesson number one, sulky poo! When Mama says, ‘Honey, NEVER cross the highway in front of an eighteen-wheeler, ’do you . . . a) listen to Ma, or b) act like a little stinker and take a ch—”
“Stinker? Stinker!? What’s the matter with you, man!” The person behind the voice, the last man on the bench, stood up.
He was a boxer, a huge, young, glistening brown man clearly in his prime, resplendent in white trunks and white ankle-high tennis shoes, with fur balls at the tips of the shoelaces. He was tall and broad, with wide shoulders and muscular biceps tapering down to steel-like wrists and forearms, his huge hands covered by red leather boxing gloves. His right eye was slightly puffed, his body was greased and slick. Sweat ran down his chest and back in rivulets, as if he’d been dipped into a pool.
“Stinker,” he snapped. “Brother, you oughta have your mouth scrubbed out with soap. Calling kids names like that.” He stood, put his hands on his hips, and stalked around in a small circle. “Shoot.”
“You,” The Gatekeeper said.
“That’s right, baby. You know me. Everybody knows me. I’m Rachman Babatunde. Father of four, man of one, son of the seventh son of the seventh son,” he said. He took a step back and began to shadowbox, bobbing up and down, sending blazing lefts and rights into thin air.
“You ought to sit, son,” The Gatekeeper said. “The fight’s over.”
“My eye it’s over,” Rachman said, still shadowboxing. “I was whupping Blue Higgins and the world saw it. I had him. Th
e fight was mine.”
“He knocked you down in the seventh.”
“I was whupping Blue and the world saw it, brother,” he repeated. “You put me here, not him,” Rachman said, bouncing on his toes as he shadowboxed.
“It says here”—The Gatekeeper regarded his pad—“that two out of the three judges had him ahead on points.”
“You can buy a judge in New York for fifteen hundred dollars,” Rachman said. “Plus, Blue can’t hit that hard.” He continued shadowboxing, spinning lefts and rights and whistling into thin air, feinting his head from side to side and sending lefts and rights whooshing past. “I’m so fast!” he whispered. “So fast. I’m so fast it’s wrong. I’m faster than Superman. I’m so fast I make darkness run and hide. I’m faster than the truth. I’m faster than light. Everyone’s scared o’ me.” He whispered, hissing to himself, “Too fast! Too sweet! Oh, they all got plans till they see me. Then they get hit and ain’t got no more plans. ’Cause I knocks ’em out.”
He turned to Heather, who was standing next to him. He playfully swung a few punches at her. “I knock out kids, too,” he chortled. He towered over the youngster like a giant over a flower. Then, as if an afterthought, he placed his huge forearms under her armpits, picked her up, and set her down on the bench. He thumbed her nose playfully with his glove. “I don’t make no exceptions,” he said. “Be careful ’round me, little girl. I’m a bad man.” Then he stuck out his tongue at her. She stared up at him a moment, then giggled.
He turned to The Gatekeeper. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself. Scaring little kids with them tricks. I got an aunt who can put two horse hairs in a glass of milk and turn you into a snake in two days.”
“That’d be interesting, at least,” The Gatekeeper said. But Rachman ignored him. He stepped back and began to shadowbox again, skipping and dancing on his toes in a circle, feinting his head and stabbing his hands in the air. “Sissy!” he hissed, whispering, repeating to himself. “Sissy! Scaring children who ain’t got no free choice! Some men in this world need a good spanking!”