82 Desire

didn’t want no African name,
    ‘Cause I am African American, love it or hate it, And I didn’t want no LaTonya, I didn’t want no LaKeisha
    Latifah, Tanisha, Marquita, Shamika—
    White asshole steal somethin’ from me,
    I’m gon’ steal somethin’ right back—
    I AM THE BARONESS DE PONTALBA,
    And you can kiss my artistocratic black ass.
    Having hollered out the last three words as if the entire state of Louisiana had suddenly gone deaf, the poet bowed her head demurely, a shy light in her eyes. “Thank you,” she said, or so Ray surmised. Her lips moved, but he couldn’t hear for the applause, his own included. Without even thinking, he rose to his feet, as did the rest of the audience, some of them shouting, “Yeah,” and “Brava.”
    The woman had something. Ray Boudreaux would not have described himself as a flaming liberal, yet tears had sprung to his eyes when she said the word “Urethra.” When she hollered, “prowwwwwwd.”
    His wife touched his elbow. “Do you think it’s true?”
    He was shocked. It never occurred to him that it wasn’t true. The woman’s name was Exit for Excret. “Don’t you?” he said, and she shrugged.
    The room spun for a second as he felt a wave of disbelief in himself. Was he as innocent and easily gulled as the poet’s mother? Was that what his problem was?
    The Baroness called for the man with dreads. “And this is Lamar,” she said. “My partner in crime.”
    More applause, while Lamar set up a new group of canvases, abstract this time, very different from the first, which had been merely a backdrop for the poet. These seemed to come from the heart.
    She was starting to read again.
They have little yellow heads and bright green legs made out of silk
    They have tiny little brains and tiny little bones and zillion-dollar homes.
    That they won’t leave.
    They travel in a flock and
    They never leave their block
    And their husbands have no cocks—
    Or then again they might. The parakeets don’t know
    Because the parakeets don’t care
    Because the parakeets don’t dare
    Have any thoughts,
    Feelings
    Ideas
    Sensations
    Fun
    Opinions or
    Desires.
    But the parakeets do scare.
    See a brother comin’ down the street,
    That little bird’s gonna vote with her feet.
    They have tiny little bones and tiny little brains
    And a whole shitload full of disdains.
    Ray’s attention wandered. He didn’t think this poem was nearly as successful as the first; in fact, wasn’t even sure what it was about—a certain kind of woman, evidently. His wife poked him. “Now this one I like.”
    “Why?”
    “Oh, you know those girls. Those parakeets.”
    “What girls?”
    “The ones with the tiny little bones. You know. They chirp.”
    Ray guessed it was a woman thing. The Baroness finished the parakeet poem and sipped water, giving Lamar time to change the scenery. She continued reading for another twenty minutes, but, for Ray, none of the poems was as powerful as the one about her names. When she had taken her bow and started walking among her devoted fans, trailing yards of purple fabric, he listened to her banter with them.
    This was the part of the evening he was looking forward to.
    And the thing he was hoping for was happening. A group was forming around the cop.
    A gorgeous black woman arrived with her date, who was no less attractive than she. The teenage girl got up and hugged the man. The boy slapped him a high five.
    “Hey, Darryl. How’s it goin’, man?”
    “Hey, Kenny. Whereyat? Does anyone say that anymore?”
    Darryl. Ray wrote it down.
    “Hey, Lou-Lou.”
    “What are you kids doin’ up?”
    “Auntie’s exposing us to culture.”
    Lou-Lou. Cindy Lou Wootten, the police shrink.
    “Lou-Lou, what are you doing here?” The cop was talking.
    The shrink rolled her eyes. “Now that’s a story. Later for that.”
    The girl said, “Are you guys dating?”
    “Dating? Naaah, we practically hate each other. We made a deal—I escort her to this and she talks to one of my classes.”
    “Good, ‘cause I might want to marry you.”
    The Baroness had come up behind him: “You and me both, honey. My name’s Your Excellency, what’s yours?”
    The man bowed nearly to the waist. “Your Humble Servant. Humble for short.”
    Cindy Lou snorted. “Dear God.”
    The Baroness bristled. “What’s the matter? You didn’t like the reading?”
    “Oh, I did like it. I liked it very much. I’m Cindy Lou Wootten. And this is Darryl Boucree. You’re welcome