Lousiana Hotshot

three names and she, Miss Talba de Baroness (he was proud of himself for that one) was like a little pussycat herself. He figured he was about to get a month’s worth of ribbing material for Audrey and Angie out of this one.
    One thing, though. The woman’s voice was like cream. Or maple syrup, maybe.
    No, it was butterscotch. Yeah. Unbearably sugary and sweet and exotic. Less familiar than chocolate, yet with more personality. Gentler. More tantalizing. Maybe the best stuff in the world, if you didn’t count oyster po’boys. When he was a kid, he didn’t give a damn for chocolate. Give him butterscotch every time.
    “I am like a cat,” the poet said.
    For Christ’s sake, give me a break,
he thought. And then she really got going.
    When I was born, I was a little piece of toffee.
    Brown toffee.
    Soft and sweet and just as innocent as the baby Jesus.
    Just as innocent as my mama.
    Or maybe I should say my sweet mama was just as
    innocent as
    her own sweet baby.
    My sweet mama was so proud.
    My sweet mama was so proud.
    Even though her own sweet baby was born at
    Charity Hospital
—
    (Couldn’t have been worse— there ain’t really no St.
    James Infirmary)
    She was lyin’ there at Charity like Cleopatra in exile
    And she says to the Pill Man, the one who pulled her
    baby out of her womb and stopped that relentless screaming pain
—
    She says to that nice young man, “What you think I ought to name my baby?”
    My mama so proud of her little piece of toffee,
    She wants to name her somethin’
fine.
Somethin’ fancy.
    Somethin’ so special ain’ no other little girl got the same name.
    And the doctor say, “Name that girl Urethra.”
    And my mama, she just as pleased, and she so proud,
    And she say, “That’s a beautiful name.
    Ain’nobody in my neighborhood name Urethra.
    We got Sallies and we got Janes and we got Melissas and
    Saras—we got LaTonyas, just startin’ to have Keishas—but
    Ain’ nobody else name Urethra.
    I’m gon’ name my baby Urethra for sure.”
    And that’s my first name—the one they put on my birth certificate.
    I am named Urethra. Now ain’t that a beautiful name?
    But somebody knew. Somebody in our neighborhood.
    Somebody told my sweet mama she name her little candy girl
    after some ol’ tube you piss through.
    My name is Piss Tube.
    My name is Pee Place.
    My name is Exit for Excreta.
    And my sweet mama so proud.
    Now she call me Sandra. I never did find out why.
    Must be for the sand got in her eyes when she listen to that white man.
    Do I look like a Sandra to you?
    My name is Urethra.
    My name is Exit for Excreta.
    And I am a baroness.
    Because a cat has three names and I am like a cat.
    My sweet mama’s broken and weak now,
    After what that white man did to her
—
    She never did trust no one again, black or white.
    And I can never say again, “My mama’s proud.”
    I 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 La Keisha,
    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 aristocratic black ass.
    ***
    Shock value,
he thought.
She’s just going for shock value. Everybody’s heard that stuff about the interns at Charity Hospital, but nobody believes it. It’s just a story, for Christ’s sake. This is the kind of thing keeps the races apart. This girl isn’t doing anybody any good with this kind of crap.
    Still. The poem made him feel a little shaky. Awkward, kind of. He stole a glance at his wife and saw she was staring at Angie, who was in tears. Good. A way out. “Angie, ya so softhearted,” he said.
    “I don’t see what’s wrong with her,” Audrey said. “I thought it was supposed to be funny.”
    “Supposed to be. Sure—
supposed
to be,” he said. “Well, I thought it was supposed to be sad and funny at the same time, but I don’t think it was either one, ‘cause I don’t believe a word of it. I think the Baroness is a hype artist.”
    Angie gave him an, “oh, Daddy” look, and the poet started up again.
    “That’s from a series of poems I’ve written— still writing, matter of fact— about my favorite subject: The Baroness Myself. ‘Course, I wouldn’t want you to think I’m self-involved or anything, but after a hard day of makin’ up verses, I find I still don’t have enough to cover the rent and shrink