NYU Black Renaissance Noire Winter 2014 - Page 18

Nillmon, half-stunned, finding himself kicking the air when what he wanted to kick was so plain, wipes his mouth in a nervous sling of his arm, and while the sleeve is passing over his face he tries to see if he holds a pistol, feels himself squeezing it and emptying it. But he can’t. It is all too easy. This Fon nigger ain’t scared. He knows now he has a nigger that needs a thorough job. Nillmon smiles and spits on the gravel in front of Fon. “Git in.” Fon moves around the car, opens the door, and slowly gets in, closing his door carefully and firmly. Nillmon slams his and jerks the car forward. The car picks up speed. Nillmon grips the steering wheel until the blood is cut off from his hands. A thin line of smoke issues from the rear window. “Yesss, nigger, think you can count them pieces of glass with the tip of your tongue?” Fon is silent. Nillmon relaxes his grip and looks at him from the corner of his eye. “What the hell you niggers doin up on that sign chunkin at cars anyway?” A cattle crossing. The car, slowing, slowing… “Teachin my brother how to shoot his arrows.” …and the car stops. Nillmon feels himself lunging toward Fon, pushing him out of the car with his foot, and blasting his &