When Is a Duck, Not a Duck?
By Mark Slade
Rock ‘n’ roll legend Little Richard and his band take a detour through the mysterious town of Ebbing—a place that seems to shift between existence and nothingness.
(Interview conducted by Jerry Kurdle, published in Good Times magazine,1968.)
INTERVIEWER:
I’m sorry?
LITTLE RICHARD:
When is a duck, not a duck?
INTERVIEWER:
I don’t understand the question.
LITTLE RICHARD:
I’ll say it slowly. When. Is. A. Duck. Not. A. Duck?
(Pause.)
(Both laughing.)
INTERVIEWER:
I… I don’t know.
LITTLE RICHARD:
Exactly! He don’t know either!
(Laughing.)
Richard Penniman didn’t understand.
The headaches were getting worse. At first he just thought it was his sinuses acting up like all the other doctors said it was. His nose was stuffed up, and he could breathe pretty well. Anyway, what did they know?
“Olsie!”
He barked at his sax player, who sat in the front seat of the ’47 Closely station wagon.
“What choo want, Richard?”
“I want you to stop smokin’ that God awful, stinky-ass cigar!”
“I got the window rolled down!” Olsie retorted. “It ain’t stinky! Smells like fire roasted nuts!”
“Gonna roast your nuts, if you don’t do what I say!” Richard bellowed.
Laughter drowned out the car radio that was playing Connie Francis.
“You ain’t goin’ to do shit,” Olsie sneered. “Hell, this cigar I got on Beale Street in Memphis.”
Richard sat in the back with Cherry, his on/off girlfriend/best friend, and to be honest, Little Richard’s tour manager; though light-skinned, beautiful, very smart, envy of all men—no matter their race—no one would ever give Cherry a turkey as highfalutin as such. Driving the vehicle, with much skill and very little sleep, was Richard’s drummer, Charles.
“You okay, baby?” Cherry asked.
“My head is about to explode,” Richard said. “And this pecker is puffin’ on a nasty cigar.”
“You’re tied, man,” Charles said. “You always get worn out when we drive this far.”
“So bitchy,” Olsie stated, blowing smoke out a cracked window. “This ain’t nasty.”
“I ain’t bitchy! Somebody gonna get their ass whooped if they keep jawin’ at me!”
“Richard,” Cherry warned. “Stop getting upset. You get angry and you won’t have a good show.”
“Fuck the show,” Richard sulked.
“Why don’t you close your eyes and get some rest,” Charles said. “We gotta another hour before we hit Lapona.”
“Yeah, baby. Take a nap,” Cherry chimed in.
Richard heard Olsie and Charles snicker.
“Pull over!” Richard ordered.
The other three protested.
“What? Out here?”
“Hey, man–”
“Richard, no–”
“Ain’t nothin ‘ out here , man!”
Richard saw a sign for a town. “Ebbing, 1 mile.” An arrow pointing to turn left.
“Go that way!” Richard said, pointing.
Charles said, “we don’t know what’s there. What if it’s cops that don’t like our skin color?”
“We already ride through places with cops that don’t like our skin color, Charles,” Richard rationalized.
Shaking his head, Charles took the turn off, veered down a winding, twisting blacktop surrounded by newly installed metal rails. The car ended up going down a dirt road for less than a mile until they were rumbling over gravel one lane, and finally onto another paved road that was in desperate need of repair, in a very small town.
“One street,” Oslie said. “And guess what the name? Yep. Mainstreet.” He laughed uproariously and slapped his knee.
“I bet there ain’t no black people here,” Charles said.
“I don’t think there’s any people here,” Cherry said.
“I don’t care,” Richard railed. “I need some air! Pull over here so I can take a walk.”
Without waiting for the car to stop, Richard opened the door. Slipping out, he heard Cherry call out to him as he slammed the door. Richard muttered to himself as he walked briskly away. When he looked over his shoulder, he noticed the car was gone.
“They left my ass!” Richard crooned. “Oh, I will remember this, Charles!”
He stopped suddenly. Thinking for a moment, Richard realized he didn’t hear the car drive off, nor smelled the exhaust.
Staring at where the car should be, Little Richard shuddered.
“Damn,” he whispered. “That’s some weird mess.”
He smelled the air. So much cleaner than other places he’d been. No smog. No horrible paper factory smell. No dead animal smells. His head was still pounding, though.
Richard heard voices through the bushes. A car horn tooted twice and there was the hustle and bustle of busy city life. He peaked through and saw people and vehicles that couldn’t have been there minutes ago.
Richard stepped between the bushes and onto pavement that hadn’t existed seconds ago. He stood there, hands on his hips watching people going about their business. In the blink of an eye, the cars, the people, and the buildings faded away. In another blink there they were, back in existence.
Richard was flabbergasted. He took two steps back and bumped into someone. Still jittery, he yelped, backpedaled into a bush, which kept him upright. Richard saw the person he bumped into was a little blonde haired girl giggling.
“My oh my!” Richard roared. “Where did you come from?”
“You’re funny,” the little girl said.
“You were not here a second ago! This is a strange place.”
“Are you lost?” The little girl asked.
Little Richard considered the question.
“You could say that,” he retorted.
“I can help you find your house.”
“Little girl,” Richard smirked. “My house is the house of worship.”
“Oh,” she said. The little girl walked up to Richard and took his hand. He seemed to be startled by this small action. “You mean a church. You talk like my Daddy.”
“I do?” Richard looked at the little girl incredulously. “Is your Daddy black?”
“No,” the little girl said in all seriousness. “He’s silly like you.”
“Oh. Acting like a fool ain’t so bad then.”
“Come on,” she ordered, taking steps through the bushes, nearly dragging Richard in the process. “Church is this way.”
Richard went with her, sauntering down the street, worrying if citizens of this small sleepy town would call the police on him for holding hands with a white girl.
She led Richard to a Mount Greenwood Baptist church a white three-story building with pointed, Gothic arches, tall, thin columns, rib vaults, flying buttresses, stained-glass rose windows. On the roof sat another small open room with black bell.
Richard’s headache grew worse.
He stopped. The little girl pulled slightly.
“Why’d you stop?” She asked.
“I don’t feel well,” Richard said. “My mind… is all… fuzzy.”
Richard couldn’t see straight. He saw more blotches of shapes than people, which is why he kept his eyes closed. His knees began to buckle, but he steadied himself by grabbing hold of a tree limb of a birch. He couldn’t hang on, though, and he found himself kneeling to the ground.
“Are you alright,” a voice cut through the white noise Richard was hearing.
“My friend is sick,” the little girl said.
Richard opened his eyes to see he was face-to-face with a grizzled old woman with the most striking, clear blue eyes he’d ever seen. She wore a black cloak with strange intertwining symbols embroidered on the sleeves.
“Why don’t we help your friend inside the church?” The old woman said.
Richard didn’t resist. Shakily, he got to his feet, and let the old woman and the little girl lead him by hand to the wooden double doors that immediately swung open.
“Lord have mercy,” Richard moaned as he hung his head. “Sweet Jesus caress my soul!”
They led him to the back row pews. Richard sat gingerly on the long glossy wooden plank. He bowed his head and mumbled some prayers. By this time, Richard thought his head was going to explode. His mind was filled with imagery of Christ on the cross and naked bodies in a sexual ball, and tiny electric shocks ran rampant through his body, causing him to whimper.
The stage was a good hundred feet from the pew. A very short, pasty-faced young man wearing a starched white shirt and a very thin black tie. He was thin as a beanpole. Long, wiry arms flailed with every word that fell from this rubbery lips. Close cropped hair sat on his acorn shaped head, looking a bit like a Brillo brush.
Behind him was a banner with his face, smiling, but stern look in his steely eyes. The name Rev. Billy Snow was stitched in bold black lettering above his picture.
Reverend Snow pounded the top of his podium with a fist.
Richard sat straight up and mumbled, “I’m here God…”
This good Reverend was smiling as he bellowed fire and brimstone in a hateful voice.
“These men come down here from New York… and from Florida… to find out my reasons on rock and roll music and why I preach against it and I believe with all of my heart that it is a contributing factor to our juvenile delinquency of today.”
The echoing words carried over the church and washed over Richard. His head jerked back and forth in rhythm if not in agreement. Voices softly rang out with hallelujahs until they became an army in unison.
“These men come down here from New York… and from Florida… to find out my reasons on rock and roll music,” He paused for dramatic effect, looking on to ghostly faces appearing out in the pews around Richard. “And why I preach against it and I believe with all of my heart that it is a contributing factor to our juvenile delinquency today.”
Finally, the bodies of Reverend Snow’s followers appeared, transparent, yet visible enough to see they had dressed for Sunday church.
“I hundred percent believe it,” Reverend Snow looked on to his captivated audience. Richard had his head in his hands, mumbling prayers he hoped God would hear and stop the pounding in his head.
“Why I believe that is,” Reverend Snow continued. “Because I know how it feels when you sing it. I know what it does to you and I know the evil feeling that you feel when you sing it. I know the-the-the lost position that you get into, in the beat.”
A swell of amens and hallelujahs rolled through the salted sweaty air inside the church. Richard immediately threw his hands in the air and cried out his own amens sprinkled with a few “Jesus save me!”
Reverend Snow sucked in his chest before viciously emitting, “Well, if you talk to the average teenager of today and you ask them what it is about rock and roll music that they like, and they’ll—the first thing—they’ll say is,” Snow shifted his wide eyes from ghostly face to ghostly face, until they settled on Richard.
Little Richard felt a jolt of energy. He cried out, “Lord Jesus save my soul!”
A shadow moved across the floor, then the wall.
Reverend Snow slammed his fist on the podium, announcing: “The beat! The beat! The beat!”
“Let’s rip it up! Go-go have a go-go time on a go-go Saturday night, baby! I’m going to rock it up! I’m going to rip it up! I’m going to shake it up!”
The shadow hovered above Richard. He felt his freezing cold sweats turned to warmth, and the shadow whispered, “Be not afraid, child, I will lead you to the promised land.”
Richard bowed his head and said, “Thank you, sweet Jesus!”
Reverend Snow screeched:
“Go-go have a go-go time on a go-go Saturday night, baby! I’m going to rock it up! I’m going to rip it up! I’m going to shake it up!”
A chorus of amens sounded off, and the ghostly flock rose from the pews.
Quietly, Snow said, “God knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men, and yes, men lures women, children, and the sick to their tyranny,” he lifted a finger and pointed it straight at Little Richard. He held up his left hand, palm out to reveal a large blinking Eye.
“He is a part of this tyranny! He is misleading our youth! He is taking them straight to Hell!”
The Eye cackled.
Reverend Snow’s flock all turned to Richard, filed into a formation as if they heard an order given. A low growl rose up from their throats. Their transparent faces had morphed into skulls of pure hatred, and their black pupilless eyes had deadlocked on Richard Penniman. He felt the string in his legs go. His arms were too weak and tired to move. His brain was screaming, “Run”, but the headaches muffled the commands.
Snow’s flock slowly began to move toward Richard. As they inched closer, the shadow grabbed him by his shirt sleeve and jerked him away from the grips of the first ghosts reaching out. A wind whisked Richard through the church stage, knocking the podium into Reverend Snow.
Crying out, Snow fell from the stage into the pews. He called out for his flock to go after Richard.
“Bring him back to face the tides of Hell!”
The shadow pulled Richard up into the air, causing his arms and legs to flail as he flew from corner to corner of the church. Richard yelped, then laughed as he sailed across the church. Ghostly hands reached for him. Richard uttered taunts that soon turned to screams as he was carried out an open window. Now he was floating above that birch tree, the buildings below becoming smaller and smaller.
“Richard?”
The voice shook him into reality. He had been lying in a field and was looking up at Cherry and members of his band. His head was clear. His mind was fluid and not stifled with other voices. He said nothing. He just called and kicked his feet.
“Where have you been?” She asked exasperated.
“We’ve been looking for you everywhere,” Olsie added.
Richard cackled, shook his head. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
The station wagon rolled down the highway. The sun was setting and the stars, the moon and the sun were about to meet. As the station wagon passed by a juxtaposition of I-81 and Zion the railroad, a car was crushed. Debris was everywhere and metal from the vehicle and train lay on both sides of both roads. Two figures stood at the scene, waving the Richard Penniman. An old woman and a little girl.
Richard turned and smiled at his shadow sitting next to him, realizing it was taller than his soul.
INTERVIEWER:
Interesting story. I still don’t understand.
LITTLE RICHARD:
That’s alright, baby. I’ve been trying to understand all that for years!
