The Nigger Factory by Gil Scott Heron Page B

took pride in her kitchen. It was, as was the rest of the house, spotless. Earl often marveled at how she managed to keep the place so clean, especially in the wake of the ‘Black Hurricane,’ which was his nickname for Bobby. Bobby had a tendency to lose baseballs and guns under beds and sofas and there were times when he had the entire Santa Fe railroad in miniature lined up to make stops all over the house.
    She took a minute now to set the table with dishes that had been arranged across the drainboard. The pot was on the stove atop a low flame. When the lid was removed the kitchen was filled with the aroma of tomato sauce and Angie appeared to have a halo of steam around her head.
    ‘We had spaghetti for dinner and I added some for you and some meatballs,’ Angie commented without turning around.
    ‘Good,’ Earl said.
    ‘Uhl! Uhl, I knew you wuz here!’ Bobby’s head had appeared at the door and he was taking a flying leap into Earl’s arms. Earl caught him with a big laugh and placed the youngster down between his legs and held his giggling captive a prisoner between his knees while he tickled the boy lightly under the arms.
    ‘Bobby Rodgers if you don’t get back in that bed,’ Angie said,coming to the table and reaching for her son with mock anger. ‘Earl, don’t tickle him. You know he won’t go back to bed.’
    ‘Bobby? Will you go back to bed?’ Earl asked continuing to tickle him while holding the lad away from his mother’s reach.
    ‘Can I have a soda?’ Bobby wondered. ‘I’ll go back to bed.’
    ‘No soda,’ Angie stated firmly. ‘You know he almost drank a whole thing full of Kool-Aid by himself.’
    ‘You can have some of my beer,’ Earl said. ‘Get me a beer out of the refrigerator.’ He let Bobby go and the youngster bounded away. ‘They gotta be makin’ four-year-old giants nowadays. I was seventeen befo’ I was as big as he is now.’
    ‘Earl, you oughta stop,’ Angie said going back to the spaghetti.
    ‘Here go,’ Bobby said climbing into Earl’s lap. Earl gave out with a muffled ‘Oof!’ as the boy plopped a slippered foot into his stomach.
    ‘Bobby, Earl may not want you climbing all over him. Earl has been busy today and he’s tired.’
    ‘You tired, Uhl?’ Bobby asked unbelieving.
    ‘Little bit, my man,’ Earl said. He had poured a couple of ounces of the beer into a glass and handed it to Bobby.
    ‘Cheers!’ Bobby said, imitating what Earl said when they drank anything together. Angie laughed.
    ‘Cheers!’
    Bobby downed his beer thirstily in one gulp.
    ‘Good man!’ Earl said. ‘Now off to bed.’
    ‘Do I . . .’
    ‘You promised me,’ Earl reminded him. ‘But tell me something. Where you get them pretty eyes?’ he asked the boy, pretending to reach for Bobby’s eyes.
    ‘From my momma.’
    ‘And where’d you get that big ol’ smile?’
    ‘From my momma.’
    ‘And where you get them plump cheeks?’ Earl pinched a cheek. Bobby started laughing again.
    ‘From my momma.’
    ‘And where you gonna get a spankin’ if you don’t head for the sack?’
    ‘From you!’ Bobby cried wrenching away. He ran to Angie who stood laughing. She appreciated the routine that Earl and Bobby had worked out during his late visits.
    ‘G’night, Momma,’ Bobby said, holding her over for a kiss. She kissed him and he returned to Earl. ‘G’night, Uhl.’
    ‘G’night, my man,’ Earl said allowing himself to be smacked soundly on the jaw.
    Bobby ran out of the kitchen and the couple heard his muffled footfalls on the stairs leading to the bedroom upstairs.
    ‘This spaghetti seems to be good,’ Angie said heaping Earl’s plate. ‘Bobby ate two plates full.’
    ‘Doesn’t have to be too good for Bob,’ Earl laughed. ‘Thass a big-eatin’ rascal.’
    Earl dug into the large pile of spaghetti that was overflowing with steaming sauce and chunks of ground beef. Angie busied herself washing the utensils and pans she had used for cooking.
    ‘You’re