Irascible “Razz” Heap was his own paparazzo.
He threw a digital point-and-shoot camera in a musette bag
and drove to
former-hippies who played bluegrass music. He was writing a book
called PAYBACK IS HELL, about the effect of civil rights, women’s lib,
and gay pride on the fortunes of a straight white male, from the south,
of a certain age. A
peckerwood, or
a racist, a sexist, and a homophobe. Boo. Hiss. Unclean. Unclean.
He was an untouchable in
the oppressor. I, Mr. Baldwin? I brought you over here
in chains? It seems to me like you’re up there
and I’m down here. It seems like you’re selling
wolftickets. The Oscars are about Hattie McDaniels?
Surely she was a minor figure.
The maid ain’t the mover and shaker.
She isn’t. It’s just the way things are.
You don’t like it, I don’t like it.
I know. I was an enlisted man in the Air Force.
I have been in sorrow’s kitchen and licked out all the pots.
This was a democratizing experience. Were you in the service?
What rank were you? I am a reverse-pride snob.
I feel like I was bottom dog.
Don’t say you’re not my brother
because nobody can tell me who my friends are.
The first time I went to the head of the holler
I wore a bow tie and a snow white collar
When daylight came, come crawlin' in
And the best thing I wore was a silly grin