solomon's good deed radio hour from angola

by Stan Kempton

Due to a technological mishap, the 100-watt radio station—serving 6000 inmates at Angola State Prison—traveled beyond the concrete walls and floated into New Orleans. It was after midnight when the incident occurred. The FCC speculated the breach was caused by sunspots or celestial alignment. Whatever the reason, the signal was captured and carried, aiding in the brief escape of the sound of coarse fabric, the low-wheeze-of-a-breath settling in close to the mic, then a kind of voice only forty years of smoking can produce…

“Welcome to Solomon’s Good Deed Radio Hour From Angola. Before playing Led Belly and John Lee Hooker, I figured it was about time for a little honesty. Physically, I might get paroled one day, but in my head I ain’t ever leaving Angola. And for many out there listening, you won’t either because there ain’t just one kind of prison. In my time of isolation, percolation, and sequestration, secrets have been found. My grandmother mumbled a few on her deathbed when the spirits paid her a visit. And now I want to part with one in particular this very night.

Now, it does take a measure of profound belief though, because what I’m ‘bout to say goes against God and anything natural. But if you do as I say, you can make your escape by peeling off your skin and slipping inside another…”

For the few listeners at 3am who had stumbled upon the frequency, only Stokely became the magical vector plotted on the Astral Plane.

Having smoked a joint, he was coming off his high only to face those limited options: if caught, eighteen was old enough to be sent away to prison for years.

“I should have never asked Ervin,” Stokely whispered to the TV as he watched the news. “I should have stayed low key and done it myself.”

The plan had been to roll a drunk tourist stupid enough not to get out of the French Quarter after midnight. In and out. Quick. A wallet taken, watches and rings. But Ervin had went off on the visitors, punching, kicking, beating those two white guys a little too long and little too hard, sending both off to the hospital.

“And look at that,” Stokely said, “they got themselves a video! Great.”

And there they were on the TV, a grainy recording of the robbery. First came Ervin’s face, then after a second, a face that belonged to him.

Sinking back into the couch cushion, the flicker of blue light from the TV made him five-years-old again. Momma was laid out on the couch beside him, her head thrown back, eyes partially closed, her mouth slung open, drawing in the flies. As he did once upon a time before, he lightly touched her face and lips, trying to wake her from dreams, then curiously brushed the syringe still plunged near her elbow. Sometimes she would share her vision talk, mumbling why she had named him Stokely, “That was my grandfather’s name…Stokely,” she slurred, her cracked lips swimming in a warm smile. “Sold fruit out of his truck. Would give me candy. He be the best man I ever knew.”

“Now listen here my soul travelers. Before old Solomon dishes out the know-how and the on-ramp to this new skin, you need to come to it by way of desperation. For most, desperation is cradle to grave. But for me, it’s Angola. I don’t have enough fingers to count the number of brothers falsely accused in here. Too many men six feet under due to a cop’s discretion? And now they got themselves a champion in the oval office, regurgitating racists Tweets like scripture from the Bible. That’s fine. Where would God be without the devil? But if the devil can speak so can I, and I’m telling you that things out there ain’t any different when slinging food is simply the new cotton. That’s the desperation I’m talking about. So whatever kind of desperation, find it. And when you have it, it’s time to collect the items needed. First, get yourself a candle and one of them Polaroid cameras they still make; only a fresh picture on Zink paper will do. And the photo you take shouldn’t be older than a day—don’t want to be putting all this magic in play and have your person up and die. It’s never good being trapped in a dead man’s soul...”

Next morning, Stokely slipped on a ballcap and sunglasses—incognito—and after buying the Polaroid camera and candle, out he went to find himself a new skin. But he didn’t know what skin was best and hunted around the streets for more than an hour until a familiar face presented himself in the crowd. Stokely knew Carl from the neighborhood. Better known as Crackhead Carl, the near overdose that occurred ten years back contributed to his psychotic break, so here Carl was with no house to contain him, peacocking down the sidewalk as a ‘70’s nomad. Conversing with no one but himself, Carl wore his coarse hair with unkempt pride and clutched to found treasures plucked from the street with one hand while hoisting up his pants with the other. Traffic signs? He didn’t care about traffic signs or signals or laws about jaywalking, and he certainly didn’t consider the weight of moving cars, squealing brakes, honking horns.

The ruckus drew the attention of a cop, a white cop, who had just gotten out of his squad car. The policeman wore a badge and gun, and like an untended Amazon package left on a porch, Stokely grinned at the irony.

Raising his Polaroid camera toward the cop and clicking the button, the Zink paper slid out as if a witness to racial injustice.

“Hey there, photo-man,” a voice grunted, almost spooking the ghost out of Stokely. “Put your magic on me.”

Crackhead Carl stood a few feet away. With his oversized pants, patchy beard, and a woman’s purse dangling from his neck, Carl stepped back and struck a pose: thin arms planted on his hips, face slightly raised toward the sky.

The camera clicked and the Zink paper slipped from its sleeve. Stokely shook it, bringing out Carl’s image. But when he raised it toward the homeless man, Carl had already jettisoned off, plowing through traffic, presenting the world his performance, and not waiting around for an applause.     

“So now you got yourself a Polaroid photo. You ready to travel? Let’s go. Light yourself a candle in the comfort of your bedroom. Let it burn awhile, then drip the wax on the back of the photo you took. Lay a piece of your hair dead center, then press your thumb down hard. Now then you got to know this, slipping into another’s skin is an unwilling surrender. The soul you inhabit will be ignorant of your presence for a day or two like a missing twin. When he sleeps, take him for a test drive. When he’s awake, sit back and watch the ride. Point is, feel him out. See if he’ll do. After the day is up, if he doesn’t work out, all you got to do is envision the reflex of holding your breath, fight past the urge of drowning, then you’ll pop right out. But if you like your new skin, the other soul will be made to walk away like a hermit crab from its shell, where it will get buried in the black clock...forever. Now it’s time for me to tell you the rest…”

Solomon’s final words gouged deep recesses into Stokely’s thoughts as he set the photo of the policeman and a piece of hair under the pillow. Solomon called it ‘Lying beside your ghost.’ The phrase haunted Stokely, because he didn’t understanding how souls were interchangeable, as if the skin it was housed in didn’t matter at all.

“That done, lie down and close your eyes. Breathe deep. Over and over envision the delicacy of a flower petal, the nimble descent of summer rain, where in the warm humidity you become mist, air, a breath between the quiet roar of a heartbeat; the final descent into the blue flame doesn’t burn...”      

11:05pm

Stokely can only hear voices until the eyelids on this new skin opens. Splashed on a wall, store-bought paintings are the recipients of shadows. Then a woman is seen using a washcloth between her legs. She looks over. Large, bright red lips splash hard against dark skin. Her cheeks are round. She’s young. Carries weight. She runs her fingers along the elastic band on her panties, and when she bends, her meaty breasts follow gravity to form its cone-shaped conclusion until the panties are slipped on.

“You usually stay for a drink,” the man says.

“It’s Momma. She’s taken to the hospital.”

“Ahh, Ruby, not again. Anything I can do?”

“Sure there is, you got yourself an extra kidney lying around?” As she wiggles on her tight dress, she glances at the holster and gun on the side table. “Maybe you could use that thing for something good.” After a moment, she busts out laughing. “Ruby’s just kidding with you, as if you could run out and get yourself a kidney with your gun.”

From the side table drawer, out comes a wallet. Crisp, twenty-dollar bills fan between hands, then motions the money toward the woman. “There’s something extra there this time…for your mother.”

“Did you know you’re the kindest White man I know, despite what my brother thinks?”

“What does your brother have to say about us White people?”

“Last week was something else. Right now, he’s all balled up in his rants about that Black church burned to the ground by that White boy. Telling me, just yesterday when he got to drinking, how nothing has changed: Jim Crow is still calling the shots.”

“The church burning is bad stuff.”

“I know it’s bad stuff—”

“But this time it’s different.”

“Church burning is church burning.”

“It is, but the White boy who set those fire got caught, turned in by his own cop father. Sixty years ago, no White person would have been turned in. Maybe I’m just optimistic, but I call that progress.”

“Well, I don’t know about all that. If I told my brother just what you said, he’ll pay it no kind of mind. Ain’t nothing gonna change his line of thinking about how your kind is the devil, especially the kind that wears the badge.”

5:32am

Face is adorn with a foam beard. Fat fingers put a new blade in the razor and the face comes away clean. Then comes the bulletproof vest and uniform. The holster and gun. Car keys. Eats a banana on the way out.

 6:20am

Rows of chairs. A podium. Other officers. Coffee. Napkin coated with muffin crumbs.

“There were three shootings last night…Domestic cases…One in Gentilly…A wife/husband dispute...Perp brought into custody at 21:34…The victim unfortunately expired earlier this morning at the hospital. In your briefing folders, you also have the description of a person of interest in a Treme shooting…Happened just after midnight…Victim hospitalized…Single bullet in and out of the lower, right thigh…Missed the artery…Should be released later today. The last shooting occurred in Algiers at 0435…A robbery…Victim suffered three shots to the chest…Died on the scene…Currently canvasing the neighborhood for any leads and home security video. You have your assignments.

9:37am    

Answers a disturbance call in Central City. The store owner of Big Freda’s reported a snatch and grab: case of beer, handful of Snickers, a bag of Cheetos. Noted on the report was the inability to obtain requested video due to equipment failure at the time of the robbery…

10:24am

Parked on the corner of Dryas and Washington. Finishing paperwork on the beer and Cheetos incident. Radio dispatch requests an officer in the vicinity of the VA hospital on Canal…

“It’s a 10-8 on the VA location. What do you have?”

“A 10-51. The subject is a Black male. Mid to late forties. There’s a report of him urinating on the VA lawn and shouting profanity.”

Out the windshield is a parked Honda, recently cleaned and new. The driver’s side door is partially open. A woman empties trash from her car. She meticulously sets the debris on the curb: fast food bags, plastic bottles of coke, balls of crumpled paper and a diaper. She seems intent on leaving it there as if that is where it belonged.

“10-69 on that VA location. On route from Washington. Be there in five.”  

12:09 pm

Lunch. Munching on a po-boy. Coke. Large fries. Dispatch quiet. Scrolls through recent numbers on his cellphone. Debates. Then presses the call button.

“Boulder Police Department, how may I direct your call?”

“Lieutenant Carmichael, please?”

“One moment.”

“Lieutenant Carmichael speaking.”

“Lieutenant, Sergeant Dupuis of the NOPD.”

“Yes, I’m happy you were able to get back with me.”

“Well, I certainly appreciate you considering me for the position.”

“Sergeant, the consideration is done. The job is yours. Just give us the word.”

“I’m close. Believe me, I am. It’s just that I grew up in New Orleans.”

“You might have Bourbon Street, but we have the mountains and less crime.”

“Yes, I’ve seen the statistics.”

“What did you guys see this year? a hundred fifty murders. Out here, we didn’t have a single one.”

Pen on pad. Makes slow, long strokes on the page in big letters. Writes the word WHY.

“And we have seasons,” Lieutenant Carmichael goes on, “with good restaurants, clean neighborhoods, and we have people who care about one another and are responsible for themselves; a regular ‘Leave it to Beaver’.”

Radio scratches and the dispatch requests all available officers for a 10-71 currently in progress in Gert Town.

“Thank you, Lieutenant, you’ll hear back from me tomorrow.”

There’s sirens and speed. Red lights at intersections that are paused on, then ran. Hands work the steering wheel. The foot is in concert with the accelerator and brake. A lot of chatter over the radio, then the voice says the suspect is on foot.

“Does anyone have eyes on the suspect? Just turning on Galvez.”

Radio dispatch, “Suspect spotted running across Cadiz.”

Slows the squad car. Pans left and right. Passes parked cars and houses pressed together. Small alleys. Broken fences. Thick underbrush. Plenty of hiding places. Out on a porch is an old Black man. A cat is coiled on his lap. The chair beside him is missing the backrest.

“Sir, excuse me sir, have you seen anyone running through here in the past five minutes?”

The old man bristles as if awakened. The cat jumps down and escapes. “What’s that you say, sir?”

“Someone running. A young man…a young Black man, coming through here in a hurry?”

The old man begins to shake his head. A thousand wrinkles map his face until his head pivots toward something in the street.

From inside the squad car there’s a shadow that looms across the dash. On reflex, grabs for his holstered gun. But the glass shatters, and like outer space, the air is sucked into a vacuum.

Stokely’s body lurched as if punched, having held his breath to escape the cop’s gunshot wound. There was a moment of being disorientated, staring out at his small dresser, standup lamp in the corner, the radio on the side table where he remembered hearing a voice that had swallowed gravel.

In the living room, Momma was sprawled across the cushions. The TV droned with the volume up about a shooting in Gert Town, officer killed, the suspect still on the loose. The dented coffee table supported several nights of dishes, empty bags of takeout, a scattering of limp fries laid down as if quietly executed. Stokely expected that sublime expression wiped across Momma’s face as if trauma had never lived there. But her beautiful Black face was now washed to gray, eyelids partially opened, pupils staring toward an oblivion no one could see but her. Stokely gently touched her face and lips. Avoiding the needle plowed through her vein, he pressed his ear to her chest. It was hard to locate but he found it: a weak, tired heartbeat, sounding dull like a swish of a door; letting things in, closing things out.

Stokely discovered tears on his face and quickly wiped them away. The pillow he held, and the pillow he tightly pressed against Momma’s face was an item that had recorded years of their sweat and skin. There was some thrashing out of her; arms and legs abiding to an innate reflex. That’s all it was, just a gesture that something more was there which never fully developed.

In his bedroom, Stokely lit the candle. With his finger dipped in wax and a hair plucked and stowed, Stokely considered where he was about to go. Solomon never spoke of the dangers inhabiting a broken mind. But to hide and get lost and do it in plain sight had its appeal. He could see it in the Polaroid of Carl’s gapped-tooth smile and a face ignorantly lifted to the sky with such unbridled ownership. Compared to the horrors of reality, Stokely figured it was this sort of insanity which could thrive best inside a blue flame that doesn’t burn, instead of a bright one which scorches the skin.

BIO: Calling New Orleans home but currently dedicated to the pursuit of being a fulltime gypsy with his intrepid wife of 36 years, Stan Kempton defines his writing by the many truths he’s stumbled upon in their travels. Having been shortlisted and a finalist in numerous contests for his short stories and novella, his work has appeared (or will appear) in Northwestern Indiana Journal, Charleston Anvil, Past Ten, Valient Scribe, The Wisconsin Review, Sunspot, BULL, The Mangrove Review, CafeLit, Meat for Tea, Seems, Granules, Tribes, and two short stories in 2025 Wordrunner anthology.