Nigger Heaven/Book 2/Chapter 2
Unaccustomed to early rising, Byron had found it practical to purchase an alarm-clock which he had set for six o'clock. When, at the hour appointed, the angry bell jangled in his ears, he turned over and yawned, stretching his arms. Then he tried to doze, but the horrid tocsin still sounded. At last remembering that he had accepted a job in the city and had been ordered to appear at seven-thirty, he forced himself to get out of bed. The room was quite dark and on his way to the gas-burner, he stumbled over a pile of books he had left on the floor. After he had ignited the gas he sponged himself perfunctorily. The touch of the cold water to his flesh, however, revivified him sufficiently to enable him to dress rapidly. He had requested Mrs. Fox to leave the coffee-pot prepared on the stove so that he soon made a steaming cup of coffee. That, together with a couple of slices of bread he had cut and buttered, constituted his breakfast. To his astonishment he discovered that he was not in low spirits. On the contrary, he felt excited. Young and healthy as he was, he was looking forward to the day's work in the light of an adventure.
When, at seven, he emerged from the house, it was beginning to grow lighter, although the sky was shrouded with clouds. Sporadically, he was conscious that a drop of rain beat against his cheek. As he walked briskly towards the nearest elevated station, he fell into what seemed to be an endless procession. The journalistic phrase, two hours passing the grandstand, came into his mind. From all the side-streets, up the avenues, they marched: Negro workmen and working-women, all leaving the walled, black city temporarily to labour in an alien world. Some were bowed and old and walked slowly and with pain. Others were young and sinewy and chattered as they marched rapidly forward. The thought struck him that it was like a symbolic procession, the procession of an oppressed people. Thus the Jews went out into the desert to build pyramids for the Pharaohs. Thus, under the knout, the Russian political prisoners plodded to Siberia. Only, and Byron was quick to sense the distinction, from the eyes of all these people around him peered an expression of hope. They were doing what they had to do before the millennium, the day when the black race would be on a level with the white. It was coming; they all felt that, although the old and the helpless feared they would never live to see it.
Dere's fire in duh West;
Oh, send dem angels down!
Byron passed a cabaret that was just closing. Out of the sleepy, yawning jaw of the dive, they came, these young men and women who had been dancing the night through. They, too, joined the procession. They had had no sleep. After a night devoted to gaiety they were returning to take their places as pawns in this strange game of toil that the white world insisted upon playing.
We should all of us be singing, Byron thought, and he wondered what would be appropriate. Onward, Christian Soldiers? Smiling, he rejected Sullivan's hymn. Something of our own: perhaps Walk together, children! Only, he added to himself, we so seldom do walk together in spirit.
Byron had never lived in or visited the South and therefore had never seen a Jim Crow car in his life, but the moving car, in which he was presently standing, must be very much like one, he thought. The procession had crowded into it, together with the other cars that made up the train, although all the seats had already been pre-empted by black workers who had entered at stations further up the line. There were, to be sure, a few white faces, faces of men and women who had come from the upper reaches of the island, but most of the skins were black or brown or mulatto. We should be known as the rainbow race, Byron assured himself.
He marvelled as he reflected that he was bound to a destination similar to that which was the goal of all these others, and yet he was not acquainted with a single person in the car. Perhaps even, he mused, their whole thinking processes, their very ideas, are different. I am no more like them than they are like me, than I am like any of my friends, he assured himself. In temperament and opinions we all disagree. Each of us has his own standard of thought and behaviour and yet we are forced by this prodigious power of prejudice to line up together. To the white world we are a mass. . . .
What would happen to this mass? Might it not be possible that prejudice was gradually creating, automatically and unconsciously, a force that would eventually solidify, in outward opinion at least, a mass that might even assume an aggressive attitude? Or would this mass, under this pressure of prejudice, be dissipated and swept apart?
There was Dick. That was one solution, an easy, pleasant solution for people of Dick's complexion, and what Dick had done hundreds had done before him and thousands would do after him. Byron reflected that during the period he had spent in New York he had encountered more and more coloured people who were nearly white. Would the race eventually lose its identity? Was it destined to dissolve in this white blood?
He considered another alternative. When a coloured family moved into an apartment, all the white families fled. When two coloured families moved into a block, the block was deserted by the white occupants. So Harlem, in its African aspects, had been created. So Harlem was slowly growing, east and west, north and south, growing, slowly growing. Might it not eventually happen, as more Negroes, coming from the South, coming from the West, to take advantage of the opportunities promised by this new metropolis, encroached farther and farther on white territory, that Manhattan, which already had been Indian, Dutch, English, and finally the melting-pot for every nation, become a Negro island? Byron chuckled aloud as the vision came to him of the last white inhabitant pushing off in a row boat from the Battery while the black flag flew over the Aquarium and from the roof of every skyscraper. Or would property values in Harlem increase so substantially that it would be practical to sell the land and migrate again? Or would it ever be possible for white and black to live peaceably, side by side, each offering his gifts, one to the other? That consummation, Byron admitted to himself, was not to be immediately hoped for.
Forty-second Street! the guard was shouting. Byron left the car.
The Cletheredge Building was a huge nest of offices towering to the sky in the early forties, its upper storeys resting on a series of graceful terraces. The effect of the front portal, guarded by elaborately carved, sinister, stone dragons, was sombre and portentous. As Byron entered he recalled the device Dante had blazoned over the gates of hell.
In a spacious underground room he discovered a group of young Negroes, laughing, chattering, smoking cigarettes, as they donned their uniforms. In one corner, three boys were shooting craps.
Pull duh chain! one of them cried. Dis heah is duh new boy.
Whah you from? another demanded. Later, Byron identified him as the Joel to whom, the day before, he had been instructed to report.
Harlem, Byron replied.
Ah ain' seen you. Joel regarded the newcomer with suspicion.
Shoot duh fo'! a voice in the corner called.
Stop rollin' dose bones! Joel ordered. Then to Byron, Roll duh babies?
Sometimes.
Well, come along an' git yo' suit. Joel conducted Byron to a locker. Dis one jes' lately been worn by a jig dat's fired. You better lock yo' clothes up. Heah's duh key. Ah can' 'count fo' duh actions an' movements o' dis bunch o' smokes.
As Byron on his bench began to pull off his trousers, the boys on the adjoining benches babbled on. They spoke freely about their amorous adventures, about games of craps, about dives on Lenox Avenue, about Numbers. He listened to accounts of the prowess of Tiger Flowers, of Leanshanks Pescod. To Byron the atmosphere was vaguely distasteful. You want to be a writer, he adjured himself, and this is probably first-class material. Nevertheless, his immediate pendent thought was that he would never write about this life, that he could never feel anything but repugnance for these people, because they were black. I can't bear to think of myself as a part of this, he sighed, and they . . .
Well, presently he knew what they thought. As a couple whispered, they gave sly nods in his direction; they laughed and winked. Soon, they carelessly raised their voices. He caught phrases: posin' an' signifyin', high-toned mustard-seed, arnchy yaller boy, sheik from Strivers' Row . . . Joel rescued him.
Come along, he commanded.
Byron, in his ill-fitting uniform of navy blue, embellished with brass buttons, obeyed. Joel led him to one of the elevators and explained to him how to adjust the lever.
Jump in an' ride wid me, he continued. Ah'll show you.
The morning ingress had begun. Brokers, lawyers, stenographers, office boys, were arriving in troops. Byron was amazed to observe the skill with which Joel operated the car, ready with a cheery good-morning for everybody that greeted him, while he slammed the iron gate back and forth at each landing, guiding the car dexterously to an exact level with each floor. All these mancuvres Byron, of course, had seen performed before, but with no comprehension of the difficulties they involved. Occasionally, as the hours wore on, the car would be deserted for a floor or two, and then Joel would permit the novice to manipulate the mechanism himself. Try as he might, however, Byron never seemed to be able to bring the elevator to a level with the landing. He began to regard Joel with a sneaking admiration.
At twelve o'clock Joel suggested, You better go an' git yo' lunch.
Where? Byron inquired. He was bewildered. He knew nothing about the restaurants in the neighbourhood. One might be too expensive; at another they might not admit a Negro.
Didn't you fetch none?
No, Byron replied. I didn't know. . . .
Well, Ah guess one o' duh boys'll give you a bite.
Joel dropped him off at the basement floor.
That night as usual Byron called on Mary. He wondered, now that he was working downtown, how he could manage to keep this up and do a little writing also. He would have to plan his hours. Now that his father had stopped his allowance, his wages gave him barely enough money on which to exist. He would be compelled to eschew social recreations until he might succeed in selling a short story.
Well, Olive demanded, as Mary opened the door to let Byron enter, how's the labouring man? I'm going to give you a pail to carry your lunch in. I forgot my lunch today, Byron laughed, and I had to eat out of one of the other fellow's buckets.
What kind are they? Olive inquired.
Oh, all right, I guess. You know. You work downtown.
They're different in different buildings, Olive persisted. What kind are these?
Oh, I guess I could put up with them, Byron responded, but they seem to think I'm putting on airs. My clothes or my English are too good. One of 'em called me an arnchy.
I forgot to warn you, said Howard. You ought to speak in dialect. These low-class smokes haven't any use for a fellow that puts on airs. You have to be a mixer.
Well, I seem to be all wrong, Byron remarked ruefully. I can't begin to speak dialect tomorrow.
You can in your next place, Howard suggested significantly.
My next place?
Don't mean maybe. You won't last long after this kind of start. They'll put the rollers under you.
The telephone bell tinkled.
Hello, said Olive, lifting the receiver to her ear. Yes, he's here. Just a moment, please. . . . She pressed her palm against the transmitter . . . Howard, she whispered, it's Mr. Pettijohn.
Hello. Howard was at the telephone. Is that you, Mr. Pettijohn? You want to see me? . . . When? . . . Right away? Well, I don't know about that. I've got a mighty important case on hand. I expect to go over it with my client tonight. . . . That so? . . . Well, I might put him off till ten o'clock and come to see you first. . . . Yes, I'll do that, Mr. Pettijohn. . . . Howard was speaking with decision. . . . At your house? All right, I'll be right around.
Replacing the receiver, he whirled about to face the room.
Hurray! he cried. Hurray! I've hooked Pettijohn at last. He's had a row with Mainwaring and fired him. Why, the King has more law business than any one else in Harlem!
Olive was screaming with laughter. Gee, how well you bluffed him, Howard! Got to meet another client! And the King a gambler, too!
How much are you going to make? was her next question.
I don't know. Enough for wedding bells, I hope. Howard was drawing on his coat. Perhaps we'll even buy a struggle-buggy.
I'm going with you, Olive cried as she raced to her bedroom. Where does he live? she called.
It isn't far. Hundred and—twenty-seventh Street.
Olive had returned with her cloak. I'll walk down with you, she said. I need the air. Besides, she added, I think I'll wait on the kerb till you come out. I've got to be the first to hear the big news.
The pair swung out of the room.
Byron stared at Mary. Pretty soft for Howard, he remarked bitterly. Pretty soft.
Mary tried to console him. I'm sorry that it isn't you, dear, she said, but remember that Howard's worked years for this. Think of all the time he spent in law school, and he's been out nearly a year without getting an important case.
Pretty slow, Byron groaned. He was standing now. To go from college directly to an elevator! I guess that'll lift me all right!
Don't! she begged him, raising his hand to her lips, Please don't!
Byron, she went on, I don't like this job of yours.
What else can I do?
We've got to find something. I know you've tried hard enough, but the whole world can't be prejudiced. Mr. Sumner said . . .
That snob! I don't want any of his help!
Byron!
I mean it. They've never asked me to their place since that night I met you there.
But why should they ask you, Byron?
They don't pay any attention to me. I suppose I'm not good enough for them.
Don't be silly. Mr. Sumner is far from being a snob. How can you expect him to find time to see everybody he knows? He's a very busy man, Byron, and you are probably one of a thousand young men who need his help. Do you expect him to be nice to them all? Be reasonable. It's your place to look him up.
Never. . . . He knows my father, he added lamely.
He knows mine too. Father stopped there the last time he was in town, but I don't ever expect to be invited there more than twice a year. They have too many obligations to be constantly attentive to everybody. You mustn't be so sensitive, she pleaded, rubbing his palm against her cheek. I've seen so many awful things happen through sensitiveness. Why, Mr. Sumner isn't even thinking about you. He's probably forgotten your very existence, and you believe he's consciously snubbing you. If you went to see him I'm sure he'd be delighted.
Roughly withdrawing his hand, Byron stalked across the floor. You don't give a damn about me yourself or you wouldn't be defending him! he cried, exasperated.
Byron, you ought to know how much I love you. I don't have to prove that, do I?
Funny kind of love! Always explaining to me why I ought to let somebody insult me! You don't talk to Howard this way, I notice.
I'm perhaps a little more interested in you than I am in Howard, she flamed, adding, Besides Howard doesn't need advice.
Oh, Howard's perfect, I suppose! I don't give a damn how interested you are in me if you always take somebody else's part.
I'll take yours when you deserve it. You're wrong about Mr. Sumner. You're behaving in a very silly manner and I'm going to tell you so whether you like it or not.
Fine way to spend an evening, Byron shouted. After working hard all day I come here when I ought to be home writing, and all I get is abuse.
I haven't noticed that you did so much writing before you took this job.
I haven't had a chance. You know I've been looking for work all the time.
Never play pool, do you? Or go to the Commonwealth Club? Or call on Mrs. Sartoris? None of your God damn business what I do! Catching up his coat and hat, he flung the door open, and rushing out, slammed it behind him. As he raced down the hallway, he could hear her call out his name despairingly, but he did not turn back.