If I worked with these slobs, I would be stoned from nine to five, I thought. The average jerk, going along like a cog, questioning nothing, seeking nothing. I’ve heard tell that these young men are the beefsteak on tomorrow’s menu.
But the new leaf; I could be wrong about them. The only way to find out would be to work with these young men.
Personnel was a woman this time. A sweet voice, charm herself. She put me at ease, glanced at my application, and then looked up, all smiles, and asked me if I was a black or white Puerto Rican.
“Neither,” I said, rising, and making my exit. “I’m Filipino. You’ll hear from my ambassador.”
That afternoon, I returned to the messenger service like a prodigal son begging forgiveness.
AT EIGHT O’CLOCK Monday morning, Shirley walked in as casually as if she lived here. She put her beach bag on the bookcase and smiled roguishly. Her eyes were bright.
“Don’t look at me like that,” she said. “Surprised?”
“Are you working today?”
“No. I had my schedule changed. I worked yesterday. Channing said you didn’t go to the beach because it was too crowded.”
“Who said I was going to the beach today? I’ve got to work.”
“Charles,” Shirley warned, “don’t be difficult. We won’t have to borrow Tony’s radio. My friend, the doctor, bought me a transistor radio.”
“That’s nice.”
“Isn’t it? Oh, Charles, he’s such a wonderful person. He is all I ever wanted in a man. We’re getting married in the fall.”
“Congratulations. “
“At least you don’t have to be so dry about it.”
“All right, I’ll try to show a little emotion in my voice: Congratulations!”
“Goddamn it. Get dressed.”
And now we lay under the boardwalk at Coney Island on an old army blanket, sheltered from the hot sun, staring out at the sea. Low clouds with the brilliance of a cold snow seem to bank at the edge of the sea. The small, black radio plays muted jazz. I began to doze and then Shirley’s delicate, long hands clawed up and down my back like a bow on a taut cello. Would this warm, generous friendship always float on a beachhead of love? Pride and the cold technician have always kept my heart in check. Yet something goes out to this beautiful, honey-colored girl as easily as my breath.
The dazzling, red sky faded. Dusk arrived like a shy-dark child. Giant white waves broke on the sparsely populated beach. Nearby, a group of Puerto Rican boys played bongos. The air grew chilly. Silently, Shirley nestled in my arms.
“Want to go?” I asked.
“Do you want to go?”
“Not yet.”
“All right then,” Shirley said, squeezing my hand. We lay there silently until an army of cleanup men attacked the beach, shortly after ten p.m.
WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME? Yesterday, I got drunk. Al said I’d better take a week off. Now I am jobless and broke because I blew the works last night. I have a talent for getting too involved with people. One crisis follows another like the second hand of a smooth-running watch and this great republic might blaze with prosperity under fair skies, but each time I make a lunge for the dollar, the eagle flies in the opposite direction. The Negro Bernard Baruchs have a fence around their park benches.
I tell you, I’ve got to get out of this city, this city which will accept victory or defeat with the same marvelous indifference.
And my friends: a twenty-one gun salute to madness. Laura Vee, spitting icicles. Claudia, chained to the organ, composing his first drunken opera in English, singing at the top of his voice, “Oh, my most noble love, return. . . .” Bruce is having a financial tumor. Channing is not very warm these days because I said he was not a square but an octagonal fool. Last night, I swallowed my pride and phoned Shirley, begging forgiveness. But she was mesmerized by melancholia.
This pad looks as if the devil just stormed through and I’ve got exactly sixty-five cents. That ain’t nowhere.
I left my place at eleven-thirty this morning and looked around for a fast hustle. Tee-shirted with faded, tight Levis, which is the equivalent of the ad man’s gray flannel suit. I’ve scored fairly easily with men and women, though the competition is great. You’d be surprised how my color helps business. Though I’ve missed out several times because, of course, I just wasn’t dark enough.
The siren blows noon. I can’t make it up at Forty-second Street. Too many cheap hustlers. The one-dollar bed partners—those drawling, southern boys, the Brooklyn and New Jersey blades doing what comes naturally for a meal and a pad to sleep. Cigarette and coffee money for Grant’s or Bickford’s the next morning. Thirty cents for the waiting-in-line nine a.m. movie. That’s where you catch up on your sleep and shop around. At noon the going gets rough. Too much happening and the cops are around.
I decided on Wall Street. Some stock or investment queer, itching for something somewhat brown and young. Never rough trade or a swish. Boyish, a connection with what happened at prep school eons ago.
Lexington IRT local to Brooklyn Bridge, change to express. Get off at Fulton Street.
Start hustling, kid. Fall in on the scene fast. The cops! Look blank like a diddy bop, fake a cat walk, a sort of bounce on the balls of your feet.
Now, down the steps. Quick! Here comes an old queen with a peaked, powdered face. Shabby suit. Two, five or nothing. Not worth the hassle today.
Young executive with attaché case at newsstand. About thirty, looks married. Yeah, he’s married. Gave you the eye twice. Third time around, give him a come-on smile.
Saunter over by the Coke machine. No! The candy or chewing-gum machine. They have mirrors and you can watch the cat.
Don’t look now, baby. But here he comes. Grinning like a lion. A live wire. Hope he hasn’t got any weird ideas.
“Hi. What’s happening?” Grinning, giving me the once-over politely. Pleasant, cultured voice. Appears swinging. Puts me at ease. One of the boys.
A full smile this time. Looking directly into his foreign, gray eyes, shrugging my shoulders, slinging my hands into the buckle of my belt.
“Nothing,” I said. “Lousy day.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Oh. Everything” (this with a sly smirk). “The heat.”
“How old are you?”
“Old enough.”
A wise smile lit his face. “You’re cute . . . Don’t blush.”
“What time is it?” I asked.
“One o’clock. Are you in a hurry?”
“No. Why?”
“You know why. Have you got a girl?”
“Yeah.”
“Are you good to her?”
“I hope so.”
“I know you are.”
The punch line made me feel as if I were about to be raped in Rockefeller Center.
“Would you excuse me for a minute?” he asked, looking up. “I have to make a call.”
The cops? He’s going after his gumshoe partner. You had a crazy feeling all morning. Should have worked the Village.
Cool it, baby. The voice. No cop could bring off that voice. Cool it, now. Don’t queer the deal.
Here he comes. All smiles, strutting jauntily, swinging his attaché case. Portrait of a successful, young businessman.
“Want to take a ride down to the next station? The first car. It will put us off at Exchange Place.”
The train pulls in. I linger back. The stupid joker is motioning toward me. As if I wasn’t going to make it.
I stand against the door nonchalantly. He is sitting on the opposite side of the car, watching me.
Exchange Place filled with people on lunch. There is tension in the air and on the brooding faces. People are walking fast like ants scurrying from rain. I remember this is where the money is.
We go up a side street to a small sandstone building. “Give me ten minutes,” my boy said, patting my shoulder. “Get off at the ninth floor. The elevators are automatic.”
“Okay. If somebod
y stops me, I’ll say I’m a messenger.”
“Fine,” he nodded.
The ninth floor has been freshly painted. Not a stick of furniture. “Our main office is in midtown. We’re getting our furniture wholesale. All good things take time.” The last sentence with a leer.
Now he was facing me and I could see his Adam’s apple working like mad.
“Sorry I can’t offer you a drink.”
“That’s okay,” I said. I could have used a drink. That old bitch, depression, coming on. Wonder what his wife looks like?
Then he stood directly in front of me. His gray eyes were misty. He stared coldly at me. I was reminded of gangster movies with tall, blond killers.
He pushed me against the wall roughly. I stared up at the ivory ceiling and stiffened and it was over.
“My name is Keith,” he said. “What’s your name?”
“Charlie,” I replied.
“Do you have a phone?”
“Yes,” I said, reaching in my wallet and gave him my number.
“Could I call you sometimes?”
“Oh, sure.”
“Your parents wouldn’t mind?”
“Just say you’re from the Diamonds. That’s a softball team I play with sometimes.”
“I see,” Keith said slowly. “I’ll give you a ring. You’re a nice kid.”
“My folks worry a lot, though,” I came on with. “They’re saving their money so they can get us kids out of the city.”
“You wouldn’t miss the city?”
“Would you?”
Keith laughed and very smoothly greased my palm with a twenty. “Now be a good boy. And watch that little girl.”
“Sure thing, dad,” I said, and left.
Keith was all right. Didn’t give me any phony jazz. I don’t give a damn what people do. If they’re real, and meet you face-to-face.
And me? Hard-working mother and father. Jesus! The lies you have to tell. To hell with it—people are people and I’m here to tell you. If you don’t believe me, just go to bed with them.
Milkshake on Fulton Street. Take “A” train to West Fourth Street. Clams on MacDougal. A quick bourbon in San Remo’s. Nothing happening.
The Billie Holiday Story album. Lovely, sad, bitter, Baltimore songbird. Singing a timeless song. I had to have it.
Milk, bacon, eggs, and French bread. Cheese, apples, and strawberries. A carton of cigarettes, six beers, a fifth of white port wine and, Jack, that’s it.
TONIGHT I FINISHED taking my shower at eight o’clock, stepped from the bathroom nude, singing happily, and encountered a freckled, baby-faced sailor who was lumbering up the stairs. He had the dumb expression of a forlorn pup.
He walked up, took in my nudity, and grinned. “Hiya, sport.”
I smiled faintly and nodded.
“Is number fourteen on this floor?” he asked.
“This is the top floor,” I said. “The highest number is eleven. And that’s my pad.”
“Well, where are the whores?” the sailor asked. A look of alarm covered his face.
“Well, dad,” I said, putting my towel over my shoulder, “there are no whores in this house.”
And if it is possible for such a dumb face to sink deeper into the pit of confusion, the sailor’s did. He fumbled in his white middy shirt and pulled out a piece of cardboard about the size of a book of matches. The sailor studied the cardboard intensely.
I took a deep breath and thought: How do you tell a man he is a sucker when he is not a friend?
Finally I blurted out, “Baby, you have been taken.”
The sailor looked up quickly. His shoulders seem to rise as if they were suspended from balloons. His hazel eyes were moist, on the edge of heartbreak.
“You’d better ask to see the broad before you put out your coins,” I advised. “And then you can’t be too damned sure. Anyway, now you know the score. How much did it cost you?”
“Twenty bucks,” he said, kicking his foot against the steps. “Twenty fucking dollars. Jesus! I should have known better.”
“We all make mistakes,” I said in a gentle, fatherly tone.
“Yeah,” the sailor agreed.
I started for my pad.
The sailor lumbered back down the stairs slowly, a perfect victim of the Murphy Game.
The Murphy Game is played every night in my neighborhood. A year-round sport, played overtime during the spring and summer. An expert and successful Murphy Game player is a smooth talker and generally very well dressed.
I understand from the incident with the sailor that Shuffle Along was working the neighborhood this season.
Shuffle Along is a master of the Murphy Game. He is a Negro of indeterminate age—somewhere on the other side of forty—with the bright enthusiasm of a twenty-year-old. He has the jolly confidential manner of Santa Claus and dresses in very good sports clothes. Despite his thirty-five-dollar alligator shoes, he shuffles along like he had a team of mules in front of him or as though a ball and chain had once been attached to his feet. Perhaps that is why the Murphy Game is his profession.
The Murphy Game is nothing but standing on a street corner or sitting in a bar, observing a man with a hungry look, a man who, you decide, is less intelligent than yourself. You strike up a conversation with him and in a few carefully chosen words, which must sound casual, you inform the man that you can get him a good whore for a certain fee. First he must hand over the money—“you know how these whores are.” You tell the man to wait until you return. And you don’t return. Or you say, “Just go into that hotel and tell the clerk you’d like a room on the fifth floor with a west front window.” The man will think you’re a cool pimp with a private code.
My friend, Mitch, can’t play the Murphy Game unless he has smoked at least four sticks of pot. He’s tall and good looking, but has no guts. Shuffle Along is something else again. He has nerves of steel. Before our front door was locked, I once leaned over the landing and saw Shuffle Along talking with a man. Shuffle Along held out his hand. The man opened his wallet and gave Shuffle Along three ten-dollar bills. Shuffle Along said, “Daddy, I’m the house man. What are you gonna give me?” So the man forks over five and one single. Shuffle Along departed slowly. Once he reached the street, he would take wings of the morning. The man started knocking on doors, seeking his nonexistent woman. In most cases, these men are not drunk. They simply have sex on the brain.
The young boys pose a problem. If you are a professional Murphy player like Shuffle Along, you know that some of the college boys think they can get a woman for two dollars. Shuffle Along has solved this problem magnificently. He will say in his confiding Uncle Tom’s voice, “Now, boss. Ya know we been having trouble with the cops. And you look so young. Do you have any ID?”
The young man hands Shuffle Along his wallet.
Shuffle Along will give the ID card a quick glance, checking the money.
If the money is substantial, Shuffle Along will say, “Boss, I is sorry. You is straight. But like I say: we can’t take no chance. Now what kind of woman do you want. I can get you a young one, old one, fat, skinny, black, or white.”
The young man gives Shuffle Along fifteen or twenty dollars. Shuffle Along takes a piece of cardboard from his jacket. There are two identical numbers written on the cardboard with red pencil and Shuffle Along tears the cardboard in half and gives one half to the young man. The other half goes in his pocket and he says, “This goes to the big boss. He don’t take no fuckin’ around. Now you jest take this number next door and ring bell four.”
The young man departs eagerly with his number and Shuffle Along scampers up the stairs and out through the trapdoor leading to the roof.
My messenger job allows me encounters with all kinds of people and I admire Shuffle Along and the men and women of the Murphy Society. All they do is tell you a story and hold out their hand. The Murphy Game is flourishing in June of this year. The hayseed tourist has arrived; the ships are in. And, of course, there are alwa
ys the sports from Jersey and the Bronx.
TONIGHT, I AM COOLING IT. Balling in the East Sixties. Sitting in the beige, brown, and green living room of a town house. Big Daddy, my Korean pal, brought me. There are three other men and four girls. Everyone is under forty and the lights are low.
Barry, the host, looks about thirty-two and his healthy face goes with the Daks slacks, the silk sport shirt, and the black and white shoes. He is in the novelty business which he inherited from his uncle, and plays the stock market.
I was helping myself to another scotch when he came out with a dozen sticks of pot. Everyone was restrained, but their greedy eyes never left the pot lying on the coffee table.
Big Daddy reaches over and picks up two sticks of pot. “Let’s get this show on the road,” he says.
“Cool it,” a pretty, pink blonde laughs and takes a stick from Big Daddy.
The guy sitting next to me refused the pot. He had a face like the pale, desperate junkies who hang around Sixth Avenue after midnight.
“You know what he wants,” the pretty blonde giggled.
“Keep it up,” the pale junkie said. “Keep it up. I’m going up side your head.”
“Oh, shut up,” the blond snapped. “You’re a kook. You’re getting too damn careless. How many times have I told you about leaving the Goddamn needle under the soapdish in the bathroom?”
I looked at Barry. He was blushing.
The Collected Novels of Charles Wright Page 7