The Collected Novels of Charles Wright

by Charles Wright

  ACT NOW!

  When applying, please bring separation papers.

  I closed The New York Times Directory of Employment Agencies, although there were still forty-six more pages of listings, lit a cigarette, and leaned back in my chair, thinking. You Are Not Defeated Until You Are Defeated, I thought. You must maintain a Healthy Outlook when seeking a job, I added.

  So I threw the employment directory out of the window and made up my mind to see The King of Southern-Fried Chicken. I would become a chicken man. It wasn’t work in the real sense of the word. The pay was $90 for five and a half days, plus all the chicken you could eat on your day off. Not many young men lasted long with the Fried Chicken King, but I’d stick it out until I could do better. At least, I consoled myself, the feathers were electrified.

  For the truly ambitious, time truly flies. One hour later, I was crawling through the streets of Harlem on my hands and knees, wearing a snow-white, full-feathered chicken costume. The costume was very warm. The feathers were electrified to keep people from trying to pluck them out or kicking the wearer in the tail. So effective was the costume that I didn’t even have to stop for traffic signals; traffic screeched to a halt for me. And, as I said, the pay was $90 per week. The Deb and I could have a ball! I planned to eat chicken only on my day off and that was free. I also figured that if I cackled hard and didn’t quit, I was bound to get a raise. How many people are willing to crawl on their hands and knees, ten hours a day, five and a half days a week? For me that was not difficult: I was dreaming, not of a white Christmas, I was dreaming of becoming part of The Great Society. So I went through the March streets on my hands and knees and cried:

  Cock-a-doodle-doo. Cock-a-doodle-do!

  Eat me. Eat me. All over town.

  Eat me at the King of

  Southern Fried Chicken!

  Fifteen

  I DID NOT LET the first day get me down, although when I got home that night I could still hear the voices of pedestrians ringing in my ears.

  “I bet he’s tough.”

  “No, honey. He’s a spring chicken if I ever saw one.”

  “Here chickie-chick!”

  “Mama, can we take him home and put him on the roof so the dogs won’t get to him?”

  “He’s white but I bet if you plucked those feathers off of him you’d find out he’s black as coal.”

  “I bet he’s the numbers man.”

  “No, baby. Probably pushing pot.”

  “You can’t fool me. It’s the police. I knew they’d crack down on all of these carryings-on. Just think. In broad daylight. On Times Square.”

  “Bill, he’s just what we need for our next party.”

  “Wish I’d thought of that gimmick.”

  “I bet a quarter he’s deaf and dumb. That ain’t him talking. It’s a machine inside of him.”

  “Think he can get us tickets for the ice-hockey game at the Garden?”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised. People in show biz have all kinds of connections.”

  “Why don’t you ask him?”

  “No. We’d have to slip him a fin or he’d be a smart aleck; that is, if the bastard can talk.”

  “I wonder if he’s hot. Do you think he can see?”

  “I think he’s the one we saw on TV last night. Remember the one that was always clowning? ‘You’ll see me around town,’ he said, and just when he was going to tell us where, that goddam commercial flashed on.”

  “Jesus! What some people won’t do for money.”

  All in all, it had been a rather interesting day. Things were looking up. My ship was at last docking, and I was safely guiding her into port.

  Feeling pretty good, around eight o’clock that night I joined the tenants of my building in the backyard. There a mandarin tree had taken root in a compost of garbage which we had been putting there for two years, trying to shame the landlord (we said) into a sense of responsibility.

  It was like a holiday, a miracle in our backyard. I joined in the fun until I received a telephone call. Employed, a part of our national economy, I trotted into the building. Wait until Little Jimmie Wishbone hears about me, I thought happily.

  But when I picked up the telephone I heard The Deb’s voice: “I know what you are—you’re a Nigger . . .”

  She laughed, but there was no connection between this laughter and the laughter I remembered.

  “Those curls are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, and yes, I’m a businesswoman, but I sorta liked you. You always seemed to be walking a tightrope, smiling to beat the band ’cause you were happy. Talk about the numbers I meet! Baby, you really gave me a jolt. And you know what I’m gonna do now? I’m going out and get my short kinky head tore up. I’m gonna go out and get shot down. Stoned out of my ever-mother-loving head. I’m gonna hit every bar and nightclub in Harlem. And I want you to stand there and hold that receiver until you hear the next word from me. Ha! That’ll be the day . . .”

  I let the receiver drop from my hand, and started for my room. I’d planned to touch up my hair with Silky Smooth because the hood of the chicken costume had pressed my curls against my skull. But for the moment Silky Smooth had lost its groove.

  As I was going up the stairs, stunned and unhappy, I met the perky party girl, Miss Sandra Hanover. A male-femme in sundown antelope costume and matching boots.

  “Les,” she cried. “I thought I’d have to leave without saying good-bye.”

  “Leaving?”

  “Yes, love. Your mother is going to Europe with the call girl. She just married this millionaire. Just like in the movies, and I’m here to tell you! I’m going along as her personal maid. I’ll ride the high seas in full regalia. Talk about impersonation!”

  “That’s great,” I managed to say.

  Miss Sandra Hanover gestured, like the great soignée Baker from St. Louis, Mo. “Ain’t it? I may even go into show biz in Europe. The truly smart-smart flicks always sport a dark face these days.”

  Ordinarily, the word “impersonation” would have interested me, would set me to thinking. But the only thought it brought me now was that my own impersonation had caused the death of a bright dream.

  Finally, I managed to say, “That’s great, doll. When you leaving?”

  “Wednesday. At the stroke of midnight.”

  “Well, I’ll see you later. I’ve gotta go to Madam X’s.”

  “Madam X!” Miss Sandra Hanover exclaimed. “You must be off your rocker!”

  “No,” I said. “I’m not off my rocker. I wanna survive.”

  Madam X’s is located in Harlem’s high-rent district, in a real town house fronting the barrier of Morningside Heights and St. Nicholas Avenue. It looked faintly sinister to my eyes, so I stopped and hesitated. Quiet as a bird-watcher, I read the neat hand-painted black-and-gold sign:

  WANT TO KICK THE LOVE HABIT?

  Madam X guarantees that you will never fall in love again.

  Low down payment. Easy terms can be arranged.

  Open as long as there is love in this world.

  Bleeding emotionally from The Deb’s bullets, I wiped one long, slow tear from my left cheek, and I’m not a weeper. But something like dry ice had coated my heart. Was I brave enough to blot her out of my mind and life? Before I might decide I was not, I bounded up the stoop, went in through the marble arch (there was no door), and found myself in Madam X’s presence. And it was as if we had known each other all our lives, as if we were mother and son.

  Madam X was a very dark woman of undefinable age with a gentle clown’s mask of a face. She wore a black, hooded cape which reached the floor, yet it did not seem to catch lint or dust. She proposed tea and I accepted.

  “One or two lumps?” said Madam X.

  “One lump, please.”

  “Lemon?”

  “No, thank you. Lemon seems so artificial.”

  “That’s what I’ve always said. I’m a very Oriental tea drinker. Adding lemon to tea defiles it, you might say.”

 
“That’s a fact, Madam.”

  “I thought you looked like a well-bred young man who’d appreciate the better things. The true things of life.”

  “Thank you, Madam X. You are the first lady of the land.”

  “Thank you, son. Ah, you’re a lad after my heart.”

  “Your teapot is something!”

  “Isn’t it though? Faïence, from the Mediterranean. I always say, nothing is too good for my tea. Sometimes I use a brass pot, even a plain earthenware pot. It depends on my mood, the situation, you know.”

  “Oh. Yes, indeed.”

  “The tea ceremony is practically a lost art in the Western world.”

  “I understand it’s dying in Boston. No one really observes the ritual.”

  “Pity. But I understand the Russians are quite fond of tea. I imagine it’s sort of a crude affair, though.”

  Gingerly, I took a sip of tea. “This is great. The absolute end. Real boss.”

  “I’m glad you like it,” Madam X smiled. “Horrid, horrid world. Everyone clamoring for cocktails. I suppose they drink themselves to death because they know they’re hellhound.”

  She paused and said, “Do you feel it, son?”

  I gulped tea and belched.

  “Do you feel it, son?”

  “It’s a mother-grabber.”

  “You’re much too kind.”

  “I wouldn’t lie.”

  “I always try to brew the finest.”

  “What’s the brand?” I asked.

  “Brazilian marijuana,” Madam X said grandly.

  “It’s too much, baby.”

  Laughing softly, Madam X said, “A lad after my own heart. But I’ve made a recent discovery. The state of Virginia, famed as it is for its tobacco, also grows the most wonderful marijuana. But please don’t breathe it to a soul.”

  “On my word of honor.”

  “I understand Mr. Fishback is sponsoring you.”

  “Yes, and he’s something else, too. He’s in Europe now. Spain.”

  “Mr. Fishback is a very important man. But I don’t quite cotton to his taste for deceased females. I might add, however, that we all have our own taste.”

  “That’s true. I once collected stamps.”

  Madam X laughed merrily. “The things we think we want to be! I wanted to be the mad bomber, and then a city planner and an architect, so I could redesign Manhattan and make it beautiful and efficient. But that was before I became a saint.”

  “Manhattan is going to the dogs,” I said. “I’m gonna move to Jersey.”

  Ignoring this statement, Madam X said, “Would you like another cup of tea, Lester?”

  “In a moment, thank you.”

  “Yes,” Madam X said. “The only way to appreciate marijuana is to brew it. Serve it hot and inhale the fumes, a custom in my family for many years.” Pausing and smiling a stoned smile, she said, “Your bill has been taken care of. Mr. Fishback. You’re very fortunate.”

  Fortunate? Suddenly I remembered The Deb. Forgetting myself, I shouted, “Fortunate, my ass! I’m in love and it’s driving me crazy.”

  “Your troubles are over,” Madam X said, proper and poised and very gentry (there was even something bouncy and braying about her voice). “I have never failed. I could be the most famous woman who ever lived. I prefer not to be selfish. Human emotions are my one and only charity. If there wasn’t love in this country, just think what would happen to the economy! Now Negroes are dirt poor. They haven’t got time to worry about love. After they’ve received their papers, their Nationalization papers, then it will be time enough for them to think about love. Personally, I think love is ridiculous. A bourgeois sin. Something that the devil invented to make mankind nervous. The only passion that’s worth suffering for is a passion for hard, cold cash.”

  Gripping my teacup, I leaned forward. Was I hearing right? Was my high wearing off?

  “Madam, Madam . . .”

  “Yes, Lester?”

  “I, I, I . . .”

  “Do I shock you?” Madam X asked sweetly. “You have such beautiful hair.”

  “Do you really think so?”

  “I do indeed. It’s a pity that you will have to get rid of it.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked. I was unexpectedly angry. I would have taken a swing at the old bat, except that she was a friend of Mr. Fishback’s.

  “Now, don’t raise your voice at me. I am not hard of hearing. In fact, I hear everything. And you just do as I say.”

  Trembling, I managed to set my teacup down. “That ain’t got nothing to do with love. My Wig, I mean, my Wig has nothing to do with it.”

  “Oh, but it does, lad,” Madam X continued in the same sweet voice. “All vanity is fear. I bet you can’t imagine that I once had hair as lovely as your Wig? Tresses worth a king’s ransom, but there’re precious few kings these days. Only humble saints, like myself, and Mr. Fishback.”

  “Your hair was never as beautiful as my Wig,” I said boldly. “I don’t care what color it was.”

  Madam X stiffened. She had the look of a Biblical figure. Crossing woodsy hands against her bosom, she smiled. The terrifying, disconcerting eyes were closed: Madam X had the innocent smile of a seven-year-old girl.

  “You are the road to self-destruction,” she chanted. “All is not lost, though. You may find the way, despite The Wig!”

  I was really angry now. It was taking all my family training and self-control to remain calm.

  “Don’t try to put the bad mouth on me, old woman!”

  “Never,” Madam X intoned. She stood straight and tall. Then, with a great birdlike swoop, she sank to the floor.

  Her head was bowed as if in prayer. The hood of her cape slid off, and her perfectly shaped bald head revealed one magnificent twelve-inch-long whorl of golden hair. It made me shiver.

  “I’ll see you later, Madam,” I said.

  “No, you won’t see me,” Madam X warned, without looking up. “You’ll see the portrait of Lester Jefferson, and he’ll be without The Wig.”

  3

  * * *

  “. . . and one fine morning.”

  —SCOTT FITZGERALD

  Sixteen

  IT WAS NOW morning all over America. It was also morning in Harlem. The first of April in the year of my National Life Derby, there was a doubtful sky, laced with soft white clouds. And although it was not the day of reckoning, my Dutch-almond eyes were open at 7:30 A.M., E.S.T.

  My, how the chicken days were flying! Three weeks of crawling around town on my hands and knees had made me a minor celebrity. Still, I didn’t like some of the things the people said about me. My true i-dent was a guarded secret. I refused to appear on television (I was afraid The Deb might be watching). I was hopeful of a reconciliation, although, according to the gossip columns, she had become Café Society’s darling. When she had gone out to get her “head tore up,” she had evidently done it in the best places, I reflected sourly.

  Harlem’s new beauty is the girl with the short natural hair. She has fabulous style; she has never needed beads and bangles like some Cleopatra types, and she never will—Dorothy Kilgallen

  Short-haired smasher making Broadway scene is The Deb. A swinging African princess incognito.—Walter Winchell

  Everyone wants The Chicken cackling about town but he belongs to The King of Southern-Fried Chicken. Last night a well-known television star was heard saying: He must be a fallen angel. He seems so lonely.

  —Dorothy Kilgallen

  Gothamville’s latest cackle and delight is from The Southern-Fried Chicken. —Walter Winchell

  All that stuff in the papers and no one knew who I was. Impersonating a chicken, cackling, I was alone. I’d go on living by myself in my small airless room. I’d continue to be a trapped person, and if I ever got to heaven, I’d ask God one question: “Why?”

  Meanwhile, I’d extol the delights of Southern-fried chicken. But not today; today, thank God, was my day off. I got out of bed and went slowly to the
hall bathroom to prepare for a fiesta, a ball, a non-feathered swinging day.

  Lord, Lord! Should I get down on my knees and pray, or kill myself? Was it a miraculous dividend, or another smart son-of-a-bitching trick of the white people, or Madam X or Mr. Fishback or Nonnie Swift and her Creole magic? All I’d done last night was touch up The Wig with a tablespoon of Silky Smooth and a teacup of lukewarm water. Then I’d masturbated and gone promptly to sleep. And the sons-a-bitching chemicals in the pomade had cooked, baked. The Wig gleamed, a burnished red gold, more fabulous than ever.

  At least I was the first. But soon there’d be millions of redheaded Negroes. I’d start a new chapter in American Negro history.

  Would Time magazine review this phenomenon under Medicine, Milestones, The Nation, Art, Show Business, or U. S. Business? Would the children of red-headed Silky Smooth parents have red- or kinky- or mixed-colored hair? Mixed, maybe, like a Yorkshire terrier? Would there be a new type of American Negro? Red-headed American Negroes, a minority within a minority? An off-color elite? And would that be a good thing? Maybe not. There’d be some Negroes (and other racially sick people) who’d be ready to beat the living hell out of red-headed Negroes just because they were not like other Negroes. One couldn’t accuse red-headed Negroes of going white, or could one? Would white people hate or love red-headed Negroes more than they loved or hated other Negroes? Would white people find red-headed Negroes sexually attractive?

  All these questions were pouring in on me. “Mother of God,” I cried helplessly, gripping the edge of the washbasin with all my strength. No good. I made a mad leap over to the john just in time.

  As the tensions left my naked body, exhaustion set in. I was in no condition to deal with the possible problems of my Wig. I listlessly heard the sweet cries of children in the hall, pleading not to be sent to school (an imposing red-brick structure that had split in half for some strange reason the week before, killing twenty children, all under the age of twelve). Nonnie Swift had cackled happily about it ever since. Her son, she said, would be tutored at home.