Three Days Before the Shooting . . .

by Ralph Ellison

  “Yes, sir,” he said, moving off, “that man turned out that Senate like a stud who has taken his gal to a public dance and got mad over somebody eyeballing her too hard and he decides to clear out the joint—commencing by head-whipping the poor, innocent piano player! The only thing about it is, this cat probably blasted the right man.”

  He chuckled. “I can’t figure him out, though, pulling a stunt like that up there on the Hill. He must have been trying to make himself some history.”

  “He did,” I said, “terrible history, there’s no predicting the aftereffects it will have on the country.”

  He stopped the cart, giving me a searching glance, the humor fading from his eyes.

  “You’re probably right,” he said. “That kind of mess can rub off on everybody—and could already have got me shot. How is old Sunrainder making out?”

  “I can’t say; I’ve been here all night, and as far as I’ve been able to learn, he’s still in a coma.”

  He moved again. “You know,” he said, “it must be hell to have something like that happen when you’re not even thinking about it.”

  “But that’s the way such things happen, they’re meant to be unsuspected.”

  “Yeah, and quick and nervy. According to the paper that cat stood up in front of all those people, whipped out his piece way up there in the visitors’ gallery, and before Sunrainder knew anything—” he stopped suddenly, leaning across the handlebar to make the gesture of firing a pistol—“before he could catch the shuffle, that cat had leveled down—bam! bam!—and wasted him!” He pulled erect, grimacing and shaking his head. “Oh, he garbaged him, man! Ruined him—sieved him! It was awful. The paper said he hit him everywhere, including the bottom of his feet! So you know he meant to kill him. Hell, yes! It said he dotted Sunrainder’s i’s and crossed his t’s. Said he …”

  He was becoming quite carried away, and I reached out, touching his arm. “Wait,” I said, “just a second—what paper did you read?”

  He froze, his green eyes regarding me as though I were suddenly insane. “What?”

  “I said, where did you read all that?”

  “Oh, hell, man, are you kidding? I didn’t read it that way, I’m just translating it into my own way of speaking so I can get the feel of what was put down. You know no newspaper writes like that.”

  I shook my head, feeling a flash of unreality, the fuzziness of fatigue.

  “You have to change that stuff so it will move, man. You see the headline said the man ‘fired’ at Sunrainder and so on, but if it had said something like ‘Mad Cat Blasts Sunrainder, In God We Trust,’ you’d know right away that he blasted him in the Senate standing up on top of all that power and—”

  “But wait,” I said. “Wait—Why ‘In God We Trust’?”

  “Because that cat’s proved that his intention to kill Sunrainder was as strong as the Government’s faith in money, battleships, bombs, and God, that’s why. Because just like we back our cash with everything we have, he backed up his intention to kill that bastard with his life—and did! Understand what I mean?”

  “I’m beginning to,” I said. “It’s your way of coloring the news….”

  He looked up quickly, giving me a searching glance.

  “Yeah,” he said drily. “Maybe. I guess so.”

  I smiled. “It was the style that puzzled me. It was unfamiliar.”

  “You damn right,” he said drily, “It’s unfamiliar because that was me. That was Charleston.”

  For a moment he looked at me blank-faced, then suddenly he was smiling. “Man, for a moment there I thought you were trying to pull some of that Sunrainder shit. But pay me no mind. What was that favor you wanted to ask me? If it’s about Sunrainder, you can see already that you know more about him than me. I didn’t even know he was here.”

  “No,” I said, “it wasn’t about the Senator, but I do need information concerning another patient here. A man named Minifees.”

  And suddenly he was wary. “Do you mean LeeWillie Minifees?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Do you know him?”

  He frowned. “But didn’t you just say you were here on account of Sunrainder?”

  “Yes, I did, but that’s an official assignment: I’m interested in Minifees on my own.”

  “You mean you dig LeeWillie?”

  “Dig?”

  “I mean do you understand him, like his music?”

  “Oh, sure, I admire him very much. Do you know him?”

  “Hell, yes I know him. But I said do you really dig him.”

  “Well, I think I do. Shouldn’t I?”

  He gave me a slight smile. “Well, man, to tell the truth, just by looking at you, I wouldn’t have believed that you ever even heard about LeeWillie—at least until he burned his rubber….”

  “But do his admirers have to look a certain way?”

  He looked me up and down, amused. “No, man, but likely as not they’re a certain kind of cat. As you know, LeeWillie is way out. He’s gone. So don’t get me wrong and think I’m trying to put you down, because in fact, I’m glad to know that you have such good taste.”

  He smiled his freckle-faced smile. “If you dig LeeWillie, though, you’re all right with me.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “Now can you tell me whether Mr. Minifees is still here in the hospital?”

  “Sure he’s here. I wish he wasn’t but he is.”

  “And is he very ill?”

  “You mean is he nuts?”

  “That’s a way of putting it, but I was told that he was being held for observation.”

  “Observation, my butt!” he said explosively. “They know LeeWillie’s not sick! He just hit them where it hurts, so now they want to keep him here and forget him. They’re just upset over seeing all that loot go up in smoke.”

  “But it couldn’t be simply a matter of money,” I said. “People don’t burn such cars every day, and besides, it couldn’t have involved more than seven thousand dollars at the most.”

  “Yeah, but when they’re turned into a Cadillac every one of those dollars has a rainbow around its shoulders. Hell, yes, every one of those caddidollars has some glamour added. That’s why they’re upset. LeeWillie blasted him some dreams!”

  Perhaps he’s right, I thought. It wasn’t merely the money involved that had upset me as I watched Minifees sacrifice his car, but something of a more metaphysical significance. Something having to do with the defiance, the mockery, the aggressive and insidious self-sacrificial ambiguity of his gesture….

  “This here is a country that rolls on rubber, man. We eat rubber and we drink rubber and we dream about rubber sleeping on rubber mattresses. You let Detroit shut down, and everybody gets hurt. So when LeeWillie lit that fire, he singed him some behinds. But just the same, no matter how you look at it, all he did was destroy his own property.”

  “Perhaps,” I said, “but you’ll have to admit that he did a few other things along the way….”

  “Like what?”

  “Like damaging a beautiful lawn and turning it into a junkyard, like disturbing a gathering of peaceful citizens and polluting the atmosphere for miles around, and like creating panic in a public thoroughfare.”

  He laughed, holding on to the cart and staggering helplessly backwards and forwards. “Yeah, and old LeeWillie pitched himself a thoroughbred bitch, didn’t he? He bugged the whole damn town!” He laughed again, then his face was suddenly serious. “So all right,” he said, “if all that’s his crime, why don’t they give him a trial and fine him? They don’t have to observe him in order to do that.”

  “I don’t have the answer to that,” I said. “Maybe they’re afraid that Mr. Minifees might do it again. Burn somebody else’s car. But one thing that I do know is that a true and accurate account of why he burned his own would make a very interesting story.”

  He snorted. “Let me tell you something, man: Everything LeeWillie does is interesting—but who the hell’s going to print the facts about how he
really feels?”

  “Get me to him,” I said, “and I’ll see to that. I’ll report his story in his own words and my paper will publish it: I’ll guarantee it.”

  “Yeah, that’s what you say, but a hell of a lot of things happen that don’t get into the papers.”

  “I won’t dispute that,” I said, “but I’d like to give it a try. Could you arrange for me to speak with him?”

  He studied my face for a moment, then began pushing the cart again. “I’m hungry as hell,” he said. “They rushed me up here even before I could have my breakfast. Could you drink some coffee?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact I could.”

  “Then come on. Talking with you has already put me behind, so we might as well make it a little longer.”

  Stopping the cart, he handed me two hot cups and a pot of coffee. “Over here,” he said, opening the door to an empty room and stepping aside. “We can drink in here.”

  “You know,” he said, as he filled the cups, “what you’re asking me to do is against the rules, don’t you, man?”

  “But I wouldn’t want to compromise you,” I said. “You get me to Minifees, and I’ll take full responsibility for anything that happens.”

  He sat on the bed, pointing to a chair. I sat, taking a sip of the coffee.

  “Hell, man,” he said, “let’s be realistic. In this place you can’t guarantee me a damn thing. Anyway, LeeWillie’s my friend, and I’m bound to help him, so what is it you’re so anxious to talk to him about?”

  “Well, for one thing I’d like a clearer explanation of why he burned his automobile.”

  “But that’s no mystery: He burned it because he felt like burning it.”

  “But my readers wouldn’t accept that: It doesn’t explain anything.”

  “But it’s the truth. What more do you want? What you probably mean is that it upset you too.”

  “That’s true, but it upset a great number of people: That’s why it’s important to get the facts.”

  “Yeah, it upset them all right: more than if LeeWillie had barbecued a man.”

  “Oh, I doubt that,” I said.

  “Doubt it if you want to, but many a man has been burned without causing all that much excitement—and nobody got arrested, much less thrown into a nut ward. Here,” he said, gesturing with the pot, “have some more.”

  “Thanks,” I said, extending the cup away, wishing I’d thought to tell him that I liked sugar.

  “I’m not denying that such things have happened in the past,” I said, “but that doesn’t explain why Minifees did what he did, and my readers require an explanation in the context of today.”

  “Hell, don’t they read the papers? Didn’t LeeWillie say that he was burning it because that fellow Sunrainder—who’s lying right downstairs this very minute—was bugging him? God damn! What more of an explanation do they want?”

  “Now, don’t get excited,” I said. “I’m merely trying to get the facts. Is that what Minifees told you?”

  “Yes, and he’ll tell you the same thing.”

  “Good, that’s exactly what I need: If I could present his point of view to the public, in his own words, it would be excellent. By the way, how’s he being treated?”

  He swallowed a sip of coffee, shaking his head. “Man, it’s got to be bad! With all those psychiatrists and sociologists up there bugging the man all the time, it’s got to be bad. They’re treating LeeWillie like he blowed his top and scattered the pieces. And I can tell you this: When the news hits the street, a lot of folks who dig LeeWillie are going to be mad as hell.”

  “Are you saying that he’s being abused?”

  “Yeah,” he said pugnaciously, “he’s being abused; hell, yeah!”

  “How?”

  “How? Hell, they abused him when they put him up there with all those far-out nuts, with heavy screens on the door and everything. No visitors and all. They abusing him by having some sonofabitch with a doctor to his name looking up his nosehole every time he turns around, peering around trying to find out what he’s thinking. Just why the NAACP don’t do something about it, I simply can’t understand. It’s a crying shame to let them treat a great man like that and get away with it.”

  “Do you feel that a question of civil rights is involved?”

  “Hell, yes! They haven’t let him have a lawyer, have they? They haven’t charged him with anything, have they? And where’s the goddamn judge? Those people ought to be on the job, man; if LeeWillie was a Jew, five minutes after he hit the door other Jews would’ve had him out of here! Those folks don’t fool around; they’re always ready for crap like this. They’re yelling even before one of them gets busted. All somebody has to do is to point his finger and say, ‘Hey, you!’ and they goin’ finish it for him by yelling ‘dirty Jew’ and start raising hell. Then they start to yelling to all the other Jews, ‘Hey, y’all, here’s a cat who’s against us; let’s get the sonofabitch!’ And that’s the way the NAACP ought to be. If they were, LeeWillie would’ve been out of here making some music. We don’t have but so much civil rights anyway, so at least they could keep the musicians free.”

  I watched him staring silently into his cup now; there was no doubt that Minifees was an important figure in his personal scheme of things. Nor was there any doubt that he had found some kind of affirmation in what the musician had done to his automobile. I looked at the stilled hands of my watch, wondering how things were going below…. What would the Senator think of this kickback from his joke?

  “Don’t worry about the time,” he said. “Enjoy your coffee because nobody’ll come in here.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “I was just wondering in what part of the hospital Minifees is being held.”

  He swirled his cup, grimacing painfully. “Right here, man. Up in the nut ward. He’s up there with guys like the one who claims he’s George Washington. Sonofabitch hides it in his dresser and under the bed—phew!”

  I lowered my cup. “What is it he hides?”

  The green eyes flashed. “It, man! Shee-it! Hockey! Doo-doo! Which he claims is the secret weapon. That cat is gone!”

  He threw back his head, laughing at my expression. “Maybe he’s right at that. Fool makes all kinds of trouble up there. When they take it away he pitches a bitch!”

  “I don’t envy the attendants.”

  “But wait, man, I haven’t begun to tell you what kind of hole LeeWillie’s in. There’s another one who they say is a poet who would like to forget it; he’s an old fellow who’s hung up on things like the gold standard, birth control and foreign policy and Chinese cooking. He talks about a dozen foreign languages, and when he gets going on one of those subjects nobody has any peace.”

  “Is he violent?”

  He shook his head. “Only with his mouth. I understand that some of the other poets are trying to get him out, and I wish the hell they would. He bugs the hell out of the patients by talking about those things all the time. And singing. The other day I was up there and he was trying to sing the front page of the New York Times! You should have heard the bastard.”

  “What’s his … er … nationality, do you know?”

  He grinned. “You mean his race, don’t you? If not, he’s American but white. We,” he said pointedly, “don’t have that kind of nut; he’s one of y’all. And from up North at that. He’s all right with LeeWillie, though. In fact, he’s the only one who’s keeping LeeWillie from really blowing his top. They get to riffing back and forth through the bars about how messed up the country is, and they have a low-ratin’ ball. Besides, this poet cat knows a lot about music, and he’s been trying to get LeeWillie to study some kind of jive they used to play way back in Shakespeare’s time. He says that poets and musicians are more important than cats like Sunrainder and all those millionaires.”

  “He sounds mad but very interesting,” I said. “Do you recall his name?”

  “His name’s Sterling, Clyde Sterling. I’ve talked with him a few times, and although he’s
wild he didn’t have a bit of trouble in understanding why LeeWillie burned his rubber. They get along fine together, and the way I see it is that while they both are radical as bears with their habits on, neither one has any business being up there with those other nuts. If anything, they might just be too sane for most folks to deal with—except LeeWillie’s music makes it a little easier to understand him—if you dig his kind of jazz.”

  I said, “I’ll have to look up his poetry, it might be interesting.”

  “You do that; they say it’s great. But man, they have another nut up there who’s supposed to have committed treason or something.”

  At the word “treason” I almost dropped my cup, feeling the hot coffee through the cloth covering my thigh.

  “Treason,” I said, “when? What did he do?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to find out,” Charleston said. “It was some time ago, but all I can learn that he did was to call the President’s wife on the telephone and try to talk trash.”

  I stared into his face, thinking I had misunderstood. “Trash?” I said, “What did he do, threaten her? Attempt to blackmail her?”

  For a moment he gave me a silent stare, then cut his eyes, looking away. “Forget it, man,” he said wearily. “Are you sure you dig LeeWillie?”

  The green eyes were boring into me now, and I sensed that I’d made a serious mistake.

  “Yes,” I lied, “I collect his records.”

  “Look, man, that don’t mean a thing. A lot of folks collect him who don’t dig him. They just follow the damn crowd, who follow the dog-butted critics, who say whatever those record companies tell them to say. They talk more shit than the radio! I don’t mean to put you down, but you really don’t seem to understand the language that goes with LeeWillie’s music.”

  He sounded quite earnest, and because I didn’t understand much of what he said and had been thoroughly baffled by his talk of treason, trash, and the First Lady, I allowed myself to become annoyed.

  “Look,” I said, “let’s not argue about it; you want to get Minifees out of here and I’d like to get a story, so if you intend to help, we’d better get on with it.”