Three Days Before the Shooting . . .

by Ralph Ellison

  Well, I’ll be, he thought with a mixture of pleasure and embarrassment, it’s really me—but how? Where’d they come up with such an old recording? It’s me and Estella Moore, and we recorded it so long ago that I didn’t even recognize her voice or her style—not to mention my own!

  “Hey!” the little man shouted as he nodded off-beat to the music’s loud pulsing. “You know how good music like this makes me feel?”

  “No,” Hickman said, “but why don’t you turn it down a bit?”

  “… I feel exactly like the monkey when he ate the cat—you remember?”

  “What!” Hickman shouted. And as he bristled at the little man’s challenge, two well-dressed women, one white and the other mulatto, stepped out of a store behind them. Raising his palm he shouted, “Hold it, my friend!” Whereupon the women looked startled, frowned in dismay, and hurried away in opposite directions.

  “Now, what was that?” Hickman said.

  “Hell, cousin, you heard me,” the little man said. “What’d the monkey say when he ate the cat?”

  “Let me think,” Hickman said as he studied the little man’s face. Either way he’s got me, he thought, and all the more if he knows I’m a preacher. So if I give the correct answer he’ll laugh because he knows I’m an old-timer; pretend that I don’t know it and he’ll have the pleasure of having a minister tell him a lie….

  “Now, let’s see,” he said. “Wasn’t it something about his … er … digestion?”

  “Yeah!” the little man laughed. “That’s right! Monkey said, ‘I got me a belly fulla’—come on now, cousin, you take it from there….”

  “I’m not sure,” Hickman said with a frown, “but I seem to recall that the monkey said something about having a pleasant sensation….”

  “… Right!” the little man said with a cackle of delight. “What the monkey said when he ate the cat was, ‘I got a belly fulla pussy and it’s tight like that!’ That’s the lick, my man! You might look square, but you solid have been there! And I mean the old country!”

  Yes, Hickman thought, and you’re an old down-home rascal. But made nostalgic by the little man’s irreverent folk humor, he grinned and thought, If this ain’t the mythical ole Uncle Bud I hope I’ll never meet him! And seizing the little man’s free elbow, he tugged him gently to the curb of the sidewalk.

  “Sure,” he said as now the little man turned the volume down to a static-filled murmur, “I’ve been there, but that was long ago—before they flattened the hills and rerouted the river. Nowadays things have changed so much that they’re even taking the whistles off the railroad trains….”

  “Yeah, man,” the little man said with a frown, “but that don’t really matter, ‘cause you and me got all that good stuff inside us. Or at least behind us. All them sassy gals and crisp fried fish and chicken, sweet-potato pie, and good smoked Southern barbecue. All that good ole jive that keeps a man alive! The shim and the sham and the shim-sham-shimmy, the God-given glory and the way the weather was—hell, cousin, with all that inside him a man has got to prevail! You been blessed—you hear me? You been blessed!”

  Head cocked to the side, Hickman stared; thinking, Better watch him or this little devil will start quoting Scripture….

  “You’re right,” he said, “and I’m truly grateful. But how about you?”

  “Blessed too,” the little man said. “I’m still here, ain’t I?”

  “Right!”

  “I’m still traveling under my own steam and ain’t on relief, ain’t I?”

  “Correct!”

  “And you know something else?”

  “What’s that?”

  “I’ma even be here when Martin comes, and I aim to be here after he done come and gone—oh, yes!”

  With hands flying to his hips, Hickman roared with laughter as he recalled the old joke about Sam, the hungry hobo who had been promised a meal and a peaceful way out of town if he spent the night in an old haunted house; but who, after enduring a devilish series of hair-raising testings by animals that kept dropping down the chimney and talking like humans, lost his nerve—not because of the creatures’ surprising conduct, but because just before disappearing each had asked the same mysterious question: “Sam, are you going to be here when Martin comes?”

  Thinking, Poor Sam, poor fellow, Hickman shook his head and grinned. Like me, he thought, he could deal with the hellishness of what was then-and-there before him, but was fazed by the threat of that which was unspelled, unknown, and unseen.

  “Why, I haven’t heard either that story for years,” he said. “Brother, who are you?”

  “Me?” the little man said as he trembled with mock indignation. “You mean to say that an old hustler like you don’t recognize me? Hell, man, I’m Martin!!! Sho! I’m the stationmaster, chief bottle-washer, and the nappy-headed judge of the court of last resort for this heah entire hainted house of a country! Hell, cousin, you got to know me!”

  “Well, I’m beginning to—but are you sure you’re really everything you say?”

  “You damn right I am—and a hell of a lot more!” And stamping his foot for emphasis, the little man began spieling like a veteran sideshow barker:

  “I’m the cat who’ll be here looking at ‘em after the roof falls in!

  “I’m the invisible spook in the woodpile they always telling themselves big lies about! I’m the man on the stairs who they say ain’t really there—but they gon’ see, and you better believe me!

  “I’m Willie-the-poor-boy, a little short on funds, that is, but looong on experience, and whale-shit deep in hard-to-earn knowledge!

  “I’m the old man of the mountains who ole Cab used to hi-de-ho so loud about!

  “I’m Wine-ball Bill, and while I ain’t so sweet as I used to be, I’m still doing me some fine winding and grinding.

  “I’m also Daddy Step with the mitch-matched feet, and the one who cries when the big shots laugh, and laughs like hell when they break down and weeps!

  “I’m Oddball Papa—you know, the one with one hung way, way low, just so’s I can keep my balance in all this confusion.

  “And cousin, befo’ I go I’ll tell you one thing mo’: Folks don’t recognize it, but I’m the unknown soldier who keeps the bowels of all of these congressmen and Supreme Cote judges roaring up a storm. And I’ll tell you confidentially that all this talk you been hearing about Chicago being the windy city is some pure-dee bull! This heah Washington is the original windy city and still undisputed champion of the whole wide world! And you can believe it, because it’s me, also known as the natural-born Little Blister, who does the pumping that makes ‘em keep howling and bellowing!”

  “And there I was,” Hickman said, “thinking you were none other than the Real McCoy….”

  Staggering backwards as though struck by a blow, the little man let out a shout that leaped two octaves: “Him too! He’s me! And when those folks up on the Hill is flying right I keep the machinery oiled and running smooth as fine silk. But when they messes up and start looking for somebody else to blame it on, I’m in there greasing the skids from under their butts! The next time they foul things up take a look and you’ll see me in the background!

  “In the meantime, why don’t you come along while I deliver this message, which is my job these days, and then come on over to my pad and listen to some more of this music? I got records they don’t even have at the Smithsonian.”

  “Thanks,” Hickman said with a pang of regret, “I’d like to, I truly would, but I have an appointment.”

  “Too bad,” the little man said, “because you’re the kind of fellow I like because I don’t have to spend a lot of time explaining what things really mean. Like the good in the bad and the bad in the good. You a messenger too?”

  “No—or at least not a real professional….”

  “Well, don’t lose no sleep over it, ‘cause these days most folks don’t get the word, no matter how fast you get it to ‘em. I’ll see you around. Been good talking with
you.”

  “Same here,” Hickman said, “and it’s been good to meet an old-timer who remembers some of the good things that even most of our folks have let get away.”

  No, he thought as he watched the little man rock away with the blaring radio pressed again to his ear, these days they don’t make men like him or records like that, and somebody had to scrape the very bottom of the barrel to find one with me on it. Truly, a man’s sins will find him out. But if that old signifying rascal managed to identify me with that music he’s probably laughing his head off. And now I’ll always wonder whether he did or didn’t. Why, the nasty little devil! He admitted to being everybody but Jack-the-Jiver and Ding-Dong Daddy from Dumas—which would account for his strut. But then his true name is probably some thing like Junior Judkin Jones!

  Remembering his mission, he moved ahead, his eyes alert for anyone who might direct him to Millsap. The best place to look, he thought, would be a bar, but he might be embarrassed if I found him in one this early in the day.

  Chuckling as he walked along, noting the effect of time on the unfolding scene, he amused himself by improvising on the tale of Sam and Martin. How did it go? How tell it in a barbershop? Oh, go on, give it a try! After a long hobo trip up North Sam dropped off a freight train in South Nowhere, Alabama, and hardly had he touched the cinders than he was grabbed by a gang of evil-looking deputies and an evil-looking sheriff who told him that he could either spend a night in an old mansion and report what was going on in it at midnight or go to jail.

  “It’s up to you,” the sheriff said. “If you agree to spend the night out there we’ll give you some bread and pork chops, otherwise it’s sixty days in jail on stale bread and water.”

  So, being worn out from his long trip of hoboing, and made a bit uncomfortable by the attitude of the sheriff and his men, Sam agreed to spend the night in the mansion. He knew in his bones that the sheriff was up to no good, but being homesick and tired and less wary of ghosts than of rednecks, he figured he could eat, get some rest, and before daybreak he’d be waiting at the railroad tracks to grab the first freight that passed through long before the sheriff got back. So they drove Sam out to the old decaying mansion and gave him a batch of pork chops, some lard, a loaf of bread, and sent him inside with a lantern. And after hanging around a spell to make sure he stayed put, they left him alone in all the dust, mildew, and stillness.

  But that didn’t bother Sam, he was too tired and hungry. So after looking things over and making sure that he was alone, he built a fire in the big fireplace, and after finding a skillet put the chops on to fry. Then he lay back on the floor and waited while they were cooking. But just as he nodded off a noise from the fireplace caused him to open his eyes.

  And that’s when he saw a cute little Maltese kitten fall down the chimney and stroll out on the floor. And there in the firelight it proceeded to whistle a chorus of “Dixie” with trills that rivaled a mockingbird’s. Then, after whistling and dancing a chorus of “Swanee,” it took a bow and strolled over and rubbed its back against Sam’s leg and said, “Hey, Sam, how about one of those pork chops?”

  “So that’s what you’re up to,” Sam said. “Well, the answer is NO! And you better git the hell outta here, ‘cause hungry as I am I’m liable to eat you for dessert!”

  “Then how about a piece of bread soaked in some of that good pork-chop gravy,” the little kitten said.

  “Not unless you recite me the Preamble to the Constitution of the U.S.A.,” Sam said, “and I mean backwards!”

  “O.K., Sam, if that’s how you feel,” said the kitten, “I’m leaving. But before I go, just tell me this: Do you intend to be here when Martin comes?”

  “Scat!” Sam said, and with that the kitten disappeared up the chimney.

  So then Sam turned his chops, rested back with his belly gnawing and growling as he closed his eyes. But before he can make himself comfortable, here comes more commotion. And he opens his eyes to see a black cat the size of a tiger barely missing his dinner as it lands in the fireplace and stands glowering with its hair standing on end and its rawhide whip of a tail whipping the air like a mad rattlesnake.

  “What’s going on in here?” Sam yells. “What the hell do you want?”

  “What I’d like to know, Sam,” says the big cat in a refined bass-baritone, “is are you going to be here when Martin comes?”

  “Hell, yes,” Sam says, “and if you don’t get outta here I’ma whup your butt with this poker! What is this anyway, some kinda crazy, gut-busted cat-house?”

  “Take it easy, Sam,” the big cat says, “and good eating….”

  “Scat!” Sam yells, and the cat flies back up the chimney. Then Sam turns his chops in that deep-frying fat, rests back, and closes his eyes.

  And for a while everything was so quiet and peaceful that all he could hear was the sound of his pork chops bubbling in the fat. But then, just as his nose tells him that they’re about done—here comes a terrible noise from the roof that sounds like a grand piano tumbling down three flights of stairs. And when he springs to his feet and grabs the poker, a striped yellow cat the size of a gorilla lands in the fireplace and brushes the soot off its body as it glares at him out of eyes that glow like opals.

  Then as Sam freezes in his tracks the cat reaches a paw into the red-hot grease, grabs his pork chops and eats all seven in a single gulp. Then, belching like an alligator and farting like a bear, it arches its back until it’s as tall as a camel. And proceeding counterclockwise it turns three times in a circle, and lays down a pile of a size that would have done credit to a constipated whale or an elephant. And then with its eyes fixed on Sam as though daring him to move, it reaches back daintily and wipes itself with a red-hot ember, shakes its legs, steps back, and takes a deep breath. And then through all the stink and steaming, it lets out a roar in a voice that rolls like thunder:

  “HEY, SAM! IS YOU GON’ BE HEAH WHEN MARTIN COMES?”

  And, gentlemen, that’s when Sam breaks down the door getting him some air!

  “HEY, SAM!” the big cat yells from the broken-down porch of the mansion, “YOU AIN’T ANSWERED MY QUESTION!”

  “And what’s more,” Sam yells back as he turns on the gas and heads for the tracks, “if you ain’t Martin

  And mean to hang around,

  You can tell him that Sam

  Had some very urgent business

  In another town!”

  And with a chuckle he adjusted his hat and returned to his search for Millsap.

  [LEROY]

  MOVING ON TO a street to the north, he continued his search. But in none of its shops, billiards parlors, or restaurants was there a sign of Millsap or anyone else who was familiar. And in eyeing faces in the crowd moving past for old-timers who might be of help, he became discouraged.

  Forget it, Hickman, he advised himself, because by now they’ve probably changed neighborhoods or passed from the scene. And remember how it is when you’re in a strange city and encounter a friend you grew up with: In the joy of reunion time leaps backwards, but then you’re back in the present and before it’s over you both discover that time, space, and different experiences have rendered you strangers…. Yes, but let’s hope that this time there’s at least one left who can guide me to Millsap.

  And with a sigh he moved to a double-doored shop with the words: janus barnes hair salon displayed on its window and saw underneath a painting, the surprising subject of which was a double-headed black man whose faces were staring in opposite directions. And noting that the hair on one of the heads was straight and gleaming and that of the other bushy and dull, he smiled. So what about someone like me, he thought, whose hair is now old and gray but still just as kinky?

  And glimpsing a group of young men through the window he thought, Shall I risk joining them inside or simply keep walking? It has the same name, but the sign is new, and since Janus passed from the scene years ago things inside have to be different. Anyway, given such golliwog styles as the Natural, t
he Greasy Look, and the Afro, why would a man of Millsap’s taste have remained one of its customers? So, since it was our favorite during the old days, rather than having my memories disturbed by its new owner’s changes, I’d better keep walking….

  And now moving past he recalled the shop as it had been during the old days. Calling it a salon had been pretentious, but it had indeed been a fine barbershop, and a forum in which he had shared the experiences of its customers and taken part in discussions of politics, sports, and automobiles, and exchanged tall tales, jokes, and improbable lies. It was also famous for endless bull sessions in which the topics included anything from the ways of white folks, to the contrast between history as written in books, heard from grandparents who had lived it, or simply described in terms of the truth as they knew it, to the wiles of women and the immunity of pigs to rattlesnake bites. Yes, and during the Depression it had been a freewheeling haven for good fellowship. So now let it rest peaceful in memory—Amen!

  But now, nearing the corner and hearing a crash, he turned to see a stocky black man bursting from the shop with a neck-cloth billowing from his shoulders and heading in his direction with an awkward, collapse-and-recover, side-to-side pumping of his knees, legs, and shoulders. And as he watched the dark face playing hide-and-seek with the white neck-cloth’s swirling he heard a shout, “Hey, Lee-roy! Git your crazy butt back in this chair!”

  So that’s it, he thought, the old rule still stands: Fall asleep in Janus’s and some joker is sure to give you a hotfoot—which explains his running like an eccentric dancer imitating the walk of a hotfooted camel! But just as he looked down expecting to see smoke from burning shoe polish curling from the walk-slapping feet the man veered and came directly at him and the neck-cloth became a cloud of billowing whiteness out of which his black-jacketed arms were flailing and flapping like a fish in a net.