The Collected Autobiographies of Maya Angelou

by Maya Angelou

  Whump.

  He withdrew, and while Billy was adjusting, shot his right fist against Billy’s cheek.

  My scream lofted high and made no indentation on the room’s boisterousness.

  Billy wobbled for a second, looking for a wall or shoulder to lean against.

  “Hit him, Billy.” I was standing and ready to climb in the ring.

  Black Shorts bounded away and then moved in close. As if responding to a public announcement, the fight fans began to give their attention to the action. Their low thunder diminished and I could hear the boxers’ feet sliding across the mat. Sh-h-h, sh-h-h-whomp. There is no sound in the world like that of a man storing his fist in the chest of another man. Lions may roar, and coyotes howl, but the vibrations of two human beings struggling for physical superiority introduced to me a nauseating and new terror.

  Whump! Whomp! Sh! Sh! Sh! Ooo!

  The breath was being pounded out of Billy’s little body and I knew it could have been Bailey up there dancing his waltz under the cold eyes of gamblers.

  “Stop them, Cain.” I turned and leaned over my boss and Billy’s owner.

  He regarded me as if I were a stranger just gone mad before his eyes.

  “What? What? Sit down and cool off.” The edges of his teeth showed and his fat face glimmered in the dark.

  “Stop them,” I said. “That man is beating Billy to death.”

  “Shut up.” I was embarrassing him in front of his friends. “Shut up and sit down.”

  “You dog. You sadistic dog freak!” The words were accented by the whomps and shs from the ring. “Freak!” I screamed it and turned to run.

  Cain grabbed at my arm but I had moved away. The other men were questioning:

  “What’s the matter with her?”

  “She go crazy or what?”

  Cain ordered, “Sit down, dizzy bitch.”

  I was nearly out into the aisle, but I turned and straddled a patron who was by now more interested in our row than in the public contest above.

  “Marquis de Sade son of a bitch.” I threw my suede purse at Cain and lifted a leg over the patron, freeing myself to reach the aisle. I ran up the corridor to the front door, expecting at any moment to be caught and dragged back to be forced to watch poor little Billy be whomped to death.

  I paused to catch my breath and consider the number of pursuers on my trail. The divisions between the rows were empty and the faces, which I expected to have swiveled in my departing direction, still faced forward.

  I noticed that the roar was growing and from where I stood I saw the figure in white shorts fold down, knees first, to the canvas. Black Shorts’ feet might have been mired in concrete, he stood so certain.

  Billy’s head crashed forward and the audience screamed its approval. I was right and wrong. Cain was a sadistic bastard. But he wasn’t alone. All the bloodthirsty fans were sadistic, too. And so was Billy.

  I walked the streets to my house and comforted myself with the knowledge that although my brother was small and agile enough to be a featherweight fighter, no one would ever sit eating hot dogs while he was beaten to death. He shadow-boxed and danced down cruel streets, and his opponents made Black Shorts look less threatening than Papa Ford. I was proud that my brother was living a dangerous life and didn’t bow his knee to a living soul.

  I knew the job was gone, and even if an apology rectified things with Cain, I couldn’t apologize. To hell with him, the job and the fighters. Hoorray for my brother.

  Cain’s letter the next day was as stiff as a short jab: “Rita Johnson, your services will no longer be necessary.”

  I was in a state again that was blood line familiar. Up a tree, out on a limb, in a pickle, in a mess but I didn’t pack my bags (or leave them) and go back to Mother.

  Survival was all around me but it didn’t take hold. Women nearly as young as I, with flocks of children, were creating their lives daily. A few hustled (I had obviously little aptitude for that); some worked as housemaids (becoming one of a strange white family was impossible. I would keep my negative Southern exposures to whites before me like a defensive hand); some wrestled with old lady Welfare (my neck wouldn’t bend for that).

  While the total trust of a child can mold a parent into a new form, Guy’s big smile (Mother said he laughed an awful lot for a baby) and happy disposition lost its magic to make me happy. He believed in me, but he was a child and I had lost belief in myself.

  My head stayed high from habit, but my last hope was gone. Every way out of the maze had proved to be a false exit. My once lively imagination would not come up with one more fantasy. My courage was dwindling. Unfortunately, fortitude was not like the color of my skin, given to me once and mine forever. It needed to be resurrected each morning and exercised painstakingly. It also had to be fed with at least a few triumphs. My strength had fallen away from me as the pert features fade from an aging beauty. I didn’t drink and had run out of pot. For the first time in my life I sat down defenseless to await life’s next assault.

  CHAPTER 31

  I had often noticed Troubadour Martin at Cain’s. He was extremely tall and dangerously thin. When I used to see him, he reminded me of the phrase often used to describe me, “A long drink of water.” He came to my house a week after my job ran out. That was how I’d begun to think of it. His movements were slow and his speech a long time coming. We sat in my living room.

  “Hello, Rita.”

  “Hi, Troub.”

  Pause.

  “Heard you not working for Cain.”

  “No. The job ran out.”

  Wait.

  “Well, you find anything yet?”

  “No, I’m taking a rest.”

  Hesitation.

  “Of course.”

  Delay.

  “Maybe you can help me.”

  I demurred. This time I didn’t intend to jump at the first persuasion. He was black and handsome, and when the light fell right across his face he looked like a thin Paul Robeson. I also knew he wasn’t one of the men who sent out for drinks.

  “Maybe you know I deal in clothes?”

  I knew he was a gambler.

  “No.”

  “I have a connection for ladies’ dresses and suits. New.” He shook his head before my question. “They’re not hot. I run sort of like a catalog business. I’ll tell you what I need. See, you won’t have to do nothing. I’ll bring the things, and ladies can come over here to try them on.”

  He smiled slowly, and dropped his eyes. I saw the Southern shyness of the man and knew the clothes were stolen.

  “You know how you ladies are. Wouldn’t like to undress unless there’s another lady around.”

  I didn’t know about that. I said nothing.

  “And you don’t have to sell, I’ll do that. I’ll give you a percentage of the money. How’s that?”

  There was nothing to think about. I agreed.

  I’d have money coming in and my time would be my own. I could read all day, and take Guy to the park and to movies. I would have the time to teach him to read. And I’d be beholden to no one. Troubadour wasn’t interested in me romantically, so I didn’t have to concern myself about getting involved with him.

  “All right, Troub. When do we start?”

  “I’ll bring some things around tonight.” His words lingered in his mouth. “Uh, Rita, uh, I’m glad to be working with you. Every time I used to see you, I thought to myself, ‘That’s a real nice lady.’ Sure did.”

  He left me a demure smile.

  After two months my closets were filled with expensive two- and three-piece suits. Dresses, sweaters and stockings crammed my drawers, and I spent my days reading Thomas Wolfe and going to the movies with Guy. I had cut down my visits to San Francisco. Mother’s house was dim with foreboding tragedy and Bailey still hadn’t got his “bankroll together.” He was thinner and the new clothes didn’t fit. The shirt sleeves slid down to cover half his hands, and his stomach couldn’t resist the belt’s desce
nt. His color seemed to have faded and his once fast speech had slowed nearly to Troub’s rhythm. For her part, Mother talked faster and popped her fingers louder, but her laughter shattered out of her mouth. Unreal.

  There was no happiness in the house.

  In Oakland, my fantasy settled upon becoming Mrs. Troubadour Martin. He was kind, generous and quiet, and although we made a desultory kind of love a few times, he had never asked for more. The ideal husband.

  Troub was definitely strung out on heavy narcotics. Even when I smoked grass, he would take only one or two drags and let me have the rest. I had waited to see when he would try to introduce me to heroin and hadn’t been quite sure how I’d respond. Order him out of my house or consider that he made enough money to be able to keep us both high for life? One hit of heroin wouldn’t make me an addict. And maybe if I shot it once, he’d know I didn’t disapprove and our relationship would be closer. Since he never answered my direct questions about heroin, I schemed to bring about a confrontation.

  “Troubadour, I think you’ll have to find someone else.”

  “Why, Rita?” Even shock didn’t scurry across his face.

  “I think you’re keeping something from me. Or have an old lady. And … and I’m beginning to fall for you.” It wasn’t difficult to make myself cry. All I had to do was think about losing my soft perch, or my brother, or my mother, or old L.D. or the long-lost Curly.

  “Rita, I’ve told you, I don’t have any woman.”

  Tears flowed. “But you never take me with you. I’m not a girl. I want to be your woman. And share everything with you. You don’t care about me.”

  “Yes, I do, Rita. I like you. You’re just fine.”

  “But you don’t want me, is that it?”

  “No. That’s not it.” At least he was speaking a little faster.

  “Then if you want me, stop hiding what you do. I can take it.”

  I dried my tears enough to look at him. His eyes squinched together and his jaws clenched. He looked straight at me. “Can you leave the baby for a while? Come for a ride with me.”

  Here it was. I had to leave Guy alone. Nothing ventured …

  Troub pointed the car toward San Francisco.

  “Where are we going?” I had expected he was taking me to his room, which was in Oakland near my house. He didn’t answer. The Bay Bridge amber lights washed out his brown-earth color and he was a cold, sallow stranger. I couldn’t show panic.

  “Oh, to the city, huh? That’s nice.” (“Did I ever tell you I have only a little while to live? I have a brain tumor and the doctors give me six months.” I had planned the speech years before to be used if I encountered a rapist or murderer. “They can’t operate. Too near the cerebellum.”)

  Troubadour stared at the streets and chose one. I was dismayed to see that we were on the waterfront. My God, he was a freak of some kind and this was going to be the last few minutes of my life. I still couldn’t scream.

  He stopped the car on the wharf.

  “Come on, Rita.”

  “But where are we going?”

  “I’m going to show you something.”

  There was an absoluteness about the way he spoke and nodded his head toward the opposite side of the street. A pale sign said “Hotel.” I was glad I hadn’t screamed. A hotel. Maybe his house was hot and he was bringing me to a hotel to show me the ropes. I followed him through the fog, across four sets of railroad tracks to the hotel.

  He walked straight to the desk and told a chalky-white clerk. “Give me the key.”

  The clerk didn’t hesitate and I still followed, a little shaken. Did he keep a room here to act out some extravagant fantasy?

  He turned the key in a lock and I went sheeplike into the room.

  My first impression was that I was in a city bus station very early in the morning. People sat and lounged on every available place. Three bodies were draped over a bed, men and women sat on the floor, backed by the wall. Two women sat in one chair and all, black and white, were dozing off or waking up or fast asleep. No one noticed our entrance.

  Troubadour reached back for me in the dim lamplight.

  “Come on.” I reeled and tried to shake my sluggish brain awake but it couldn’t compute the situation.

  It seemed a slow whole minute before the scene registered. This was a hit joint for addicts. Fear flushed my face and neck and made the room tremble before me. I had been prepared to experiment with drugs, but I hadn’t counted on this ugly exposure. As I watched the wretched nod and scratch, I felt my own innocence as real as a grain of sand between my teeth. I was pure as moonlight and had only begun to live. My escapades were the fumblings of youth and to be forgiven as such.

  I twisted for the door behind me and tried to snatch my hand away, but Troub held on.

  “Come on. I want you to see something.”

  I was afraid to scream and alarm the addicts in their dreaming. If I pulled free and reached the lobby, would the desk clerk know I wasn’t going to the police and allow me to go?

  Troub tugged at me and we stumbled over outstretched legs toward an open bathroom door.

  In the bathroom, Troub removed his jacket and gave it to me. He rolled up his shirt sleeve. Time for Troub and me moved as if we were swimming under water. He took a tablespoon from the sink and a small square of paper from his pocket.

  The senses of sound, taste and touch had disappeared, but I had never seen so clearly or smelled so acutely.

  The powder was dusted into the spoon and he dribbled a little water over it. He held three matches under the belly of the spoon while the mixture simmered. The sweet smell went into my nose and unlocked my tongue. “Don’t do it, Troub. Please don’t.”

  “Shut up and watch me.” He tied his arm above the elbow with his tie and tightened it with his teeth. Then he took a syringe from the grimy face bowl and filled it with the hot clear liquid. High-standing keloid scars ran down his inner arm, and the black flesh was purple and yellow in a place, with fresh sores. He pushed the needle into a scar and wiggled it around, then took it out and tried another.

  “Please, Troub.”

  “Shut up and watch this.”

  The needle pricked one of the soft scabs and rich yellow pus flowed out and down his arm to the wrist.

  My tears, which had been terror-frozen, thawed at the sight of the man who had been so nice to me, jabbing and picking in his own flesh, oblivious to the pain and the ugliness.

  The needle found its place and blood, mixed with a few drops of heroin, had snaked across his upheld arm. He loosened the tie with his teeth, and as if I had x-ray vision, I watched the narcotic reach his brain. His face muscles slackened and he leaned heavily against the wall.

  “Now, you want some?” Slow lips, slow question.

  “No.”

  “You sure? I can cook up for you.” His head lolled, but he kept his eyes on me.

  “I’m sure. I don’t want it.”

  “Then I want you to promise me you won’t use shit. That’s why they call it shit. It is. You a nice lady, Rita. I don’t want to see you change. Promise me you’ll stay like I found you. Nice.”

  “I promise.”

  “Let me rest a little in the car, then I’ll take you home.”

  He slumped behind the steering wheel for a half-hour and I watched him.

  I thought about the kindness of the man. I had wanted him before for the security I thought he’d give me. I loved him as he slouched, nodding, his mouth open and the saliva sliding down his chin as slowly as the blood had flowed down his arm. No one had ever cared for me so much. He had exposed himself to me to teach me a lesson and I learned it as I sat in the dark car inhaling the odors of the wharf. The life of the underworld was truly a rat race, and most of its inhabitants scurried like rodents in the sewers and gutters of the world. I had walked the precipice and seen it all; and at the critical moment, one man’s generosity pushed me safely away from the edge.

  He finally awakened and we headed
back to Oakland. In front of my house I told him he should take his clothes. I explained that I planned to move back to the city.

  He said, “Sell them, you need the money. You’ve got a baby. There’s plenty more stores and plenty more clothes.”

  The next day I took the clothes, my bags and Guy back to Mother’s. I had no idea what I was going to make of my life, but I had given a promise and found my innocence. I swore I’d never lose it again.

  SINGIN’ AND SWINGIN’ AND GETTIN’

  MERRY LIKE CHRISTMAS

  For MARTHA and LILLIAN, NED and BEY, for

  the laughter, the love and the music

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thanks to the BELLAGIO STUDY AND CONFERENCE CENTER of the ROCKEFELLER FOUNDATION, particularly BILL and BETSY OLSEN. A special thanks to my friend and secretary, SEL BERKOWITZ.

  CHAPTER 1

  “Don’t the moon look lonesome shining through the trees?

  Ah, don’t the moon look lonesome shining through the trees?

  Don’t your house look lonesome when your baby pack up to leave?”

  Music was my refuge. I could crawl into the spaces between the notes and curl my back to loneliness.

  In my rented room (cooking privileges down the hall), I would play a record, then put my arms around the shoulders of the song. As we danced, glued together, I would nuzzle into its neck, kissing the skin, and rubbing its cheek with my own.

  The Melrose Record Shop on Fillmore was a center for music, musicians, music lovers and record collectors. Blasts from its loudspeaker poured out into the street with all the insistence of a false mourner at a graveside. Along one wall of its dark interior, stalls were arranged like open telephone booths. Customers stood playing their selections on turntables and listening through earphones. I had two hours between jobs. Occasionally I went to the library or, if the hours coincided, to a free dance class at the YWCA. But most often I directed myself to the melodious Melrose Record Store, where I could wallow, rutting in music.