by Ed Bullins
“Let’s celebrate,” she said.
At 11:15 I apologized for having to go to work; I promised to stop by the next evening. She patted and asked if I could be late or be “suddenly” taken ill just this once?
“But I haven’t been on the job long enough,” I explained.
I kissed her in the doorway, then turned the corner and walked to my car and drove within the speed limit.
I was certain I could never see Catherine again.
Support Your Local Police
SUPPORT YOUR LOCAL POLICE!!! the bumper sticker read. And I should have known better. From the way he slowed in front of me before he got to the toll gate, and from his hesitation and his annoyed, “Ahhh, the hell with it,” gesture that he gave me crouched over from the cold. But I should have known not to relax as I ran up behind the car after it stopped, my eyes on that bumper sticker. SUPPORT YOUR LOCAL POLICE!!!
But then the Harrisburg exit of the Pennsylvania Turnpike seemed a gateway to the below-freezing winds, and I had been trying to get any kind of lift for all of two hours.
“Thanks,” I said when I got into the car.
“Where you comin’ from?”
“New York.”
“Been waitin’ long?”
“About two hours.”
“It’s a lousy spot. Where you goin’?” the driver asked.
“San Francisco.”
“Boy! You really got a trip ahead of you, haven’t you?”
“Yeah, I guess I have.”
“Well, I’m only going a few exits down and then I’m going south.”
That’s how I ended up in Lexington, Virginia. Route 60 goes right through there, and that’s where my driver was going, to Lexington.
“The radio says there’s a snowstorm comin’ from the Midwest.”
“Yeah, that’s what I heard this morning.”
After that it didn’t take much prodding from him to get me to take the swing below the Mason Dixon and out of the path of winter. I entered the South almost without looking back.
I told him that I was going to San Francisco to get married, and find a good job. He seemed to believe that my fiancee’s name was Patsy Mae and that she worked in a laundry, pressing shirts, and that I usually found work as a janitor or in a car wash.
That’s the story I usually use when hitchhiking all over the country, to everyone. Marriage, and janitor or car wash. I’ve learned that that story works on nearly all of them. For hours I can spin out fantasy about my Patsy Mae and how good life is going to be for us, especially if I get work in a good firm out west, like Dow or Lockheed or Boeing. And how California is famous with us colored people all across the country for them wonderful lifetime jobs. I tell these stories with a straight face and sometimes talk so much about Patsy Mae that the more brainy of my benefactors become bored with my conversation.
But I know better than to tell them that I am a writer, especially a playwright, and that I’m going to the West Coast this particular occasion to see one of my own plays in Los Angeles and to see and make love to an old girlfriend of mine in San Francisco. People get upset when you tell them the truth, some might even be hurt, especially those who have strange stickers on the bumpers of their cars. Now, what if I had said, “I’m a playwright involved in the Black Revolution and I’m hitchhiking to California to see one of my black revolutionary plays?” Or, “I’m going to see my ex-girlfriend. She’s white, you know. (Winking as I say it.) And I don’t honestly know truthfully whether I’m going to see my play out there, ’cause I’ve seen it already, or to see her. (Smiling at my own candor.) She’s very nice and white, being Jewish and raised in St. Louis, but actually born in Texas, so more than likely you have much in common with her.”
Now, I couldn’t say that, could I? Those answers shouldn’t come from black hitchhikers, writers or no. And since I knew this, I changed my speech accordingly.
“Yeah, Patsy Mae and me are gonna have a mess of kids. Maybe six or more.”
“Well boy, if you and your little lady ever get down to Lexington, I got a friend who can always use a good presser.”
“Oh thanks a lot.”
Night closed in on the road and the Southern Pennsylvania hills and a sign came up: WELCOME TO MARYLAND—NO HITCHHIKING!
“I thought Colorado was the only state that outlawed hitchhiking,” I said.
“Well, you never know, boy, now do you?”
And his speedometer was at 95.
“Don’t feel like we goin’ ninety-five, do it, boy?”
“Nawh.”
“Well we are. I’ll have it up to a hundred and five before the night’s over.”
“You will, huh?”
“This is a special car, you know, boy. I guess you’ve guessed that by now, huh?”
“Oh, yeah, I did.”
“Don’t see many floor shifts like this, huh? This is a test model. That’s about all I do now. Test special cars. But I used to be a truck driver.”
“It must be interesting.”
“Oh, it is, boy. It is.”
“It seems that way.”
“You ever hear of the John Birch Society, boy?”
“John Birch?”
“Yeah, the John Birch Society.”
It was black outside. The road was straight and deserted ahead and winter had raped the trees that bordered and bent over us. We were in West Virginia.
“Yup. That’s all I do, mostly. Just go around and check and see. My job in the New Jersey chapter of our group is to collect information. My territory is Jersey, Pennsylvania, part of Maryland and Delaware and southern New York. Sometimes I travel all weekend.”
“It must be an interesting job.”
“It is, boy. It is. I really work for the Ford Motor Company but I get enough time off and travel expenses to get around. This is the special car they give me. It’s hopped up.”
“Do they give you a new one every year?”
“No, every other. It’s got a supercharger and a lot of stuff you probably never heard of.”
“Yeah, that’s right.”
We entered Virginia and his speedometer read 110.
“Things are really getting bad,” he sighed. “Commies taking over everything. You go to church, boy?”
“Oh, yes, I do. Yes, I do.”
“You do, huh? What kind?”
“Baptist.”
“Baptist, huh?”
“Yeah, Baptist.”
“Do you know about Martin Luther King?”
“Who?”
“King! Martin Luther King … the freedom marcher.”
“Ohhh …”
“Yeah, him.”
“Well, I’ve heard about him but I ain’t one of his followers.”
“Good. The damned Commie. You know that’s all that’s behind him, don’cha?”
“Well, I don’t keep up with that kinda stuff too much.”
“It’s just as well that you don’t. It’s really a mess. ’Cause when he can’t get things to go as fast as how he thinks it should go he comes in, gets good colored people like you, boy, all riled up and just makes trouble. Damned Commie. That’s my job—to see what’s going on and to spread information. If it wasn’t for groups like us I don’t know how long this country would last.”
“Yeah, I see what you mean.”
“The Commies infest this country. From the White House on down. There’s a lot of things you don’t know, boy. It was a colored man in 1914 that wrote a paper describing the coming Commie take-over. He was a Commie. Way back then was when they started planning and working, the Commies, the Jews and the niggers … no offense to you, boy, but some of your people just act like they are.”
“You come from Lexington?” I asked.
“Naw, not originally. My father teaches down there. Virginia Military Institute. He’s one of those that got me first interested in our group. My dad’s a real fireball. I’ve tried to join the service over a dozen times but they won’t take me. Me with colleg
e and all, but they don’t take me … I got ulcers.”
“That’s strange they won’t take you and you test out these highpowered cars.”
“Yeah, they thought I’d get in and cost them a lot of money. Ulcers sure are expensive. My dad’s done spent over twenty thousand dollars on his in the last six years.”
“Where do you drive your test cars?”
“Oh, around the country. On tracks sometimes. I race them too, you see. And I can drive anything, boy, anything that’s got wheels. Drove for Smith Brothers Trucking in Virginia for years, still take out a load for them when they get pressed. Damned good outfit, and I’m studying for my pilot’s license when I ain’t driving.”
“You gonna fly a jet?”
“Naw, helicopters. That’s where the money is. Ferry around executives.”
A small dish-rag grey carcass lay in the road. My driver told me it was a skunk, that skunks infested that part of the country. The temperature rose and we cracked the windows, sniffing warmer air and an occasional unfortunate skunk.
“Yeah, I was married once,” the driver said. “But that didn’t work. Damned American women don’t want their men to be individuals anymore. Want them never to get out of high school. I don’t smoke or drink and I’m a hard worker. I believe in this country, boy, and its women … and its men too, but I just ain’t going to bed with just any tramp that comes along. I’m savin’ myself for a real woman. I was reared in the seat of the Confederacy.”
We entered Lexington about nine.
“Damn, this is the best time I ever drove that stretch in my life. This new highway system they putting in really gets us here. Four states in half the time. I left New York only hours ago. The good old Army’s behind it. Sees the need of staying mobile and ready.”
“Your father teaches college?” I asked.
“Yeah, Dad was in business a long while but the Commies and ulcers drove him out. Now he’s back to what he really wants to do.”
“I wish I had gone to college,” I said.
“Listen, boy. I got two degrees and I can tell you that you ain’t missed a damned thing, let me tell you.”
He showed me the college and told me that Jefferson Davis was born in Lexington. Then he pointed out Route 60.
“Well, we just passed a Baptist church. One of yours, boy. But it’s for white folks. This is the real South, you understand? It’s a lot different if you never been here. Now, this is the way you go. Keep on this road out of town. I wouldn’t stop and try to get a ride before I got out of town, if I was you.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“Oh, before I forget it.” He handed me a John Birch Society pamphlet. “Don’t want you to get away clean, now do I, boy?” He smiled. “I feel kinda guilty ’cause all my heavy artillery is locked in my trunk but this is enough to get you started.”
“Thanks, I really appreciate it.”
“Now, that’s all right. Just wait ’til you get out of town before you try and get a lift. It’s dark out there but it’s warm.”
On my way out of town, a group of five black boys passed me and each said, “Hi,” when passing, and they smiled as a group.
On the edge of town, five cars passed me, one stopping so that the driver could peer at me, then accelerating with a tearing of tires, the tail lights dissolving in the night.
Five minutes later, a car stopped. The driver was heavy and black.
“Where the hell you goin’?” he said.
“West.”
“How goddamn far west?”
“California.”
“Get in. I’m goin’ all the hell the way to Cincinnati and you goddamn better keep me awake.”
“Thanks, I will.”
“Don’t say another word, sport. What the hell you goin’ to California for? You go to school or somethin’?”
“Nawh. I’m going get married and I usually work as a janitor.”
I didn’t feel too bad telling him that; I have been a janitor at times and who knows, maybe one day I’ll get married again.
“Well, I’m in the Army, myself, youngster. Twentythree goddamn years’ worth. Just re-enlisted and bought this brand-new Impala. Yeah, spent my leave with my girl before I go to Korea! She’s eighteen, my girl, and the prettiest little thing in this man’s Army. Can’t see what she sees in my old ass.”
“Well, Sarge, there’s more to it than looks.”
“Sure is, son.”
“Now take my Patsy Mae for a case. I’m the family man type and I shy away from those lookers but the moment I laid eyes on Patsy Mae …”
And that’s how it was across a lot of the country. Next time I might fly, except that there’s a lot of stories to hear and see between here and there.
SUPPORT YOUR LOCAL POLICE!!!
WELCOME TO MARYLAND—NO HITCHHIKING!
SUPPORT YOUR LOCAL POLICE!!!
95 M.P.H.
SUPPORT YOUR LOCAL POLICE!!!
SPEED LIMIT IS POSTED.
SUPPORT YOUR LOCAL POLICE!!!
SLOW DOWN AND LIVE!
SUPPORT YOUR LOCAL POLICE!!!
110 M.P.H.
SUPPORT YOUR LOCAL POLICE!!!
SPEED CHECK BY RADAR
SUPPORT YOUR LOCAL POLICE!!!
END OF FREEWAY
SUPPORT YOUR LOCAL POLICE!!!
FARM LABOR INFORMATION
SUPPORT YOUR LOCAL POLICE!!!
SUPPORT YOUR LOCAL POLICE!!!
SUPPORT YOUR LOCAL POLICE!!!
DANDY, or
Astride the Funky Finger of Lust
Dedicated to Malcolm X … who too wore a “zoot” suit
“We’re makin’ a regular country boy out’ta you, Dandy Benson,” Aunt Bessie said, wiping the flour from her hands.
Dandy laughed behind her back as she stooped to shove the biscuits in the oven, and muttered “like hell” under his breath.
“What did you say?” she asked.
“Nothin’.”
Dandy took his swatter and eased over in back of Marie Ann to smash the fly she was stalking.
“Git on away from here, Dandy Benson,” she giggled. Her brown face burst into joy.
“This is man’s work, Marie Ann,” Dandy drawled.
She pulled at his wrist and they began wrestling across the floor on the far side of the great kitchen from Aunt Bessie. Marie Ann’s large muscular legs strained below her shorts as the two pushed and jerked. Dandy held her tight, on the sneak, to feel her young breasts.
“You kids, you kids break that up,” Aunt Bessie yelled. “Break that up, you hear me, Dandy and Marie?”
They parted with Marie getting the last tap with her swatter on Dandy’s rear.
“Dandy,” Aunt Bessie said. “I want you to stay away from Marie,” the middle-aged woman said for at least the hundredth time, Dandy thought. “You two are together too much and if anything happens to that girl, Dandy Benson, I’m going to see that somebody goes to jail and that goes for you too.”
Dandy and Marie had heard Aunt Bessie’s threats before; they had heard them as a regular part of their long summer days together; their being caught in childish play each day was almost routine, or the near miss of being discovered kissing or hugging, and then the following mock violence of the confrontation by the old lady they both loved. Even if they had been guilty, if Dandy were so fortunate as to be fully worthy of her suspicions, and the woman carried out her promises, they both knew that they would continue loving Aunt Bessie as nearly everyone did.
Aunt Bessie claimed love as her own, and in this manner she took the children of the poor and wretched and overworked into her warmth. She took those who would love her most.
Dandy looked out one of the windows surrounding the kitchen and wished that he had opportunity to test Aunt Bessie’s threats.
Times were better now, he thought. There was so much more for him to like his second summer in Mary’s Shore, Maryland. He liked the way the tan and brown of the sand and mud roads wound through the dried wee
d fields and meadows more this summer than his first lonely year, and he liked the animals; the dozen ducks, the eight pigs, the horse, Jim, and the couple hundred chickens that Aunt Bess and Uncle Clyde kept on their sixteen-acre farm. He even kind of liked Uncle Clyde, a little bit at least, and surely the second summer’s entire bunch better than the ones of his first vacation in Maryland. Even the year before that first one in Eastern Shore, spent in New Jersey with his near-white Aunt Martha, there wasn’t the same dismal emptiness as the vacation of the first year with Aunt Bessie, even though there was no one in New Jersey with him but Aunt Martha and her maid, cook and handyman who doubled at driving the shiny new black Buick and was called “the chauffeur.”
The first summer with Aunt Bessie, the kids had been either too young or all from the same little town of Chester, Pennsylvania, except him, and Dandy couldn’t stomach much of their attempting to convert the freedom of Aunt Bess’s farm into an extension of little Chester.
But this year there was Roy Howes, and there were Jack, Marie Ann and Richard Bowen. And there was Ida.
Aunt Bessie boarded out kids for the state adoption, correction and welfare agencies, and in the summer she and Uncle Clyde took in additional summer guests from the city. Dandy was from Philadelphia—that’s why they had begun calling him Dandy, from his jitterbug clothes he arrived in, and his cool impractical walk which was difficult to show on the soft dirt roads in his snake-skinned, pointy-toed shoes he had to abandon for loafers; but he still hadn’t altogether dropped the strut because he knew the city had made him to be different from the other boys there in that farm land.
“Go out and empty the garbage, Dandy,” Aunt Bessie said. “Uncle Clyde and Jack and the little boys will be home soon.”
That was a job that Dandy did well. He enjoyed the pull the bucket gave his muscles when he lifted the tin container and carried the swishing mess outside and across the yard to the pig barrel. The two dogs, a young German shepherd named Pudgy, and a collie, Cisco, always followed him across the yard begging him to drop them a scrap or throw them crusts as he sometimes did.
A wooden cover was on the barrel and Dandy had to slide it off with one hand while holding the bucket high so the dogs would not poke their snouts in and drag garbage around the yard and later get sick, having their stomach’s contents heaved up, drawing flies. Whenever Aunt Bessie cleaned chickens she especially warned Dandy, for one day Pudgy poked his head in the slop bucket quickly and pulled out a long chicken gut tied together with other chicken guts, and the shepherd and Cisco had dragged the garbage about the yard while several chickens, who had slipped under their fence and constantly ran the yard, chased after the scraps the dogs dropped and tore off. The hens pecked furiously away at the raw meat as if they didn’t know they were devouring their brothers, and Aunt Bessie had gotten ill.