Eggplant Man

by Margo De Leaver

  The words uncontrollably flew out of her mouth. “Harold, you are drunk, you are always drunk. I’m surprised it took them so long to get rid of your behind!”

  In a moment of insanity and drunken anger, Harold picked up a paring knife and made a huge gaping slit in Ruby’s left cheek. She felt numb all over, floating in a cloudy weightlessness. A thick, warm liquid ran down her cheek and into her open mouth. It tasted salty. “Am I crying?” she wondered. “Are those tears I taste?” She looked at her apron and noticed the bright red stains intermixing with the daffodil landscape pattern of her smock.

  Two phrases flowed into her head. “Don’t never let no man hurt you, Baby. He do it once, he do it again,” Ma’Dear always said. Even her long-gone Daddy, who left before she turned twelve, had put in his two cents. “If a man ever hits you, he’s dead, baby-girl! If you don’t do it, I will,” he had said.

  In her shock and fear, Ruby grabbed the nearby carving knife and plunged it deeply into Harold’s chest, sending him swiftly back to the dust from which he came. Although it was considered self-defense by the law, it was all over the papers. After that incident, wherever she went in Metairie, people would whisper and stare. Ruby came north to Harlem, New York, trying to escape her notoriety in her home town. She wanted a new start in a big city where she could become anonymous.

  She moved in with her mother’s half-sister, Aunt Peggy, and found a part-time job waitressing at a small coffee shop on St. Nicholas Avenue near 135th Street. Aunt Peggy, noticing her husband’s attentions to her niece, soon became jealous of Ruby. She began accusing the girl of flirting with her husband. After trying to avoid the husband’s daily sexual advances, Ruby knew she had to leave Aunt Peggy’s place.

  Desperate, she rented a vermin-infested room on 115th Street. Her savings were meager and her part-time salary insufficient. Each day, Ruby had to step over drug addicts and the homeless sleeping on the steps and in the lobby of her six-story walk-up. Soon, Ruby experienced her first shattering street encounter.

  It was seven o’clock on a Monday morning, and Ruby was on her way to her job at the coffee shop. As always, numerous addicts and homeless lined the steps, landings and lobby of her building.

  As she reached the fourth floor, she had to sidestep a sleeping derelict sprawled on the landing. His hand abruptly shot out, grabbed her ankle and threw her off balance. Ruby fell hard onto the cracked tile floor, hitting her forehead on the step. Her uniform was askew, exposing her white cotton panties and stocking covered thighs. Ruby quickly pulled her dress down to cover herself.

  “Where you rushin’ off to, sweet thing? Why don’t you jus’ sit here and keep me company for awhile?” The words dribbled out of the man’s crust- cornered mouth as his beady eyes focused on Ruby’s shaking hands. She was clamping her waitress uniform firmly over her thighs.

  Still firmly holding her ankle, the man smirked maliciously. “What you hidin’ under there, Missy?” His eyes were fixed on Ruby’s trembling thighs and tense hands.

  Ruby tried to inch away from him, but the more she moved, the more intense his grasp became. Her whisper was pitiful. “Mister, I have to go work. I’ll lose my job.” In response to her plea, the man emitted an evil chuckle, then cynically laughed out loud.

  The trespasser looked at Ruby’s face for the first time. The utter fear in her eyes excited him. Then he noticed the large red scar embedded in her cheek. The gyrating keloid ominously stared back at him.

  “What the hell is that on your face? It sure is ugly.”

  For a fleeting moment, Ruby thought he would let her go. Perhaps her blemish would save her, like Ruth in the Bible. In that moment, he forcefully flipped her to a prone position, causing her again to hit her head on the step. He pulled her dress above her hips and ruthlessly yanked her panties down to expose her buttocks. Ruby’s desperate cry echoed through the landings of the tenement. It was a wail that went unanswered.

  The molester pulled out a knife and held it to Ruby’s throat. His foul, heaving breath rested heavily on the back of her neck. “You do that again and I’ll give you a matching scar for the other cheek.”

  Ruby remained silent as the invader continued his assault. Hot tears soaked her face, blurring her vision and adding to the wooziness she felt after hitting her head on the step.

  One of Ma ’Dear’s sayings eased its way into her consciousness. “You ain’t lucky nor ‘specially blessed, Baby.” It rang true.

  Ruby found herself focusing on the grey and black hairs standing erect on the man’s ashy arms. His too long nails were encrusted with black debris. She began to count his violent thrusts. It reminded her of the sexual encounters she had had with her husband. In that moment, she was glad she had killed Harold.

  By the time, she counted twelve thrusts, Ruby’s mind went blank. She felt numb. Her attacker finally fell into an intoxicated sleep. Ruby was able to free herself from his weight. Back on her feet, she felt wobbly and nauseous.

  Her olfactory lobe was assaulted with the overwhelming odor of alcohol, feces, urine, sweat and semen. She vomited multiple times until nothing was left except the bitter taste of bile in her mouth.

  After a failed attempt to smooth out her disheveled uniform, she stumbled down the four remaining flights of stairs, out of the building and onto the streets of Harlem, unsure of her next step. Silently, she vowed never to return to her room in the tenement, not even to get her few belongings.

  She walked aimlessly in the direction of St. Thomas the Apostle Church on 119th Street, passing two policemen. The officers did not seem to notice her. Ruby wanted to run to them and scream out her story. She could not bring herself to repeat what had just happened to her. She was just in too much pain and was so embarrassed.

  Next to the church was a shelter that was always full by mid-morning. Ruby staggered in. An attendant, noting her condition, led her to a cot, no questions asked. She fell promptly into a deep sleep.

  When she awoke, it was late morning. The events of the previous day were a blur, almost surreal. Ruby wondered if the assault had occurred or if it had just been a horrific nightmare. The burning, raw pain between her legs and the aching and shooting pain in her anal area would not permit a disavowal. Then she looked down at her stained uniform and torn stockings. Reality overcame her as soft moans escaped from her bruised mouth.

  In the shelter’s bathroom, Ruby stared at her reflection in the mirror and started to cry. It was a low cry, muffled, so that other residents could not hear her. She had a lemon-sized black and blue knot on her forehead, her eyes were red and swollen to squints. There were multiple abrasions on her face and dried tear stains mixed with crusted mucous around her nose. The smells of the assailant still lingered on her person and clothes.

  Picking up the bar of brown soap sitting on the sink, she ran the hot water and used paper towels to clean off the remains of the attack. Gingerly, she removed her stockings, careful not to further aggravate her bruised knees. The dried caked blood was stuck to her knees and stockings pulling at the contusion which throbbed beneath it. She discarded the nylons in the trash receptacle. Next, she removed her panties, and saw a revolting, stained mess of blood, urine and semen. Using the soap, she vigorously scrubbed the soiled underwear. Her efforts at removing the stains from her uniform were unsuccessful.

  Ruby gave herself a paper towel shower, delicately cleaning her burning and sore private areas. She put the cleaned, still wet underwear back on. Its dampness offered some cooling relief to the injured area.

  She had a sixteen-block walk to her job at the deli. Since it was already hot outside, Ruby figured she would be almost dry by the time she reached work. When she walked into the deli, her boss took one look at her. “You’re fired,” he said. “You missed yesterday and come in today like something the cat dragged in.”

  He asked no questions and Ruby offered no explanation. Embarrassed by the stares of the customer
s who were having their morning coffee and bagels, she turned around and headed back to the shelter. The volunteers there gave her a white tee shirt and a pair of baggy khakis. This would be her new uniform for the next 20 years. Unable to find employment over the following months, Ruby went from the shelter to the streets.

  Her gaze turned back to the mysterious iris duo staring back expectantly into her own hazel colored pair. Ruby wondered how long it had taken her to mentally recall the details of her violent event of 20 years ago.

  Raising her left hand, which was still holding the eggplant skin, Ruby offered the dark purple peel to the seated man. Her voice was a whisper, barely audible above the traffic sounds of 125th Street and Amsterdam.

  “This is your skin-mate, Eggplant Man.” Ruby had audaciously renamed the stranger.

  CHAPTER 4

  Eggplant Man

  Intrigued, Eggplant Man looked at the piece of glistening purple skin in Ruby’s hand. He took mental note of her caramel fingers and the gentle way she was caressing the vegetable peel. There was no doubt in his mind that he would accept this unusual gift. He could not recall the last time anyone had given him anything, other than the suit he was wearing.

  He had never eaten the vegetable but recognized it and its resemblance to his own coloring. Always sensitive to his dark skin, he thought for a moment that Ruby might have been trying to insult him. One glance into her eyes assured him that was not the case.

  His mind traveled back to earlier days growing up in the mulatto section of New Orleans, where skin color was a dividing factor within the social, political and religious echelons and even within family structures. It often was a determining feature in the course your life would take, whom you would marry, where you would live and what clubs you would frequent.

  “There was a time when I would shrink and want

  to fade

  away

  When I was told, I looked like ink by some ignorant

  ofay

  Faithfully I’d fry my naps so that no one could see

  That my hair in its natural state was kinky as could be”

  His pigment had made him a frequent object of jokes and prejudice within his own race. To the white world, he was considered more of a threat than his lighter-skinned brothers who, due to their Creole mix, often appeared white. Had he finally overcome the ridicule?

  “Now I walk with head held high

  And wisdom under my cap

  Knowing that my fear did die

  And it’s beautiful to be black”

  Eggplant Man finally reached out, accepting the remarkable skin-matched item from Ruby. He was careful to touch her hand in the process…and she noticed. He was amazed at the eggplant’s smoothness and texture. He thought that God surely must have had this vegetable in mind when he created his skin tone.

  He also liked the new name given to him by this scarred, gentle lady. It suited him much better than his family given name of LeRoy Vaughn Reed, which meant small, red-haired king.

  Eggplant Man looked at Ruby with a sudden intensity, eye to eye, hand to hand. “Thank you, Ruby,” he said in a voice so deep and reverberating that it startled Ruby. The hustle bustle of the people surrounding her, heading to and from their lunch hour, halted for a second. They stared. The three words were the first he had uttered to another person in six years. Eggplant Man had not engaged in any conversations since his friend Joe, Bubba’s son and the original owner of the barber shop, went back to Mississippi. One green-black skinned lady, in a bright yellow dress and matching yellow shoes, sauntered over to where the two new ‘friends’ were sitting. She dropped a dollar into the cup, which Eggplant Man always kept near his large crusted feet. Ruby shot a darting, unfriendly glance at the woman.

  Eggplant Man looked at the woman in yellow. She could have been his sister. She had very dark, smooth skin and an afro hairdo of coarse salt and pepper tight coils. Observing her bright dress, he recalled admonitions to dark-complexioned Blacks in the South regarding dress codes. Eggplant Man could not help creating a silent bluesy refrain.

  “Hey black gal in that yellow dress

  As fine as fine can be

  Didn’t your mama always stress

  That color’s not for thee

  Nor is orange, red, lime or white

  For it emphasizes your constant plight

  And brings attention for all to see

  That black, black color that you be”

  Ruby abruptly stood up and turned away, heading back to her garbage expedition. She now had only one hour left before the trash would be picked up and the treasures therein forever lost.

  Eggplant Man returned to his reclining position. Watching Ruby’s disjointed movements on her way back to her obsessive search, he fingered the purple skin one more time before he gingerly slid it into the left jacket pocket right over his heart.

  CHAPTER 5

  A Good Omen

  Ruby’s mind was racing as she returned to the garbage cans. Only twelve more cans to go.

  She could not release the recent encounter with the Eggplant Man from her mind. “He touched my scar,” she thought. “Nobody ever touches me…nobody!” And no one had touched Ruby in 20 years. “Did I hear him say Ruby?” His deep voice was echoing in her head. “Ruby, Ruby, Ruby!”

  Her scar was still tingling from the abrasive yet gentle stroke of his rough fingertip. Ruby felt a little dizzy…too many thoughts running in her head, like a piglet on the loose. “How did he know my name?” she asked herself.

  As she reached 127th and Amsterdam, Ruby methodically surveyed the overflowing garbage cans, lined up and impatiently awaiting the disposal trucks’ routine arrival. It became a game for her. Could she finish her garbage tour before the trucks arrived? If she completed her task before the trucks came into view, she believed something serendipitous would happen the next week. The previous week, she had beaten the trucks by 15 minutes… and this week there was Eggplant Man.

  Diligently, she began rummaging through can one, finding nothing of interest. The garbage receptacles were filled with rotting, half-eaten burgers, candy wrappers, sticky cans, and both new and crumpled newspapers, soiled baby diapers, soda bottles, one still with a swig left in the bottom . “Why didn’t they finish it all?” she thought, as she swallowed the remaining liquid in the soda bottle.

  Ruby was always intrigued by newspapers. She read only the headlines. The whole story was of little significance to her. Her mind recalled the Metairie Daily headlines of December 25, 20 years earlier: “Woman Kills Husband After Having Face Slashed.” The caption was accompanied by an enlarged, hypnotic picture of Ruby. The still raw C-shaped scar dominated her left cheek.

  “Nobody cared about the whole story,” she thought. “Only the condemning headlines were important to them.”

  Can two, three, four… more of the same. Ah, at last she arrived at can 12, and no truck in sight. As she was searching the last can, she noticed mahogany colored roaches scattering about and began to count them. There were 12. Twelve roaches in can 12…another good omen for the next week. She never harmed the roaches. They were survivors just like her.

  Ruby was now carrying ten crumpled and some hardly read newspapers, evenly distributed under each arm. She never took more than she could easily carry. Her mother’s voice rang in her ears: “Never take on more than you can handle, Baby.”

  Ruby’s reply to any request made by her mother was always the same, “Yes, Ma’Dear.” Her mother called her ‘Baby’ right up to age 17. That year, Ma’Dear and Ruby’s only sibling, Jon-Jon, were killed in a house fire. Her mother had returned home, exhausted after cleaning Missy Mays’ two story house all day. While preparing dinner for Jon-Jon and Ruby, she left the food cooking on the stove and fell asleep on the living room couch. A fire broke out. Her two-year-old brother was trapped in his room. Ruby was at school helping to decorate t
he gym for prom night. The headlines read: “Mother and Son Burned to Death in Fire.” The rest of the story was unimportant. It never even mentioned how tired her mother was.

  Ruby was heading back to her ‘space’ when she noticed out of the corner of her nystagmus glance the grey garbage truck turning onto 127th Street. She had beaten it again!

  “Next week will be a good one,” she thought.

  CHAPTER 6

  Playing the Blues is Like….

  Eggplant Man had watched Ruby as she abruptly rose and walked away…leaving her scent still lingering in his air. Her slight form was engulfed by her rumpled baggy khakis. Her shiny black braids, jumping up and down on her shoulders, kept rhythm with her staccato steps. The innate musician in him created jazz to match the braid-beat.

  “Exotic sounds of distant drums, ride

  On cool breezes, in synchrony (plopity-plop)

  With the ebb and flow

  Of warm wet indigo waves (plopity-plop)

  Keeping perfect rhythm

  With the beat of the congas (plopity- plop)”

  He reached into his pocket and felt the smooth surface of the vegetable skin resting there. It was warm now, lying over his heart. His right index finger was still transmitting messages to his brain about the soft feeling of Ruby’s keloid scar against his calloused finger.

  Eggplant Man was startled suddenly by a stranger’s intrusion. A tall, distinguished looking figure in a cream-colored linen suit, a tan Stetson hat and brown and white Spectator shoes, was standing in front of his open banjo case. The man was holding what looked like a neatly folded bill in his hand. Eggplant Man could see only the corner of the money, but he thought it might be a ten spot. He straightened up slightly. “That could be lunch and dinner for me and … for me.” He mused at his Ruby inclusive thought.