Oh, Play That Thing

by Roddy Doyle

  —Out!

  —Yes, Missis Grobnik.

  —Out!

  I stepped out, every night. I walked. I covered the city, street by street, acre by acre. I sniffed and took in the town-wide stinks – meat, metal, big wind from wide spaces, and the smells that marked the districts, neighbourhoods, the old countries. I leaned on brick corners, knew when not to rest against other bricks. I got to know the Loop, crossed every street and alley. I looked for the eyes of ownership, the weight of guns. I knew when I was measured or could walk unnoticed. I was careful.

  But it was good. There was room here. I strayed across the river, north, and west, and south. I walked and crossed the names and numbers. Huron, Erie, Ontario. West 31st, 32nd. Harrison, Jefferson, Polk. I copped the speakeasies as I strolled past, the sudden fumes, the snatch of song as a door opened somewhere. I spotted the gang hotels, the men and cars parked outside, the cop shops and brothels, all there, all in place, all avoidable. Crossing the street was enough, turning a corner was an old place left behind. I listened for talk and gunshots. The shots were there, some nights, and charging cars and more shots, but always far away. No one ran for cover. Business as usual; let them at it. It was the big city. Things could be distant here.

  The neighbourhoods were easy. Big chunks of built-up prairie that a man could stay lost in, if he was quick and very quietly flamboyant. No good fedora – not since Sweet Afton – no Darrow suspenders, not even here, the home of Clarence Darrow. I could walk past and through – there was space for a man – without stepping aside or begging pardon. The Irish patches weren’t as Irish, the Italians weren’t as Mediterranean – there was room for America here. I wasn’t stupid or sentimental. There were plenty of fuckers, hot for murder and profit; but there was room for big elbows here. A man could turn and walk away, and walk as fast and as slow and as far as he wanted. I roamed the night. I got back for the two hours’ sleep, all I wanted, on the mattress I shared with a chap on the night shift, a Slovak I’d only met once.

  I was ready for Mrs Grobnik’s call before she opened her mouth.

  —Riy-isssse, shiy-nnnne!

  She was at the bottom of the stairs, waking the stiffs of the house.

  —In, Mees-ter Smarhht?

  —In, Missis Grobnik.

  —Away-ke?

  —Yes, Missis Grobnik.

  —Hon-gry?

  —Yeah.

  —You betcha. Out all night.

  Out all night, and I was always heading south.

  I’d stay away for days, sometimes the week and another day or two, but I always went back south. And, to get there, I went east, and north, to State Street. And, when I wandered that way, I took my Clarence Darrows and I let them twang. Here a man could wear lilac as he walked into the blues, past the pig-ear-sandwich truck, around the sidewalk dice game. Through new smells and meat goods – Chitterlings, Spare Ribs, Neck Bones – past pool halls and stores – Plaids, Stripes, Checks. I strolled the Stroll, past newsies flogging the Defender, and the open door of the Greater Lily Baptist Church, next door to the fight club. And I felt the freedom I’d really never known before. Because there was no past now waiting to jump. I had to be careful but there was nothing behind my back; it was all ahead. The place was wild, and as new as I was.

  I waited for Dora.

  At last. I wasn’t Irish any more. The first time I heard it, before I was properly listening, I knew for absolute sure. It took me by the ears and spat on my forehead, baptised me. There was a whole band of men on the bandstand, and a little woman at the piano, all thumping and blowing their lives away. Two horns, a trombone, tuba, banjo, drums, filling the world with their glorious torment. There were two trumpets blowing but the spit on my forehead came from only one man’s. I looked at him through the human steam – it was too hot there for sweat – and I knew it.

  I was a Yank.

  At last.

  It was like nothing I’d heard before, nothing like the American songs that Piano Annie had played on my spine in Dublin, before I’d had to run. This was free and wordless and the man with the trumpet was driving it forward without ever looking back. It was furious, happy and lethal; it killed all other music. It was new, like me.

  —You got a name, honey?

  There was a gorgeous thing beside me, checking out the fabric of my suit. The suit was old – three years since I’d bought it – but the collar was hours-old new.

  —I’ve got several, I told her.

  —That supposed to impress me?

  —No, I said. —When I’m impressing you, you won’t have to ask.

  —Now ain’t you a man.

  —And ain’t you a woman.

  I was recovering. I was Henry Smart and there was a woman here who was interested in getting to know me. I looked at her properly.

  She wasn’t black. She wasn’t white. She was new too, invented seconds before and plonked in front of me. Just for me, the new American.

  But the trumpet was butting at me; I had to look. She wasn’t put off or put out. I could feel her breath, and it was new too, made of things I hadn’t tasted. It was stroking my neck.

  —Who’s that? I said.

  I nodded at the stage.

  —You don’t know him? she said.

  —No.

  —He the man all you white folks come down here to see.

  —Who is he?

  She told me. I learnt all his names that night. Dipper. Gate. Gatemouth. Dippermouth. Daddy. Pops. Little Louie. Laughing Louie. Louis Armstrong. The names danced among the crazy lights that jumped from the mirror ball above the dance floor. He was dancing now as he played, as if his legs were tied to the notes that jumped from the bell of his horn. His steps were crazy but he was in control. He was puppet and master, god and disciple, a one-man band in perfect step with the other players surrounding him. His lips were bleeding – I saw drops fall like notes to his patent leather shoes – but he was the happiest man on earth.

  —Any man worth a damn need more than one name, said the woman. —Ain’t that the truth?

  —I’ve had a few, I told her.

  —Well now, drop one on me.

  —Henry.

  —More.

  —S.

  —And?

  —Smart.

  —Henry S. Smart?

  —Hello.

  —What’s with the S?

  —So.

  —Henry So Smart?

  —You’re looking at him.

  —Well, my oh my.

  I was Henry Smart again – no more running and hiding.

  —What’s your own name, baby? I asked her.

  I could say baby now; I was American.

  —What day is it? she said.

  —It might be Monday, I said. —I’m not sure.

  —Then I might be Dora, she said. —I’m not sure.

  The band stopped suddenly and the man with the trumpet yelled.

  —Oh, play that thing!

  Then the band was off again, all back on crazy tracks, heading for the same place by routes that were all their own. And the man wiped blood from his lips with the back of his big hand; he put the horn back to his mouth, hopped tracks and never crashed.

  There was a beautiful woman close beside me but I couldn’t take my eyes off Louis Armstrong.

  —Ain’t he the blowin’est? she said.

  I looked at her now. She really was something.

  —Want to try the Bunny Hug, Henry S.?

  —Sounds good.

  —Is good.

  And I danced with her. I was dancing with a woman for the first time in my life. She was wrapped around me, even though we hadn’t touched. Then my hands found her back and hers found mine. And we danced right out of the music, to the back edge of the dance floor, but we kept ourselves trapped in the rhythm, and danced right back in again, under the lights and trumpet drops. And we stood there as the music stopped, gut to magnificent gut. Her elbows rested on my hips and she tapped my arse with her sequined pocketb
ook.

  —Well. Now.

  —What do they call you on Tuesdays? I asked her.

  —Why?

  —I’d like to know your name when I wake up beside you.

  I hadn’t spoken in months; it was great.

  —Oh now, she said. —Where’s your ambition, Henry S.? I’ll be Ethel on Wednesday.

  —Fair enough, I said. —Ethel it is.

  She grabbed a handful of my shirt and we walked out under a canopy that stretched forever in front of us, and out, into light, hot rain, to State Street and the rest of the new world.

  I asked her a question.

  —Is this going to cost me?

  —Nothing but a whole lot of sweat, said Dora.

  Jesus, though, it was good to be wet and alive. Less than a week in Chicago and I was holding down a job, a room and the makings of a night of serious riding. I was clean and clean-shaven, going nowhere far. I was on solid ground, strolling through air full of the caressing rain that couldn’t kill the rich stink of the new-dead cattle and pigs, and the live ones in the stockyards that knew their hours were numbered; I could hear them from miles away – the music couldn’t kill them. There was money in this air and music coming from every open door, and Armstrong’s music followed us all the way, shoving and pulling, rubbing our shoulders.

  Oh, play that thing.

  No old villages here. This was a city. Manhattan was an island; I’d walked it side to side. There was no walking this one. Chicago had room. It was a great port, a thousand miles from the sea, surrounded by all of America. All trains led to Chicago but I’d spent two years, more, getting here. And here I was, alive again, young again, new.

  We crossed a hopping street. We didn’t talk as we turned off State, one more Bronzeville block to Dora’s house and a room three flights up.

  There was no one else there.

  —Way I like it.

  She kicked off her shoes. They landed where she wanted them.

  Oh, play that thing.

  We hit the mattress – the room had five; hers was the only one on a bed, on castors that took us all over the floor. By the time we slid out onto the floor, Tuesday was well spent.

  —Well my, she said.

  I was probably out of a brand new job; I didn’t know, and I didn’t care.

  She sat up and grabbed a blanket from the bed. There was a red curtain hanging to our left, making two rooms of the one; the kitchen – a sink and stove – was behind it.

  —Well, Mister Henry S., she said as she covered us. —Long time since you did that trick with a lady.

  —What makes you think that? I said.

  —Oh now, she said. —I can tell. You went at it for near two days, boy.

  —You were with me all the way, baby.

  Bayay-bee.

  —Ain’t just the hours, said Dora. —It the way you fill them. Fucked for two days but you came in seven seconds flat.

  She was right. It had been a long time since I’d buried myself in a woman’s hair, since I’d rubbed my hand on someone else’s skin. And her skin; she was gorgeous, away from the club’s mirror ball and the music that had made all women gorgeous. It was good to be alive. I was relaxing for the first real time since I’d left Ireland. I could lie back and feel only the tiredness. I was looking at her window, taking in the sounds from the street below us and streets beyond, sounds that travelled miles to die at our feet.

  —I’ve been here five days, I told her. —And there hasn’t been one second when I haven’t heard music.

  —Music being born every minute in this city, she said. —I love it.

  —Are you not from here?

  —No one from Chicago, Henry S., she said. —No coloured, anyway.

  —Where are you from?

  —Where from? Where the darkies beat their feet on the Mississippi mud. That where from.

  —Is that from a song or something?

  —That right. A song or something. Ain’t no darkies in Chicago, even if the white boys still sing about them and call it jazz. You been here five days. Where was you six days ago?

  —Between places, I said.

  —Cheap answer. Ain’t no need for it. You mysterious without it.

  —Mysterious?

  —Sure. You like that? Being mysterious.

  —Yeah, I said. —It’s grand.

  —Grand.

  —Yeah. How am I mysterious?

  —Oh boy, she said. —We going to talk about you all the day?

  —No, I said. —But give us five minutes.

  —Well, she said. —I gave you two of my names. Remember them?

  —Dora and Ethel.

  —That right. So how come you was calling me Annie and Miss O’Shea? What shit you got going on there? You fucking your old schoolmarm last night?

  —Well. Yeah, I said. —Now and again.

  She didn’t object.

  —You Irish, right?

  —Yeah.

  —And your schoolmarm in Ireland a coloured woman?

  —No, I said. —But she’s beautiful and a woman. And it was dark.

  —How come you was at that club on a Monday night?

  —It was just Monday, I said.

  —Notice something?

  —Like what?

  —Like you was just about the only ofay in the joint. Monday night is coloured night.

  —Ofay?

  —White.

  —Oh. I noticed that, alright.

  —And it not scare you?

  —No.

  —Surrounded by all those coloured women and their angry men wanting to kill you for looking at them?

  —No.

  —I believe you, Henry S.

  —Grand.

  My only real friends had been women; I could always talk to women. I missed Piano Annie. I missed old Missis O’Shea. I even missed the old witch. Granny Nash. She’d always known what I was up to; she probably still did. And, Christ, I missed Miss O’Shea. I turned every corner expecting to see her, even though there were thousands of miles between us, as far as I could know, and it was five years, more, since I’d seen her and longer still since I’d been able to hold her. I’d heard nothing of her; I didn’t know if she was free or still in jail, fighting her war or rearing our growing daughter, missing me or doing what I’d been doing for years, running away.

  And I wondered now if Hettie had ever found the wallet. Or if someone else had found it. If the photo was still there, waiting, with the money. Was it there? I weighed the thought. No. It was gone and spent, and thrown aside, away.

  I stared at Dora. She was beautiful.

  —What colour are you? I asked.

  She took her hand from my back and passed it across my eyes.

  —I just been fucking a blind man, she said.

  —I’m serious, I said. —What colour are you?

  —Well, from where you are, I’m a nigger.

  —No.

  —Yes. A negro, if you want. A negress. A darkie. A shine. They’re all nigger. You’re here because I’m a fine-looking negress. That’s what you see.

  —You’re a fine-looking woman.

  —And any woman will do if you get to call her Annie or Miss O’Shea.

  Her hand was on my back again, in a circle between my shoulder blades. Round and slowly around, no push, no anger, no hard point being made. My latest teacher, presenting me with nothing but the facts.

  —Now, if you was a Negro sitting there, I’d be a high-yaller bitch. I’d be one bright yellow feather in your cap, black boy.

  —Why?

  —Because I ain’t as much of a nigger as you are, that’s why. I’m the nearest thing to white you’ll ever get to weigh in your hands.

  —So what?

  —So what? How long you been here?

  —Three or four years.

  —Three or four years. And you can say, So what. You are blind.

  —I’ve been busy, I told her.

  —Busy! she said. —Boy, you been asleep! You got no r
ight to be here that time and not notice a thing or two. No right.

  She slapped my shoulder.

  —You Irish and you telling me you don’t know the difference between black and white? You don’t know the rules? You people wrote most of the goddam rules. What day we meet?

  —Monday, I said.

  —That right, she said. —Monday. Because I wouldn’t be there Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday or Sunday. And if you say, Why not, I’ll tear your balls off and throw them down to the street.

  —Because you’re coloured, I said.

  It was feeble but the best I could manage. She was terrifying and marvellous.

  —That right, she said. —I’m coloured. No coloured let in that door any other day of the week. Monday our night. Even on State Street. Our street.

  —It’s a shame, I said.

  —A crying goddam shame, she said. —Five, six more days to Monday. What am I going to do?

  —You could pass for white, I said.

  —You know more than you pretend, she said. —I don’t want to pass for white.

  —We could always stay in, I said.

  —About all we can do, she said. —’Less we want to get ourselves troubled. You want to know why I ain’t interested in being a white woman no more?

  —Fire away, I said.

  She stared at me.

  —It ain’t because I can never be one, she said. —That ain’t it. I spent all my life being less than white. Thinking I was better than most because I had some white man’s blood, and knowing all the time that I was just a nigger bitch. Get my hair straighted, put bleach on my face, I was still a nigger bitch. And not enough of a nigger neither. Not white enough, not black enough. Just a jaundice-coloured bitch, didn’t matter a goddam how many men was after my tail. I hated my own self and walked through those nigger bitches thinking I was better than them because my ass wasn’t as black as their black asses.

  She said nothing for a while. She hummed something that I couldn’t catch. Then she looked at me and spoke.

  —Took a long time to get out of that white man’s trap. Want to know who did it for me?