Then Seth sat down and began to play. White people crowded the piano – men in top hats and coattails, women in fancy dresses holding parasols. Seth sold most of the sheet music during lunch and the rest in the late afternoon and evening.
In the weeks that followed Witmark delivered more and more music to the store. Ernest began performing alongside Seth, cracking jokes or singing lyrics. But unlike Ernest's performance that first night at the bar, he always took care to restrain himself. When Seth asked why, Ernest told him it wasn't safe to show white people all a black man could do. While Seth understood what Ernest was saying, he didn't agree with it. Seth played his best and wasn't going to stop for anyone.
Seth and Ernest played until closing each night, after which Ernest would go to different theaters and shows looking for work, or they'd both head to the bar on San Juan Hill. This went on until early August, when Ernest asked Seth to again cover for him at the department store. “A friend landed me an appointment with Tony Pastor. He owns the city's biggest vaudeville stage.”
The next day Seth's fingers absently played the piano keys while he prayed Ernest landed his big break. He didn't need the dragon's insight to tell him Ernest hated plugging. But when Seth arrived home that night, Ernest wasn't there. Seth assumed Ernest's appointment hadn't gone well, so he asked the dragon to find his friend. The dragon flew to the door, flicked its tongue and waited for Seth to follow.
The dragon led Seth through the quiet back streets of New York, the rap of Seth's shoes on the cobblestones mixing awkward rhythms to the hiss of gas lights. In one dark alley, several white men surrounded Seth, cursing him and his skin. Enraged, the dragon blew fire across the men's faces, scorching one man's beard and setting another's hair on fire. The men screamed and ran away. Seth quickly continued on his way.
Soon they arrived at an unlit, half-deserted street in an area called the Tenderloin. While Seth had never been here, he'd heard it was dangerous. Half the row houses Seth passed were boarded up. Seedy Irish men stared at him from the front steps of houses. The dragon wrapped itself protectively around Seth neck and led him to the steps of a large, burned-out church.
A charred sign with the words African Methodist Episcopal Church hung beside the front door. Seth glanced back at the Irish men, who glared angrily at him. The dragon growled, warning Seth to get out of here. But from inside the Church came the plinking notes from an out-of-tune piano. Seth pushed open the broken front door and picked his way through the fallen timbers and burned pews.
He found Ernest in a back room of the church, playing a water-rotten piano. Moonlight fell around Ernest from holes in the roof. Torn and mildewed sheet music lay strewn across the dirty floor.
“Why'd you come here?” Ernest asked, his words slurred to the whiskey he'd been drinking.
“I was worried about you.”
“No. I mean, why'd you come to this damn city?”
“To play music. All the sheet music I'd ever seen was made here.”
Ernest laughed and played a new song, an awkward classical ditty which sounded exactly like the hundred other boring songs Seth had played over the last few months in the department store. The dragon sighed.
“I thought the same as you,” Ernest said as he played. “I grew up in Bowling Green, Kentucky. In the Shake Rag district. My mother had me playing piano by the time I was eight. When I was ten, I played the lead in church every Sunday.
“So I came up here. Worked my music. Joined a touring minstrel company where I got to act like a genuine version of a damn black-face white mimic of black people. Wore too-big shoes, baggy pants, smeared my face in burnt cork, let those white fools in low class burlesque houses laugh at me. Didn't want to, mind you, but it was the only way I could perform. Hell, I even changed my last name to Hogan. My name's really Crowder.”
“Why'd you do that?” Seth asked.
Ernest snickered. “Because Irish performers are more popular. Like anyone'd mistake me for Irish. But even with a hit song, none of the big theaters will hire me.”
Before Seth could respond, he heard a creaking from the front of the church. He looked through the burned sanctuary and saw five men walking toward them. “We have to go,” he whispered.
Ernest laughed and banged louder on the piano. “I'm not leaving! Did you know I used to play piano in this very church? Played piano until a fire accidentally burned the place down. Besides,” Ernest added, now yelling as loud as he could. “Those aren't men! They're Irish! Ain't that right, Paddy?”
The dragon looked at Seth in panic – they had to flee now! Seth ran to the room's only window, but a tenement house backed right up to it with only inches to spare. Seth eyed the holes in the roof and wondering if he could climb up there. Ernest continued banging on the piano as the Irish men walked into the room. “Come on in,” Ernest sang. “Got a new song here. Called ‘Paddies Are All Fools, Are Fools 'Til They Die.'”
Ernest only played the second note of his song before one of the men knocked him across the head with a wooden club. While two men beat and kicked Ernest, the others turned on Seth. The dragon hissed and flew at the men, but one of them smacked it down with his club. “What was that, a snake?” the man asked as the others tore into Seth.
Seth lay in the corner, trying to cover his head from the kicks, hearing the sick thuds of Ernest being hit and the deeper impacts of his own pain. One of his eyes turned blood and couldn't see. Out of the other he saw a man poking the dragon where it lay unmoving on the floor. Seth tried to stand to protect the dragon, but a kick took his legs out from under him.
Suddenly, the man standing over the dragon screamed. Seth opened his unhurt eye and saw the man ablaze, jumping and dancing like a rag doll thrown onto hot coals. Before the other men could react, two more burst into flame, then the other two. One of the burning men reached to Seth for help, but Seth merely rolled over to Ernest and grabbed his shoulders. “Run,” he gasped.
“Let me be,” Ernest cried.
Seth looked around the room. Two of the men twitched on the floor, the flames from their bodies already climbing the walls. The others had run for the sanctuary, where their screams echoed through the empty church. Seth grabbed Ernest's arms and dragged him toward the sanctuary as the flames cast flowing shadows across the already burned cross and altar. The burning men lay on the pews like discarded fatty candles. Above them flew the dragon, a thin line of flames shooting into the already dying men.
Shouts rang from the neighboring tenements as people noticed the fire. Seth knew they had only moments to escape. But Ernest dropped onto the floor and refused to move. “Dragon, I need your help,” Seth yelled.
The dragon landed on Ernest, wrapping its tail around his head so Ernest had no choice but to stare into its eyes. Whatever the dragon sang to Ernest, it had its effect. Ernest shakily stood up, supporting himself with Seth's assistance.
Ernest knew a back way out of the church. They hobbled toward it as the building collapsed to flames.
* * *
For the next week, Ernest lay in bed. A doctor Seth hired pronounced Ernest none the worse for wear despite the bruises and cuts which covered his body. Not knowing what else to do, Seth left food and water beside Ernest's bed and continued plugging songs at the department store.
But without Ernest to crack jokes and give him a rest, the playing grated. One day when Ernest took time off for lunch, the music manager yelled to get back to work. Ernest continued to eat, chewing his food slowly while the manager literally shook with anger.
The next day Isadore Witmark stopped by the department store and pulled Ernest into a stock room. “What the hell happened yesterday?” Witmark hissed.
“Had to eat my lunch. Ernest's sick, so there's nobody to cover for me.”
“Then take a minute or two. But when that manager tells you to work, do it.”
Seth felt the dragon writhing in his knapsack, the dragon's fury flowing into Seth and mixing with Seth's own anger. Seth thought of the men
who'd attacked them in the church and glared at Witmark. “I'll take the same lunch as any man,” he said. “You know how much music I sell. If you have someone better, let him plug.”
Witmark appeared close to hitting Seth, and Seth hoped he did. If Witmark laid a single touch on him, Seth would break his body. And if the music manager and any other white man in this store came after him, the dragon would burn the place down. Seth had power they didn't know and he wasn't going to let these idiots treat him like this.
Witmark stared into Seth's eyes for a moment before looking away, his face twitching as he muttered for Seth to return to work. Seth smiled as he sat before the piano and tumbled his fingers into the latest hit from M. Witmark & Sons.
* * *
Ernest wasn't at the apartment that night. When Ernest didn't return the following night, Seth asked around, but nobody had seen him. Even the dragon couldn't find him. Months passed. Seth continued to plug songs by day. At night, he played piano at the San Juan Hill bar. When people asked about Ernest, Seth simply shrugged.
One day Seth stopped by M. Witmark & Sons to check out the newest sheet music. To his surprise, he heard a catchy melody rising above the tin pan racket. He followed the music to the reference library he'd hidden in so long ago and found, to his surprise, Ernest sitting at the piano.
Ernest smiled as if they'd seen each other only yesterday. Seth walked around the piano. A stack of newly printed sheet music sat beside the piano stool.
“That sounds like a jig, or a march, and sometimes a cakewalk,” Seth finally said. “I can't quite figure it.”
Ernest smiled. “I call it a rag. Always wanted to name something after my birthplace.”
Seth felt the dragon vibrating to the tune – obviously it loved the song. Then Seth saw the title on the newly printed sheet music beside Ernest: “All Coons Look Alike to Me.”
Seth grabbed a copy and cursed. Caricatures of black men, with massive white eyes and even larger red lips, stared at an equally offensive black woman. At the bottom were the words “A Darky Misunderstanding Written and Composed by Ernest Hogan.” Seth's hands shook as he asked Ernest if he was playing this song.
“Yeah,” Ernest asked, his face grinning to the same comedic smile he used when cracking jokes with people. “What do you think?”
Seth fought the urge to slam his fist into Ernest's cocky face. “You're serious? You're letting Witmark publish this?”
“Why not? Witmark loves it.”
“Of course that racist bastard loves it. How can you do this to your people?”
“I'm not doing anything to anyone.”
Seth threw the sheet music to the floor. “You think white people are going to take you in because you play to their hate? Guess what? End of the day, they'll still look at your skin and see you as nothing.”
Ernest's smirk disappeared for a moment before his professional mask fell back into place. He smiled his comedian's smile a final time. “Talk to the dragon,” he told Seth. “That thing taught me the song.”
Seth started to argue, but in his knapsack he felt the dragon vibrating in harmony to the awful song and knew Ernest was speaking the truth.
* * *
Seth's worst fears came true with the release of Ernest's “All Coons Look Alike to Me.” Not only did the song sell, it sold better than any sheet music in history. Witmark's pluggers started saying the song might sell a hundred thousand copies. When that goal was quickly met, they started talking about a million.
Seth, though, didn't wait for that to happen. When the music manager handed him a copy of Ernest's song to play, Seth threw it in the man's face. The last time he'd stood up to the manager, the dragon had been in his knapsack and Seth imagined burning down the store. But today he'd left the dragon at home. When two burly store detectives arrived to escort him out, Seth simply walked away.
From then on, Seth made a living playing the different bars in San Juan Hill. Occasionally, someone would ask about Ernest, but over time those questions stopped. After all, Ernest was now famous. With his hit song, he traveled the country, playing all the top clubs and theaters. He even hosted a cakewalk exhibition for New York City's elite, entrancing pompous white people by teaching them to dance “Negro style.” The fact that Ernest made so much money selling out his own people slammed Seth's stomach.
Worse, the dragon had taught Ernest that horrible song. The dragon tried to sing an explanation into Seth's eyes, but each time Seth pushed the creature away. After a week of this, the dragon blew an irritated smoke ring and flew into the sky, until Seth lost sight of it over the East River.
* * *
And with that, time played its own tune.
Seth, to his surprise, enjoyed his life. In the years that followed he became known as one of the best pianists in New York City and moved into a nicer tenement in San Juan Hill. He also began courting a young woman from Alabama. While he didn't make as much money as when he plugged for Witmark, he made enough to begin planning their wedding day.
Still, Seth regretted his anger at the dragon. One day he stood looking across the East River and wished he'd behaved better toward his long-time friend. As if knowing this wish, that night the dragon visited Seth in his dreams, singing a tune of forgiveness. When Seth woke in the morning there was no sign of the dragon. But over the following months he again dreamed of the dragon and decided it must be the truth. Perhaps this was how the dragon intended to rebuild their friendship – in dreams.
Then the riots started.
Seth heard different accounts of what started the attacks. The most frequent was that a plainclothes Irish police officer harassed a black woman until the woman's boyfriend clubbed the officer in self defense. When the officer died four days later, the city's Irish population exploded. The rioting began in the Tenderloin but soon spread to all parts of the city, with white crowds attacking and beating any black person they found. Worse, the police either stood by and let this happen or took part in the beatings.
Seth stayed in his tenement for two days, not daring to go out. But then, in the middle of the third night, Seth felt something tickling his face. He woke to find the dragon staring at him. Seth heard distant screams from outside. He walked to the window and saw several fires glowing on the horizon.
The dragon wrapped around his neck and for a moment Seth felt like a child again, with a dragon protecting him from all harm. The dragon stared into Seth's eyes and he saw an image of Ernest running for his life.
“Take me to him,” Seth said as he followed the dragon into the burning night.
* * *
The dragon led Seth to the Cherry Blossom Grove theater on Broadway. On a placard outside the theater, Seth saw a poster advertising a performance by Ernest Hogan, the “unbleached American,” in a limited appearance. The picture of Ernest on the poster showed him in blackface. The performance must have ended because a number of white men and women wearing expensive dinner jackets and fancy evening dresses were boarding horse-drawn carriages.
Seth tried to enter the theater but a doorman blocked his way, so he waited across the street. As the upscale theater crowds disappeared, rougher-looking white men began passing and staring at Seth, who glared back, refusing to be intimidated. Once a group of five men approached with clubs in their hands, but before they could attack the dragon swooped out of the sky and shot fire at them. The men ran screaming down Broadway, the dragon nipping at their heels.
Shortly after midnight, Ernest left the theater. He'd gained a few pounds since Seth last saw him – and wore an expensive suit and walked with an engraved ivory-capped cane – but otherwise he looked the same. Ernest smiled when he saw Seth and embraced him like a long-lost brother.
“It's good to see you,” Ernest said. “I've heard you play in some of the bars around town, but I never had the nerve to say hello. And good to see you too,” he said to the dragon as it circled around them and landed on Seth's shoulders. “Hated knowing you two fell out because of me.”
Seth glanced down the block, where a group of Irish men were gathering, many holding clubs and rocks. Ernest also saw the men. Both of them walked the opposite way down Broadway.
“This is your fault,” Seth said.
“Mine?”
“Yes. Ever since that damn song of yours, all you've done is play to the hate white people throw at us everyday.”
Ernest snorted. “Like the hate wouldn't still be there. Please.”
Seth looked back at the group following them, which had now grown several dozen men. “You know we're going to have to run,” Seth said.
“Yes, that's a fairly reasonable assumption.”
So they ran.
The mob chased them down Broadway, a rain of rocks hitting the cobblestones all around. Seth could have run faster but Ernest was out of shape and barely able to keep up. Seth yelled for the dragon, but it had flown into the sky and was nowhere to be seen.
By the time they reached Broadway and thirty-seventh street, Ernest could barely run. Seth grabbed his friend and dragged him toward the Marlborough Hotel. The doorman tried to stop them, but when he saw the mob he turned and fled.
Seth was looking for a back door out of the lobby when the dragon flew in. Right behind the dragon was a white police detective, his revolver out and a shocked look in his eyes. The detective stood between Seth and Ernest and the mob and said he'd shoot the first man who tried to touch them.
Seth wondered what song the dragon had sung into the policeman's eyes to make him stand up to a mob like this. The mob, though, chaffed at being stopped so close to their target. They yelled at the policeman to stand with them. Seth looked into the detective's face and saw the man wavering.
Suddenly, the dragon landed at Seth's feet and screeched, a whine which gained strength until it became an all-encompassing roar. But even as Seth's ears rang to the noise, he also heard a deeper music than any he'd ever known, a music which was as much story as tune and rhythm.
The music took Seth across the millennia, back to when dragons owned the world. Seth saw thousands of dragons singing to each other. Singing to life. Singing a melody which surpassed time itself. As Seth listened, he learned that the dragons lived both inside and outside of time. They both lived within their present song of life and sang the songs of all the years to come, a future which they saw as easily as Seth saw clouds and sun and stars when he looked to the sky.
Never Never Stories Page 28