Hitting a Straight Lick with a Crooked Stick

by Zora Neale Hurston

  “Dat ud be jis fine, boss. Yer know, Stella, mah Stella, is ez putty ez a pitcher, boss, an’ Ah reckon some er dem low-down shad-mouf niggers in Poplar Street gwine gimme truble ef Ah keeps her dere. Tryter put her ’gin me, yer know.”

  “That’s just it, Sam. Get away from the riff-raff. You don’t want your wife to associate with those women and listen to the kind of conversation that’s common down there.”

  “Ah see do dat, boss. ’Fo’ Gawd Ah will. Call up de man.”

  There was such a note of sincerity in Sam’s voice that the white man stared at him for a moment. Respect for the black man was born in him, but he answered in an offhand manner.

  “All right, Sam. Now, another thing. Don’t go buying a lot of furniture on the installment plan. You may go now. I’ll let you know when you can see the house. And Sam, comb your hair once or twice before you get married.”

  Sam, with his hand on the door, turned and looked at Bronner and grinned.

  “Yer reckon she notice things lak dat?”

  “Sure she does, Sam. Do as I tell you now; get the habit.”

  Sam went back to his work happy but thoughtful. He was going to live up-town with the “dickties,” those members of his race who were professional or well off businessmen! Well, Stella deserved it. There was no woman among them possessed of more physical charms, and Stella was a lady, too. She never talked dirt nor mingled with the toughs. But it was hard to comb his hair, even for the sake of a goddess. Nevertheless, he went to a barber-shop that evening and had his hair combed, trimmed, greased and slicked down. My, how sore his head was after the operation! But he would gladly have gone through it every hour to win such admiring glances from Stella as she bestowed upon him that evening. He resolved to comb his hair every day after that.

  Two days before his wedding, Sam was summoned to inspect the house that Mr. Bronner had selected for him. Sam went up the stone steps proudly. There was a tiny, tiled vestibule, a brass door-bell, and a door with the upper-half beveled glass.

  But when he stepped inside, he received the surprise of his life. The house was furnished! To be sure, the furniture was not new, but it was in good condition. The bewildered Sam turned to Mr. Bronner.

  “Boss, de folks whut lef’ ain’t moved yit?”

  “Yes, Sam.”

  “Well, how did dis all git hyar?”

  “My wife wanted new furniture at home and we didn’t have any place to put this. Then I thought you and Stella might have use for it, and so here you are. Take good care of it, Sam. It’s the stuff my wife and I started out with. I was an ordinary laborer then.” Mr. Bronner paused and dropped upon the davenport. “You won’t need any more furniture except for the kitchen until you’ve accumulated five thousand dollars. We didn’t have any old furniture for that.”

  Sam’s eyes were rolling around in his head from surprise and joy. Wouldn’t Stella be a queen though? He seized the hand of his benefactor and wrung it (not a natural act for a character like Sam).

  “Deed, boss, Ah dunno whut ter say, Ah’m dat glad en happy.”

  “Don’t say anything, Sam, just live an honest life and stick with me down at the works and above all, respect and honor the woman you are marrying. Keep her clean. Here’s your key. Mr. Hill says your rent is $20.00 per month. Pay promptly. Now come on and get into the car and I’ll drop you at your present address.”

  So Samuel Simpson or Sam Shambles, as he was called, married Stella Potts and moved up town into the red brick house with the white marble steps.

  Stella worked some wonderful changes in Sam; for instance, she combed his hair so often that it was almost bereft of its ancestral kinks, and persuaded him that a person might bathe between Saturdays without unsettling the universe; and that it was expected of a “dickty” to clean his fingernails at least once a day.

  Things went on very well for five or six months. Sam was becoming more proud and self assured every day. He could see the neighbors casting admiring glances at his wife as they went forth arm in arm. He never went near Poplar Street anymore, for he had a bank account and was thinking of buying a piano. No “dickties” lived in Poplar Street.

  But one day he met “Blue-front,” one of his old cronies, upon Poplar Street. “Blue-front” noted Sam’s neatness, his air of importance, and hated him. He wondered if Sam would speak. Sam was polite but reserved.

  “’Lo, Blue!”

  “’Lo, Sam, Ah doan see yer no mo’.”

  “Naw, Ise busy wid mah fambly.”

  “Ah hyar yer er ‘dickty’ dese days—”

  Sam stiffened. Here was jealousy sticking out all over “Blue.”

  “Reckon das’ ’bout it.”

  “No hard feelins, come on hab a drink.”

  “Nope, doan drink no mo’.”

  “Well, a seegar den.”

  “Nope, got a whole box at home.”

  “Blue-front’s” anger was kindled at Sam’s rebuffs. Sam, who had been the rattiest of rats! He could barely suppress a snort of anger and scorn. Never mind, he’d pull him off his pinnacle and bring him back to his before-meeting-Stella state, sooner or later. So he must hide his chagrin.

  “Mister Simpson, yer doan ject ter mah walkin’ up town wid yer ’en seein’ yo house do yer?”

  Sam’s first impulse was to refuse, but his pride in his home led him to grudgingly consent.

  “Blue-front” was taken off his feet. He never thought to find Sam living so well. Stella was a gracious hostess, and while her husband proudly showed the envious “Blue-front” around, put supper on the table, and invited him to stay. She had veal-cutlet and fried sweet potato, tea and hot biscuit.

  “Blue-front” fairly guzzled. But his envy mounted till he could almost have murdered Sam for having a pretty wife and a comfortable home. And, too, after supper that box of cigars came out and while he grabbed two and thrust them into his pocket, he was plotting how to pull his host off his perch.

  At last, he rose to go.

  “Gawd, Sam, youse in sof’. An’ Miss Simpson, ya supper sho wuz good.”

  Sam’s chest protruded.

  “Yap mah lil’ girl kin really cook. Them wuz biskits, not baked insults, and dat wuz tea, instid er dat Red Seal Lye Jim sells down in Poplar Street, ter say nothin’ tall ’bout de gravy.” Sam beamed on Stella, and she flushed with happiness.

  “So long, Sam, see yer latah,” said the departing guest, as the host closed the door after him.

  “Now, Honey, he’s gwine down in Poplar Street an’ tell all de niggers ’bout’n us. Dey’ll all turn green from jealousy. Come on, Honey, an gimme er kiss. You sholy mekin’ er man outer me.”

  Stella kissed him more than dutifully and sitting on his lap they planned many things to be bought in the near future.

  Tho “Blue-front” did not come home with Sam again, he frequently accosted him on the way and walked a few blocks, flattering and praising him. Sam, being only human, warmed toward “Blue” and was persuaded one afternoon to go through Poplar Street.

  His old cronies gathered about admiring and flattering.

  “Come on, Sam, an’ drink sumpin’ on me. Das er han’some suit yer got on—yer lookin’ sharp as er tack.”

  Sam patronized and held a bit aloof, but he was pleased by the homage he was receiving.

  “Sorry, gen’l’men, but Ah ain’t indulging no mo’. Hi dere ‘High-pocket’!”

  “Sam, come on, shoot er game er bones.”

  “Kaint do it, ‘Fen-cloes,’ mah supper is waitin’.”

  “Huh, Ah reckon mah’ed life done strap yer up so yer ain’t got no change ter spare.”

  Sam grinned, thrust his hand into his pocket, and brought forth a roll of one-dollar bills generously sprinkled with fives and tens.

  “Guess Ah got de price all right.”

  “Ah, Sam, come on; jes one game.”

  “Naw.” Sam was weakening, but he managed to tear himself away and go home. He had never been late before, and Stella was worried.
He resolved never to go down there again. But the next afternoon when he stepped into the street from the lumberyard “Blue-front” and “High-pocket” were waiting for him. This time he yielded. Into Poplar Street he went and when once in Poplar Street, his old self seemed to take possession of him and he gambled as in days gone by. Fortune favored him and he went home six dollars richer in this world’s goods, but much poorer in spirit than since he first saw Stella. Though Stella said nothing, Sam felt the hurt shining out of her eyes, striking through him. He told her he had been detained at work.

  That was the beginning. Night after night he visited Poplar Street; night after night he lost money, sleep, and self-respect. Each day he resolved to stay away, but his past years told on him now. He lacked moral strength. He was twenty-five years old and for fifteen of those twenty-five years he had lived in the streets and alleys blacking boots, selling papers, and winning stakes at petty gamblin.

  He would creep home to Stella, cringing and evasive of manner. She never questioned or scolded, though she knew that he could not be at work at twelve or one o’clock in the morning.

  Sam gradually lost all of his savings and one first of the month found himself unable to pay his rent. Mr. Hill waited two weeks, then went to Mr. Bronner. That gentleman was surprised but, when he recalled to mind having seen, at various times, disreputable looking men hanging around waiting for Sam, light dawned upon him. He called Sam in, not the laughing Sam of yore, but a slinking, servile, Sam, whose dog even seemed to feel his master’s disgrace, and slunk too.

  Sam was questioned closely, advised and dismissed. He was utterly lost now. No job, no money, soon no home, for how could he get another job with Mr. Bronner’s unfavorable recommendation? That night he did not go home; he simply could not face Stella with tidings so unwelcome. He knew she would not reprove him and that made it harder, for Sam loved his wife.

  He did not go home that night, nor the next. A dozen times he started up-town, half-crazed by his longing to see and reassure his young wife, but each time his courage failed him. He attempted again and again to borrow enough money to pay his rent, but failed. A few days before, he could have borrowed five times that sum at a moment’s notice, but to the world now he was no longer Samuel Simpson, but merely “Sam,” jobless and penniless. He was in appearance no longer “sharp as a tack.”

  In the meanwhile, Stella—poor, trusting Stella—was weeping and looking out of the window at irregular intervals, expecting to see the body of her lord brought to the door at any moment. She could not believe that Sam could be alive and remain away from her for two whole days.

  At last, she dried her tears and went down to Mr. Bronner’s office to inquire for Sam. She was surprised to hear that he was no longer employed by the lumberman.

  The kind-hearted man felt sorry for the unsophisticated negress because he thought that Sam had tired of her and had gone back to his shiftless ways and left her to her own devices. After he discovered that she did not know her rent was unpaid, he telephoned his wife and influenced her to hire her as a chambermaid, and advised the stricken girl to give up the house and take a room.

  Stella agreed to begin working for Mrs. Bronner on the following morning. She went home more unhappy than ever, believing that Sam had cast her off, and that city-folk were just as wicked as provincials thought them to be.

  Sam wandered about Poplar Street his dog at his heels from pool-room to barber-shop and from barber-shop to bar, disconsolate and weary. His late admirers stood, like Pharisees, afar off. Sam no longer interested them. He was, in the language of the curb, “on the bricks” or “burnt up.”

  Early that night, he heard that there was to be a crap-game in “Sweetie’s” flat, the home of a disreputable woman in Poplar Street. He felt in his pockets and found he still possessed eighty-five cents. In desperation he resolved to sit in that game and try to win enough money to purchase his self-respect with his wife. If he lost the eighty-five cents, he would not be much worse off than he was at present; if he won,—he clapped his hands over his eyes to shut out the vision of Stella which was too much for him just now. So he went to “Sweetie’s” and sat in the game.

  About nine o’clock that night, Stella felt that she could bear Sam’s absence no longer. She would seek him the world over and ask him why he did not love her still. Perhaps he might come home again and she could win his love once more. Anyway, if she could only see him once again, she felt she would be justified in a month’s journey afoot.

  She went from room to room looking at and touching things dear by association. The morris chair, the smoking stand, the pillows in the window seat, where she always watched for Sam’s coming in the evenings, and where he found and invariably kissed her; the “kewpie” that hung by a ribbon about its waist from the bed-post. They had always taken the doll to bed and pretended it was their first-born. Sam would ask about the baby as soon as he reached home, and Stella would run and fetch it, pretending at times that it had been fretful and cried for its dad. She decided that she could never disturb things, that if she could not find her husband, or if he refused to return to her, then perhaps God would, in his great love and kindness, let her go to sleep. She knew she would be very weary if she returned without Sam.

  So Stella put on her prettiest dress and went out to seek her lord.

  She went first to Poplar Street—no sign of Sam. People spoke to her; she answered timidly and glided away, peeping first into one den, then another, as she walked down the line. At last she asked “Squeegee,” “Sweetie’s” pal, if she had seen him, and “Squeegee” glibly told her where he was.

  Stella turned and walked briskly in the direction pointed out by the woman. As she left the curb in her anxiety she did not notice a swiftly approaching automobile. Stepping straight in front of it, she was felled to the ground. “Squeegee” saw the accident and ran forward. The occupants of the car, two men, quickly picked up the girl and placed her in the car. A policeman came up and, after going thru the usual preliminaries, permitted the men to take her to the hospital. “Squeegee” gave the officer Stella’s address.

  In a few minutes she burst into the room where Sam was gambling. There was no hesitation in proclaiming to all the news. In an instant Sam was in the street hatless and breathless, on his way to the hospital. When he burst through the swinging doors, he was told that no visitors were allowed at that hour, but he might telephone later and find out her condition.

  Sam flung out of the place a madman. His conscience smote him piteously. His fears seemed to possess voices and to shriek themselves into his ears.

  He found himself in Poplar Street once more and in “Jim’s Place.” Everyone down there was talking of the accident.

  Sam slunk into a chair. Mrs. Jim was jubilant. Sam’s suffering gave her pleasure; for she remembered the jokes he had coined at her expense, his proud days, and his arrogance. She stood akimbo in front of the unhappy man and sneered.

  “Sam, Ah reckon yo’ satisfied now, ya done kilt Stella.”

  Sam was on his feet in a moment. The spectators thought he would strike his tormenter.

  “Youse a nappy-headed liah! Ah ain’t kilt mah’ Stella. Youse oughter been dead er hunded yeahs ergo.” Sam’s voice sank to a whisper. “Gawd knows Ah didn’t kill mah Stella, deed Ah didn’t.” He hurried to the nearest telephone booth and called the Hospital.

  He was told over the phone that Stella had sustained a broken rib and several minor scratches and bruises, and that he might call on her at two o’clock the next day. This was eleven o’clock at night.

  At eleven forty, Mr. Bronner was awakened by a violent ringing of his door-bell. Hastily slipping into his bath-robe, he hurried down to find Sam on the door-step.

  “Come in, Sam. What do you want at this hour of the night?”

  “Boss, Ah wants mah job back. Ah jes’ gotta have it. Stella, mah Stella, done got hit by a car while she wuz huntin’ fer me, boss. Gawd bless her, I believe she loves me yet. Jis’ try me one mo�
� time.”

  “But, Sam, you know how you behaved last time. I don’t hire gamblers, nor drunkards, nor even those who associate with such. I treated you white, but you didn’t appreciate it. Your wife is a fine woman. My wife thinks so, too, but—”

  Sam grabbed the lapels of Mr. Bronner’s bath-robe, and his voice shook with the intensity of his emotion.

  “Boss, gimme one mo’ trial. Das all Ah ast. Ah hope a shad may shoot me ef Ah doan mek good dis time. Ah gotta git mah Stella back. Ah kaint go down ter de hospital termorrer en say Ah ain’t got no job.” His voice broke to a sob and he hastily drew the back of his hand across his eyes.

  “Stella will think Ah aint no good, en she’s de bes’ ’oman on yearth; deed she is! Das reason Ah ain’t been home. My Gawd, boss, yer cain’t turn me down!”

  “Sam, are you going down to your wife a sensible, steady man tomorrow and will you try, God helping you, to never, never give her cause to doubt your manliness again? Are you going to keep her clean and trusting and womanly? If so, you are hired again.”

  Sam’s right hand shot up into the air above his head and his eyes were elevated as he answered reverently, “Befoah Gawd, I will, boss.”

  And Sam kept his word.

  –FINIS–

  A Bit of Our Harlem

  He came into the shop with a pitifully small amount of cheap candy to sell. The men gruffly refused to buy or to even look at his wares, and he shuffled toward the door with such a forlorn air that the young lady called him back. She was smiling partly because she liked to smile, and did so whenever fate gave her a chance, and partly to put the tattered little hunch-back at his ease.

  The boy approached the table where the girl sat with the air of a homeless dog who hopes that he has found a friend.

  “Let me see your candy, little boy.” She toyed with the paper-wrapped packages for a while. She knew that she would buy one even though she had but fifteen cents in her pocket-book and a very vague notion as to where her next week’s rent would come from. The hunched-back boy looked too dejected to turn away, however. She handed him a nickel.