A Drop of Patience

by William Melvin Kelley

  “Oh, no, boss. Poor old colored jazz music player like me shouldn’t never get thanked by no white man, boss. You the boss, boss.”

  Ludlow cut in. “You want Mister Spencer to come too?”

  “Yes, if he would. We have a grand piano.”

  “A grand piano, boss? Really, a grand piano? I ain’t never played on them. Only played a whorehouse upright piano in my life. Imagine old Norman T. Spencer on a real live grand piano—”

  “All right, we’ll be there.” Too much blood had been drawn already.

  “Yeah,” Spencer grumbled.

  “God, this is really wonderful. Thanks, Mister Washington. Thanks, Mister Spencer.”

  Ludlow nodded; beside him, the pianist still grumbled.

  The man thanked them both again and left, crashing into the table nearest them.

  Spencer filled the air and Ludlow’s lungs with smoke. “We oughta round up twenty of the worst cutthroats we can find and loot that fancy address, chandeliers and all.”

  “He didn’t seem too bad, Mister Spencer.”

  “White folks ain’t never bad, Ludlow. They just weak. At least the ones we got here is weak. Here they round you up and push you in a slum, all the time telling you how much they love you. You take the Germans. Right now, they rounding up Jews and killing them. But they ain’t spouting no shit about loving them. The white folks we got here ain’t nearly that strong. You mark my words, don’t never depend on no white man for nothing. He ain’t strong enough to keep his promises.” He beat the ash tray, grinding out his cigar.

  “I’ll remember that, Mister Spencer.” Ludlow humored the pianist.

  “Make sure you do.” He stood up and sighed. “Let’s play some.” He grabbed Ludlow’s elbow, almost pulling him to his feet, and they headed for the stage.

  3

  AN HOUR LATER Ludlow started downtown. With him was Reno Tems, who played tenor with Norman Spencer, and whom Ludlow had met only a few nights before, when he returned to the city. He liked Reno’s playing and hoped that if ever he formed his own group, he would be able to persuade Reno to join it.

  At the end of this evening he had turned to Reno. “Your real name ain’t Reno, is it?”

  “No, sir. Edgar.” He obviously did not like the name.

  “Why they call you Reno?”

  “I like to play cards a lot.” Reno was at least a head taller than Ludlow, quite tall.

  Ludlow laughed. “You ever get any white ass?”

  Reno was puzzled. “Sir?”

  “I got invited to a party, by them white folks over there?” He had decided to go now. He had never been inside of a fancy downtown place and did not want to miss the opportunity. “If you don’t get some white ass, at least somebody may play cards with you.”

  He had sent Reno to get taxi fare from the man who had invited them, and then they had started out. Spencer had refused to join them on their expedition beyond the frontier of 110th Street.

  Since it was not their money, Ludlow had the cab driver take them slowly through the park.

  “This happen to you a lot?” Reno’s voice was deep-throated and resonant; only by a certain timidity and enthusiasm did Ludlow guess Reno was young. It was obvious that he could not quite believe he was sitting in a taxi with Ludlow Washington on his way downtown to a white party.

  “All the time.” They passed the hollow clopping of horses’ hoofs, the grating of steel-rimmed wheels on pavement. “No. This really the first time. But you get a lot of free drinks and free ass thrown at you.”

  “Man!” Reno threw himself into the seat.

  “How old’re you anyway?”

  “Twenty.” There was no great difference in their ages, but at twenty Ludlow had been with Inez Cunningham almost two years.

  He knew Reno was from the South somewhere. “What you do before you come up here?” An ambulance rushed by, its siren curling in the quiet night.

  “Went to school, college, taking music. But I wanted to play—you know, work.”

  “Why?” Ludlow was thinking about his conversation with Spencer. Perhaps Reno might give him a key to an idea of his own.

  “Because it’s the black man’s music!” All at once the boy was not at all timid. Ludlow smiled. “And we got to keep on working at it so everybody in the world’ll know the black man created it.”

  Ludlow snorted. “I met some white boys who doing good things.”

  “They just copying us, that’s all. We do all the creating. Like you.”

  Ludlow winced. “Listen, you do the playing and forget all this other stuff. When you up there trying to put something together, you ain’t got time to think about all that mess!”

  They left the park and soon the cab had stopped. Reno paid and helped Ludlow out and to the curb. The doorman who encountered them in the lobby asked them where they were going, and then called up. When he found out they were expected, he led them to the elevator and took them up, all the time mumbling to himself.

  The party came through a heavy steel door to meet them—music, clicking glasses, people talking and laughing, several loud men, several shrill women.

  Their host opened the door to them. “Hey, glad you came!”

  Behind Ludlow the elevator door rattled shut; they had been watched just in case they did not belong.

  “Didn’t Mister Spencer come?” The host was disappointed.

  “No, he never comes South,” Ludlow deadpanned. Reno laughed.

  “Well, hey, come on in. I’m really glad you came.” He backed into the party. They followed him onto carpeting as thick as five bath towels. “Get these fellows a drink, will you?”

  “Yes, sir. This way please.” The girl’s voice was a bit like Malveen’s, though not nearly so Southern. With Reno guiding him, they zigzagged through the party, causing flickers of silence as they went. Ludlow knew they must be the only Negroes at the party and that a good many people did not know how they came to be there.

  He was between Reno and the girl. He was just about to ask her who she was and what she did there when her shoulder touched his. “You Ludlow Washington, ain’t you?” Her whispering voice just carried over the jumble of shouts behind them.

  He nodded, asked her about herself.

  “Maid. I saw you uptown with Inez about six years ago. How’d they get you here?”

  “Got invited. Your boss was uptown where I was playing.” Ice tumbled into a glass. “Who this man anyways?”

  “Can’t answer now.” She was a little nervous. “Would you come into the kitchen after while?” A cold glass touched his hand, and she brushed by him.

  He turned to Reno. “How’s it look?”

  “This place is fantastic. It’s really beautiful.” He paused. “I’m going to find the bathroom—okay?”

  “Go on, man, you don’t need permission.”

  He stood with his back to the table. Off to his right a record player was strutting old-time jazz. To the left, but several rooms away, someone was playing a piano.

  “You’re one of the musicians, aren’t you?” a woman drawled at him. “We just loved your playing. I hope you’ll play again tonight.”

  “Thanks.” He nodded. He could not resist asking her the next question. “You from the South, ain’t you?”

  “Yes?” She was on her guard now. He could not understand why. She went on: “Now you listen to me for a moment. We’re not all like that. Some of us are much better people for having come from the South. It was like being very ill and becoming cured. We’re a lot better than some Northerners who always say they’re liberal. They’ve never been really tested.”

  At the beginning of her speech, Ludlow had been puzzled, but now he knew what kind of person, woman, she was. He knew already he did not want to talk to her, began plotting how to rid himself of her. “You know, I never did th
ink of it like that before.”

  “Well, you certainly should have. Some of us are trying awfully hard.” She did not sound too old, perhaps somewhere in her thirties.

  He nodded sympathetically. “I’m sure you do, miss. In fact, I been coming around to the very selfsame conclusion myself. I mean, I’m beginning to realize some of the nicest white people I meet up here was born in the South. It a big thing for me to understand the South have nice people too. I had a lot to get over. I mean, it was the Klan blinded me.”

  She gasped. “Really? Oh, how terrible!”

  “But I ain’t nearly bitter as my friend. They killed his daddy and raped his mama and made him watch the whole thing.” He had a difficult time trying not to laugh. “I think you oughta talk to him like you talked to me. It ain’t good to be bitter like he is. It poisons your life.”

  “Yes, it certainly does.” She was quite concerned for Reno. “Where is he?”

  “But listen now, you better go and wait across the room until I talk to him, soften his heart a little. He so bitter and hates white people so bad he might call you out your name right here. He got to take me into the kitchen, but when he gets back, you just come over and talk to him. I mean, he really needs all your help.”

  “All right. You’re sure he’ll want to talk?”

  “I’m sure. You know, a man really needs to tell his troubles to a woman. You could really help him, I’m sure. I mean, that’s if you really interested in the Negro problem.”

  “Oh, I am, truly.” She sucked her tongue several times. “Oh, he must be in such terrible anguish.”

  “He is, miss. But now you better get across the way before he come back. And, miss, thanks a lot.”

  “You’re more than welcome.” She left him waiting for Reno, who returned in another minute.

  “You should see that bathroom, man! They got gold-rimmed toilet paper. They got two toilets and another thing that’s about the size of a toilet, but looks more like a God damn bathtub! They got—”

  “Listen, man, you want that white ass?”

  “What?”

  “Well, it up to you. There a white woman looking at us from across the room? She come about to my shoulder.”

  There was a pause. “I think so. But what—”

  “Hold it. She from the South. And she trying singled-handed to make up for all the South’s crimes. So I told her the Klan took my eyes out. Then I told her they killed your daddy and raped your mama and made you watch—”

  “But my father’s running a groc—”

  “Wait, man. So I said for her to talk to you because you is one bitter nigger and need sympathy and help. She wants to prove all Southerners ain’t bad. So if you like how she looks—you let her prove it! Understand now?”

  “Sure, but—”

  “Look, man, if you don’t want to screw, maybe she’ll play some God damn cards with you.”

  Reno laughed. “All right, Ludlow.”

  “So now take me into the kitchen.”

  Reno took his elbow and led him through a smooth-swinging door into a hallway, at the end of which was the kitchen. The air was much purer now, and smelled of cookies.

  A newspaper rattled. “Hello, Mister Washington. Having a good time?” Actually, the maid’s voice was much sweeter than Malveen’s, and far more tired. It was really more like Etta-Sue’s voice.

  “All right.” He remembered Reno. “This here is Reno. He’ll be playing tenor in my new group.”

  “I will?” The boy was pleased and surprised.

  “If you want. Find me a chair and go play some cards.” Reno left him standing somewhere in the center of the large room, and scraped a chair across to him; Ludlow sat down. “Thanks. You put me in a taxi?” He was speaking to the maid.

  “Sure.” Her voice was smiling.

  “Okay, Reno, go get your bitterness taken care of.” Reno laughed as he started down the hall. Ludlow turned back to the maid and lit a cigarette. “You married?”

  “Yes. And I have a little boy almost four.” She was quite proud.

  “Okay, now I don’t got to do no lying. Don’t feel like it tonight.” He found himself thinking that his own child, the girl, would be eight or nine years old soon. He wondered how it would be to have a child and be proud of it.

  He sat quietly humming one of the chants the little girls of Harlem sang when they skipped rope.

  Finally the newspaper rustled loudly to the floor. “Why’d you come, Mister Washington?”

  “I wanted to find out how they live down here.”

  “Did you?”

  “No.” He raised his head, smiled. He liked this woman. “How do they live?”

  “They either try too hard or not hard enough.” She pitied them.

  “What about your boss?”

  “He trying too hard.” She sighed.

  “When he ask me, should I play for him?”

  She laughed. “A little bit for him and a lot for me.”

  He nodded. “That’s a deal.”

  In a while Reno returned, telling Ludlow the host had asked them to play. There was even a guest who would give them a framework of chords on the piano. As they played, Ludlow did not forget that somewhere near the kitchen the maid was standing, probably on tired feet, listening.

  Part Five

  INTERVIEW…

  By the time the war was ending, people was liking the new way we was playing a little bit, and some night clubs was giving us work. I quit the bands finally and got my first group together, with Reno, who was driving hard, getting better with every measure he played. Hardie, overnight he got real good. He just picked up the whole thing—bang. So he quit O’Gee too and got himself a pretty good group. People’ll always like trombone, you know; I guess he made more money than any of us.

  So, all in all, it was pretty good there for a while….

  1

  THEY WERE STILL celebrating. Even now, at two in the morning, firecrackers were still exploding, echoing over the city. The club had been noisy and hot. By ten it had become a smoke chamber, as more and more people descended the steps, ordered champagne and lit cigarettes. It was a bad night for playing. The customers did not even pretend to listen. They screamed, cheered, laughed; some even sang. After the set, Ludlow decided to walk around the block before he lost his temper, charged off the stage and strangled the first person who crossed his path. So he had walked alone, his cane picking out the deep ruts in the sidewalk, warning him of the curbs. Sweat had trickled down his sides, had become trapped in the waistband of his undershorts. He had removed his coat and carried it over his arm.

  He paused outside of the club, put his coat on, then opened the door. The stale air, the heat, the smoke, the celebration pressed against his face, making him tired and angry. He went down the stairs. The banister was sticky.

  “Congratulations, Ludlow.” The owner’s small hand reached up and massaged his back. “Congratulations.” Beyond the owner, a group of people cheered. When their cheer died, Ludlow realized the musicians were playing what, on a normal night, would have been a loud tune.

  “What’d I do, man?”

  “We won the God damn war! Come on, Ludlow, you knew the war was over. The Japs gave up. The Big Bomb scared hell out of them.”

  “I know.” There was another cheer. Someone in the far corner was blowing a policeman’s whistle. “Why they got to come here to celebrate? Suppose to listen to music here.”

  “What, d’you want to ruin me?” The owner slapped his back. “Come on, it’s only one night.”

  The musicians were struggling. They seemed unable to pull their ideas together.

  “Come on, cheer up. Some people over here want to buy you a drink.” The owner took his elbow. Even through Ludlow’s shirt and suit coat, the hand was fat and soft. They went over to the row of booth
s. “Here he is, people. I got him.” There was a small cheer. The owner went on, “Ludlow, this is my son, Myron. He goes to college.” The owner was very proud.

  “Glad to know you, Ludlow.” Myron’s voice was high, lugging even more New York in it than his father’s. “Pop, I’m buying Ludlow a drink. All right?”

  “Sure, Myron. It’s all on me tonight.”

  “Sit down, Ludlow.”

  It annoyed him to have Myron call him by his first name. He was not nearly old enough to expect or even want to be called Mister Washington, but he almost wanted it now from Myron.

  The owner guided him into the booth. He sat, his thigh pressing against that of a girl. It was rather a bony thigh, but feeling it warm against him, he was excited nonetheless.

  Myron was directly across from him. “So let me introduce you around.” Next to Myron was his date, who was giggly and sounded short. In the corner on Ludlow’s side was Myron’s roommate. Ludlow missed his name, did not care. Between the roommate and Ludlow was the owner of the thigh, a girl named Ragan.

  “It’s really great about the war, huh?” Myron was leaning into the center of the table, shouting, his breath smelling of liquor and unbrushed teeth.

  “What war, Myron?” Ludlow pressed down hard on the name, twisting from it new meanings.

  Next to him Ragan shifted her leg, trying to keep from touching him. He shifted with her. “Ain’t you got enough room?”

  “You shouldn’t joke about the war.” She was too serious for the din and laughter around her. “My father says that when it’s all counted, two hundred fifty thousand soldiers will have been killed—not counting the other side, and the atom bombs and the Jews. You shouldn’t joke about the war.”

  “What’s your father, baby, a God-damned general?”

  Her voice was cold. “Almost. A colonel.”

  Ludlow smiled. “Then I guess he knows, all right.”

  The others had paused uneasily in their conversations, and when finally Myron spoke, it was with a desperate tone. “Well, when do you play again? Do you still have time for a drink?”