“We’re dispossessed,” I sang at the top of my voice, “dispossessed and we want to pray. Let’s go in and pray. Let’s have a big prayer meeting. But we’ll need some chairs to sit in … rest upon as we kneel. We’ll need some chairs!”
“Here’s some chairs down here,” a woman called from the walk. “How ’bout taking in some chairs?”
“Sure,” I called, “take everything. Take it all, hide that junk! Put it back where it came from. It’s blocking the street and the sidewalk, and that’s against the law. We’re law-abiding, so clear the street of the debris. Put it out of sight! Hide it, hide their shame! Hide our shame!”
“Come on, men,” I yelled, dashing down the steps and seizing a chair and starting back, no longer struggling against or thinking about the nature of my action. The others followed, picking up pieces of furniture and lugging it back into the building.
“We ought to done this long ago,” a man said.
“We damn sho should.”
“I feel so good,” a woman said. “I feel so good!”
“Black men, I’m proud of you,” the West Indian woman shrilled. “Proud!”
We rushed into the dark little apartment that smelled of stale cabbage and put the pieces down and returned for more. Men, women and children seized articles and dashed inside shouting, laughing. I looked for the two trusties, but they seemed to have disappeared. Then, coming down into the street, I thought I saw one. He was carrying a chair back inside.
“So you’re law-abiding too,” I called, only to become aware that it was someone else. A white man but someone else altogether.
The man laughed at me and continued inside. And when I reached the street there were several of them, men and women, standing about, cheering whenever another piece of furniture was returned. It was like a holiday. I didn’t want it to stop.
“Who are those people?” I called from the steps.
“What people?” someone called back.
“Those,” I said, pointing.
“You mean those ofays?”
“Yes, what do they want?”
“We’re friends of the people,” one of the white men called.
“Friends of what people?” I called, prepared to jump down upon him if he answered, “You people.”
“We’re friends of all the common people,” he shouted. “We came up to help.”
“We believe in brotherhood,” another called.
“Well, pick up that sofa and come on,” I called. I was uneasy about their presence and disappointed when they all joined the crowd and started lugging the evicted articles back inside. Where had I heard of them?
“Why don’t we stage a march?” one of the white men” called, going past.
“Why don’t we march!” I yelled out to the sidewalk before I had time to think.
They took it up immediately.
“Let’s march …”
“It’s a good idea.”
“Let’s have a demonstration …”
“Let’s parade!”
I heard the siren and saw the scout cars swing into the block in the same instant. It was the police! I looked into the crowd, trying to focus upon their faces, hearing someone yell, “Here come the cops,” and others answering, “Let ’em come!”
Where is all this leading? I thought, seeing a white man run inside the building as the policemen dashed from their cars and came running up.
“What’s going on here?” a gold-shield officer called up the steps.
It had become silent. No one answered.
“I said, what’s going on here,” he repeated. “You,” he called, pointing straight at me.
“We’ve … we’ve been clearing the sidewalk of a lot of junk,” I called, tense inside.
“What’s that?” he said.
“It’s a clean-up campaign,” I called, wanting to laugh. “These old folks had all their stuff cluttering up the sidewalk and we cleared the street …”
“You mean you’re interfering with an eviction,” he called, starting through the crowd.
“He ain’t doing nothing,” a woman called from behind me.
I looked around, the steps behind were filled with those who had been inside.
“We’re all together,” someone called, as the crowd closed in.
“Clear the streets,” the officer ordered.
“That’s what we were doing,” someone called from back in the crowd.
“Mahoney!” he bellowed to another policeman, “send in a riot call!”
“What riot?” one of the white men called to him. “There’s no riot.”
“If I say there’s a riot, there’s a riot,” the officer said. “And what are you white people doing up here in Harlem?”
“We’re citizens. We go anywhere we like.”
“Listen! Here come some more cops!” someone called.
“Let them come!”
“Let the Commissioner come!”
It became too much for me. The whole thing had gotten out of hand. What had I said to bring on all this? I edged to the back of the crowd on the steps and backed into the hallway. Where would I go? I hurried up to the old couples apartment. But I can’t hide here, I thought, heading back for the stairs.
“No. You can’t go that way,” a voice said.
I whirled. It was a white girl standing in the door.
“What are you doing in here?” I shouted, my fear turning to feverish anger.
“I didn’t mean to startle you,” she said. “Brother, that was quite a speech you made. I heard just the end of it, but you certainly moved them to action …”
“Action,” I said, “action—”
“Don’t be modest, brother,” she said, “I heard you.”
“Look, Miss, we’d better get out of here,” I said, finally controlling the throbbing in my throat. “There are a lot of policemen downstairs and more coming.”
“Oh, yes. You’d better go over the roof,” she said. “Otherwise, someone is sure to point you out.”
“Over the roof?”
“It’s easy. Just go up to the roof of the building and keep crossing until you reach the house at the end of the block. Then open the door and walk down as though you’ve been visiting. You’d better hurry. The longer you remain unknown to the police, the longer you’ll be effective.”
Effective? I thought. What did she mean? And what was this “brother” business?
“Thanks,” I said, and hurried for the stairs.
“Good-bye,” her voice rose fluidly behind me. I turned, glimpsing her white face in the dim light of the darkened doorway.
I took the flight in a bound and cautiously opened the door, and suddenly the sun flared bright on the roof and it was windy cold. Before me the low, snow-caked walls dividing the buildings stretched hurdle-like the long length of the block to the corner, and before me empty clotheslines trembled in the wind. I made my way through the wind-carved snow to the next roof and then to the next, going with swift caution. Planes were rising over an airfield far to the southeast, and I was running now and seeing all the church steeples rising and falling and stacks with smoke leaning sharp against the sky, and below in the street the sound of sirens and shouting. I hurried. Then, climbing over a wall I looked back, seeing a man hurrying after me, slipping, sliding, going over the low dividing walls of the roofs with puffing, bustling effort. I turned and ran, trying to put the rows of chimneys between us, wondering why he didn’t yell “Halt!” or shout, or shoot. I ran, dodging behind an elevator housing, then dashing to the next roof, going down, the snow cold to my hands, knees striking, toes gripping, and up and running and looking back, seeing the short figure in black still running after. The corner seemed a mile away. I tried to count the number of roofs that bounced before me yet to be crossed. Getting to seven, I ran, hearing shouts, more sirens, and looking back and him still behind me, running in a short-legged scramble, still behind me as I tried to open the door of a building to go down and finding it stuck and
running once more, trying to zig-zag in the snow and feeling the crunch of gravel underneath, and behind me still, as I swung over a partition and went brushing past a huge cote and arousing a flight of frantic white birds, suddenly as large as buzzards as they beat furiously against my eyes, dazzling the sun as they fluttered up and away and around in a furious glide and me running again and looking back and for a split second thinking him gone and once more seeing him bobbing after. Why doesn’t he shoot? Why? If only it were like at home where I knew someone in all the houses, knew them by sight and by name, by blood and by background, by shame and pride, and by religion.
It was a carpeted hall and I moved down with pounding heart as a dog set up a terrific din within the top apartment. Then I moved quickly, my body like glass inside as I skipped downward off the edges of the stairs. Looking down the stairwell I saw pale light filtering through the door glass, far below. But what had happened to the girl, had she put the man on my trail? What was she doing there? I bounded down, no one challenging me, and I stopped in the vestibule, breathing deeply and listening for his hand upon the door above and brushing my clothing into order. Then I stepped into the street with a nonchalance copied from characters I had seen in the movies. No sound from above, not even the malicious note of the barking dog.
It was a long block and I had come down into a building that faced not the street but the avenue. A squad of mounted policemen lashed themselves around the corner and galloped past, the horseshoes thudding dully through the snow, the men rising high in their saddles, shouting. I picked up speed, careful not to run, heading away. This was awful. What on earth had I said to have brought on all this? How would it end? Someone might be killed. Heads would be pistol-whipped. I stopped at the corner, looking for the pursuing man, the detective, and for a bus. The long white stretch of street was empty, the aroused pigeons still circling overhead. I scanned the roofs, expecting to see him peering down. The sound of shouting continued to rise, then another green and white patrol car was whining around the corner and speeding past me, heading for the block. I cut through a block in which there were close to a dozen funeral parlors, each decked out with neon signs, all set up in old brown-stone buildings. Elaborate funeral cars stood along the curb, one a dull black with windows shaped like Gothic arches, through which I saw funeral flowers piled upon a casket. I hurried on.
I could see the girl’s face still, below the short flight of stairs. But who was the figure that had crossed the roof behind me? Chased me? Why had he been so silent, and why was there only one? Yes, and why hadn’t they sent a patrol car to pick me up? I hurried out of the block of funeral parlors into the bright sun that swept the snow of the avenue, slowing to a leisurely walk now, trying to give the impression of a complete lack of haste. I longed to look stupid, utterly incapable of thought or speech, and tried to shuffle my feet over the walk, but quit with distaste after stealing a glance behind me. Just ahead I saw a car pull up and a man leap out with a physician’s bag.
“Hurry, Doctor,” a man called from the stoop, “she’s already in labor!”
“Good,” the doctor called. “That’s what we’ve been waiting for, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, but it didn’t start when we expected it.”
I watched them disappear inside the hall. What a hell of a time to be born, I thought. At the corner I joined several people waiting for the lights to change. I had just about convinced myself that I had escaped successfully when a quiet, penetrating voice beside me said, “That was a masterful bit of persuasion, brother.”
Suddenly wound tight as a tensioned spring I turned almost lethargically. A short insignificant-looking bushy-eyebrowed man with a quiet smile on his face stood beside me, looking not at all like a policeman.
“What do you mean?” I asked, my voice lazy, distant.
“Don’t be alarmed,” he said, “I’m a friend.”
“I’ve got nothing to be alarmed about, and you’re no friend of mine.”
“Then say that I’m an admirer,” he said pleasantly.
“Admirer of what?”
“Of your speech,” he said. “I was listening.”
“What speech? I made no speech,” I said.
He smiled knowingly. “I can see that you have been well trained. Come, it isn’t good for you to be seen with me here in the street. Let’s go somewhere for a cup of coffee.”
Something told me to refuse, but I was intrigued and, underneath it all, was probably flattered. Besides, if I refused to go, it would be taken as an admission of guilt. And he didn’t look like a policeman or a detective. I went silently beside him to a cafeteria down near the end of the block, seeing him peer inside through the window before we entered.
“You get the table, brother. Over there near the wall where we can talk in peace. I’ll get the coffee.”
I watched him going across the floor with a bouncy, rolling step, then found a table and sat watching him. It was warm in the cafeteria. It was late afternoon now and only a few customers were scattered at the tables. I watched the man going familiarly to the food counter and ordering. His movements, as he peered through the brightly lighted shelves of pastry, were those of a lively small animal, a fyce, interested in detecting only the target cut of cake. So he’s heard my speech; well, I’ll hear what he has to say, I thought, seeing him start toward me with his rapid, rolling, bouncy, heel-and-toey step. It was as though he had taught himself to walk that way and I had a feeling that somehow he was acting a part; that something about him wasn’t exactly real—an idea which I dismissed immediately, since there was a quality of unreality over the whole afternoon. He came straight to the table without having to look about for me, as though he had expected me to take that particular table and no other—although many tables were vacant. He was balancing a plate of cake on top of each cup, setting them down deftly and shoving one toward me as he took his chair.
“I thought you might like a piece of cheese cake,” he said.
“Cheese cake?” I said. “I’ve never heard of it.”
“It’s nice. Sugar?”
“Go ahead,” I said.
“No, after you, brother.”
I looked at him, then poured three spoonfuls and shoved the shaker toward him. I was tense again.
“Thanks,” I said, repressing an impulse to call him down about the “brother” business.
He smiled, cutting into his cheese cake with a fork and shoving far too large a piece into his mouth. His manners are extremely crude, I thought, trying to put him at a disadvantage in my own mind by pointedly taking a small piece of the cheesy stuff and placing it neatly into my mouth.
“You know,” he said, taking a gulp of coffee, “I haven’t heard such an effective piece of eloquence since the days when I was in—well, in a long time. You aroused them so quickly to action. I don’t understand how you managed it. If only some of our speakers could have listened! With a few words you had them involved in action! Others would have still been wasting time with empty verbiage. I want to thank you for a most instructive experience!”
I drank my coffee silently. Not only did I distrust him, I didn’t know how much I could safely say.
“The cheese cake here is good,” he said before I could answer. “It’s really very good. By the way, where did you learn to speak?”
“Nowhere,” I said, much too quickly.
“Then you’re very talented. You are a natural. It’s hard to believe.”
“I was simply angry,” I said, deciding to admit this much in order to see what he would reveal.
“Then your anger was skillfully controlled. It had eloquence. Why was that?”
“Why? I suppose I felt sorry—I don’t know. Maybe I just felt like making a speech. There was the crowd waiting, so I said a few words. You might not believe it, but I didn’t know what I was going to say …”
“Please,” he said, with a knowing smile.
“What do you mean?” I said.
“You try to sound cynical
, but I see through you. I know, I listened very carefully to what you had to say. You were enormously moved. Your emotions were touched.”
“I guess so,” I said. “Maybe seeing them reminded me of something.”
He leaned forward, watching me intensely now, the smile still on his lips.
“Did it remind you of people you know?”
“I guess it did,” I said.
“I think I understand. You were watching a death—”
I dropped my fork. “No one was killed,” I said tensely. “What are you trying to do?”
“A Death on the City Pavements—that’s the title of a detective story or something I read somewhere …” He laughed. “I only mean meta-phor-ically speaking. They’re living, but dead. Dead-in-living … a unity of opposites.”
“Oh,” I said. What kind of double talk was this?
“The old one, they’re agrarian types, you know. Being ground up by industrial conditions. Thrown on the dump heaps and cast aside. You pointed it out very well. ‘Eighty-seven years and nothing to show for it,’ you said. You were absolutely correct.”
“I suppose that seeing them like that made me feel pretty bad,” I said.
“Yes, of course. And you made an effective speech. But you mustn’t waste your emotions on individuals, they don’t count.”
“Who doesn’t count?” I said.
“Those old ones,” he said grimly. “It’s sad, yes. But they’re already dead, defunct. History has passed them by. Unfortunate, but there’s nothing to do about them. They’re like dead limbs that must be pruned away so that the tree may bear young fruit or the storms of history will blow them down anyway. Better the storm should hit them—”
“But look—”
“No, let me continue. These people are old. Men grow old and types of men grow old. And these are very old. All they have left is their religion. That’s all they can think about. So they’ll be cast aside. They’re dead, you see, because they’re incapable of rising to the necessity of the historical situation.”
“But I like them,” I said. “I like them, they reminded me of folks I know down South. It’s taken me a long time to feel it, but they’re folks just like me, except that I’ve been to school a few years.”