What I Lived For

by Joyce Carol Oates

  So Corky sits down. Seeing the shifting of eyes from him as he turns, quick as darting minnows.

  Look, God damn you, I am one of you.

  He’s pissed by the way that spade A.G. froze him out. As if they weren’t on the same side at City Hall, in a manner of speaking. God damn, Corky Corcoran will get his revenge if and when he can, wishes he could remember A.G.’s last name but there’s only one of him in Union City Democratic politics, one fucking spade alderman from the Fourth Ward.

  Corky lights up another Camel. The table of older blacks is breaking up, card game’s over, Corky’s been looking on trying to figure out what the game is, not poker, not euchre, not gin rummy, one of the old ladies has kept the score in a notepad and there’s a murmurous exchange of coins and bills but Corky can’t figure out who won since everybody’s cool and expressionless and suddenly eager to be gone—“Hey, don’t let me chase you away,” says Corky impulsively, “—I’m not a cop.” Smiling and lifting his hands palm outward like a character in a movie showing he isn’t armed. Or anyway hasn’t got a gun in sight.

  The elderly neighborhood blacks look at Corky as if he’s spoken to them in fucking Sanskrit or something. Conspicuously packing up their things, and leaving.

  Corky laughs, annoyed and hurt. Says, for as many of the other patrons as want to hear, “What, I’ve got AIDS? ’Cause of my skin? I should be in fucking quarantine or something?”

  This gets the attention of a table of loud-laughing youngish blacks, three women and two men looking like they’re dressed for Sunday church, the women in frilly floral spring dresses like balloons, the men in pastel-colored sport coats and silk ties, they regard Corky soberly for a few seconds then look away murmuring to themselves, and Corky steels himself waiting for them to laugh, and when they don’t maybe it’s worse—“In fact I don’t have AIDS,” Corky says. “And I’m not a cop.”

  The young black guys at the next table are finishing up their beers watching Corky over the upward flash of the brown bottles, looks like they’re pushing on, too. Corky’s dismayed. He knows he could relate to these guys if they’d give him half a chance if they could get into a discussion of Dave Winfield for instance, or Mike Tyson, or Ali—if they were all at The Bull’s Eye, on Corky’s own turf. He’d make them feel welcome.

  Corky says, reasonably, “—You know, right? Any kind of an undercover operation, down here, it’s black detectives, not white. You know.” Trying to draw them into this half-joking and half-serious but the guys aren’t any more interested in conversing with Corky Corcoran than the others were.

  Five more minutes and another two parties have cleared out leaving the Zanzibar mostly empty tables. Corky’s reminded of some dream he used to have of finding himself in a public place naked, and everybody staring at him, laughing and edging away. A young kid at the time, his cock starting to grow, hairs sprouting on his body, a terrible wildness in his veins he’d known he could never control.

  Corky sits, waits. It’s 3:23 P.M. by his watch, it’s 3:30 P.M. The TV baseball’s between innings but nobody turns the volume down, one ear-blasting ad follows another, some zonked-out teenaged kids are playing the video games a few yards away—they’re not spooked by the strange white man—and Corky Corcoran’s sitting in his good clothes fresh-groomed and hopeful at a sticky Formica-topped table in a nigger soul food restaurant in a dead zone on West Welland trying not to freak out waiting for that delicious-smelling rich black coffee that’s taking a hell of a long time to arrive at his table let alone the delicious-smelling barbecued ribs or chicken or pork chops or catfish or corned-beef hash, gravy-soaked baking powder biscuits, sweet potato pie that’s taking even longer. Corky’s a reasonable man he’s a good decent loyal Party man he’s an elected Union City official he’s a millionaire property-owner and businessman and family man with responsibilities he is not going to freak out.

  For sure, last night scared him. Blacking out, and waking in the gravel by the Expressway, light in his eyes blinding him like he’s meant not to open his eyes again stinking of piss and vomit—him, Jerome Andrew Corcoran!

  How Tim Corcoran would be shamed, if he could know.

  If he could have known how his son he loved so much would turn out.

  Corky’s uneasy smoking his cigarette knowing he’s being watched and whispered over, he’s been staring at a poster on the wall directly in his line of vision, an ad for Coors beer, there’s a sleek muscled black jock and a gorgeous light-skinned black woman with her hair in snaky miniature braids, sexy, the woman’s damned good-looking reminding him of Marilee Plummer around the mouth that flirty-fucky swollen-mouth look. And there’s the smooth-muscled black jock smiling lifting his can of Coors as the gorgeous black model gazes up admiring, Corky’s read that in these shrewdly calculated ads the psychology is the male is the center of interest so the female looks at him, so everybody ends up looking at him, that sleek cocoa-brown stud swigging Coors like it’s his own cock, that’s the secret—black cock, supreme. A white man feels uneasy seeing a black guy so good-looking with a good-looking black woman, the two of them connected, completed together, no need for anybody else. Can’t help but think that, a white woman’s given the choice of a white man, or a black, the two of them equal, she’ll choose the black for sex—that’s the secret, too. Or maybe not a secret. The average American white man’s erection measures 6.1 inches but the average black man’s measures 6.4 inches.

  When Corky read this statistic, just the other week, maybe in Playboy, he’d felt almost a panic attack. He was sure he didn’t measure 6.1 inches, let alone 6.4 inches.

  Thinking then, what kind of asshole statistic is this! Who in Christ’s name has been measuring the pricks of American men and worked out an average?

  And after that, Corky stopped thinking about it.

  God-damn posters displaying hunk models, fantastic females, must make everybody uneasy. What’re you supposed to do, jerk off in homage to them? For sure, you can’t be them. And blacks, seeing these models with Caucasian features, straightened hair—must be even worse for them.

  Selling beer, tobacco mainly. “Targeted” ads. The black consumer nobody gave a shit for, till they got spending money.

  What Corky’d do, is take down these fucking poster ads. Strip the walls. Put in some plasterboard, and an acoustical ceiling. Recessed lighting. Good solid no-polish tile floor instead of this wornout crap linoleum. Get rid of these shitty beat-up tables. Get rid of that counter opening into the kitchen. Close off the kitchen, break through the wall into the next-door building he’d noticed is vacant, put in a classy bar. Good leather bar stools, mirrors. Blacks like excess so how’s about some gold fixtures, crushed-velvet drapery, velour “banquettes.” Mirror-topped tables. Paint the walls in blue carbon steel, and the exterior, too, funky-cool. And the neon sign CLUB ZANZIBAR in tropical colors like citrus fruit sweet on the tongue, the most elegant tubing Corky could find. And they need a parking lot—raze the derelict building next door, pour in asphalt. Valet parking, maybe. When CLUB ZANZIBAR catches on with the uptown trade, the trendy yuppies who snort coke weekends, yeah you’ll need valet parking.

  Corky’s mind is racing. It’s the nicotine, and it’s doing him good.

  Should he stake the owner of the Zanzibar?—or buy the property out from under him? If so, should he fire the staff to teach them a lesson in good manners? And include Aunt Jemima who’s obviously a terrific cook? Or make an exception of her?—she’d at least talked to Corky. One thing’s for sure, Corky Corcoran will pay his crew of loyal black workers twice the wages or anyway one and a half the wages anybody nonunion is making in this dead-end zone of Union City. That’s why they’ll be loyal, and defend him against black racist agitators like Marcus Steadman.

  Maybe, though, Corky should go into a partnership in Club Zanzibar with a black man. He knows a black realtor . . . Not a fifty-fifty partnership of course, Corcoran, Inc., will have controlling interest.

  Jerome “Corky” Corcoran the legend
ary Union City entrepreneur.

  Jerome “Corky” Corcoran honored as one of those Union City citizens whose faith in their city transcends . . . whatever.

  Jerome “Corky” Corcoran the Democratic candidate for Mayor of Union City . . .

  The tall lean black guy has been taking customers’ money at a cash register up front, now the place is about empty and he’s clearing the table next to Corky’s his sly fox-face betraying not the slightest awareness of Corky’s existence. And the girl with the fat sullen lips is clearing another table like the dishes and cutlery had insulted her momma, ignoring Corky too. Still he’s watching them dignified and with his faint hopeful I’m-giving-you-a-chance smile thinking for sure he’ll fire these two, kick their black butts right out on the street. “Excuse me, when is somebody going to take my order? I’ve been waiting for a God-damned long time,” Corky says. Speaking clearly and politely like a man with a legitimate complaint, not some troublemaker on the verge of losing it. Obviously there’s some misunderstanding here it’s in everybody’s best interest to clear up. “And where’s my coffee? I ordered coffee.” Corky has his wallet out on the table wadded thick with bills.

  The waiter finally looks at Corky sliding his eyes like grease without moving his head. “What, man? What’re you saying?” His voice is just this side of jeering, like he’s a high school kid incredulous at something some old guy is asking. “Zanzibar’s closing. Sunday afternoons, we close, man.” The girl at the other table doesn’t glance at Corky at all slamming plates and cutlery together and swiping at the tabletop with a discolored sponge.

  “Why’d you say you’d serve me, then? You said you’d serve me,” Corky protests, though he can’t remember whether anybody actually said so, “—and now you’re not going to? Now you’re closing? What the fuck is going on here? Is this a restaurant open to the public or isn’t it?” Corky’s trying not to get excited but he’s like a child with a just grievance, he’s feeling almost elated. “You know what, man? My civil rights are being violated.”

  Corky’s on his feet and the waiter’s standing there eyeing him, taller than Corky by two or three inches but giving Corky maybe twenty pounds, Corky’s hot in the face and ready to fight though he guesses it’s a mistake. He sees there’s nobody in the kitchen—the woman in the head scarf, who’d seemed to like him, is gone. The last of the kids playing video games is trailing out the front door. The sullen girl does look at Corky now, a little scared and backing off.

  “I’ve got money,” Corky says, opening his wallet so the black prick can see, “—I’m willing to spend, man,” riffling through the bills, the $100 bills conspicuous, “—I’m here to spend, man, so what’s the fucking problem?” like he’s unzipping his pants displaying himself.

  The waiter shakes his head as if he’s getting scared, too.

  “Nah, man, we closing. Sunday afternoons, we close.”

  Corky’s about to protest louder when up out of nowhere like a magic trick of Harry Blackstone’s, like he’d popped up through a trapdoor, there comes this fierce little bulldog character, a touch to Corky’s elbow so Corky freezes like it’s a gun shoved at him, turns and sees a little man no taller than five feet with the ugliest pouched, wrinkled, wizened face he’s ever seen—“O.K., mister, what’s the problem?” this guy asks, in a high-pitched voice like a saw, “—What’s your fucking problem?”

  Corky’s so taken by surprise he can only stammer, “Wh-Who are you?”

  “I’m Mr. Beechum the pro-pri-etor of Club Zanzibar but never mind who’m I, mister, who’re you?”

  Corky stares blinking at this runty little bulldog he guesses means business. This is the guy who sells the guns in back, this is the “Beechum” Corky recalls now he’s heard of, just the name, “Beechum,” “Beechum’s the man to see”—Corky thinks he’s heard this. In the confusion of the moment, though, he isn’t thinking very clearly.

  Corky tells Beechum how he’s been treated, he’s a man with money to spend and not used to being treated like shit, man you better believe it, displaying the bills in his wallet to Beechum too, who’s frowning and squinting at them and up at Corky like he’s trying to place Corky, undecided how to deal with him. Beechum is solid in the torso as a keg with skin black as pitch and oily-rich, quick intelligent fierce-yellowish eyes and a flattened pug nose, no telling how old, might be forty, might be sixty, Corky’s Caucasian eye can’t judge. Corky’s put in mind of Johnny the Philip Morris cigarette kid, the same kind of weirdness, something you can’t figure out, is this a midget?—a dwarf?—but in no visible way misshapen, and not small exactly, only short. Beechum is showily dressed, a dude, is that the word, dude, pimp-style too except he has too much class to be a pimp, not that Corky knows about such things really, he prides himself on his street smarts but in fact he doesn’t know much about the inner-city black population except what he reads in the papers, sees on TV like everybody else. What to make of the proprietor of the Zanzibar in a maroon suede jacket, a collarless ivory shirt, a heavy gold medallion on a gold chain around his neck. His fore-shortened legs in checked trousers. Gleaming black shoes with a Cuban heel like a dancer’s. A soft-brim creamy-ivory fedora on his neat-nappy hair, bulldog head. And those squinty no-bullshit eyes taking Corky’s measure like they’re the same height, not to mention the same color.

  “Maybe you better put yo’ money away, mister,” Beechum says somberly. “We sure do believe you, you rich.”

  But this is delivered in such a solicitous drawl, with a sly screwing up of the bulldog face, it’s obviously jiving.

  “I’m not rich,” says Corky, “—but I need to be treated with respect. I’ve been disrespected here, God damn it.”

  “Man like you, driving a Caddy De Ville, you sure do deserve not to be dis’d.”

  “That’s right, God damn it! I do.”

  Corky’s feeling lightheaded like none of this is exactly real but he has to play it as if it is, he’s got no choice. Sweat breaking out under his arms and on his forehead and he’s got the visible shakes now, dying for a drink and if only he had a drink, he’d know how to deal with this bulldog-spade who’s like nobody Corky has ever met up with. Usually for a guy Corky’s height looking down at an adversary is so unexpected such a change so welcome he’s invigorated by that simple fact but for some reason Corky doesn’t feel that now, it’s more like one of those big lummox heavyweights like Gerry Cooney confronted with one of those tough, squat, compact killers like Mike Tyson who’s short and going to crouch shorter who’s going to duck every good blow while nailing his opponent low in the body, breaking ribs and fouling.

  Corky tells Beechum in a voice more whiny than he’d like how he was promised service, promised coffee, how he’s got serious business here at the Zanzibar but he’s been treated like some punk with no cash or connections at all, he’s here on the recommendation of a mutual friend—not naming the only name that comes to Corky’s mind, which is that of a white cop. And maybe Corky isn’t so sure of all this, either.

  “That so? Hmmm!” Beechum fixing Corky a look like he still can’t figure out how to assess him. “And you ain’t gonna tell me that friend’s name, eh?”

  Corky hesitates. Then shakes his head irritably. “No.”

  Meaning, I don’t trust you either, man.

  Meaning, nobody’s going to bullshit Corky Corcoran.

  Beechum’s been edging Corky toward the door, that’s pretty clear. Like you’d ease a jumpy-nervous dog in the direction you want him to go without him exactly knowing what’s going on. Though with a part of his mind his stone cold sober mind Corky knows. And Corky’s going to remember. A stunted little spade manipulating him!

  Except maybe, just maybe, this thought’s been blipping in Corky’s head like the Pac-Man video, Beechum’s carrying a gun.

  For sure, Beechum’s carrying a gun.

  Anybody selling guns illegally is sure to be carrying a gun.

  Corky says, stammering slightly, “—L-Like I’m not wanted here for
one reason and one reason only—that’s what pisses me off.”

  “Which reason is that, hmmm?”

  “You know what it is.”

  “Hey, mister, this poor fool don’t know—you tell me.”

  Corky draws a deep tremulous breath. Ridiculous, how he’s trembling. “I’m—white.”

  “Man, no!” Beechum pops his eyes and shakes his jowly little face like he’s never heard anything so surprising. “You’re white—? That’s yo’ problem?”

  The TV’s been switched off by this time and the silence in the Zanzibar is profound like something rising up from the earth through the warped floorboards. Corky’s idiot words hang in the air—I’m white! I’m white!—and the wild thought comes to him, am I white? how do I know?

  If it was just Beechum and Corky Corcoran alone together of all the earth’s inhabitants, no “Caucasian race” standing outside Corky to give him definition and claim him for their own, Jesus, he would be scared shitless. Not a snowball’s chance in hell standing up to this motherfucker the crown of whose hat comes to approximately Corky’s chin.

  Corky adds earnestly, like he doesn’t mind how he’s being jived, “And I’m not a cop. You can figure that, can’t you, Mr. Beechum? I was an undercover cop, here at the Zanzibar, I’d be black. Right?”

  “Man, you too quick for me. Why’d you be—what, black? How come?”

  Beechum screwing up his face so it’s a layered mass of tarry-black flesh out of which his eyes gleam yellow like reflectors.

  Corky stares at the belligerent little bastard. Gun or no gun, he’s asking to be slugged. Pure meanness. The waiter and the girl are gone, so he isn’t fucking with Corky for their amusement. Corky says, like a man sweating under a cross-examination on the witness stand, “‘How come’—? This is a black place, in a black neighborhood, the cops do an operation they use black detectives. A white guy like me—obviously he’d be under suspicion the first he steps in the door. You wouldn’t deal with him.”