Invisible Man

by Ralph Ellison

  enough for the streets to seem strange. The uptown rhythms were slower and yet were somehow faster; a different tension was in the hot night air. I made my way through the summer crowds, not to the district but to Barrelhouse’s Jolly Dollar, a dark hole of a bar and grill on upper Eighth Avenue, where one of my best contacts, Brother Maceo, could usually be found about this time, having his evening’s beer.

  Looking through the window, I could see men in working clothes and a few rummy women leaning at the bar, and down the aisle between the bar and counter were a couple of men in black and blue checked sport shirts eating barbecue. A cluster of men and women hovered near the juke box at the rear. But when I went in Brother Maceo wasn’t among them and I pushed to the bar, deciding to wait over a beer.

  “Good evening, Brothers,” I said, finding myself beside two men whom I had seen around before; only to have them look at me oddly, the eyebrows of the tall one raising at a drunken angle as he looked at the other.

  “Shit,” the tall man said.

  “You said it, man; he a relative of yourn?”

  “Shit, he goddam sho ain’t no kin of mine!”

  I turned and looked at them, the room suddenly cloudy.

  “He must be drunk,” the second man said. “Maybe he thinks he’s kin to you.”

  “Then his whiskey’s telling him a damn lie. I wouldn’t be his kin even if I was— Hey, Barrelhouse!”

  I moved away, down the bar, looking at them out of a feeling of suspense. They didn’t sound drunk and I had said nothing to offend, and I was certain that they knew who I was. What was it? The Brotherhood greeting was as familiar as “Give me some skin” or “Peace, it’s wonderful.”

  I saw Barrelhouse rolling down from the other end of the bar, his white apron indented by the tension of its cord so that he looked like that kind of metal beer barrel which has a groove around its middle; and seeing me now, he began to smile.

  “Well, I’ll be damned if it ain’t the good brother,” he said, stretching out his hand. “Brother, where you been keeping yourself?”

  “I’ve been working downtown,” I said, feeling a surge of gratitude.

  “Fine, fine!” Barrelhouse said.

  “Business good?”

  “I’d rather not discuss it, Brother. Business is bad. Very bad.”

  “I’m sorry to hear it. You’d better give me a beer,” I said, “after you’ve served these gentlemen.” I watched them in the mirror.

  “Sure thing,” Barrelhouse said, reaching for a glass and drawing a beer. “What you putting down, ole man?” he said to the tall man.

  “Look here, Barrel, we wanted to ask you one question,” the tall one said. “We just wanted to know if you could tell us just whose brother this here cat’s supposed to be? He come in here just now calling everybody brother.”

  “He’s my brother,” Barrel said, holding the foaming glass between his long fingers. “Anything wrong with that?”

  “Look, fellow,” I said down the bar, “that’s our way of speaking. I meant no harm in calling you brother. I’m sorry you misunderstood me.”

  “Brother, here’s your beer,” Barrelhouse said.

  “So he’s your brother, eh, Barrel?”

  Barrel’s eyes narrowed as he pressed his huge chest across the bar, looking suddenly sad. “You enjoying yourself, MacAdams?” he said gloomily. “You like your beer?”

  “Sho,” MacAdams said.

  “It cold enough?”

  “Sho, but Barrel—”

  “You like the groovy music on the juke?” Barrelhouse said.

  “Hell, yes, but—”

  “And you like our good, clean, sociable atmosphere?”

  “Sho, but that ain’t what I’m talking about,” the man said.

  “Yeah, but that’s what I’m talking about,” Barrelhouse said mournfully. “And if you like it, like it, and don’t start trying to bug my other customers. This here man’s done more for the community than you’ll ever do.”

  “What community?” MacAdams said, cutting his eyes around toward me. “I hear he got the white fever and left…”

  “You liable to hear anything,” Barrelhouse said. “There’s some paper back there in the gents’ room. You ought to wipe out your ears.”

  “Never mind my ears.”

  “Aw come on, Mac,” his friend said. “Forgit it. Ain’t the man done apologized?”

  “I said never mind my ears,” MacAdams said. “You just tell your brother he ought to be careful ’bout who he claims as kinfolks. Some of us don’t think so much of his kind of politics.”

  I looked from one to the other. I considered myself beyond the stage of street-fighting, and one of the worst things I could do upon returning to the community was to engage in a brawl. I looked at MacAdams and was glad when the other man pushed him down the bar.

  “That MacAdams thinks he’s tight,” Barrelhouse said. “He’s the kind caint nobody please. Be frank though, there’s lots feel like that now.”

  I shook my head in bafflement. I’d never met that kind of antagonism before. “What’s happened to Brother Maceo?” I said.

  “I don’t know, Brother. He don’t come in so regular these days. Things are kinda changing up here. Ain’t much money floating around.”

  “Times are hard everywhere. But what’s been going on up here, Barrel?” I said.

  “Oh, you know how it is, Brother; things are tight and lots of folks who got jobs through you people have lost them. You know how it goes.”

  “You mean people in our organization?”

  “Quite a few of them are. Fellows like Brother Maceo.”

  “But why? They were doing all right.”

  “Sure they was—as long as you people was fighting for ’em. But the minute y’all stopped, they started throwing folks out on the street.”

  I looked at him, big and sincere before me. It was unbelievable that the Brotherhood had stopped its work, and yet he wasn’t lying. “Give me another beer,” I said. Then someone called him from the back, and he drew the beer and left.

  I drank it slowly, hoping Brother Maceo would appear before I had finished. When he didn’t I waved to Barrelhouse and left for the district. Perhaps Brother Tarp could explain; or at least tell me something about Clifton.

  I walked through the dark block over to Seventh and started down; things were beginning to look serious. Along the way I saw not a single sign of Brotherhood activity. In a hot side street I came upon a couple striking matches along the curb, kneeling as though looking for a lost coin, the matches flaring dimly in their faces. Then I found myself in a strangely familiar block and broke out in a sweat: I had walked almost to Mary’s door, and turned now and hurried away.

  Barrelhouse had prepared me for the darkened windows of the district, but not, when I let myself in, to call in vain through the dark to Brother Tarp. I went to the room where he slept, but he was not there; then I went through the dark hall to my old office and threw myself into my desk chair, exhausted. Everything seemed to be slipping away from me and I could find no quick absorbing action that would get it under control. I tried to think of whom among the district committee I might call for information concerning Clifton, but here again I was balked. For if I selected one who believed that I had requested to be transferred because I hated my own people it would only complicate matters. No doubt there would be some who’d resent my return, so it was best to confront them all at once without giving any one of them the opportunity to organize any sentiment against me. It was best that I talk with Brother Tarp, whom I trusted. When he came in he could give me an idea of the state of affairs, and perhaps tell me what had actually happened to Clifton.

  But Brother Tarp didn’t arrive. I went out and got a container of coffee and returned to spend the night poring over the district’s records. When he hadn’t returned by three A.M. I went to his room and took a look around. It was empty, even the bed was gone. I’m all alone, I thought. A lot has occurred about which I wasn’t
told; something that had not only stifled the members’ interest but which, according to the records, had sent them away in droves. Barrelhouse had said that the organization had quit fighting, and that was the only explanation I could find for Brother Tarp’s leaving. Unless, of course, he’d had disagreements with Clifton or some of the other leaders. And now returning to my desk I noticed his gift of Douglass’ portrait was gone. I felt in my pocket for the leg chain, at least I hadn’t forgotten to take that along. I pushed the records aside; they told me nothing of why things were as they were. Picking up the telephone I called Clifton’s number, hearing it ring on and on. Finally I gave it up and went to sleep in my chair. Everything had to wait until the strategy meeting. Returning to the district was like returning to a city of the dead.

  Somewhat to my surprise there were a good number of members in the hall when I awoke, and having no directives from the committee on how to proceed I organized them into teams to search for Brother Clifton. Not one could give me any definite information. Brother Clifton had appeared at the district as usual up to the time of his disappearance. There had been no quarrels with committee members, and he was as popular as ever. Nor had there been any clashes with Ras the Exhorter—although in the past week he had been increasingly active. As for the loss of membership and influence, it was a result of a new program which had called for the shelving of our old techniques of agitation. There had been, to my surprise, a switch in emphasis from local issues to those more national and international in scope, and it was felt that for the moment the interests of Harlem were not of first importance. I didn’t know what to make of it, since there had been no such change of program downtown. Clifton was forgotten, everything which I was to do now seemed to depend upon getting an explanation from the committee, and I waited with growing agitation to be called to the strategy meeting.

  Such meetings were usually held around one o’clock and we were notified well ahead. But by eleven-thirty I had received no word and I became worried. By twelve an uneasy sense of isolation took hold of me. Something was cooking, but what, how, why? Finally I phoned headquarters, but could reach none of the leaders. What is this, I wondered; then I called the leaders of other districts with the same results. And now I was certain that the meeting was being held. But why without me? Had they investigated Wrestrum’s charges and decided they were true? It seemed that the membership had fallen off after I had gone downtown. Or was it the woman? Whatever it was, now was not the time to leave me out of a meeting; things were too urgent in the district. I hurried down to headquarters.

  When I arrived the meeting was in session, just as I expected, and word had been left that it was not to be disturbed by anyone. It was obvious that they hadn’t forgotten to notify me. I left the building in a rage. Very well, I thought, when they do decide to call me they’ll have to find me. I should never have been shifted in the first place, and now that I was sent back to clean up the mess they should aid me as quickly as possible. I would do no more running downtown, nor would I accept any program that they sent up without consulting the Harlem committee. Then I decided, of all things, to shop for a pair of new shoes, and walked over to Fifth Avenue.

  It was hot, the walks still filled with noontime crowds moving with reluctance back to their jobs. I moved along close to the curb to avoid the bumping and agitated changes of pace, the chattering women in summer dresses, finally entering the leather-smelling, air-cooled interior of the shoe store with a sense of relief.

  My feet felt light in the new summer shoes as I went back into the blazing heat, and I recalled the old boyhood pleasure of discarding winter shoes for sneakers and the neighborhood foot races that always followed, that lightfooted, speedy, floating sensation. Well, I thought, you’ve run your last foot race and you’d better get back to the district in case you’re called. I hurried now, my feet feeling trim and light as I moved through the oncoming rush of sunbeaten faces. To avoid the crowd on Forty-second Street I turned off at Forty-third and it was here that things began to boil.

  A small fruit wagon with an array of bright peaches and pears stood near the curb, and the vendor, a florid man with bulbous nose and bright black Italian eyes, looked at me knowingly from beneath his huge white-and-orange umbrella then over toward a crowd that had formed alongside the building across the street. What’s wrong with him? I thought. Then I was across the street and passing the group standing with their backs to me. A clipped, insinuating voice spieled words whose meaning I couldn’t catch and I was about to pass on when I saw the boy. He was a slender brown fellow whom I recognized immediately as a close friend of Clifton’s, and who now was looking intently across the tops of cars to where down the block near the post office on the other side a tall policeman was approaching. Perhaps he’ll know something, I thought, as he looked around to see me and stopped in confusion.

  “Hello, there,” I began, and when he turned toward the crowd and whistled I didn’t know whether he was telling me to do the same or signaling to someone else. I swung around, seeing him step to where a large carton sat beside the building and sling its canvas straps to his shoulder as once more he looked toward the policeman, ignoring me. Puzzled, I moved into the crowd and pressed to the front where at my feet I saw a square piece of cardboard upon which something was moving with furious action. It was some kind of toy and I glanced at the crowd’s fascinated eyes and down again, seeing it clearly this time. I’d seen nothing like it before. A grinning doll of orange-and-black tissue paper with thin flat cardboard disks forming its head and feet and which some mysterious mechanism was causing to move up and down in a loose-jointed, shoulder-shaking, infuriatingly sensuous motion, a dance that was completely detached from the black, mask-like face. It’s no jumping-jack, but what, I thought, seeing the doll throwing itself about with the fierce defiance of someone performing a degrading act in public, dancing as though it received a perverse pleasure from its motions. And beneath the chuckles of the crowd I could hear the swishing of its ruffled paper, while the same out-of-the-corner-of-the-mouth voice continued to spiel:

  Shake it up! Shake it up!

  He’s Sambo, the dancing doll, ladies and gentlemen.

  Shake him, stretch him by the neck and set him down,

  —He’ll do the rest. Yes!

  He’ll make you laugh, he’ll make you sigh, si-igh.

  He’ll make you want to dance, and dance—

  Here you are, ladies and gentlemen, Sambo,

  The dancing doll.

  Buy one for your baby. Take him to your girl friend and she’ll love you, loove you!

  He’ll keep you entertained. He’ll make you weep sweet—

  Tears from laughing.

  Shake him, shake him, you cannot break him

  For he’s Sambo, the dancing, Sambo, the prancing,

  Sambo, the entrancing, Sambo Boogie Woogie paper doll.

  And all for twenty-five cents, the quarter part of a dollar …

  Ladies and gentlemen, he’ll bring you joy, step up and meet him,

  Sambo the—

  I knew I should get back to the district but I was held by the inanimate, boneless bouncing of the grinning doll and struggled between the desire to join in the laughter and to leap upon it with both feet, when it suddenly collapsed and I saw the tip of the spieler’s toe press upon the circular cardboard that formed the feet and a broad black hand come down, its fingers deftly lifting the doll’s head and stretching it upward, twice its length, then releasing it to dance again. And suddenly the voice didn’t go with the hand. It was as though I had waded out into a shallow pool only to have the bottom drop out and the water close over my head. I looked up.

  “Not you …” I began. But his eyes looked past me deliberately unseeing. I was paralyzed, looking at him, knowing I wasn’t dreaming, hearing:

  What makes him happy, what makes him dance,

  This Sambo, this jambo, this high-stepping joy boy?

  He’s more than a toy, ladies and gentlemen, he’s Sambo
, the dancing doll, the twentieth-century miracle.

  Look at that rumba, that suzy-q, he’s Sambo-Boogie,

  Sambo-Woogie, you don’t have to feed him, he sleeps collapsed, he’ll kill your depression

  And your dispossession, he lives upon the sunshine of your lordly smile

  And only twenty-five cents, the brotherly two bits of a dollar because he wants me to eat.

  It gives him pleasure to see me eat.

  You simply take him and shake him … and he does the rest.

  Thank you, lady …

  It was Clifton, riding easily back and forth in his knees, flexing his legs without shifting his feet, his right shoulder raised at an angle and his arm pointing stiffly at the bouncing doll as he spieled from the corner of his mouth.

  The whistle came again, and I saw him glance quickly toward his lookout, the boy with the carton.

  “Who else wants little Sambo before we take it on the lambo? Speak up, ladies and gentlemen, who wants little … ?”

  And again the whistle. “Who wants Sambo, the dancing, prancing? Hurry, hurry, ladies and gentlemen. There’s no license for little Sambo, the joy spreader. You can’t tax joy, so speak up, ladies and gentlemen …”

  For a second our eyes met and he gave me a contemptuous smile, then he spieled again. I felt betrayed. I looked at the doll and felt my throat constrict. The rage welled behind the phlegm as I rocked back on my heels and crouched forward. There was a flash of whiteness and a splatter like heavy rain striking a newspaper and I saw the doll go over backwards, wilting into a dripping rag of frilled tissue, the hateful head upturned on its outstretched neck still grinning toward the sky. The crowd turned on me indignantly. The whistle came again. I saw a short pot-bellied man look down, then up at me with amazement and explode with laughter, pointing from me to the doll, rocking. People backed away from me. I saw Clifton step close to the building where beside the fellow with the carton I now saw a whole chorus-line of dolls flouncing themselves with a perverse increase of energy and the crowd laughing hysterically.